“This is pretty,” Stacey says, weaving her fingers
through a silk scarf draped around a mannequin.
It is blue and yellow, with irises and daffodils
and buttercups all melting together.
I bought Papa a CCR album at New Sounds,
and now we’re looking for Mama’s gift
in Cottle’s boutique.
Mama would love this scarf,
but it costs three dollars more
than I have left of my babysitting money.
Stacey had already bought presents
for her mom and dad, but today
she bought “Leaving on a Jet Plane”
for her sister, Ava, who just came home
from college in Georgia—
because Stacey likes the song.
“You should keep the record for yourself
and get Ava something else,” I say.
“You don’t buy Christmas presents for yourself,” she says.
“Then I’ll give it to you.”
“Well, where’s the surprise in that?”
“I’ll think of one,” I say,
and give her fifty cents.
Then I slip the record in my pocketbook.
“Do you girls need help?” asks the salesgirl,
who appeared out of nowhere.
“We’re just looking at all the pretty things
in your store,” Stacey says, putting on her charm.
She keeps smiling, but the girl
doesn’t go away. She’s looking at my pocketbook.
“Did you just take something?” she asks. “Did you
put something in there?”
“No,” I say, “just a record.”
“Let me see that,” she says, tugging my strap.
“She said she put a record in there,” Stacey says.
“We don’t sell records here,” says the girl.
“We know,” I say, finding my voice,
and it’s not respectful.
“You girls need to leave—now,” she says,
and points to the door.
She follows us out,
and I say, “We’ll just buy that scarf somewhere else,”
and Stacey adds, “And Mrs. Cottle will hear about this.”
Outside, Stacey says, “She can’t talk to you like that.”
“Never mind. I’ll get Mama some cold cream.”
“Who gets cold cream for Christmas?”
I head toward the drugstore,
but the feeling that I want to bury myself in a deep, dark hole
for the rest of my life follows me. I can’t get away from it,
no matter how fast I walk.
“She didn’t know who she was talking to, Mimi,” Stacey says,
catching up to me. “Mimi Oliver,
future astronaut. You should have shown her that letter.”
“Can we please forget it?” I say,
though I know I can’t. “Let’s go to the drugstore
like we planned.”
“Okay,” she says, “but promise you won’t buy cold cream.”