Spam can’t make it because she has to do a computer setup for her father’s electronics store. But Lysa’s delighted. We drop my scooter off at my house and take her car.
Shoe Haven could be the largest shoe store in the world, and it’s clearly Lysa’s favorite spot on earth. The room is lined with narrow tables from one side to the other, laid out in rows like a cornfield. But instead of golden veggies, it’s a view of every shoe imaginable.
The moment we step inside, Lysa totters, zombielike, toward a group of women around the sale section. Meanwhile, I drift toward the men’s athletic shoes. I brought the copy of the shoe print with me.
What I have to go on is the Nike logo in the middle of the sole and the top part of the tread which has horizontal rays piercing a circular design. I move quickly along the row, turning shoes over and inspecting the bottoms until I find what I’m looking for. The print exactly matches the Michael Jordan classic AJ1, a mid-top basketball shoe made by Nike. A white size eight is on display, but it’s clearly too small. From the boxes stacked below, I find a size nine. Also too small. Further down, a size eleven is a perfect match. That’s it. My intruder wears size-eleven Michael Jordan classics. I rummage in my bag for my cell phone to take a picture of the shoe. Then I remember Sydney took my phone. Grrr.
I spot Lysa wandering toward me, her arms full of shoes. I borrow her phone and take a quick photo of the top and bottom of the shoe lined up next to the print. I e-mail the photos to both myself and to Spam. I add a quick message asking her to save it for me, since I don’t have my computer at the moment.
I’m done. But to get Lysa to leave Shoe Haven, I have to get her to stop vacillating between three different pairs and to settle on the open-toe pumps in her favorite color of royal blue, which will look great with everything she owns. In exchange, she forces me to buy strappy silver high heels which will look fantastic with absolutely nothing I own. I did save 70 percent off the price. Which means I got a fantastic deal on a pair of shoes I will never wear.
*
Lysa drops me off at home and I leave my new shoes sitting out on the kitchen table. By the time Rachel comes home, I’m almost done with my homework. She looks surprised at my new shoes. I can tell she loves them, but she’s probably thinking they’re so not me. How great would it be if my current troubles could be managed by a pair of strappy silver heels instead of a pair of size-eleven Michael Jordan’s?
“You’re going to need a computer for your school work, and I’m pretty sure mine is too old to do you any good,” Rachel says.
“Spam can probably hook me up with something refurbished from her dad’s store.”
“Good idea,” Rachel says.
The words are barely out of her mouth when a knock sounds on the back door. And there’s Spam. She wanders in wearing a pair of short denim shorts, red striped soccer kneesocks, pink paisley rain boots, a red T-shirt, and a black TechNext baseball cap. Her hair is slicked back in a ponytail. She drops a heavy red canvas tool bag on the chair and gives Rachel a hug.
“Hey mamacita, how you doin’?” she asks.
Rachel hugs her back. “I’m fine, Spam. What are you up to?”
“Not much, just making a little house call.” Spam opens her tool bag and pulls out a laptop, a cell phone, and a wireless modem, stacking them on the table.
“Wow. Do you have our house bugged or something?” I ask.
Spam gives me a wide-eyed look. “I could totally do that and you would never even know. But why would I need to? You already tell me everything. Right?” Her look is more warning than question.
Spam turns to Rachel. “If you want to know something, don’t ask her. Ask me.”
Rachel laughs. “You two scare me.”
Spam throws an arm around my shoulders. “What’s scary is my girl being out of touch. I can’t have that.”
“That’s very nice of you, Spam. How much do I owe you?” Rachel asks.
Spam shakes her head. “No worries. These are trade-outs for repair. She can keep them for as long as she needs. I can help you set them up now if it won’t mess with your dinner.”
“Sydney and I are going out, but you guys can order Thai, if you want,” Rachel offers.
“Ah, thanks. I can’t stay. I promised my dad I’d make empanadas,” Spam says.
“Yum. What time should we be there?” Rachel asks with a laugh.
Spam laughs, too. “Yeah, you don’t want to do that. You’d be lucky to get a crumb with the little monsters at the table. And their manners are disgusting.”
“Come on, Spam. Your little brothers are adorable and you know it,” I say.
Spam rummages in her bag and pulls out some cables and a small plastic box of mini tools. “They’re adorable, but they’re still little monsters.”
“How old are they now?” Rachel asks.