Read Online Confectionately Yours #4: Something New by Lisa Papademetriou - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lisa Papademetriou
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window display is all shoes, and they’ve been set up so that they’re walking in circles in this Dr. Seuss–style contraption. I’m not usually a shoe girl, but there’s a pair of silver flats in the window that I really wish I could have. They sound dressy, but they aren’t, and they look like they would be really comfortable. I have a pair ofblack flats, but they have a hole in the bottom near the toe on the right side, and the heels are worn down. I’m pretty hard on shoes. Anyway, I don’t wear flats much. Just if I have someplace to go where I want to look nice. The problem is that my black flats are supposed to be my “nice” shoes, but they don’t look nice at all. I could use some new ones. But since I don’t really go to that many nice places, I really don’t want to ask Mom for the money. It seems kind of dumb. So, instead, I just watch those pretty silver shoes pad around in a circle with the other shoes in the display, back and forth, back and forth.
I’m debating whether or not to go inside and try on a pair — just for informational purposes — when I hear a familiar voice nearby.
“Hey, that was great,” Kyle says to the guitarist sitting on the curb. “Do you know anything by Muddy Waters?”
“Do I know any Muddy?” The guitarist breaks into a grin and busts into a blues riff. Then he starts singing in a deep, gravelly voice. He’s football-shaped, with large glasses and a heavy beard, and he holds his guitar like he’s about to wrestle it to the ground. I’ve seen him playing on the street a few times, but I’ve never stopped to listen before.
Kyle is nodding and tapping his foot to the beat. He claps once or twice, like he wishes he had something to do with his hands. I imagine that if there were a piano nearby, he would hop onto the bench and join in.
I go stand beside him, and when the song is over, I say, “Hey, Kyle, it’s me — Hayley!”
“Fred!” Kyle is beaming, as if my presence has just put a cherry on top of the best day ever. “Do you know Winthrop Little?”
Winthrop tips his hat, revealing long, scraggly gray hair, and I giggle a little as I say hello. For one thing, the guy looks more like a renegade motorcyclist than a “Winthrop.” For another, he’s definitely not “little.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Winthrop says politely.
“Winthrop loves jazz,” Kyle says. “We like all the same records.”
“Really, I’m a blues man.” Winthrop strums a few bluesy chords.
“He’s played all over the country,” Kyle tells me. “Even opened for some of the greats.”
“All true,” Winthrop puts in.
“Wow.” I want to ask Winthrop what he’s doing in Northampton, but I don’t want to be rude. Mostly, I just think it’s amazing that I’ve seen him on the street maybe fifty times, and I’ve never really listened to him before.
“Listen, I’ve got to get going,” Kyle says, digging in his pocket. He drops a folded bill into Winthrop’s open guitar case. “Catch you later.”
“On the flip,” Winthrop says. “See you around, Hayley.” Then he launches into a new song.
Winthrop’s deep, bluesy voice follows us as Kyle and I fall into step down the street. “So — what’s up, Hayley?” Kyle asks.
“Oh, nothing.”
“You seem … thoughtful.” Kyle doesn’t say more. He’s not the type to ask questions.
“I just … I kind of yelled at Chloe for something that really isn’t her fault.” I explain about Tessie and the poster.
“Aww — you yelled at two puppies, huh?”
“Kind of,” I admit.
Kyle nudges me gently on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Hayley. Chloe knows you love her. People get mad sometimes; it’s no big deal. And dogs never hold a grudge.”
“That’s the truth.” I stop walking and inhale a deep lungful of cold spring air. It’s misty, and a little cold, but I don’t mind. I can feel the damp on the tips of my eyelashes.
“Hayley — are you going to the barbecue?” Kyle asks suddenly.
I’m debating whether or not to go inside and try on a pair — just for informational purposes — when I hear a familiar voice nearby.
“Hey, that was great,” Kyle says to the guitarist sitting on the curb. “Do you know anything by Muddy Waters?”
“Do I know any Muddy?” The guitarist breaks into a grin and busts into a blues riff. Then he starts singing in a deep, gravelly voice. He’s football-shaped, with large glasses and a heavy beard, and he holds his guitar like he’s about to wrestle it to the ground. I’ve seen him playing on the street a few times, but I’ve never stopped to listen before.
Kyle is nodding and tapping his foot to the beat. He claps once or twice, like he wishes he had something to do with his hands. I imagine that if there were a piano nearby, he would hop onto the bench and join in.
I go stand beside him, and when the song is over, I say, “Hey, Kyle, it’s me — Hayley!”
“Fred!” Kyle is beaming, as if my presence has just put a cherry on top of the best day ever. “Do you know Winthrop Little?”
Winthrop tips his hat, revealing long, scraggly gray hair, and I giggle a little as I say hello. For one thing, the guy looks more like a renegade motorcyclist than a “Winthrop.” For another, he’s definitely not “little.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Winthrop says politely.
“Winthrop loves jazz,” Kyle says. “We like all the same records.”
“Really, I’m a blues man.” Winthrop strums a few bluesy chords.
“He’s played all over the country,” Kyle tells me. “Even opened for some of the greats.”
“All true,” Winthrop puts in.
“Wow.” I want to ask Winthrop what he’s doing in Northampton, but I don’t want to be rude. Mostly, I just think it’s amazing that I’ve seen him on the street maybe fifty times, and I’ve never really listened to him before.
“Listen, I’ve got to get going,” Kyle says, digging in his pocket. He drops a folded bill into Winthrop’s open guitar case. “Catch you later.”
“On the flip,” Winthrop says. “See you around, Hayley.” Then he launches into a new song.
Winthrop’s deep, bluesy voice follows us as Kyle and I fall into step down the street. “So — what’s up, Hayley?” Kyle asks.
“Oh, nothing.”
“You seem … thoughtful.” Kyle doesn’t say more. He’s not the type to ask questions.
“I just … I kind of yelled at Chloe for something that really isn’t her fault.” I explain about Tessie and the poster.
“Aww — you yelled at two puppies, huh?”
“Kind of,” I admit.
Kyle nudges me gently on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Hayley. Chloe knows you love her. People get mad sometimes; it’s no big deal. And dogs never hold a grudge.”
“That’s the truth.” I stop walking and inhale a deep lungful of cold spring air. It’s misty, and a little cold, but I don’t mind. I can feel the damp on the tips of my eyelashes.
“Hayley — are you going to the barbecue?” Kyle asks suddenly.
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