Page 88 of Not Just a Trick Play

The icy silence stretches as I wait for my news to sink in, each second ticking by like a metronome, steady and unforgiving. Uncertainty begins to edge in, sly and unwelcome, not about the decision I’ve made, but in the enormity of persevering beneath the looming cloud of Gran’s doubt.

“And you think it’s best to do this?”

“Yes.” All the conviction I can muster is in that one word.

I steel myself, ready to list my justifications, to lay out my carefully planned future. Before I can launch into them, my phone erupts into a frenzy of vibrations that cuts through the quiet as Yvonne’s name rolls over Gran’s in a series of messages.

Yvonne

Code red at Saks. Stat.

Yvonne

Found the cutest Valentinos. They hurt like hell, and misery needs company—and an opinion.

A second later, hot pink heels pop up, their gold spikes sharp enough to double as a weapon of feet destruction.

Yvonne

Some woman’s salivating over them, UES type who looks like a regular. Sales dude says they are the last pair. Get here before a cage fight breaks out or he amputates my feet to appease her.

Yvonne

Hurry, unless you want me buying sensible shoes for my prosthetics. Like flats. FLATS!

I’m almost grateful for the excuse to hang up, but also guilty.

“Nan, I have to go…”

“Very well then.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“Goodbye, Amelia,” There’s a soft finality to her tone, a reproach mixed with a quiet acceptance.

The line goes dead, and the weight of Gran’s voice gives way to the RhythmRoutes backdrop on my screen. All at once, a sparkling glee fizzes to life in my chest, a tickling bubbly rush, only an instant from exploding. I message Jake to call me as soon as he’s done with practice because some news is too grand to be trapped in a text.

Moments later, I’m strutting out into the city, its vibrant hum now my personal soundtrack. Every stride is a buoyant step into my future, the New York streets a red carpet under my feet. I weave through a sea of faces, each one a witness to myindependence, then dive into the subway. The uptown train’s screeches rise to echo my inner victory chant. I told Gran, and the sky is still firmly in place, thank you very much.

At Saks, I sashay past the perfume counters, offering beaming smiles to sample-wielding clerks, welcoming every spritz like a misty high-five, before floating up the escalator, basking in fragrance clouds heady with the scent of my own gumption.

When I waltz into the shoe department, I find Yvonne on a plush peach couch, arms and legs crossed tight in a regal pose. The pointy, spiked heels she’s wearing scream, “ready for the runway battle royal.”

“You took your sweet time,” she chides, shaking her head. “Thought you’d been kidnapped by a roving band of tourists hungry for your accent.”

“Sorry, got held up.” I fight to suppress my smile, but it’s a lost cause. “I told my grandmother I wasn’t returning to Fordwich! Can you believe it?”

Yvonne leaps up, all elation and arms wide. “No way! You brave, brave woman!” She engulfs me in a bear hug that conveys a thousand words of support. Pulling away, she searches my face. “And how did she take it?”

“Not thrilled, but she’ll manage.”

“This calls for a celebration!” She grabs my hand and drags me to a display of Christian Louboutins. In a heartbeat, she plucks up a pair of heels, ruby red with crystals shimmering like tiny stars, and presents them to me. “Behold! The glass slippers to your Cinderella story—minus the curfew and the pumpkin.”

With a mischievous smile, she drops her gaze to her pink Valentinos. “And of course, I’ve got to celebrate my friend staying in New York, too,” she ups her volume, cutting her eyes across the aisle to where another shopper hovers, glaring at Yvonne’s feet. The shoe vulture, I reckon.

My attention returns to the Louboutins still sparkling in Yvonne’s hands, and I eye them doubtfully. “Rather loud, don’t you think?”

She clicks her tongue. “Please! When has subtlety even made history? These darlings aren’t just shoes; they’re a proclamation. Your boldness in patent leather form.” She leans in, lowering her voice to a sly murmur. “Plus, let’s not forget, Jake’s underwriting all gala expenses—we can get backup footwear too, something more grounded. Maybe three inches?”

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