Hooked. Liz Fichera

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      Chapter 9

      Fred

      AFTER THE USUAL quickie dinner of hot dogs and canned corn, I begged Mom to drive with me back to Phoenix to shop for a new pair of shorts for school. That was the only way Dad would let me go, and, surprisingly, Mom agreed. I’d had my license for almost a year, but Dad had a thing about me driving long distances at night. And when you lived in the middle of nowhere, everything was long-distance.

      Being September, it was still too warm for jeans, and my two pairs of shorts had become embarrassingly faded and frayed around the edges. My khaki pair I’d worn since the eighth grade.

      I was certain my fashion faux pas hadn’t gone unnoticed at school where most of the girls, especially the popular ones, rotated fashion as often as their boyfriends. I simply had to have something new to wear, at least an updated pair of shorts, maybe even a new tank, before the first golf tournament.

      The closest mall to the Rez sat next to the freeway. It was halfway between our trailer and Lone Butte High School. The mall was completely enclosed and so enormous that it should have had its own zip code. There were three floors of continuous stores wrapped around a central courtyard with a fountain. A strong scent of melted cheese and warm pretzels permeated the air. Even though it was a Monday, the stores buzzed with people and chatter like it was the last day of Christmas shopping.

      I loved the mall. I could window-shop every day. Mom? Not so much.

      “Just a couple of stores tonight, Freddy,” Mom said, pulling closer to me as the other shoppers jostled around us with their elbows and strollers. “Let’s not make it a marathon. The air in here always dries my eyes.” Her nose wrinkled when someone’s shopping bag brushed her arm.

      “’Kay, Mom,” I said. Mom had never been a fan of crowds, especially in places outside the Rez. She always said the mall made her nervous, but I suspected it was the people, especially the ones with designer purses and overflowing department-store bags from Nordstrom and Macy’s. They probably reminded her too much of the people she had to serve at work.

      Still, I always secretly wished that she was the type of mom who liked to shop and do all the fun things I imagined that normal girls did with their mothers, maybe even stop at a restaurant in the food court afterward to critique our purchases over a cheeseburger and soda. Wouldn’t that be so cool? Except we never did stuff like that.

      “Where to first?” Mom said.

      I nodded to a Gap store next to my favorite golf-goods store. I’d been in the golf store a few times with Dad but never to buy anything, only to look. And dream.

      Mom’s eyes followed mine. She let out a long exhale. “You didn’t drag me all the way out to this godforsaken place to look at golf clubs, did you? When I could be home with my feet propped up enjoying a cold beer?”

      I cringed at her loud tone. “Already got clubs,” I said softly. Nonchalantly, my eyes trailed across the display window. A silver ladder with women’s golf shoes perched on each step filled the corner, and my eyes beaded on a white leather pair with soft pink piping around the laces. I sucked back a breath through my lips. Those shoes matched my golf glove. I just had to take a closer look.

      “Freddy...” Mom’s voice ratcheted up another notch. “A pair of shorts is why we’re here, remember?”

      “Yep, I know. But I just need to look at something for a second. Please? СКАЧАТЬ