Be Careful What You Wish Fur Page 2

  Delia had just turned thirteen and was entering the second half of seventh grade. With high school just a year and a half away, everything seemed to matter more. She had to do well at this new school to get placed in honors classes in high school, and she needed to ace those honors classes to get into a good college, and college was her ticket to a better life. Her mother had drummed that into her head since Delia was a little kid.

  That was why her mother had pulled major strings through Mr. Jefferson, her boss at the law firm, to help get Delia accepted at the elite private school. Her mom had also spent what felt like countless weekend hours filling out scholarship applications, for which Delia had been required to write multiple essays, to help pay the steep tuition bill. Even with all that work, from what Delia could gather, the school was still costing her mom a good chunk of her income. Delia was grateful for the opportunity, and for how hard her mom had worked to make it happen, but that didn’t change the fact that she was going to miss her friends and her old school. It felt like being pulled in two directions at once—between her old life, the one that she knew and felt comfortable in, and a new life that was exciting and full of opportunity, but also unknown and scary.

  Delia glanced back at her phone, grimacing at her improperly tagged post. But there was nothing she could do about it now. Hearts were already racking up in the comments, boosted by Aaliyah’s and Zoe’s likes. They’re gonna love you. Zoe’s words echoed through her head again, followed by Aaliyah’s voice right after. Yeah, you’ll have zero problems making new friends.

  Her friends meant well, but they didn’t know what her new school was going to be like. Even Delia herself didn’t know. What if the kids there didn’t like her? And even if she made new friends, Zoe and Aaliyah weren’t replaceable. She didn’t want new best friends. She wanted her old friends.

  With a pang of sadness, she flipped back to their profiles, her gaze lingering on their morning selfie again. Delia was about to turn off her phone and finish getting ready for school, when an ad popped up for a pair of fur-lined boots. According to the ad, they were the top-trending fashion item on PicPerfect. Selfies flashed across the screen of fashionable teen influencers wearing them. Curiosity tugged at Delia, and she clicked on the ad.

  House of De Vil Faux-Fur-Lined Boots

  The Must-Have Winter Fashion Item!

  The boots were black and white with zebra stripes running across them. Tufts of soft black-and-white faux fur poked out of the tops. They were simply gorgeous—the most beautiful boots Delia had ever seen. They’d be perfect for snapping winter selfies for PicPerfect, not to mention, they could help her fit in at her new school. Delia was sure that girls at a place called Gilded Crest would be on the cutting edge of fashion. She flipped through the images, each more tantalizing than the last, and her pulse began to race. She wanted those boots. No, scratch that.

  She needed them.

  But then she saw the price tag, and her heart sank. The boots were $250.

  Way too expensive.

  Delia glanced at the window. Frost blossomed on the panes, and outside a few snowflakes drifted down. Winter was in full force and would continue mercilessly until spring suddenly appeared out of nowhere, far later than it did in the rest of the country. Chicago tended to do that—snap from one season to the next without warning. But winter was the longest one by far.

  With a deep sigh, Delia pulled her beat-up snow boots out of her closet. They were ratty and fraying around the edges, made of cheap plastic material that was flimsy and didn’t hold up long.

  Even worse, they made her feet sweat. Like, soak-through-her-socks sweat. She was constantly worried that they’d start smelling and somebody would notice, which would be a fate almost worse than death in middle school.

  “Delia, I’m counting to ten,” her mom yelled once more, her voice snapping Delia to attention. “This is your final warning. Get your butt down here! One, two, three…”

  Her mother was taking night classes at a law school, so she wasn’t a lawyer yet, but she sure sounded scary like one sometimes.

  “Coming!” Delia yelled back, sliding on the old boots and cringing at the smell.

  But she didn’t have time to do anything about it, not with her mom’s last warning. Quickly, she shut her phone and bounded downstairs for breakfast, her feet in their smelly boots thumping on the old steps and making them creak.

  Flap. Flap. Flap.

  She glanced down at her ratty old boots. The sole on the left boot was worn thin and starting to peel off, making that flapping noise, while the right one wasn’t faring much better. This was the last thing she needed for her first day at Gilded Crest.

  She so wished she had those House of De Vil boots. Envy gripped her heart and squeezed—envy for every girl she’d seen wearing them in her feed. She’d never wanted something so much in all her life. And her old boots definitely needed to be replaced. Maybe, just maybe, she could beg her way into a pair of new boots.

  She rehearsed the line of argument in her head as she tromped down the remaining two flights of stairs. She’d have to make a compelling case. Delia knew from thirteen years of experience that her mother wouldn’t be easily persuaded.

  But her mom did always say that first impressions mattered. And what better way to make a good first impression at her new private school than with a trendy pair of boots?

  She was going to do it. She was going to ask her mother for the boots. Her mom had to understand that this was practically a matter of life or death. Well, social life or death.

  But what was the difference?

  It was worth a shot, right?

  * * *

  Yap, yap, yap!

  When Delia entered the kitchen, she was greeted by the sound of dogs whining and barking. The room smelled of dog and hot cocoa, a wonderful combination, in Delia’s opinion.

  For the first time all morning, she smiled for real.

  “How’re the little devils?” she asked, rushing over to the playpen in the corner of the kitchen, which was layered with torn newspaper, old blankets, ratty towels, and chew toys. Wriggling around in the middle of the mess were fifteen plump Dalmatian puppies.

  “It’s a bit much, I must confess,” Mrs. Smith said. She looked up from her cup of tea. The cup was chipped, but it was fine bone china. Like many things in her house, including her, it spoke to quality that had diminished over time from the grind of aging. She wore a pink cashmere sweater that was pilling and worn in places, paired with a wide skirt. Her skin was weathered, papery thin even, but her brown eyes shone young and bright.

  Her town house was decorated with framed pictures of her posing with different dogs that she’d rescued and fostered over the years. Goofy golden retrievers; regal poodles with their fancy haircuts and poufy heads; wrinkly pugs that resembled old men, or maybe aliens; hyperactive Scottish terriers with wild eyes and stumpy legs. The dogs were all different breeds and ages, but the common denominator was Mrs. Smith.

  “But the rescue needed a foster mom to take them in,” Mrs. Smith went on, her gaze falling affectionately on the puppies squirming around. “I simply couldn’t refuse.”

  Mrs. Smith had a habit of taking in unwanted things, including Delia and her mother. But they were lucky she had a soft spot for helping those in need. Her mother had answered a housing ad online for a landlady taking in new tenants, thinking nothing would ever come of it, but Mrs. Smith had called them back the next day and now Delia couldn’t imagine their lives without her—or her puppy-filled home.

  “Fifteen puppies,” her mother sighed over her coffee mug, which wasn’t fine or china and sported a baseball logo. “Can you believe it?”

  Delia’s mother wore a simple navy pantsuit, impeccably clean and pressed—her usual uniform for work at the law firm. Her mother always looked put together and spent a lot of time and effort maintaining her black hair in a sleek, stylish bob and nails in a pale French manicure. She may not have been rolling in money, but no one would ever know
it. Unlike Mrs. Smith, who sported wild, unkempt graying hair and short, stubby nails chewed to the quick.

  “They’re little angels,” Mrs. Smith said, gazing at the dogs lovingly, clearly blind to their poor puppy manners and desire to chew up or pee on everything.

  “I feel bad for their mother. Having one was hard enough,” her mother added, shooting Delia a wry smile.

  Delia giggled, reaching into the pen to scoop up a puppy. She snagged Radar, the runt of the litter and her favorite pup. Their eyes had only started to open last week, and their black spots were just starting to come in, too.

  “I’m not that bad,” Delia said with a mock pout. She petted Radar’s soft fur, peering into his crystal-blue eyes. He let out his distinctive bark—higher pitched because of his small size, yet strong and defiant. “At least I’ve never gnawed on any of your shoes.”

  “Yes, but you are a teenager,” her mother shot back without missing a beat. “That’s almost worse.”

  Delia rolled her eyes. “I’m barely a teenager. I just turned thirteen.”

  “It counts,” her mother said. “Trust me, it definitely counts.”

  Mrs. Smith nodded. “Kids grow up so much faster now. What with all that social media and phones.”

  Delia glanced at Mrs. Smith’s old rotary telephone affixed to the wall, next to the ancient, pale-yellow stove that still worked surprisingly well for its age.

  “How else do you expect me to keep in touch with my friends?” Delia said with a little edge creeping into her voice. More often than not, adults just didn’t seem to understand how the world worked these days. “Especially since you’re sending me to a brand-new school in the middle of the year.”

  “Delia, we’ve been over this already,” her mother said in a stern voice. “This new school is your ticket to—”

  “A good college,” Delia finished her mother’s sentence. “I know.”

  “Then act like it,” Mom said. “Not everyone gets these opportunities. You know I didn’t. I’m doing this for you.”

  Delia felt the sting of those words, followed by a surge of guilt. She knew how hard her mom had worked to get her into Gilded Crest. The problem was her mother never asked her if she actually wanted to go. What if she liked her old school? She’d been at the top of her class there, after all. And what if she wanted to stay with her friends and go to the local high school?

  Wasn’t thirteen old enough for her to make her own decisions?

  But she knew that arguing with her mother was a bad idea. There was a reason her mom was doing so well in law school—she lived to win arguments. It was pointless to disagree.

  Delia could only lose. And not just the argument—but her phone privileges, too. Her bestie Aaliyah was right. Screen-time grounding was worse than regular grounding.

  Delia stared down at Radar, but he gnawed on her hand with his sharp puppy teeth, making her wince. She plopped him back down in the pen. He squirmed over to chew on his sister’s ear, rolling onto his back. He might be a handful—but he was an adorable one.

  “Time to change the newspaper,” Mrs. Smith said in a cheery voice, inspecting the pen. She turned to Delia. “Wanna help out? I can toss in a little extra since there are fifteen of them.”

  Delia scrunched up her nose. But while changing gross, pee-soaked newspaper wasn’t exactly her favorite pastime, this was how Delia afforded to buy contraband makeup. She suspected Mrs. Smith knew that was what she did with the extra cash, but the landlady never busted Delia to her mother. Right now, she was saving up for the glitter nail polish that was the big trend on PicPerfect.

  “Ugh, you spoil her,” Mom groused from over her nearly empty cup of coffee. “You shouldn’t have to pay her to help around the house. Delia should do it for free.”

  Delia’s mouth dropped open in horror.

  Clean up pee for free? Was her mom crazy?

  But before she could argue—and risk getting in trouble again—Mrs. Smith signaled for her to zip her lips. Then she turned to Delia’s mother.

  “Oh, come on, Megan. A few extra bucks won’t hurt,” Mrs. Smith said in a voice as sugary-sweet as her hot cocoa. “Plus, doesn’t doing chores for money build character and teach kids their hard work will be rewarded?”

  Even her mom couldn’t argue with that. Her mother might be a future lawyer, but Mrs. Smith had a special way of getting what she wanted. They were a funny pair, almost like the good cop/bad cop in Delia’s life. But they balanced each other out. She needed both of them.

  “Fine, you two win. But let’s be quick. We don’t want to be late.”

  With that settled, Delia busied herself with caring for the puppies. While Mrs. Smith took the dogs outside to the small, grassy backyard, Delia stripped out the soiled paper and replaced it with freshly torn pages. Sometimes Mrs. Smith complained about the puppies being so much work, but Delia understood why she loved being their caretaker so much. There was something rewarding about taking care of tiny, vulnerable souls who needed your help.

  This wasn’t the first litter that Mrs. Smith had fostered—even if it was certainly the biggest—and it wouldn’t be the last. Since Delia and her mom had lived there, many puppies had come, grown bigger, and then gotten adopted and left their home, and Mrs. Smith cried big, sloppy tears every time. They were tears of sadness, but also of joy that they’d found their forever homes. She wondered if she would cry those tears when Delia went away to college, but that was still years away. It seemed like a lifetime.

  After she finished her chores, Delia helped herself to some eggs from the cast-iron skillet on the stove, taking a seat at the breakfast table. She spooned them into her mouth, trying to muster up the courage to ask the question that had been plaguing her all morning.

  Well, all morning since she saw that ad on PicPerfect and all those selfies.

  “Uh, Mom…” she ventured between chewing. “You know, it’s getting colder. Soon, there’ll be a big snowstorm. I kind of need some new boots.”

  Delia pointed to her ratty old ones with the loose sole. She pried it away for extra drama. Mom looked over. She clenched her teeth—tension. Her mother was stressed. Never a good sign.

  “You’re right. That does not look good.” Mom sighed. “I’m a terrible mother. I’ve just been so busy, I haven’t even thought about new snow boots.”

  “That’s okay!” Delia said brightly. “I already found the perfect ones. Wanna see? I was hoping maybe we could order them before they run out of my size.”

  She unlocked her phone and flipped to the House of De Vil shopping page, pulling up the trending faux-fur boots. Her mom looked over, her eyes lighting up when she saw them.

  “Oh, those are very cute,” she started. “They look warm, too.”

  Delia felt a surge of hope. Maybe she had been worried for nothing. But then her mother balked when her eyes hit the bottom of the page and landed on the price.

  “Two hundred and fifty dollars?” her mother said in shock. “I’ve never owned a pair of shoes that cost that much.”

  “Yes, but these are so trendy!” Delia said, pointing to the pics. “It’s what all the kids are wearing now. Also, look how nice they are. I bet they’ll last forever. Unlike these boots,” she added, flapping the loose sole again for good measure.

  “Honey, you know even if I wanted to buy them for you, we can’t afford those,” Mom said, casting her gaze down. “Especially with the tuition costs for your new school.”

  The school I don’t even want to go to, Delia thought. She felt a stab of irritation. She’d much rather have the boots and go back to her old school.

  “But, Mom, look…everyone else has them,” she said in a pleading voice, flipping to the trending selfies of girls wearing the boots. They flashed across the screen. Each picture made Delia feel even more like she needed the boots.

  “We’re not everyone,” her mother said. “You know that. Plus, it’s a waste of money. I can find a perfectly good pair at Replay Vintage. You won’t know the diff
erence.”

  Replay Vintage was the local thrift store. Nothing trendy or fashionable was ever going to come from that store. And everything was “gently used” and smelled like moth balls—or worse.

  Why didn’t her mother understand that it wasn’t the same thing?

  “Ugh, just this once I’d like to get something new!” Delia said, hating how bratty she sounded but unable to help it.

  Her mother frowned. “Teenagers,” she muttered under her breath. “Lord give me the strength to survive this.”

  Delia felt her anger escalating. It burned hot and fiery in her chest. It made her want to yell and scream, even though she knew she was acting like a spoiled brat.

  “You never ask me what I want!” Delia cried. “Or what school I want to go to! You just decide for me. Well, I want those boots.”

  “You’re being shortsighted,” her mother shot back. “Trust me, this school is your ticket to a better life. And one day, you won’t care what kind of boots you wore. You’ll thank me later.”

  Angry tears pricked Delia’s eyes. Her chest felt like it was constricting. She hated her life—and right then, in that heated moment, she hated her mother. She was never not going to care what boots she wore. Appearances mattered, especially when you were starting a new school. Kids her age did notice these things. It was why they were trending on PicPerfect.

  She knew her mother was trying, but why didn’t she understand?

  Her mother saw her tears. “Look, I know it’s a lot changing schools like this,” she said in a softer voice. “I should have considered that. It’s just so hard to get these scholarship slots.”

  “I miss my friends,” Delia said, her voice thick with tears. And there it was—the thing that was really bothering her. She looked down at her ratty boots, feeling hot tears drip down her cheeks. “It won’t be the same without Aaliyah and Zoe.”

  Her mother followed her gaze.

  “Look, no promises,” Mom said. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Delia Ward, welcome to Gilded Crest Academy,” Headmaster Dudley said, folding her hands in front of her. She sat behind an ornate mahogany desk—or Delia thought perhaps it was mahogany, not that she knew what that was exactly. Just that it was something rich-people furniture was made of.