The Smell of Other People's Hou - Bonnie-Sue Hitchcock Page 0,9

he’s not. There’s a bunch of kids down in Caribou Flats who have bright-red hair, because they have an Athabascan mom and a Scottish dad. Now, there’s a family who knows how to laugh and drink and break a lot of furniture.

“Nobody knows,” she says, also happy to turn the talk back to Crazy Dancing Guy. “I heard he calls himself ‘Miscellaneous.’ ”

“That’s just weird,” I say, rubbing my cheek.

“Come on, Dora, he’s funny. He brightens up the day when it’s so dark and cold out.”

“He’s mental, Mom.” Unlike “pickled,” my mother seems to think “mental” is a compliment.

“Some of my favorite people are mental.” She laughs and takes a drag on her cigarette. My mom loves to laugh, especially when nothing is funny. It’s an important trait to have around here, but I’m afraid I didn’t inherit it.

—

At the Salvation Army, we run into my mom’s friends, Paula and Annette, the loud sisters. I go to the shoe section by myself, but I can hear Mom howling with them a few aisles away, probably in the old lady pants section. The whole place smells like everyone’s mudroom in spring during break-up season, moldy and sweaty with a hint of thawing dog shit, because it’s on the bottom of every shoe.

There are lots of big white bunny boots here, but I do not want to look like Crazy Dancing Guy, even though they are the smartest choice and the cheapest. But then I spot them: Lobbens, woolen boots from Norway that the rich white girls wear. They look like elf shoes, but I know they’re expensive and warm. Even at the Salvation Army these are ten bucks. I put them on and feel my feet slide around a bit, but with a few more pairs of socks they might work. I steer my Lobbened feet toward what sounds like moose braying, and sure enough, when Paula and Annette see me they practically pee their pants.

“The Keebler elves called, girl. They want their boots back!” Annette falls on top of Paula, who is wearing a red and white sweater covered in snowmen and a pair of reindeer antlers. All the Christmas stuff is seventy-five percent off right now.

I ignore Annette. “Mom, can I get these?”

My mom clutches her stomach like she’s trying to keep her spleen from bursting.

“They’re warm and a little big, so they’ll last a long time.”

“Go ask George if I got any more credit,” she says, draping her arm around Paula for balance and knocking off her antlers. “If they’re so warm maybe you can walk yourself home. Oh, and tell George I need the change; we’re going to stop off at the Sno-Go for happy hour.”

So there it is, the reason my mom offered to bring me here for boots. She didn’t have any cash for the bar.

George winks at me out of a face that looks like a baked apple with tiny cloves for eyes. He knew my great-grandparents back in the village, he’s that old.

“You okay, Dora? Those don’t look like your usual style.”

“I like these, George. They’re really warm.”

“I know, those European dog mushers have been wearing them lately in all the races. But I didn’t think you were the dog mushing type.”

“No, I just like them. A change, you know?”

“Does your mama know they’re ten dollars?”

I shrug. Surely she was hoping George would give her at least seven bucks back. The Salvation Army is kind of like a neighborhood bank. You get credit for bringing in old clothes, but then if you buy at least five dollars’ worth of merchandise, you can take the rest of your balance in change.

“Well, would you look at that,” he says, punching a few keys on his register. “Foreign merchandise is on sale today and today only. It’s your lucky day, Dora.” He winks and hands me eight bucks.

What I like about George is this: He lets people make their own choices. He doesn’t judge anyone or try to talk me out of something that is a very bad idea. And when I come back two days later with my old sneakers on because I would rather freeze than endure another day of the rich girls at school laughing and pointing and saying I’m trying to be like them, George does not say, “No, you can’t return these European, snobby woolen boots and trade them for the bunny boots you should have bought to begin with.”

All he says is “You’ll get a five-dollar credit on that exchange, if