I guess I should have listened to Mama, Esther thought ruefully as she rubbed the angry blister blossoming on the back of her heel. Today was absolutely not the day to break in her new patent leather shoes, but they had looked so lonely in their shoebox at the bottom of her closet. And they were so grown-up. She was 13 and these were her very first pair of heels, ever. They were tiny, little kitten heels, but heels all the same if you compared them to her other, clumsy-looking flats with thick soles and clunky bottoms. Now she finally felt like a real teenager!
Just last week, Miss Elfenbein, Esther’s piano teacher, had announced that all her students were expected to attend her annual piano recital. “Naturally, you are expected to dress like young ladies for the occasion,” Miss E. had cautioned. Esther was worried. Who would want to go with her to the Museum of the City of New York for a Sunday afternoon piano recital? All of her friends were such babies. They would rather be playing punchball in the park or hanging out at the Loew’s Delancey enjoying the latest double feature than listening to Beethoven. Then Esther thought of her classmate Sherri. Sherri wasn’t her best friend, but she was always ready for adventure. Besides, Sherri wasn’t afraid to navigate the subway by herself as Esther secretly was.
“Please come with me, Sherri. We’ll get all dressed up, and after the concert we can go to Howard Johnson’s for ice cream and look in all the fancy store windows. It will be such a grown-up day! Come on, please…” Sherri had finally agreed with one stipulation. “No way am I going to get all dressed up to shlep uptown on the train. I don’t care what Miss Whatshername said. She’s your teacher, not mine.”
Now it was concert day and Esther limped barefoot across the hot sidewalk with a new shoe in each hand. “Are we anywhere at all near E.103rd street?” she asked Sherri for the 10th time. They had exited the subway on 96th and all they saw now were shabby apartment buildings and lots of people fanning themselves on their front stoops on this unusually hot autumn day. Either no one spoke English or they didn’t know or care about where the museum might be. Esther’s sweater was sticking to her sweaty back and her shoes, her beautiful shoes, had grown so tight as her feet swelled from the heat, that she had to take them off. Sherri of course, was more comfortably navigating the crowd in her sandals, T-shirt and skirt, although she too was beginning to dab at the sweat on her flushed face.
What was it exactly that her mother had said? Esther tried to remember. Oh, yeah. “Ask the token clerk how to get to the east side of town. And make sure you have enough money for emergencies.” Her voice had trailed off as an impatient Esther ran out of the front door. East side, West side. What difference did it make? Now she wasn’t so sure. Were they on the wrong side of town? Worse, it was already 1:45 and the recital was due to start in 15 minutes. She could imagine the headline now. “Crazed piano teacher attacks delinquent student.” She was in big trouble. Finally, a bemused policeman explained to Sharon and Esther that they were indeed cross-town from their destination. They had actually gotten off the train in Spanish Harlem and they were on Amsterdam Avenue instead of 5th Ave. “You won’t find no museums here,” he said as he motioned them to cross the street and walk through Central Park. “You ladies ready for a big hike? Then he looked at them more carefully. Or, you might want to take the bus cross-town instead of walking. You sure look wiped.”
For the millionth time that awful day Esther regretted her actions. They had already spent all their money on drinks and ice cream while waiting for the train and trudging through the hot streets. Now there was none left. Not for a bus, not for a cab, just one token in each of their pockets for the trip back home—that is if they had the energy to ever make it back home.
After what seemed like hours and miles later, the bedraggled twosome finally managed to stagger into the concert hall just in time to see the audience leaving. By now, Esther was in so much pain that she didn’t care if her teacher had even noticed her absence. “Who invented high heels anyway?” she thought miserably, “probably someone who sat around all day listening to piano music.” Esther desperately longed to be hanging out with her friends in Hester Street Park, wearing her casual clothes and sporting her beloved, deliciously soft, dirty white Keds. One thing she absolutely knew for sure: Dressing up like a grownup wasn’t all it was cut out to be. Never, ever, would she want to look at those stupid, ugly shoes again! She may now be a teenager, but she had plenty of time for fashion, since it hurt so much to be beautiful.
Estelle Glass, a Teaneck resident, is a retired educator who is now happily writing her own essays.
By Estelle Glass
