Baby Needs a New Pair of Shoes by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

mercilessly.”
    â€œBut I deserve it,” I countered. “If it weren’t for you, I’d never stop and think about the bigger picture or the fact that at age twenty-eight all I’ve got to show for myself is the Golden Squeegee Award.”
    â€œBut you worked so hard for that.”
    â€œSee?” I pointed the celery stalk from my Bloody Mary at her accusingly. “You’re doing it again.”
    â€œOhh, don’t be so pointing-things-outish. In a minute, I’ll be giving you a hard time again.”
    â€œTrue,” I conceded. “But I need someone to give me a hard time. My dad never does it, my mom didn’t live long enough to do it now.”
    We bowed our heads for a moment of silence over the dregs of our Bloody Marys in honor of Lila Sampson, may she rest in peace.
    â€œYou do everything for me,” I said, breaking the moment first, “but I never get to do anything for you, Hillary. Let me do this one thing.”
    â€œBut if I wanted the shoes that desperately, I could afford them myself.”
    â€œBut you already said you wouldn’t buy them until I could afford mine. Besides, if you bought them for yourself, then I’d be denied the chance to do something for you for once. Don’t deny me that.”
    â€œOhh…all right. You can buy me the damn shoes.”
    â€œYea!”
    What an odd exchange: you’d think I’d talked her into doing something distasteful; you’d think I’d just won something other than the right to spend most of my stake on someone else.
    But Hillary, at least, hadn’t forgotten about the need for that stake.
    â€œThose shoes really are going to look great on me,” she said, “but what about your stake for Atlantic City?”
    â€œOh—” I pooh-poohed her concerns “—it’ll be fine. Don’t forget, at Foxwoods I started out with one hundred dollars and came away with five times that much. I’ll be going to Atlantic City with twice that stake, so I’ll probably turn that two hundred dollars into a thousand before I get home. I still won’t be able to afford the Ghost, but I’ll be damn close. I’ll just make up the rest some other way.”
    â€œGee, your math skills are great, Rumpelstiltskin, but don’t you think you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself here?”
    Apparently, we were back to giving me a hard time again.
    â€œHmm?” I prompted, not sure I wanted to know.
    â€œI just mean, what makes you think you can keep spinning straw into gold? What makes you so sure you’ll go on winning, that you’ll never lose?”
    â€œWell, for one thing,” I said, feeling huffy, “since I’m taking money and turning it into bigger money, your straw-into-gold analogy sucks because what I’m doing is something more akin to turning a little bit of gold into a lot of gold. And for another thing—”
    â€œStop.” She stopped my madly waving celery stalk with her hand. “I just wanted you to entertain the notion that there’s no sure thing about what you’re doing. If gambling always equaled winning, everyone would do it. I just wanted you to be aware that you could conceivably lose, that there are always consequences.”
    â€œOf course,” I said, calm once more, leaving my celery stalk at peace. “I understand that.”
    But, secretly, inside I was thinking: No way was I going to lose, not ever. I was Black Jack Sampson’s daughter and sole heir, wasn’t I?
    True, Black Jack Sampson had lost as many fortunes as he’d won, but it was going to be different for me.
    I was not going to lose.

9
    â€œO f course you’re going to lose.”
    â€œGee, thanks, Dad.”
    I was at my dad’s apartment for Monday night dinner, meaning I’d need to leave before Monday Night Football started or risk offending him with my lack of knowledge. Just because