These Boots Weren't Made for Walking Read Online Free

they say, it hurts.
    Finally, exactly two weeks after my termination, and eleven days after getting dumped by Eric, I tell myself enough is enough, and I force myself to start cleaning my slovenly apartment. I even sit down to open the pile of mail. My goal is to begin restoring order to my life.
What life?
I think as I use a dull steak knife to slit open the envelope that holds my new credit-card bill. I brace myself, knowing full well that it'll be a whopper because those despicable Valentino boots will be on it. But when I actually read the total, I consider taking the steak knife directly to my throat. Something is wrong—very, very wrong!
    “Four thousand five hundred eighty-five dollars?” I gasp aloud. I blink and read it again. This is crazy. I know the exact price of those boots as though it's been branded on my brain. And while I admit they were stupidly expensive, they were only a fraction of this. What on earth could this be for? So I flip to the page underneath and study the itemized list of “my purchases” and am shocked to see all sorts of things listed there—things /never bought. Well, it's obviously a mistake. A big, stupid mistake that must be sorted out as soon as possible.
    So I get on the phone and listen to a recording and punch in all kinds of numbers, then listen to more recordings, then wait andwait until I finally get to speak to a real woman. She calmly says, “Its no mistake. If you are Cassidy Cantrell, that's your card number, and according to our records, the signature matches perfectly. Unless you—”
    “Wait a minute,” I interrupt. “I did receive my card in the mail shortly after I opened the account. But I set it aside and
never even
signed it! How can my signature match up?”
    “Oh, dear,” she says. “That was a mistake.”
    “What?”
    “You must
always
sign a charge card. A blank card is an invitation for fraud. Anyone can sign a blank card and use it.”
    “But who would—”
    “Do you have any more questions about your account?” she asks impatiently. “Other customers are waiting.”
    “I want to
close
my account,” I snap at her.
    “Well, according to my records, it's maxed out right now and can't be used anyway. And a payment is due on the—”
    “I thought that card had a $5,000 limit,” I point out.
    “Yes, we actually allowed you to go a bit over your—”
    “I haven't gone
over
anything,” I say. “Besides my Valentino boots, I haven't bought a single thing at your overpriced store.”
    “According to our records, your account is at $5,147 right now. The bill you received in the mail was calculated before you made your additional purchases. Now if youcl like to arrange a payment over the phone, please press the seven—”
    “I don't
want to
make a payment,” I nearly shout. “Just closethe account,
please
, and let me talk to someone who can explain why my cards being used by someone other than me.”
    “Where is your card at the moment?” she asks in an acid tone.
    I fumble around my still-messy apartment, wondering the very same thing. “I don't actually know,” I finally admit.
    “Some people should simply avoid credit accounts altogether,” she tells me in a superior voice. “Credit is not for everyone.”
    “Thanks for the advice,” I say and hang up.
    I notice the brown suede boots, still in the corner by the front door where I threw them two weeks ago. They look slightly evil now, hunkered down together with their pointed toes facing each other almost as if they're conspiring, whispering secrets about me. Maybe they know something I don't, or perhaps they're really the ones responsible for this billing madness. Maybe they've been sneaking out when my back was turned, going shopping and buying things I can't afford.
    I study the bill again, going over the long list of clothes—
expensive
clothes, clothes that I do
not have
in raj/closet. I read the enviable list of designer names and wish I did have them. Suddenly I