Excerpt from The World According to Fannie Davis by Bridgett M. Davis, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Anxious, I go through a mental inventory of the shoes that line the built-in rack in my bedroom closet. I manage to recall ten pairs in various colors and styles: the black-and-white polka-dotted ones with a bow tie; the buckled ruby-red ones, the salmon-pink lace-ups…

"Ten pairs is an awful lot," says Miss Miller. Her blue eyes fix on me with something I can't name, but which I'd now call disdain, and she orders me to take my seat.

I can feel my classmates staring at me as I return to my table. Is it wrong to have so many pairs of shoes? Did my mother get them in a bad way?

The next day in class, Miss Miller calls me back to her desk. I can smell the hairspray in her teased blond bouffant. "You didn't mention you had white shoes," she snaps.

Indeed, I'm wearing a white version of the same pair I wore the previous day. I feel as though I've been caught in a lie, and I know I've disappointed my teacher. I worry that I'll get in trouble. At school, or worse, at home.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

Miss Miller shakes her head in disgust and dismisses me with a wave of her hand.

I return to my desk, trying hard not to look down at my shoes. I am ashamed of them.

That evening, I tell Mama what happened. But I wait until after she's finished taking her customers' bets and before the day's winning numbers come out. I've already learned that the best time to tell Mama difficult news, something that could get you in trouble, is during that brief, expectant pause in the day. That's when Mama is least distracted, and still in a good mood.

She listens, and when I confess I forgot to tell Miss Miller about the eleventh pair of shoes, her dark eyes flash with anger. I fear a spanking.

"That's none of her damn business!" she says. "Who does she think she is?"

Before I can feel relief that she's not mad at me, Mama says, "Get your coat and let's go."

I do as I'm told. Mama throws on her soft blue leather coat, the color of the Periwinkle crayon in my Crayola box, and together we slide into her new Buick Riviera; are we headed back to school to confront Miss Miller? Thank God no, as Mama heads south, away from Winterhalter Elementary; she soon turns onto Second Avenue, drives to the corner of Lothrop, and parks in front of the New Center building. There sits Saks Fifth Avenue.

We enter through regal double doors and I instantly fall in love with the store's marble floors, brass elevators, and bright chandeliers. I feel lucky just being here. Mama takes my hand and leads me to the children's shoe department, where an array of options spreads before us. She points to a pair of yellow patent leather shoes. "Those are pretty," she says.

Perhaps the saleswoman looks at us askance, given how rare it must have been to see black people inside Detroit's upscale shops in the sixties, but I don't remember. What I do remember is how nonchalantly Mama opens her wallet, pulls out a hundred-dollar bill, and pays for the shoes, while the saleswoman looks at her the way Miss Miller looked at me.

When we get home, Mama says, "You're going to wear these to school tomorrow. And you better tell that damn teacher of yours that you actually have a dozen pairs of shoes, you hear me?"

The next day, I wear my brand-new shoes with a matching yellow knit dress. Nervous as I walk up to my teacher's desk, I announce: "Miss Miller, I have twelve pairs of shoes." She looks down at my feet and then levels those blue eyes at my face. "Sit down."

Miss Miller never says another word to me. I feel her rejection but I'm also relieved; I no longer have to worry about what I wear to school, or feel bad about my nice things. I feel both protected and indulged by Mama. Growing up, that's how it was for me, and my three older sisters and brother. We lived well thanks to Mama and her Numbers, which inured us from judgment. My mother's message to black and white folks alike was clear: It's nobody's business what I do for my children, nor how I manage to do it.

Excerpted from The World According to Fannie Davis by Bridgett M Davis. Copyright © 2019 by Bridgett M Davis. Excerpted by permission of Little Brown & Company. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.