Barefoot

Same Walk, Different Shoes

“Same Walk, Different Shoes” is a community writing project that Ben Wakeman organized as a practical exercise in empathy. The premise is simple. A group of writers anonymously contribute a personal story of an experience that changed their life. Each participating writer is randomly assigned one of these story prompts to turn into a short story. The story you are about to read is one from this collection. You can find all the stories from the participating writers at Catch & Release. Enjoy the walk with us.

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Barefoot

My feet feel trapped. They feel achy and tired, like I’ve been hiking for hours, even though I’ve just been sitting here, waiting, wishing I could take off these darn boots. I don’t mind the cold. It means I can stay inside with my books without anyone telling me to go outside and get some fresh air. But I hate snow boots. I never wore them before we moved here. On Sunday, Mom makes me wear Mary Janes. Besides that I’m always barefoot or wearing sandals. Well, I was. When we moved here, we went snow boot shopping. Mom bought a size bigger than I usually wear, so that the thick socks she also got me would fit inside them. My toes can barely move.  It’s awkward to walk in them, like both my feet are in those boots people wear when they break their ankle. Most of the kids bring another pair of shoes to school with them and change out of their boots when they get here, but all I have are sandals. Sandals aren’t allowed at school.

Ms. Juniper smiles down at me.

“You excited?” she asks. Talking to people and being talked to makes my chest tight, so I just shrug. Then I remember that she is the only person in this school that has been nice to me, and that she took time to get a substitute to sit with the rest of the class while she came with me to the assembly. She even got us a seat close to the front. She also asked the principal for permission for me to come in the first place. It’s supposed to be just the fifth graders. I’m only in third grade. I bet I’ve read more books than most of the fifth grade combined, though. Other kids said I’d cheated when I finished the year’s reading challenge in the first month I was here. I didn’t cheat. Unless you call reading at recess cheating. I smile and nod.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How many of her books have you read?” Ms. Juniper asks. 

“All of them,” I answer. My legs swing anxiously under the chair. They used all big chairs for this assembly and it makes me feel even smaller. What happens between third grade and fifth grade that makes everyone get so much bigger? I’m not very big anyway, but here I feel like a little kid, not a nine-year-old. The more I watch the fifth graders, though, the less little I feel. They throw wads of paper at each other and make stupid faces and laugh like hyenas. The other teachers try to shush them, but no one listens. There’s a boy standing on a chair pretending to be a chicken, and a girl turning her chair around to talk to the girl behind her, and the noise is so much that I almost tell Ms. Juniper that we can go back to class. I’ve seen kindergarteners behave more grown up than this. 

“Do you have a favorite?” Ms. Juniper asks. I look at her blankly. “A favorite book?” she clarifies.

“Oh. Um, not really.”

“Hard to pick one, isn’t it? I always loved the Chronicles of Narnia, have you read those?”

I nod. Only about eight times. I’ve only ever had one friend in real life, and when she left, I found friends in my books. Mr. Tumnus, Lucy, and even Puddleglum were just a few of many. Even now as the lights dim and my hands start to tremble, I hear Aslan whisper in my ear, “Courage, dear heart.”

“So exciting!” says Ms. Juniper. She squeezes my hand and even though I don’t usually like that kind of thing, I squeeze hers back.

It takes a few minutes for the teachers to get everyone quiet and sitting. I feel frustrated and impatient with them. Don’t they know what’s about to happen? Who we’re about to see? She created a whole new world, one that I’ve escaped to a hundred times, one I’ve spent days and days exploring. I feel my throat start to swell and my eyes start to burn as I worry that I won’t be able to hear a word she says if these silly children don’t settle down.

Mom says I worry too much. She says if I would relax, I might be able to make new friends. I tell her I already had a friend, and she left. Book friends are safer. Book friends will be there every time I open the pages to their world. She says it’s not Nessie’s fault that she got sick, and that she misses her, too. But if she misses her, then why does she have a new baby coming already? Won’t that just make her forget Nessie?

I take a deep breath as the cafeteria is finally quiet and the stage lights turn on. Without really thinking, I grab Ms. Juniper’s hand again. I don’t know what to expect. What will a world-builder look like? What will she sound like? I barely hear as the principal introduces her and weak applause fills the space around me. Am I breathing? I’m not sure. Doesn’t matter. I think I see her.

She walks out on the stage and it feels like when Mom isn’t paying close attention and has to brake suddenly at a stop sign. A jerk, a jolt, a sudden halt. She’s wearing a sweater just like one Mom has. Her hair is plain. She looks like she could be my next-door neighbor, or the checkout lady at the grocery store. She doesn’t look special at all. She’s just a person. Ms. Juniper’s smile falters when she sees my face.

“You okay, Sis?” she asks. I’m not sure how I feel when she calls me Sis, and I’m not sure how I feel now. I start pulling at the knot in my chest. Just a person, not some godlike creator. How did just a person write such a story? How did she come up with characters that were so real? How did just a person make something that made me cry and laugh and gasp? Her voice sounds a bit like my aunt Jessie. A normal voice. Slowly, as she starts to talk about what it’s like to be an author, something in my heart starts to move. It feels like a fire, all hot and bright. I’m so consumed by it that I have a hard time concentrating on what she’s saying. After a while, she asks if anyone has any questions. Several hands shoot up and kids shout “Me, me!” I slowly raise my hand. It, and the rest of my body, are shaking.

“Yes, Sweetheart?” she says as she points to me. For a second I forget what I was going to ask. She looks like she might move on to the next kid.

“Where do stories come from?” I ask at the last second. My voice sounds like a little bird warble. 

“What a great question!” she says. “Stories come from right there.” She points at me. It feels like she threw something at me and I flinch. “Stories come from you. From your heart. From your life. Stories grow from little pieces of ourselves. Like a tiny seed, those pieces, when planted and nourished, can grow into the most amazing stories. You are full of stories just waiting to bloom.”

“But how do you write them?” I blurt out. It feels like the most important question I’ve ever asked.

“Pick up a pencil, and start. Don’t worry about getting it right the first time. Don’t worry about getting it right at all. Just start. Just write. Just try.”

She moves on to another kid’s question. Who is her favorite character. I can’t listen. I can’t hear anything. My world, my little bitty world, like a foot trapped in a boot, is expanding. Like sunrise seeping into our snowy valley, my world is waking up. After the assembly is over and most of the kids have filed out and back to class, I stay behind. I can’t move yet. Ms. Juniper seems to understand because she doesn’t say anything, she just sits by me.

“Hey, Love,” a voice says. It’s the author. She’s sitting on her heels in front of me. “I have something for you.”

She puts a book in my hands. It’s her book, the one that I’ve been waiting to come out for months. It’s not even in the bookstores yet. 

“Thank you,” I manage to croak. She smiles and pats my hand that is clutching the book. She stands up and walks away. 

I open the cover and written inside is a note from the author.

“Just write. If I can do it, so can you. I’ll be watching for your stories.”

The light that was creeping over the mountain of my mind bursts over the top and fills my whole body down to my toes. I’m going to write. I’m going to find my own worlds. And maybe in one of them, I’ll even find Nessie, safe and sound. All of the sudden, my heart is barefoot.

Photo by Alberto Bigoni on Unsplash