Taming of the Shoe

by Rebekah Dodson

  Maeve. My heart hurt so much. I missed her. It was still surreal driving to school today without her in the front seat, as she had been every day since the beginning of last year when I got my license. I could even hear her laugh and poke fun at me if I had told her some rando hit me in the face with the door to the girl’s bathroom this morning. For the millionth time in the last two weeks, it hit me hard that I’d never hear her laugh again.

  Rubbing my injured nose and trying in vain to clear the thickness in my throat, I found my lab partner, a new kid named Josiah who didn’t like to talk much – or shower for that matter – and focused on finishing up our lab report. When he pushed the paper over to me, my hands shook as I tried to fill out my portion. Maeve had pretty handwriting; she’d always done this part. Josiah threw me a look through the hair that hung over his eyes but didn’t say anything.

  I suddenly couldn’t wait for class to be over. When the bell rang, I threw my backpack over my shoulder and stumbled over Josiah in my rush to get out the door. I focused on the floor and my heart beating a mile a minute as I tried to get into the hallway. I didn’t even pay attention to anything else but two needs: getting out of that classroom and getting to my next class, which happened to be French. After two years of French, I was not only good at it, but it was at least a class I never had with Maeve.

  I ducked in the restroom, splashed water on my face, and examined it in the mirror. I pushed my hair out of my eyes and picked up my backpack and tried to smile, but it wasn’t so easy today. As I was leaving, I nearly ran into George, a football player and a good friend.

  “Hersbill.” He smiled brightly. “Where you been at, dude? I’m dying for your help with algebra.”

  “Hey, George.” My smile was shitty at best. “Sorry, I’ve been, uh, out.”

  His grin fell immediately, and he clapped me on the shoulder. “Ya, I heard. I’m sorry, bro. Me and the boys are all sorry. That was months ago, bro, where you been?”

  I forced myself to smile. “You know, just around.” In no way, shape, or form could George ever know where I’d really been for the last few months.

  “So wanna meet up for algebra after school?”

  “Not today.”

  Now he just looked disappointed. “Okay, well maybe another day, Hersbill.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I lied. I didn’t mind math so much, but hanging out with George, or anyone else for that matter, sounded like torture.

  Plus, after school, I had drama club. It was the only thing I was looking forward to today.

  When I got to French class, I was late thanks to George, and there was one seat up front. I usually sat near the middle, between friends. I loved being in the center of everything. But today I wasn’t feeling it, so I took my seat as class got started.

  After being out of school for a few months and not practicing my French, it was slow to come back to me. I had to focus extra hard on what everyone was saying around me, and it seemed they all spoke more rapidly than I did. Even listening to Ms. Jenae was difficult today.

  What is wrong with me?

  Why can’t I just pick up where I left off, like nothing happened?

  Because you killed her, that’s why.

  I hated when that voice popped up out of the blue. It had been a few weeks, but it was back. My head started to pound.

  Because something big did happen, but maybe, just maybe, I’d come back to school too soon.

  I wiped the sweat from my forehead and focused on my notes in front of me as we settled in groups to do some translating out of the textbook. Ms. Jenae had written some test review on the board, but I was frustrated and couldn’t keep up with how fast everyone was going. I was lost and had no idea how to catch up.

  I flipped the page to finish the translating as students began to pass their papers forward. The ones that were done began to chatter in English in the back of the class. Profusely sweating now, I scribbled harder, faster, sure I was screwing up the verb conjugation and my French cursive was absolutely atrocious and basically unreadable. When I finished the paragraph, I glanced at the picture on the opposite page. There was a girl dressed in black with shoulder-length hair, and her resemblance to Maeve was so stark I froze. My pencil slipped from my fingers, and time slowed down around me. My head started to swim as I slowly bent to pick up the pencil. I felt like my hands were made of lead and I was moving slower than a sloth.

  “Hey, this looks like that girl that died – what’s her name?”

  My head whipped around to see who said that, making me even more dizzy. It was some girl with a high ponytail wearing a hoodie over shorts so high they should have violated the dress code twice over. Her name was Angelica, but unlike her name, she was no angel. I should know, I’d dated her in eighth grade, and she’d moved from the city, too. She was bitch back then, too, but here she was a queen bee. The high bitch in charge. Her Maleficent majesty – or something like that. If anyone asks you if Mean Girls is an accurate portrayal of high school life, show them a picture of Angelica Gilbert.

  “The goth chick? Mabel or something?” Angelica’s little lacky, Susanna, spoke up. She pulled a hot Cheeto from the bag in front of her and chewed it noisily, then wiped her red-stained, grimy, manicured hands on her desk in front of her.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Angelica responded. She giggled. “Only this one doesn’t look like a salope.”

  My brain was sluggish with French, but I translated the word for slut as soon as it exited Angelica’s filthy mouth. That made me so mad I felt the anger surge into my jaw and I gritted my teeth hard. It wasn’t just because it was about Maeve, but I was sick of Angelica’s slut-shaming. I was up and out of my seat, pushing through the half dozen desks between us. “What did you call her?” I shouted as I got closer. I could vaguely hear Ms. Jenae calling my name and telling me to sit down or something. I didn’t care.

  “It’s her boyfriend.” Susanna nudged Angelica with a nasty little smirk. She tipped her Hydroflask to her lips. “You know he was the one driving in that snowstorm, right?”

  “Fuck you!” I screamed. I knocked the water bottle to the ground, and it landed with a sharp thud, rolling under Ms. Jenae’s desk.

  “Ethan! That is quite enough!” Ms. Jenae was screaming somewhere behind me.

  I leaned over Angelica, my hands on both sides of her desk. “Don’t you ever let me catch you calling Maeve that ever again!”

  “Who cares? It’s not like she can...”

  Before she could finish her sentence, I snatched a Hydroflask from the desk next to me, screwed the lid off, and dumped it on her head.

  Unfortunately for Angelica, it wasn’t water that came out, but something sweet and fruity, pink, and definitely mixed with vodka. The sharp aroma filled the classroom almost immediately, as I watched the pink rivulets roll down her cheeks and stain the front of her white crop top. She froze with her hand curled beside her, like some evil reincarnate of Carrie, and for a moment I thought maybe she’d explode me with her mind.

  And I kind of wished she did.

  “Ethan!” Ms. Jenae was shrieking now. “That’s it, you’re getting lunch detention, Mr. Hersbill!” She was shoving a piece of paper in my face now. “You’re lucky I’m not suspending you! Considering this is your first day back, I’m going easy on you! And you, Angelica, we need to have a little talk with the principal about alcohol on school grounds!”

  Ignoring that part of the conversation, where I’m sure little-miss-did-nothing-wrong-ever would get off scot-free for running her stupid mouth, I snatched it and fled out of the classroom, grabbing my backpack as I went. I smashed through the door and headed to my punishment that I didn’t even deserve.

  Chapter 4

  Taylor

  He deserved it. I didn’t even know his name. But I’d had enough today. I wasn’t even sorry.

  Reasons I’m going to Hell, I scribbled angrily in my notebook. To my left was my open math textbook, sprawled open and abandoned, as I doodled little Celtic crosse
s and flowered vines next to my rantings. Two tables over and to the left the librarian sat on the computer, doing who knows what, but thank goodness she wasn’t paying attention to me at all.

  Just an hour, I reminded myself, and I can get to 5th period, choir, and then math, 6th period, and I’d be free. After that I’ll be at the studio, and I can dance this crappy day away.

  The library doors slammed open then and in marched the boy I’d hit with the bathroom door. We exchanged a look before he checked in with the librarian, handing her the similar purple slip I had, then sitting at the table next to me. He pulled out his lunch, a very tidy pile of butcher-paper wrapped meats and cheeses and huffed as he began unrolling each one and building a small stack of breadless sandwiches.

  I glanced down at the sack lunch the librarian handed me. It was part of the free program, which Papa had tried to turn down, but I had insisted on it. I knew he didn’t have any more than his social security pension and it was his pride that resisted. Lunch today was a disgusting ham sandwich, at least I think it was ham, cucumber sticks, which I hated, and milk. Well, milk for lunch it was. I couldn’t help but sneak another peak over at him and had to swallow a few times to avoid salivating.

  The third time I looked at him, he caught my eye and full on stared.

  Oh no, he recognizes me from the bathroom.

  I looked sharply down at my doodle page and tucked a wayward strand of blonde hair behind my ear.

  Please don’t come over here, I silently pleaded. I tucked my head in one hand to keep myself from looking at him again.

  “Taylor?” The librarian had, apparently, been watching the entire awkward exchange. “Are you all right?”

  My head shot up and I forced a smile. “Ja,” I blurted, reverting back to my natural German before I caught myself. “I mean, yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

  I wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

  The boy at the next table stared openly at me now, his head tilted slightly. Was he curious? What was he thinking? I knew my cheeks must have been bright red. I’d been so careful about letting my German slip. Why now?

  I studied my math book, still quietly hoping he wouldn’t come over here, but then I heard the soft scrape of his chair legs against the thin carpeted floor.

  “These things will kill you,” he announced, as he closed the distance between us and wrapped his hand around my abandoned sandwich. I looked up just in time to see him three-pointer shoot it into a nearby garbage can. The librarian saw it and smiled as she turned back to her computer, thankfully leaving us alone. He pulled out a chair across the table and pushed his tray of meat and cheese toward me. “Have some. My mom always packs way too much, and I hate bread, so it’s okay. Do you like pickles? I’ve also got pickles, but I’m not feeling it right now.”

  “I hate bread, too,” I murmured. I kind of forgot, or got distracted, about the pickles. He was even better looking up close, especially the way his hair fell across his forehead and the round curve of his slightly chubby cheeks. He was adorable. I plucked a piece of cheese off the tray and nibbled at it. “Thanks,” I tried a little louder this time.

  “I haven’t seen you around here before, are you new?” he asked casually as he chewed on food.

  “I could say the same about you,” I offered cautiously. “I’ve never seen you before.”

  He leaned forward and snatched another section of cheese and meat off the tray. “I’ve been here for a few years. I just took...some time off. What about you? You must have some kind of story if you’re here this late in the semester.”

  I frowned at him. “I just moved here.” I shrugged. “Kinda.” I dragged a piece of meat toward me. It was nothing like the stuff we got fresh from the butcher in Germany, but it was pretty close. A lot better than what passed for ham around here. Besides Callie, I was invisible, and Callie didn’t even know the details of my backstory. This stranger probably didn’t even want to know.

  “I’m Ethan,” he announced, and stuck out his hand. “And what’s your name?”

  “Taylor,” I mumbled, probably a little too low, because he leaned forward as if he couldn’t hear me. “Taylor,” I offered again, and he sideways grinned at me.

  What a nice smile, I thought absently, and tried to focus on my math again, but the numbers and letters had blurred.

  “So what are you in for?” He gestured around him.

  “I—”

  “No, wait.” He held up his hand. “Let me guess.” He leaned back and stroked his chin with his forefinger and thumb. Given that he was still dressed like a fifties greaser, it was an odd expression. “You smacked your gum in class.”

  He was playing with me, or at least, I thought he was. Did I sense a twinkle in his eye? Was he being mischievous? Well, two could play at that. “Not quite. But, which class?”

  “Hmm...” He narrowed his eyes at me, then snapped his fingers. “You’re too quiet to be the talk back kind. Did you forget to do your homework? No, can’t be. From the looks of that calculus, you’re too smart for that.”

  I was surprised, and a little pleased, that he recognized the senior math I was taking. I leaned back and crossed my arms. “Nope.”

  He looked under the table, and I crossed my legs as I shifted in my seat.

  What in hells bells was he doing? Why was he ... looking at my legs?

  When his head came back up, he leaned forward, determined to win this game. “You’re wearing P.E. shorts, but your legs are ... athletic. So it can’t be that you refused to run the mile.” He studied me. “I imagine you’re probably on the track team or something. Hmm. Well, well, Taylor. Who are you?”

  My turn to lean forward. “I’ll give you a hint.” I inhaled and then in my best French, I said, “I may climb perhaps to no great heights, but I will climb alone.”

  Maybe I’d confused him, and he’d go away, but he was entertaining at least. I wasn’t expecting him to understand me, though.

  His face lit up and he flashed the cutest smile. “I’m in French two. So, ah ha! Mrs. Henrys’ second period English. Had to be. You’re reading Cyrano de Bergerac – still?”

  I was delighted he guessed, surprised he understood my French, but the word I blurted was, “Still?”

  “Yeah. I was in that class back in...” he looked away, and his face darkened. A shadow passed over his eyes. “Last semester,” he finished softly.

  My smile fell. “Are you ... are you all right?”

  He looked back at me and smiled again, but his green eyes lost their luster. He looked sad, like a memory had punched him in the gut. The smile didn’t look easy as it had before.

  Boy, did I know how that felt.

  “I’m fine.” He took the last bit of food on the tray and ate it whole, chewed for a second, and swallowed heavily. “So ... Mrs. Henrys’ class. How did you piss her off this time?”

  “She’s easily pissed off.” I may be new, but the whole school knew it, I bet. “I ... hit a boy with a book. After my skirt ripped on those stupid chairs.” I sunk down in my chair, wishing the earth would swallow me. I almost closed my eyes because I knew he was going to laugh at me, just like they all did.

  Instead a look of calm sympathy flooded his face, and he cocked his head at me again. “Okay, this is super embarrassing. Ready?”

  I stifled a giggle and could only nod.

  “Freshman year, when I first moved here, I was in Mrs. Henrys’ class, and we were acting out a scene from Romeo and Juliet. I stumbled over my line, when I asked for it, I accidently called Mrs. Henrys ‘mommy.’”

  I burst out laughing and the librarian gave us the stink eye. I wrapped my hands over my mouth to hold it in. “That’s amazing,” I blurted between bursts of laughter. “Maybe not as amazing as the look on that boy’s face when I hit him with a scrawny play book, but still amazing nonetheless.”

  “Well, any boy that laughs at a girl’s unfortunate plight deserves what he got, that’s for sure. There’s some raging douches at this school.” He rol
led his eyes.

  “Douches?”

  “You know, like jerks?” He stared at me. “You have a little accent, don’t you? Especially your French. It’s nothing like our teacher’s accent. I despise being rude, but do you mind if I ask where it’s from?”

  I hesitated. Should I even tell him? What could it hurt? I doubted he’d even remember me after today. Some people already guessed where I was from – and some incorrectly – so he couldn’t possibly hurdle anymore insults my way.

  Plus, he didn’t seem the type. He seemed actually pretty nice. Maybe I would finally catch a break. “My parents are missionaries with the Church of Christ. I grew up in Germany, but they were moved to another country and it wasn’t safe for me to go with them. So I decided to move in with my Papa.”

  “Ah, I see,” was all he said. He leaned back again and studied me again. I wondered if he knew how uncomfortable it made me, but only because I could almost see the wheels turning in his head, but I didn’t know what he was thinking. I was horrible at reading people, anyway. “That’s really cool, actually. So you’re religious and stuff?”

  I sighed. “No, not really. I go to church with my Papa sometimes, but I just got ...” sick of all the fake people, just like at this school, I wanted to add, but didn’t. “I decided to do my own thing. I still pray and stuff sometimes but not really much anymore.” A little lie, but I didn’t want him to think I was some religious nutjob or something. I decided to change the subject. “So what are you in for?”

  “Cool, cool,” he muttered. He slid into the seat next to me, leaned over and whispered, “I dumped water on a girl’s head. She was being a bitch about someone I—I used to know.”

  I almost gasped when he swore, but there was that faraway look in his eyes again.

  “Hey, do you want some help with that math by any chance?”

  Not really, but for you, maybe. “I’m stuck on question 4,” I lied. I slapped my notebook next to me shut where I had already written down the answer.