Sally Harrold

Paper Two: "The Slipper"

1997 Oregon Writing Project

The grade school I attended was a wonderful old red brick building with a cupola, enormous windows, and dark wooden floors and stairs, slightly hollowed in the middle from years of traffic. Because of all the wood, giant fire extinguishers hung on the walls at the top of the stairs. Because of the slippery, polished wood floors, strict rules against running were in place.

But we were kids, cooped up in a classroom all year, and now it was May with the outdoors beckoning, "Come play!" So when the recess bell rang, I bolted from my seat, ready to rush outside to lay claim to the favorite (and only) bench on the playground for my friends Cindy, Sharon, and me. I ran pell mell down the hall, grabbing for the banister railing at the top of the stairs . I grabbed air, lost my footing, and slammed into the fire extinguisher on my right, sending it careening off the wall, spewing out foam in a wide arc. It bounced once about a foot in the air, bounced again onto my foot, then slid ten feet down the hallway, squirting foam all the while.

I huddled against the wall, gazing dazedly at the mess I'd created. "Why did have to run? Why didn't I let Sharon or Cindy get the bench today? What'll Mrs. Webb do to me? " Mrs. Webb was a tall, angular

woman with a stern face and a rasping voice. She was also the good friend of Big Sally, my beloved godmother and name giver--why I'd never been able to figure out. Big Sally was a chickadee and Mrs. Webb, a hawk. "I wish I could run away ," I muttered. but I knew I couldn't. Big Sally would be ashamed of me, and I couldn't stand that.

Mrs. Webb's sharp voice broke through the pandemonium. "Go on outside for recess, please, now!" Her heels clicked on the wooden floor as she approached. Soon she was towering over me. "Please come to my office, Sally," she said. I was terrified. I'd really done it now. I was crying, wiping the tears away with the back of my hand.

I hobbled slowly to her office; the others had all vanished outside. I was alone.

Once in her office, Mrs. Webb asked me to tell her what had happened.

In a quaking voice, I stuttered out the story. She listened without interrupting me. Then she spoke, her voice firm but quiet. "You know you're not to run in the hall. You're to stay after school this week and write 500 times, 'I will not run in the halls.' Now let's take a good look at that foot."

She examined it carefully, gently wiggling it this way and that; then she sat back, relieved that I'd apparently broken nothing. "Your foot's not broken, but it is beginning to swell. We'll call your mother to come pick you up after school. For now, let's see what we have for your foot, " she said more warmly. I nodded, my fear subsiding.

She got up from her chair beside me and opened a cupboard behind her desk. From it she took something. "You can wear my slipper," she said. I sat in amazement, looking at the slipper in her hand. It was black, backless, with an open toe and a one-inch heel. The ultimate in sophistication. She helped me slip it onto my foot. I felt like Cinderella. I stood up, feeling the lovely smoothness of the leather beneath my toes, the exhilarating elevation of the heel. I think Mrs. Webb smiled at me as I left her office. I hobbled down the hall, the slipper clunking as I went. I entered the classroom, feeling like a princess, not a criminal.