The Shoes
Deana Graham

It was time for recess. Deana ran with her friends down the path to the lower playground, dominated by the still-silver jungle gym. Here the girls in Mrs. Ellisís class met to make up jump rope rhymes, plan slumber parties and give each other shots for boy germs.

Deana was very small for her age, almost frail. She had dark brown eyes and light brown hair, cut short in a pixie style. It was November and the day was cold and blustery. She wore her favorite blue dress with tights to ward off the chilly wind. She was almost completely enveloped in a coat several sizes too large for her, a hand-me-down from her older sister. Her sturdy, black shoes were made to last through a school year of hopscotch, tag and jump rope. And best of all, they were comfortable.

Deana had had loved the evening she had got those shoes. The traditional end -of- the summer trip to buy shoes was a family event. On hot summer afternoons, Mom handled buying the dresses and tights, the underwear and the gym shorts, herding her three little girls and hauling baby Patrick through the crowded aisles of the old Sears store.  Dad worked long, hard hours at the gas station, often arriving home long after dinner. But on shoe night, Dad somehow managed to get off early. Time with Dad transformed a trip to the shoe store into a special occasion. After dinner, the family piled into the old, white station wagon and headed for town. In the basement of J.C. Penney, Deana sat with her sisters in the padded brown chairs, waiting her turn.

The salesman brought out box after box of new shoes, each with a wonderful scent of leather, nestled in their boxes, bright and unscuffed. The new scent of those shoes filled Deana with excitement. When her turn came, she stood obediently on the cold metal while the salesman measured her tiny foot. He shook his head and explained to her parents that they had very few shoes in her size, especially this close to the start of school. He would see what he could do.

As the salesman tried the first pair on her feet, Deana wiggled with excitement and delight. They were a beautiful shiny white, with a strap across the top of her foot. She thought she had never seen more beautiful shoes. When she stood up to walk across the floor, she heard her mom say firmly, ìShe needs sturdy shoes. They need to last for the whole school year.î The salesman nodded with understanding; he had heard this refrain many times. Deana watched him confer quietly with her mom before he disappeared in the back, returning with a new box. Inside, was a pair of black leather, lace-up shoes. They fit Deana perfectly. But they werenít shiny or pretty. And they definitely were not princess shoes. She glanced wistfully back at the box that held the beautiful, white shoes as her parents marched decisively toward the cash register, with the black shoes firmly in hand. Still, on the way home, she had found herself happily sniffing that delicious new shoe smell and dreaming of wearing them on the first day of 3^rd grade.

On that cold November day, three months later, Deana crossed the monkey bars two times, first hand-over-hand, one bar after another and then, every other bar, skipping one in between, a new-found skill of which she was especially proud. But the icy bars chafed her thin fingers, so she ran to sit with her the girls on the horizontal bars, perching on one bar and hooking her legs under a second one for balance. Her not-so-new, slightly scuffed, black shoes stuck up prominently at the end of her thin, white legs.

ìThose are BOY shoes,î confidently declared a voice, cutting sharply through the icy air and stilling the talk of a new jump rope rhyme. Deana looked up to see an accusing finger pointed right at her feet.

ìThose are BOY shoes!î Sally repeated to the half a dozen girls clustered on the bars, like a flock of hens. Deana felt a sense of shock and wonder. Were they boy shoes? She felt confused and unsure. Nothing could be worse then wearing BOY shoes. Several others began to nod their heads in agreement:

ìThey do look like boy shoes!î said one

ìThey ARE boy shoes!î firmly stated another.

Deana looked around at the other shoes firmly tucked under the silver bar. She saw a pair of shiny red ones and brown ones with a glinting, silver buckle. She saw a pair of shiny black shoes with a strap and some beautiful, white go-go boots that came up to the knee. But no one else had black shoes that laced up.

ìThey are not boy shoesî she said rather uncertainly.

But inside she knew; her shoes were not like the other little girlsí. She was different. As recess ended and she headed for her classroom, the shoes that had fit so perfectly in the store now felt a little smaller, a little more cramped. And so did she.