Already Mauve at Eleven
It all began with shoes, a fresh colour every three years so that hand-me-
downs would seem brand new.
*
This year it had been mauve. Charlie had walked down sidewalks in them,
avoiding rough roads so he could not feel the bottom of the ground
scraping against his feet, scraping off the lilac till the boyish toes
stuck out like sore thumbs and sour faces.
The mauve had liked the sidewalks too, and they had learnt not to provoke
each other, so the mauve would stay mauve and the sidewalk would stay
scuffed and not toed smooth.
"How old are you?" he would ask the sidewalk, who thought him rude
because she was too old, and would not reply.
The shoes were four and a half years old; Charlie was barely eleven. He
was midway into his title, the second prince of the shoes, where they
crowned his feet and soaked his skin with the sweat of his predecessor.
Every night he would complain that the shoes reeked of peeling skin and
freckled feet, that they had been spoilt only two years after the pair
had come from the shop, wrapped in plastic and cardboard and looking
terribly unexciting lying about in the hallway.
No one listened to him because they were busy, and he had to repeat it
loudly so that his heart ached. It was worth the effort, seeing annoyance
squeeze out from those accused freckled feet as they plodded around naked
and aimed at his shin.
It had been this way for barely eleven years, and it had been that bare
an eleven years for him to remind himself that it did not matter; the
shoes smelt of nothing.
When he realized that his feet had grown bigger than the hand-me-downs,
even bigger than the anticipated, currently new hand-me-downs, it was a
little too late to regret pretending so shamelessly with shoes.
*
Charlie was the first in the coronation now, despite not being old
enough. His shoes went to the oldest boy with the smaller feet that
mirrored his own, a whole size down. Still, Charlie kept the shoes
pristine as a virgin so that he could not complain as achingly loud as
Charlie had done. So that his melodramatic feet would not shudder and do
a scuffling sojourn when he did not find fault with the shoes Charlie had
worn over his own peeling and freckled feet.
That day, his pair was green as chlorophyll on a sunny morning, brand new
from the box, and Percy had lost his mauve shoes before he could even
wear them.
The mauve shoes were not lonely, though, they had new friends beneath
piles of Quidditch gear and a flutter of pictures that spelt Charlie's
hush-hush grin in a bright shade of blue.
It all began with shoes, a fresh colour every three years so that hand-me-
downs would seem brand new.
*
This year it had been mauve. Charlie had walked down sidewalks in them,
avoiding rough roads so he could not feel the bottom of the ground
scraping against his feet, scraping off the lilac till the boyish toes
stuck out like sore thumbs and sour faces.
The mauve had liked the sidewalks too, and they had learnt not to provoke
each other, so the mauve would stay mauve and the sidewalk would stay
scuffed and not toed smooth.
"How old are you?" he would ask the sidewalk, who thought him rude
because she was too old, and would not reply.
The shoes were four and a half years old; Charlie was barely eleven. He
was midway into his title, the second prince of the shoes, where they
crowned his feet and soaked his skin with the sweat of his predecessor.
Every night he would complain that the shoes reeked of peeling skin and
freckled feet, that they had been spoilt only two years after the pair
had come from the shop, wrapped in plastic and cardboard and looking
terribly unexciting lying about in the hallway.
No one listened to him because they were busy, and he had to repeat it
loudly so that his heart ached. It was worth the effort, seeing annoyance
squeeze out from those accused freckled feet as they plodded around naked
and aimed at his shin.
It had been this way for barely eleven years, and it had been that bare
an eleven years for him to remind himself that it did not matter; the
shoes smelt of nothing.
When he realized that his feet had grown bigger than the hand-me-downs,
even bigger than the anticipated, currently new hand-me-downs, it was a
little too late to regret pretending so shamelessly with shoes.
*
Charlie was the first in the coronation now, despite not being old
enough. His shoes went to the oldest boy with the smaller feet that
mirrored his own, a whole size down. Still, Charlie kept the shoes
pristine as a virgin so that he could not complain as achingly loud as
Charlie had done. So that his melodramatic feet would not shudder and do
a scuffling sojourn when he did not find fault with the shoes Charlie had
worn over his own peeling and freckled feet.
That day, his pair was green as chlorophyll on a sunny morning, brand new
from the box, and Percy had lost his mauve shoes before he could even
wear them.
The mauve shoes were not lonely, though, they had new friends beneath
piles of Quidditch gear and a flutter of pictures that spelt Charlie's
hush-hush grin in a bright shade of blue.
