Fuzzy Boots by Molly Bond

The night was brisk and cool. The stars hung over us, watching, breathing, blinking. I was jogging to keep up with them; they were moving at an uncomfortable pace. My velcro sneakers stood out from their white boots, the latest fashion, bought in a haze of frenzied shopping. The sidewalk was too narrow. I was being pushed off the edge, forced to walk in the dog-crap-laden weeds. I attempted to step ahead of them, but Susy pushed me back with her newly tanned arm. I looked up at her and listened as she instructed me to walk behind Becca and her, her voice sticky with bubblegum, in the tone one uses when addressing a badly behaved dog. I gazed at Becca, who seemed to be purposely ignoring me. As I stared, memories slapped me, grazing my skin. Lying in the soft white sand on the beach, hair whipped by the salty wind. Sitting around as far apart from the popular group as possible during lunch and still feeling like the coolest kids around. The three of us, sitting on a cliff, watching the city squirm below us. I took in Becca’s painted face, her plastic nails, her disgustingly fuzzy boots. Susy’s hazel eyes, streaked with triumph — mocking me, egging me on. Unwelcome tears drowned my face, and I tried to wipe them away with my sweatshirt sleeve. “You are alone in this world,” a voice echoed through me. “You lost them all.”

.

Return to This Week’s Flash