Sole Searching

Step One

I never thought much about my appearance because no one else did. I'm the typical fat girl: linebacker thighs, flappy arms, and a belly that demands attention. My body isn't something I'm inherently proud of, but it doesn't shame me either. Confidence, as my nana likes to say, is key when you're 'curvaceous.' I wear mine like armor—though some might call it bold. My formula is simple: impossibly baggy jeans (the kind JNCO only dreams of making) paired with the smallest shirt I can find, hugging my chest just right. And of course, my Nikes.

For a while, I thought they were Air Force 1s. I mean, how was I supposed to know they weren't? I proudly rocked them until The Rude Awakening of Seventh Grade hit. Call me dramatic, but imagine all your peers not only laughing because your 'Air Forces' turned out to be Nike Court Borough Lows but also spitting and stomping on them. I can still hear their cackles. Honestly, I blame the worker who sold them to me. How dare they? Still, I guess I owe those shoes a tiny sliver of gratitude. They walked me through my first kiss, to the Washington Monument, and, yes, even to the day I broke my leg. Funny how much history can fit into a pair of knockoff sneakers. Where are they walking me today? To my boyfriend's house. Well, boy friend. That space between the words? Utterly important.

Peter has been my ride-or-die since seventh grade when he trip-sat me after I accidentally ate an edible. I thought they were just regular fruit gummies—sue me. I like to call him Spidey, though. His tan hair and what I like to call his 'nerdy appeal' make me joke that he's Peter Parker, aka Spider-Man. He says he was named Peter because his mom was obsessed with the Tobey Maguire movie right before he was born, so it only felt fitting. He said I'm the only one who knows that. We always hang out at his house, and I like it that way. He doesn't need to know what goes on within the four walls of mine. Peter has the picture-perfect family: married parents, a white picket fence, and a retired police K-9 German Shepherd.

Today's more of a workday hangout since we got paired for our chemistry project. Despite hanging out almost every day after school, we never talk during the school day. We have different cliques, so what can you expect? No offense, but I don't exactly want to hang out with a bunch of sweaty soccer jocks.

Before I could even knock, the door swung open, and his cheeky grin greeted me. 'Heyyyy, Selina.' His tone was different today—there was that upbeat, 'on top of the world' energy radiating off of him.

'What are you up to this time?' I asked, my voice flat and monotone. Despite being the dorkiest guy I knew, Peter was always doing something I wouldn't approve of. Last time he had this attitude, the team pranked the principal by filling his car with chickens.

What they didn't realize, though, was that chickens have claws. Dr. Kien's leather seats looked like they'd been attacked by a slasher film villain. The whole team was later suspended for 2 weeks. Gooo Bears!

'Sel, come on, why do you always gotta think I'm up to something?'

'Because you are, Peter—my senses are tingling.'

'That's so funny because your mom said the same thing last night.'

'Peter—'

After the long annoyed stare I gave him, he rushed away to his room. Before I caught up with him, I went into the kitchen to get a water bottle. Before opening the fridge, I saw their old Christmas family portrait. His parents stood tall while Peter was in front, smiling with no teeth. His older brother Elliot, who looked to be in middle school, had this grimace imprinted on his face—like he was embarrassed of being photographed. Chuckling, I opened the cold handles and grabbed my water.

Peter sat at his desk, deep in thought. We had to solve 20 questions with completed equations and present them in front of the class. Did I mention this is due tomorrow first period, I know my timing is impeccable. I jumped onto his bed, legs crossed, digging through my bag for the worksheet. Okay, this isn't that bad, I have to do ten questions; it's only half. Trying to hype myself up. While Spidey over here has gone complete Green Goblin- evil scientist mode. Where his hair gets all disheveled, like only a hand running through it in confusion can make it. Scribbling equations furiously while muttering answers under his breath. Hours later, or at least it felt that way, I yawned as the darkness outside grew deeper. This seemed to have pulled him out of his worker bee trance. He quickly got up like a light bulb had gone off in his head and ran—to the bathroom. He often does this; I don't know if it's just his ADHD or if he actually doesn't realize he needs to go to the bathroom. When he's in the zone, he's really in the zone. A ding echoed in the room, and I checked my phone for the first time since I entered his house. I frowned, realizing it wasn't my phone that got the notification—it was Peter's. Ding. There it goes again. It's probably nothing—just the group chat with his team, right? Now it's ringing—with this ringtone I've never heard before. I have to check it now, sure normally I'm this super cool nonchalant awesome person, but at the end of the day—I am just a girl. My heart stopped like never before—curiosity really did kill the cat.

Lilypad? Who the hell is Lilypad? Who is sending him messages like this? 'Hey, I liked hanging out with you during lunch.' Can you hang out tonight? 'Call me back.'

My cheeks flushed a bright red—I don't know if it's because I'm angry or if it's because I'm embarrassed thinking Peter actually liked me. I put his phone back down in the exact place—I couldn't have him know I looked at his phone. I started packing up my things—just shoving them into my backpack.

'Sel, do not let me eat beans ever again—hey, what are you doing?'

I'm trying to shove the words out of my mouth, but my throat is on fire.

'Nothing—I'm just ready to go home.'

'I thought you were gonna spend the night; I even got out the—'

'No, yeah, I changed my mind. Something came up,' I choked out, not facing him.

I walked out of his room, preparing for the long way home.

He started to trail me—'Sel, where are you going?'

It is too late- I've already walked out of the door. My feet are walking just as fast as my brain is moving. I only come to light with this fact when I slip. A loud crack took place soon after- my leg; again. 

Shooting pain grew through my leg, and I realized something: I wasn't just running away from Peter. I was running from confronting the things I didn't want to admit.