I Wear Socks

Chapter 1: Life of a Fake-Footed

I wear socks.

Most people do. I like toe socks best. And neon stripes are great. Flowers are best when they ring around your ankle, but in general I don't like them on socks. Polka dots are perfect in varying sizes, all over your foot. And animals on your toes make for a cute, girly fashion statement.

Okay, it's kinda weird that I obsess over, of all things, socks. And the patterns that decorate them. How to explain this? I guess I'll just go for it.

I have fake feet. I lost my legs from my knee down when I was three, and of course, nobody will tell me how. All I know about the accident is that thats when my folks died, too. I was given artificial limbs because a toddler is going to have a very complicated time in a wheelchair. Then I was introduced to socks. Those bright colored, attention grabbing, fashionable socks. My favorite part? They hide the stupid metal bands connecting my silicone toes to my silicone foot.

If you haven't picked up on this yet, I hate the doll legs. I hate sliding into plastic bags before a shower. I hate how my running effort doesn't affect my speed. I hate the mocking memory of sprinting through dew-covered grass that I can't relive. And I hate the occasional stares, or disdainful glances. I mean, I guess I appreciate my "legs". There would be more factors to contribute to that hate if I was, say, legless.

Some people say I'm different. I'm not. Really, if you get to know me, I'm just a normal 16-year-old. I like to put on makeup, and I giggle and point when friends' crush walks by. I gossip (but not negatively), and go to parties. But I don't drink. Nuh-uh. Luckily there's not much peer pressure for that. I text my friends (and that includes my boyfriend). I go to the mall in a group, often for socks. See, I fit in well. Really, really well.

There's (roughly) one thing I hide, though. That no one knows about except my aunt. She became my legal guardian after the accident, and chose my legs. So I ended up with eight hidden compartments in my legs. Two on my knees, two on the outsides of my shins, two on the insides, and two behind my detachable toes. My aunt knows something she won't tell me. Ever since I turned eleven, she's required that my shooting skills are always up to date and that I carry a pistol at all times. The only exception is school, where I carry several fake pens with tranquilizer instead of ink, the weapon I've had on me from the day I moved in.

"No reason," she tells me. "I'm just a worrywart, that's all. And better safe than sorry."

Yeah, right. Safe than sorry, I get ya. But I'm not buying the auntie's-a-worrywart, wa wa wa. What does that have to do with a gun in my pocket? (OK, not my pocket, but close enough.)

Thank you for listening to my crazy ranting. Once I get going, there are no brakes.

*****

I slam my locker shut, after checking that I have my art assignment and pencil set. Perfect. I turn on my heel to head to class like normal. Except I'm forced to stop short, eyes wide, right before slamming into a boy with freckles. "Well, hi, there," I say before turning to leave. His arm shoots out to block me. "Oh, ok, that's fine."

"Where do you think you're going, Nancy?" He spits my name out, then flips his shaggy blond hair, staring daggers at me the whole time.

"Art class." I say firmly, and tighten my lips into a smile matter-of-factly. I am quick enough to duck under his arm this time, but a buddy of his pins me against the wall before I'm out of their reach. I sigh. "What do you want?"

"Last night I wanted a kiss with my girlfriend, but she was to busy watching a show at your house," the blond sneered.

"Oh, dear, I apologize for hanging out with my best friends last night. I didn't mean to interfere with you making out." My voice is loaded with sarcasm, and I can tell he doesn't expect it. And he definitely doesn't appreciate it.

But, unfortunately for them, they're so riled up that the crony holding me doesn't expect me to make a getaway. They won't make that mistake again. I look up at the gross face of my captor and grin. Once he glances at me, I slug him in the stomach and book it to the art room. "Sorry, boys, but I told you I had places to be."

They'll most likely come after me once school's over, but I'd prefer to be late home than to skip art class.

As I walk into the classroom, Ms. Lester comments on my socks. She and I are alike in many ways, two being our love of art and socks. "Nancy, those are great! I love how the zebra pairs with rainbow, and then they tie into your shirt!"

I smile. "Thanks. Love yours, too." She's rocking a pair of checkerboard crew socks that collide beautifully with her striped shirt and dotty skirt.

The whole of Art passes by uneventfully, even though I had a blast. I mean, we started wood sculptures. In English we work on our short stories about a girl who lives on a boat with only a donkey for company. Social Studies is the usual bore.

I'm relieved when lunch finally comes. I slide into my normal seat as Isabella asks me how my day's going."Oh, you know, art was exciting, English was fine, S.S. was boring, and Isaac tried to kill me because Stacy hung out at my place last night, and he couldn't get his good night kiss."

"We have got to get rid of him. He's horrible to Stacy and she doesn't even know it." Isabella bit into her sandwich just as Stacy sat down with her pizza. "Hey, Stacy."

"Nancy, Belle." Stacy greets us with a nod each.

I don't reply with an expected response, like 'hi' or 'how ya doing?'. Instead I lay on the cold hard facts. "Isaac is a brat, and nowhere near good enough for you. I've gathered more proof today, if you'd like to hear it."

She ignores me.

I hate how she thinks he's great. He's not at all. He doesn't even kiss good. (I know because he wanted to date me, so snogged me in the middle of my sentence. It was disgusting.) And he cheats on her, too.

I continue on, not caring if I hurt her feelings. If she holds onto Isaac much longer, he'll pretend she's his favorite, then ditch her for a cheerleader. That'll hurt much more. "You know how chicken he is. So chicken he brought--was it four?--groupies to keep me cornered while he lectured me, or whatever he was planning, about making sure you're always to his house on time for a bedtime kiss. Do you think that you deserve a guy who's so desperate to make out that he bullies one of your best friends? And yet he goes out with Kaylie every day after school?"

Kaylie, the popular, perfect girl that runs the whole dang school chooses that moment to walk by. "Sounds like SIN is jealous. You hear that, girls?"

The posse trailing behind her erupts in a mixture of snickers and giggles that make me nauseous. Most of the not-popular-but-not-unpopular crowd have trained themselves by now to ignore the main couple of cliques. So I do- mostly. "She's practically admitting to it, Stace."

Apparently Kaylie has more to say. "Nancy! Belle! Stacy! You've got a new nickname, you hear me!"

"Yeah, we heard your feeble attempt at a nickname, alright. And it's supposed to mean what?" Isabelle says tiredly.

"Oh, the brainiac of the school doesn't get it? How sweet," Kaylie mock pouted in a singsong voice.

Stacy rolled her eyes. "Get your titles straight, woman. I'm the smarty-pants. Bella is the drama queen. And Nancy is the art geek. I do, in fact, know what the heck that crazy head of yours was thinking when you put together that so-called nickname. Stacy: S. Isabelle: I. Nancy: N. Yay, SIN, so freaking clever! You know, because we're the school pranksters and all!"

Kaylie frowned. "Wow. You are much brighter than I thought. Then again, I expected you to not have enough hand-eye coordination to poke your lunch tray." She flounced off followed by a swarm of fans, proud of her snappy little insult.

I turn my eyes back to my baby carrots. After I bite a ranch covered end off, I conclude my interrupted speech. "Anyways, the point is, dump freaking Isaac."