Hello and welcome to Distracted Fiction.
This is a new section within Distracted where I share my short stories. I am hoping to make it a fortnightly feature, as I have a few oldies to get through and it will encourage me to write more, so let’s see what happens!
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New Shoes was written a few years ago now, in 2018. It is inspired by a collection of memories from my childhood in the 90s but if I were to say it were a true story I would be lying, and I’m sure my siblings might have something to say about it too. It was a fun one to write and it makes me smile, so I hope you enjoy it.
It’s not every day you get to wear your new shoes to school. It’s not every day you even get to have new shoes, especially in our family. Usually, we wait until our big toes are emerging through the upper pleather, or a new school year (whichever is sooner). Finally I have a pair of shoes that don’t look like they are from Shoe Zone. They might have been but they don’t look it. Black suede, lace up with a shiny white platform. Not a scuff in sight. I walk gallantly through the playground, feeling tall amongst my peers and not just because of the 2-inch platform.
It’s home time and I run to pick my little brother up. When I arrive, the teacher looks at me a littler longer than usual. I know it’s because I am late but it crosses my mind that she is attracted to my new shoes; I had been getting compliments all day. Sid is waiting in the classroom, his book bag on his lap. He gets up when he sees me and we both walk out the classroom without a word to the teacher. She calls out after us, “See you on Monday, Sid.”
We stop in the sweet shop on the way home. I usually treat him to a treat on a Friday. It’s a sort of mini-bribe to be good over the weekend. He chooses 2 Dib-Dabs, a Choc-Dip and I pick my favourite, a handful of white mice. I pass a crisp twenty-pound note over the counter. The shopkeeper narrows his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, passing me the change in silence. He wouldn’t understand anyway. Mum pays me to pick Sid up from school and look after my other brother and sister on a Saturday morning. I am the oldest (by a year and ten days) but she knows I am the most responsible. She works nights, so I have to keep them occupied whilst she sleeps in and Dad’s at work. Most of the time she gets woken up early and comes pounding down the stairs to find us fighting over the remote or dancing to songs on MTV. “Waking the Bear,” Dad calls it. I basically get paid to make sure the bear is not woken.
The shop is still selling Valentine’s cards. Valentine’s Day was two weeks ago. We bought one to trick our sister into thinking that it was from her crush, Dan. I don’t know who Dan is, but he is all she talks about. He is probably blonde and disgusting like Nick Carter. She has got posters of him all over our bedroom wall. We posted the card through our letterbox, and I wrote with my left hand because everyone knows boys don’t write as nicely as girls. I drew hearts and signed it with kisses. She was besotted when she saw the red envelope and she has cherished it ever since. Dan denies it, she told me, but of course, he would. I explained to her that boys pretend to not be interested in girls at school. It’s all football and Man Hunt. Sid and I giggle whenever she talks about it, but she hasn’t sussed us out so far. Instead she floats everyday on a cloud of happiness. I hate her for it.
When we get home, I walk into my bedroom and sense that something is out of place. I often feel like this because my sister and I share a room. It never stays how it should stay: neat and tidy. I quickly scan my shelves and everything looks in order. I lift my pillow to reveal my diary, the tiny padlock still firmly in place. My teddies still sitting in height order on my top bunk, tallest to smallest with my TY beanies all sitting proudly in the front row. I take my change from the shop from my pocket and open my money box. Strictly speaking it’s a jewellery box. Winnie the Pooh springs up when it opens and plays a song; the perfect burglar alarm. It is empty, someone has taken my pocket money and I know immediately who it is. I run downstairs, screaming for Mum. I find her in the kitchen. She has her back to me, washing up, her arms soaked in Fairy.
“What now?” she asks impatiently.
“She’s been at my money again,” I pout. “She always does this.”
She sighs and I know she has no sympathy for me. It’s my own fault for having the money there, that’s what she usually says. I should spend it straight away, but I don’t see the sense in that.
Frustrated, I leave the room, my mother’s back still to me. I decide to take matters into my own hands.
Just before dinner, my sister walks into the kitchen with Sarah-from-across-the-road. Their faces are filled with chocolate and Haribo, which I have, no doubt, paid for.
Sarah lives on the other side of our road, which is much nicer. The houses all look different from one another and they have nice front gardens filled with beautiful flowers and delicate birdhouses. She and her sister have a Wendy house in their back garden that has a second floor. It looks like the sort of Wendy house that you buy, with soft rounded wooden features. Ours is Dad’s old shed with a veranda made of timber bolted on and painted a reddish brown. It still houses all of our bikes and some of Dad’s tools. We have to empty it every time we want to play in it, which would be fine except it’s dark and filled with creepy crawlies.
I wait until dinner, when Sarah has gone home. She wouldn’t have wanted to stay for tea, because her Mum will be making something much nicer than chicken dippers. I find myself staring at the kitchen tiles, peeling to reveal dated wallpaper underneath. It is cream with old illustrations of kitchen pots, with squiggly writing on top. I quite like it.
Usually Dad asks me if I want spaghetti or beans. I always say that I hate beans. I am not sure if he actually forgets or he just asks me to wind me up. He knows that I really hate beans. He doesn’t ask today, he plonks the dinner in front of us before taking his dinner next door into the lounge. Peas.
Usually we all sit and eat dinner at the table in the kitchen together, all four of us kids. Mum and Dad sit in front of the telly in the lounge, except today Mum has already left for work.
My plate is swimming with peas. They slide on the plate in the water they were cooked in. I dip the burnt end of my chicken dipper into ketchup before piercing the peas with my fork. I place it in my mouth whilst staring over at my sister. She eyes me suspiciously as she drinks from her Panda Pop. A Panda Pop she bought with my money. With a single pea between my teeth I blow once, hard and sudden. The pea flies out across the table and lands onto her plate.
“Bog off.”
I launch another three peas from my mouth, straight at her. She knows I want to start a fight.
“What’s your problem?” She fights back aiming her peas at my glass of squash. I see her and quickly place my hand over. The boys have started throwing peas too. They are coming from all angles.
“-Would you keep it down in there?” Dad shouts with his mouth full of food.
“Dad!”
“Dad! She’s throwing peas at me!”
“Dad!” He ignores us which he often does. I hear the volume of the television go up.
“Where did you get that Panda Pop?” I eye the blue liquid with suspicion as she sips from the bottle.
“The shop.”
“What did you buy it with,” I ask. “Buttons?”
“No.” She takes another sip.
“You stole my money!” I throw more peas, making sure to get a few in her greasy brown hair. She looks under the table checking my feet. Thankfully, I took my shoes off earlier and hid them away in my wardrobe. Does she really think I am stupid enough to start a pea war with my new shoes on?
“Didn’t.”
“Did – you spent it on Sarah. Buying her sweets so she’ll be your friend!”
“Nah, I have my own money. And she is my friend.”
“Why doesn’t she only come round when you buy her sweets then? With my money?”
“Not your money.”
I have started it now. The pea war is thoroughly under way. We throw peas until there are no peas left to throw. They land in drinks and pools of ketchup. They line the edges of the room decorating the skirting boards with dots of fresh green.
“No one wants to be your friend unless you have money.” I pause, thinking ahead to my next move. I am angry and want to hurt her. “Even Dan, he doesn’t want to be friends with a dirty skank like you!”
Skank is our favourite word, we used it so much Dad banned us from using it. I could sense his ears tuning in.
“Dan doesn’t think I am a skank. He loves me.” She had kept the card by her bed since she got it, kissing it every night.
“Dan doesn’t love you- he didn’t send you that card.”
“Did so.”
“Did not. I did.” She didn’t believe me. “Why do you think it didn’t have a stamp on?”
“His Mum dropped it off in the car, obviously.” She had thought about this. Invented the story in her head and told it so many times, it was cemented as truth.
“His Mum wouldn’t drive around here. She would be scared she’d get her tyres slashed!”
She looked hurt, her plate of food unfinished, with her chicken dippers cold in a pool of blood red ketchup.
“Bloody hell!” Dad walks into the kitchen his slippers squelching with each step. We scarper quickly and take refuge in our rooms.
I awake the next morning to the gentle hum of vacuuming through the thin walls next door. I lean over my bed’s railings glancing into the bottom bunk. I wonder if she is still upset, she didn’t speak to me after dinner last night. Her eyes are closed tightly, which either means she is dead to the world, or pretending to be. I notice that Dan’s card has been ripped to shreds on the floor beside her bed.
I start to regret writing the card. I can’t very well be angry with her for stealing my money if I had already been nasty to her. I had never thought she would really believe it. I know I’ll be in trouble when Dad finds out.
I resolve in my head to say sorry, but in a house where sorry seems impossible to say, especially when you mean it, I resolve to do the next best thing; never speak of it again.
It nears lunchtime and I have done my housework and kept the boys from waking Mum. They are outside playing football. I can hear the relentless banging against the side of the house. I am making spreading marmalade on Mum’s toast when my sister appears in the kitchen.
“What you doing?”
“Making Mum’s breakfast,” I state the obvious.
“Kiss arse.”
“Worth every penny.” I laugh, knowing that it’s all for nothing if people keep stealing my money. It is my sister who is the smart one here. My blood is boiling with anger. I keep to my plan not to say anything to keep the peace. She hasn’t told Dad about the card, maybe she won’t.
“Sid and me are playing hide and seek in a bit.”
“Fine,” I think she’s asking my permission but I don’t care my duties are almost over.
“Come play if you like.” I smile. Perhaps, she has forgiven me.
She knows I am bad at hide and seek. I always get caught straight away. There are only a few places you can hide in our house and after several long summers you get to know the options for hiding places pretty quickly. I decide to seek though, so I can use this limited number of hiding places in my favour. I imagine myself speeding through them triumphantly catching my sister and my brother, one by one.
“Ready or not, here I come,” I shout not caring whether they have heard me or not.
I scour downstairs with no sign, but it is upstairs where most of the hiding places are anyway.
In our bedroom, I notice she has placed cuddly toys under her covers in the shape of a person. I’m not fooling for that – she does it every time. I ignore the bed and check her wardrobe, it’s too messy for anyone to hide in there. The cheap chipboard doors bursting at the seams with all the clothes squished inside.
I think I better be efficient and check my wardrobe too, although she doesn’t normally hide in there. I open the door and I see it. Neatly curled on top of my brand new platform shoes, nestled amongst the laces - a pile of fresh human faeces.
There is a loud bang as the door to the lounge is forced open into the hall. Dad must be home. I hear him shouting from the bottom of the stairs, “Get down here now!”