Violet Sandals

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That familiar look from our classroom met me again—a crossroad, a shop signboard with the misspelled name. It was the end of August. The librarian gave us books for next year. I counted them fast. Only one was missing from the free pile. I let out a breath. Good. It meant we only had

to buy one.

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Our curator asked if anyone wants to go to the amusement park tomorrow. That summer was hell. My sister started drinking, my parents didn't know what to do, and I got my period. I just wanted to leave the house.

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The money rules were simple: my sister stole my savings to get drunk, so my parents used the clothes money to buy school notebooks. I got the scraps. A neighbor sewed me a skirt from leftovers. On my feet were my sister’s old prom sandals—violet, high heeled. Ridiculous for an eleven-year-old.

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We waited near the school for thirty minutes. The curator never showed. One girl ran to call her home from the school phone. No answer. “Maybe she is waiting at the park,” she said. We knew it

was a lie. She wasn’t coming. But we didn't want to go back home. So we decided to believe it.

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The others panicked about the way. I didn't. I had to fix it.

 

“I’ll take us,” I said.

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I spent my childhood in that park. Usually, I entered through the oak alley. Its shadows kept the neighborhood secrets: hidden cigarettes, empty bottles, makeouts mothers didn't know about. The front entrance wasn't for locals like me. But today, I was the shepherd. My flock deserved the best view; so I led them through the main gates.

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The park roared. Long lines coiled around the old mosaic ticket booth—my favorite spot. In school, we were nobodies. Here, without parents, we were cool. And I was the youngest, but I was the leader.

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I tried to steer them to the little trains. 

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“No way,” they said. “The Ferris Wheel.” 

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I was scared of heights. 

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“You go,” I said. “Someone has to watch from down here.”

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I stood by the fence. My feet burned. The sandals were cutting my skin. I waved at them like a worried mother. When they came down, they wanted the Roller Coaster. I wanted to say no. My hands were sweaty. But a leader can't say no. I looked down—blood was sliding from my heels into the insoles. Sticky red tracks. 

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“Fine,” I said.

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We were an odd number, so I took the front seat. Alone. The car went up. 

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Clank. Clank. 

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It was too slow. I held the metal bar so tight, my hands hurt. I wanted to cry. I wanted to get off. But the girls were watching from the back. I had to be the adult. Then we dropped. I couldn’t scream. My throat was stuck. But then the wind hit my face. For a second, the fear went away. I felt the gold of pre-autumn on my cheeks. I was flying above the bad summer, above the pain in my feet.

 

When the car stopped, the world was spinning. I felt sick. I wanted to throw up. The girls were screaming: “That was awesome!” I swallowed the sour taste. I forced a smile. “Yeah,” I lied. “Piece of cake.” Leaders don't throw up.

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I got the girls home. Came back to my place. In the living room, there was a new stereo system. Huge. Three discs at once. My sister’s dream. My parents bought it for her. The thief got the music. I got the silence.

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I went to the bathroom, sat on the edge of the tub, and washed the dried blood off my heels.

 

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