the second pair
short story/whimsical slice-of-life
I mentioned a little while ago that I had submitted a short story called “The Second Pair” to several literary establishments online. I had hoped to sell first publishing rights, however, despite some encouraging feedback and invitations to submit new work in the future, it has made the rounds and ultimately been rejected. Which means it’s my baby again, and I’m free to do whatever I please.
So I present it to you here, as promised, for your reading pleasure. Please enjoy. It’s quite a bit different than my usual fare—wholly pleasant and uplifting, if you can believe such a thing—but don’t hold that against it!
Consider this an interlude, a respite if you will, from the darker spheres we usually explore around here.
- c.d.
the second pair
It’s a warm spring morning. The first of its kind after a long and snowy winter, and overhead, the sun shines bright and clear. A handful of clouds linger lazily like the memory of a dream, but they will soon recede, leaving the sun to do its good work uninhibited. Birds flutter and sing their songs, squirrels dig for buried treasure, and everywhere across town, winter snows are melting.
At the foot of a steep hill, eight-year-old Sasha Fedorov waits for the school bus to arrive with his jacket unzipped so he can better feel the sun’s touch. To pass the time, he traces the route of a meltwater river with eager eyes, fascinated by the way it flows down the gutter beneath a layer of transparent ice. Its constant babble punctuated by the pitter-patter of melting icicles.
The bus arrives with its usual screech. Sasha hesitates—he doesn’t want to leave the dripping icicles and gurgling snowmelt behind. But when the doors fly open, squealing in protest, Sasha knows better than to make the driver wait, so he steps forward, though not very carefully. For his boot breaks through a thin patch of ice, plunging it into the chilly water below.
On the ride to school, water pools beneath him. A white salt-stain will bloom there when it dries. Sasha does his best to ignore his discomfort but it isn’t easy. He can already feel his toes shrivelling up like raisins. A spiteful feeling.
In the hallway at school, Sasha’s friends tease him good-naturedly about the squelching sound his boot makes on the tile. He just shrugs, palms up—“what can you do?”
His homeroom teacher, a gentle, far-sighted woman named Mrs. Martinez, notices Sasha’s wet boot when he arrives for class. With a kind smile, she asks him to remove the boot and sock, then places them on the heating register to dry.
“They’ll be ready by lunch,” she says. “You won’t miss out on recess.”
Something in her voice makes Sasha feel safe. He realizes he loves her in the way that children often do—simply, purely, without need of definition.
He tucks his bare foot beneath him as he copies spelling lessons into a green spiral notebook. It tingles pleasantly as it warms against his body.
He’s halfway through transcribing a complex sentence from the chalkboard when the fire alarm rings.
In the scramble that follows, Sasha considers grabbing the still-damp boot from the register. But the line is already moving, and he doesn’t want to cause a delay. So he hops into line on one foot and bobs out the door after his classmates.
Outside, the grass is damp and cool. Mrs. Martinez watches Sasha approach, bare foot curled behind him, her expression tight with concern. “Sasha, why didn’t you put your boot back on?”
He shrugs, awkward. “Didn’t want to hold everyone up. It was still wet.”
She tousles his hair. He looks away. The moment passes.
As luck would have it, Sasha’s aunt happens to drive by the school at this moment. She notices him, one foot bare and glinting in the sun, and nearly veers into a truck. She doesn’t stop because she’s running late for a meeting, but she does call Sasha’s mother.
Shortly after returning to the classroom, the black phone on Mrs. Martinez’s desk starts ringing. It’s Sasha’s mother on the line, asking why her son was seen barefoot outside the school.
“I understand,” Mrs. Martinez says calmly. “Yes. Yes, absolutely.”
The conversation is over in less than a minute, with apologies on both sides for the misunderstanding. But already, the classroom has begun to buzz. Some kids are complaining about the dank smell now issuing from the heater. Others are urging Sasha to put the boot back on. Nobody told him to get it wet, they say. Why should the rest of them have to suffer?
Mrs. Martinez shushes them with a long breath and the lesson resumes.
Twenty minutes later, the black phone on Mrs. Martinez’s desk rings again. It’s the office, Sasha’s mother has arrived, and he’s been summoned. The other children greet this development with a customary hiss.
Sasha pulls on the still-damp sock, followed by the still-damp boot, then slips out of the room while the class looks on in grim apprehension.
In the office, his mother greets him with a smile and firm hug. She’s dressed for work—black slacks, a blazer, and a floral blouse open at the collar. Her lipstick leaves a mark on his cheek that she wipes away with her thumb. She smells like perfume and fabric softener and not at all like a damp boot.
She presses a plastic shopping bag into his hands: a brand-new pair of bright blue rubber boots and striped socks—green and purple. A bright yellow price tag on one of the boots proclaims: $9.95.
Sasha thanks her, though he doesn’t bother explaining she needn’t have bothered. He doesn’t need new boots; he already has a perfectly good pair.
He lets her hug him again before she leaves, squeezing him tightly till he squirms.
Now Sasha has a second pair of boots.
An embarrassment of riches.
***
When the bus drops him off at the usual corner later that afternoon, he’s wearing his old boots and socks again, now dry. The new pair is stuffed in his backpack.
The snowbanks have shrunk. The icicles, once gleaming spearpoints, have become shrivelled nubs. And the meltwater river, aside from losing its icy canopy, has lost much of its volume as well. But it trickles on, slower now than before, but still moving. It murmurs softly as it goes.
After a moment, Sasha shrugs off his backpack and digs out the new pair of boots and socks. He scans the sidewalk, finds a broad sheet of ice, and balances the boots on top before carefully placing the socks inside.
It takes a few tries to get the angle right. But eventually, he gets it: a makeshift raft, drifting down the meltwater stream.
He watches it float away, then turns up the street for home.
He doesn’t need two pairs of boots. He only has the one pair of feet, after all.
He hopes his mother won’t be mad, but somehow, he knows she won’t be. He doesn’t know who the boots are for—only that they’re not meant for him.
As he walks, he sends out a silent wish: that the boots find their way to someone who needs them.
The sun slips behind a cloud. Sasha smiles.
There’s a chance.
