These Shoes Cost A Soul

Rustin Parker woke with a groan.

The school year started that day, and the thought of it filled him with dread. Not because of classes hehated, or stupid P.E., or the bullies. But the perpetual fashion show he constantly found himself priced out of. Hisfamily had always been poor, but that hadn’t kept them safe from the crushing expectations of the American Dream.

As testament to their financial straits, it had been the smell of frying powdered eggs, canned Spam, and potatoes that they got from the food bank that had woken him.

Food.

There could never be enough for a growing 11 year old. Never was enough.

Regardless, he got out of bed to go eat. Might as well, since the bathroom wouldn’t be free for an hourand a half, most likely. It was a bathroom appropriate to their small apartment. But too small for an older brother, three younger sisters, and mom. And he had to go last, every day, because the girls had to “get ready”, and allhe had to do was shower.

At least he had his own room. One wall of which was a collage of magazine ads and photos. A tribute tocommercialism and all the things he hoped (like all young men and women) to own one day.

In the closet he picked through his meager wardrobe, disheartened, hoping to find something, anything that wouldn’t paint his family the losers everyone saw them as. For just one year he’d like to show up on first day and shine. Or at least fade in to the crowd.

All the other kids had the clothes he saw on commercials for Macy’s, The Gap, and Old Navy; and theshoes from Air Jordan, and Timberland. But Rustin was relegated to sporting Rustler jeans and S- dollar graphic Tees from KMart, dress shirts from Goodwill that were usually older than he was, and Spaulding tennis shoes from Walmart.

It was killing him slowly, and he’d do anything to be able to dress like the others did. To not be the target of their silent ridicule. The humiliation fueled shame and rage.

Besides the fashion faux pas, Rustin just wasn’t that good-looking. Never had been. Probably never would be. He was scrawny, for one. His hair was short, because his mother worried about the girls bringing home lice. And he had the start of what looked to be a potentially scarring case of acne.

So, even though his clothes didn’t impress, he made sure to take care of his grooming.  He bathed withWhite Rain soap, brushed with Colgate, and styled his hair the best he could without product. It was all he could do, but he still did it. Girls didn’t date guys who smelled, or looked like they slept under a tree. And there wasthis girl.

Celia Johnston wasn’t one of the “cool” kids; but she was pretty, and sweet, and, well, wonderful. Rustinhad been crushing on her since the 3rd grade. This year could be his chance to make her see him. If only he had the clothes.

Dammit!

To paraphrase Tyler Durden from Fight Club, “If we’re not consumers, then who are we?”

Rustin could only answer, “No one.”

That was who he was at school. To her.

No one.

That had to change. He’d make it change.

He plucked some clothes out of the closet at random. Why bother trying to match trash with trash? It waswasted effort.

Then he went down to the kitchen where his mother had a reasonable plate ready for him.

“Good morning, sweetie,” she greeted as she placed the plate in front of him.

“Morning,” he practically grunted, then dug in.

She laughed and tousled his hair.

He hated that, but he let her. ‘Cause it made her happy. And so little else did.

When he was done, he grabbed the generic backpack, patched with duct tape, that he’d been carrying for three years; then accepted a brown bag lunch from his mom, and headed off to school.

The bus wasn’t as bad as the hallways, since most of the kids on the bus were near as poor as he was. But it was bad enough. He was the poorest kid who attended his school.  So, even on the bus he had to tune out the smartass remarks about his clothes, his backpack, his sack lunch. And then there were the cutting chuckles.

He kept to himself.  There and at school. People probably called him a “loner”. The Dylan Cliebold type.

That made him laugh. And since he was seated alone, the others, nearby, looked at him askance.

‘More fuel for the fire,’ he shrugged it off.

In the hallways, among the bright, new clothes, fashion plate kids, and the hip REI rucksacks, Rustinstuck out like a sore thumb. And it wasn’t the snarky remarks, or the cutting chuckles that were the cruelest. Itwas the way some of the more privileged kids stared for a second, then turned away, ashamed. At having been caught staring, or having what he did not, he wasn’t sure. Still, it hurt.

That, and how no one approached. No one greeted.

He was the Fashion Pariah.

As he stashed his backpack in his locker, he saw Celia down the hall with her two besties. He wanted to go up to her. Say hello. Remind her of how they’d shared a lab table, last year, in Biology.

But, not dressed like this. That would definitely make the wrong impression.

He turned away. Not wanting her to see him looking. To think him a creepy stalker.

His classes were pretty much the same as the hallways. No one joked of palled around with him. He kept to himself, as always.

At lunch, he sat at a table with others not well-regarded, who didn’t bother speaking to each other, either.

He ate his brown bag lunch. Even though it was only Bologna and cheese sandwiches, and potato chips in a sandwich bag, with no extra “goodies” like the other kids’, he’d rather eat it than be caught dead flashingthe Free Lunch card at the register.

After lunch, in the hallway, Rustin saw a boy with a pair of the newest High Flight tennis shoes. Top of theline. At $350 a pair, they were more expensive than the monthly rent on his family’s apartment.

And the boy wearing them was Martin Tarrington. A nerdy little prick. And the only reason the “cool” kidslet him hang out with them was because his daddy was rich.

At that moment Rustin hated Martin Tarrington.  And every privileged prick just like him. He spent therest of the school day stewing over it.  And couldn’t wait to get home. To his apartment complex. Where everyone was poor, just like him.

When he did get home, his mother could tell he’d had another of those “First Day”s, so pulled out a packof Ding Dongs she’d secreted away for just this type of situation.

“Eat them before your sisters get home,” she told him, then left him with those and a glass of milk, soshe could get back to the ironing she did for extra money.

Unlike those pampered princesses at school he saw during lunch, scarfing such delicacies, he savoredevery bite. Finishing and burying the wrapper in the trash can, just before his sisters came squealing in to the apartment.

Then he went up to the privacy of his room.

And thought about his sitch.

And what he thought was, even though he might not have the latest fashions, or the money to buy them,he did have a gun. Left behind when his father walked out on them. And Rustin knew, from the movies hewatched, the books he read, and the music he listened to, that if he had a gun, he could get anything he wanted.

He got on his knees and pulled a Spaulding tennis shoe box out from under his bed.  Sat it on his lap,and opened the top to reveal the gun.

It was a snubnosed .38. What they called a Saturday Night Special. Of course he’d heard the song.  His mom was a huge Classic Rock fan. Had it on while she ironed, all the time. Louder than most teenagers. Andthat song came on often. And just like the song said, this gun had a barrel that was blue and cold. And Rustin’d be willing to put someone six feet in a hole. If necessary.

Martin Tarrington, for one.

But, first, that would take some reconnaissance.

So, he read some Robert Ludlum and Ken Follet, and watched Taken with Liam Neeson, and the BourneIdentity series, to get some pointers on the furtive tracking of human prey. And, when he was ready, he put it into action.

Martin had never even noticed or acknowledged him as a human being before, so there was really noreason for him to suspect that Rustin was following him.  And he never did.

After school, one day, Rustin found Martin’s locker by a sort of reverse detection. He saw Martin cross a hallway to the left of where Rustin’s own locker was. When Rustin went to the intersection and looked around thecorner to the direction Martin had come from, he saw two jocks pouring what looked like curdled milk into thevent at the front of a locker. Had to be Martin’s. No doubt.

From there, Rustin followed in the direction Martin had gone and caught up so quickly he had to pullup short at a corner.

After Martin cleared the next corner, turning right, Rustin followed, gliding almost silently down the hall.He felt like a real spy. An assassin.

After another two turns, and a straightaway that nearly lost Rustin his quarry, they came to an atrium Rustin had no prior knowledge of near the back of the school. Martin didn’t pause or turn as he crossed theopen space, so Rustin was able to peer around the corner after him.

Rustin pressed his back against the wall, being as clandestine as possible, and waited for the other boy to exit the atrium to the street beyond. When he was sure Martin was gone and no one was privy to his pursuit,he followed. Continuing his game of cat and mouse. The mouse entirely unaware.

Out on the street, now, the task was even easier. Rustin was just one of the faceless among the mass of pedestrians as far as Martin could have been concerned.

Two blocks later, a car pulled up to the curb where Martin had stopped, a driver got out, came around and opened the door for the boy. Martin didn’t even thank or acknowledge the man. Regardless, the driver,professionally unoffended, closed the door, went back around, got behind the wheel, and they drove away.

Rustin stood and watched, “Fucking prick.”

The game of cat and mouse continued for only a week, because having grown up in a house with an alarm in a gated community had made Martin oblivious to his surroundings and careless of his own safety.Therefore, he never varied his routine. A rookie mistake.

The die was cast.

Rustin decided that a Friday would be best. That way Martin’s body might not be found until Monday morning, and some rain or animals might have obliterated any evidence.

But that made it a long and nervous wait. And there was nothing to do but wait.  And prepare.

Although Rustin had spent plenty of time accustoming himself to the heft of the gun, he’d never carried it concealed. He’d be able to carry it to and in to the school in his backpack but, when the moment came, he’d need to have it on his person and ready to draw.

In preparation he watched Taxi Driver and Juice to see how it was done. He settled on carrying the guntucked in the waistband at the small of his back. 

As an experiment he tried with boxers and without. Then witheach pair of available jeans to see which held the best and didn’t sag. He couldn’t have the gun falling out his pantleg while he was stalking Martin. It clattering to the tile would be enough to alert his prey and send them scrambling for the safety of that car.

That finally mastered, and in time for Friday, he was ready as he’d ever be. His whole life had led up to this. And, soon, it would be showtime. Game on.

Friday morning, Rustin woke with a combination of adrenalized anticipation, and gut-wrenching apprehension.

Today was the day. There could be no turning back. The beginning of his life as one of the “cool” kids began with the acquisition of Martin’s shoes.

He literally leapt out of bed, ready to Rock and Roll. After showering, grooming, and dressing in the pre-chosen wardrobe of snug jeans, a baggy shirt, and (because the weather was chill) a windbreaker; Rustin pulled the shoebox from under the bed to grab the pre-loaded gun. But, when he lifted it out of the box, it felt different. Rustin had held it enough to know the weight of it. Without it being loaded, of course. Had gotten used to the feel of wielding it. But with it loaded and ready to kill it seemed to weigh a ton.

He almost backed out.

But, then, he thought of Celia and how cool she’d think him in those shoes. How they all would.

He stuffed the gun into his backpack and headed out to the kitchen to the same old morning routine.

While he was eating his daily ration of powdered eggs, Spam, and potatoes he remembered he’d left his math homework on his desk. He excused himself, ran to his room, grabbed the homework, and ran back.

When he came back in to the kitchen, he saw his mom opening the backpack, and nearly had a heart attack.

“Mom!” he practically came out of his skin. “What?”

She froze. “I was just going to put your lunch in your backpack.”

He smiled. “I can carry it.”

“I thought you’d be embarrassed to be seen carrying a brown bag lunch.”

“Why would I be embarrassed to carry something my mother made for me? Out of love.”

His smile grew into stressed.

She gave him a look that said, “I’m not buying this.”

But what she said was, “Fine.” and handed him the lunch.

Rustin snatched up the lunch, grabbed the backpack, and fled.

After the potential snafu at home, Rustin was sweating bullets on the bus, and in the hallways, until hehad a chance to stash the gun-laden backpack in his locker. Only then did he relax and take a breath.

That relaxation really only lasted until he saw Martin in those shoes the first time that day. He’d see himtwice more before lunch. Him oblivious to Rustin all the while.

The day dragged.

As the seconds ticked by unbearably slow, it seemed the wait for the final bell would be longer than theweek of waiting had been. Rustin lost his resolve a dozen times only to have it renewed every time he thoughtabout, or saw Martin in those shoes.

Finally, the day ended.

Invisible no one that he was, Rustin was able to bolt from the classroom, get the backpack, and ensconce in an empty stall of the boys bathroom before the hallways even filled. It would take a good twenty minutes forMartin to get his act together to leave. Especially on a Friday. It was his last chance for the week to letthe other “cool” kids kiss his ass. With those new shoes, it might even take twenty five.

Rustin unzipped the backpack, extracted the gun, and took a minute or two flicking the safety off and onto ensure he’d have it down to a fluid action when the time came. Then making sure the safety was on, tucked itsnugly into the back of his jeans and covered it with the shirttail, then the windbreaker.

Satisfied that all was ready, he slung the backpack on his shoulders, took five deep, measured breaths,snuck a peek out of the stall to make sure the coast was clear, then exited into the hallway, moving towardwhere Martin’s locker was, and where it would all begin.

He turned the corner onto Martin’s hallway to see the last of the ass-kissers walking off, and Martinclosing his locker. Rustin slowed in the emptying hallway, hanging back.

Martin turned away from him and headed out.

Having followed Martin every day after school and seeing he always took the same route that wasusually deserted, Rustin zeroed in. They made the usual circuit through the halls to the atrium, Rustin keepinghis eyes on his prey. Martin lost in his own safe, self-importance. No one paid much attention to either of them.

Which was good.

The plan was working.

All he had to do was get Martin into the atrium, pull the gun, and get the boy to give him the shoes.

Easy peasy.

When they entered the atrium, Rustin pulled the gun out like a badass gangsta and held it one-handed,sideways, level with the ground the way he’d seem it done in the movies. He flicked off the safety, then called out, “Hey!”

Martin stopped and turned.

“Give me your shoes,” Rustin commanded.

The boy laughed. “Aw, Rustin. Quit yer playin’.” He turned to walk off.

“Hey!” Rustin yelled again.

Martin just waved him off as he continued away.

In that instant, the weight of the world, and all of the things Rustin lived without, pulled the trigger andfired the shot.

The gun bucked in his hand like a stallion. And the report, in that enclosed space, was actually deafening.

Martin fell face down, shuddering. His hands grasping at the concrete as if they could hold him to the earth.

There was just a tiny hole in his back but, beneath his body, blood poured out of an apparently larger one.

God, so much blood.

All that Rustin could do was stand and stare, and watch Martin take his final breath. He hadn’t meant tokill him. Only to scare him into giving him the shoes.

‘The shoes!’

He had to get the shoes or they’d be covered in blood.

Rustin approached hesitantly. He’d never seen a dead body before, and the lifeless eyes scared the bejesus out of him.

There was so much blood, already, that he couldn’t kneel down next to the body. Had to crouch. Andthat made getting the shoes off more difficult.

He was so rattled, it took Rustin a minute to realize the laces were double-knotted. And, by then, he’d pulled them tight enough to make them potentially untieable. Plus, unlike the other “cool” kids, Martin didn’t wear his shoes lose enough to just pull off. Maybe Martin had been leerier than Rustin had given him credit for.

The blood was spreading, getting ever closer to the precious shoes. He had to hurry. Rustin had no knife to cut the laces, and he realized his only choice was to use his teeth to loosen the knots.

But, God, could he do it?

He lifted the leg closest to him and, after a steeling breath, bit into the knot, then shook his head like a dog attacking. The knot slowly loosened, then finally came free. He did the knot on the other shoe and, in amatter of thirty seconds, had them both off and was backing away from the widening crimson pool.

Rustin sat on the ground, pulled his shoes off, and slipped the new ones on. They were still warm from Martin’s feet, and that made him feel a little guilty that Martin would soon be cold.

But only a little guilty.

He thought about leaving his shoes in their place but decided that would probably be a smoking-gun,dead giveaway the police could use to find and prosecute him. He didn’t want to get tried as an adult and spend the rest of his life in prison as someone’s bitch. Like that guy on Oz.

Besides, if he showed up at home wearing these new shoes, his mother would have questions. Chiefamong them, “Where the hell are the shoes I bought you?”

And, of course, her admonition, “Take them back where you stole them from, or I’ll lead you back there by your ear.”

But he couldn’t take them back to where he stole them from, so he’d have to stash the new shoes somewhere they wouldn’t be stolen and only put them on before heading off to school.

Back in the moment, Rustin was frankly amazed no one had come at the sound of the gunshot. Thatdidn’t mean no one would. The police could be there any minute. Best to skeedaddle.

He checked the street outside and, seeing that no one seemed suspicious of him corning out, stashed hisSpaulding tennis shoes, along with the gun, in the backpack, then made tracks.

After about a block and a half Rustin got his heart-rate and pace under control, and just strolled like hedidn’t have a care in the world.

As he walked along, his steps light in those comfortable shoes, he was reminded of a book they’d beenrequired to read last year: Ray Bradbury’s “Dandelion Wine”. Wherein the author says that you never run fasteror jump higher than you do in a new pair of tennis shoes. And, while these shoes weren’t new, he still felt thewords were true. Because he wanted to run faster, jump higher. Just didn’t want to be the kid jumping and running so close to a murder scene, wearing shoes that looked suspiciously like the murder victim’s.

So, instead, he just meandered. Walked around for a while like he had no real destination in mind.Getting used to how the shoes felt on his feet. Getting used to the idea that they were really his.  That exultation was almost greater than the adrenaline rush of pulling the trigger.

‘Wait.’

Is that how he really felt? He had just killed someone. And he was being cavalier?

He really needed to get his head on straight. Needed to get his ass home before someone he knew saw him strutting around in those shoes like a peacock. Needed to be around his little sisters and his mom. To begrounded in his homelife. Something Martin Tarrington would never have the chance to do again.

With every stride, all the way home, Rustin could feel Martin haunting his steps. If he looked, he couldsee the boy’s ghost, a sad shock on its face. A disbelief that Rustin could do such a thing. And that madeRustin wonder at it, as well.

He put his head down and made a beeline for home, stopping just long enough to change out of the newshoes and hide them before entering the apartment and going straight to his room. Luckily, his mom and thegirls were out.

He needed a shower.

He smelled like gunfire. There was a name for it. He’d seen it in all the action books he’d read. Itwas…cordite. It was called cordite. And his hands reeked of it. And his clothes. His skin.

Rustin took the hottest shower he could,  scrubbing his skin til it was red, washing his hair three times. But, no matter how many times he washed or scrubbed, the smell wouldn’t come off. It and the smell from thegun he’d returned to the box under the bed were as obvious to him as the tell tale heart. He just hoped his mother couldn’t smell it.

That night, at dinner, he was quiet. Still trying to tamp down the post-kill rush, to abate the adrenaline, afraid of saying something damning. His mother didn’t fuss at him about his silence, because she knew hecould be that way if he was having personal issues.

If she only knew.

After dinner, he went straight back to his room. The smell of cordite hit him as soon as he entered. Sohe dug the box out from under the bed, pulled the gun out, flipped out the cylinder, meaning to remove the bullets, but stopped. The single spent cartridge was like an eye staring at the guilty. At him.

He shook that thought away and dumped the remaining bullets into his open hand and smelled them.That smell was no stronger than before, but it was still pervasive. He didn’t know what to do. If he ditched thebullets, the gun would be useless. If he kept them, they might damn him.

Rustin growled in anger and frustration.

For the moment, he chose to set the bullets in the box, leaving the gun unloaded. Maybe that way itwouldn’t kill anyone else.

“Guns don’t kill people,” he remembered a gun-rights commercial saying. “People kill people.”

And he had killed someone. Not the gun.

He gave that growl again. Then put the gun back in the box and shoved that back under the bed, thebullets clattering and clanking against each other and the gun like a death knell.

At 10 PM he want out to watch the late news with his mom. A daily ritual she insisted on so they’d “have something to talk about”, and he’d be “more away of the world”.  It was important to her, apparently. Tonight itwas important to him.  As a subterfuge of normalcy.

To him it was the same old same old. Wars, crooks, and political crooks. Boring. 

But, then, there was a story that floored him.

“A report tonight of the murder of eleven year old Martin Tarrington,” the news anchor announced.

After that, Rustin kind of blacked out. Didn’t fall out, or faint, but definitely tuned out. Maybe it was hisbrain’s defense mechanism. All he knew is that was all he heard of the story as he became hypnotized by theschool photo of Martin over the news anchor’s right shoulder. In that moment, Martin didn’t look nerdy. He looked innocent.

The next thing Rustin heard was his mother saying, “How terrible. I hope they catch whoever did that.They should hang.”

He couldn’t believe his mother would talk that way.

“What do you think?” she asked Rustin, luckily never taking her eyes off the screen.

“I think whoever did that must have had a good reason.”

She shook her head and frowned, as if she had failed in some way. “There’s no reason for one person tokill another.”

“Of course not,” Rustin agreed, almost too late. They watched the rest of the news in silence.

He turned in, that night, with an uneasy feeling. Like perhaps someone was watching him. Perhaps even God.

Then he had a terrible dream, reliving the murder. Only changed.

In the dream, when the weapon discharged, the building, the earth, the sky shook. The sound like thecollapse of a star or the death of the universe, itself. That was bad enough.

But, worse still, was when Martin rolled over and sat up, a hand pressed to the oozing hole in his chest and cried, “Rustin! It hurts. God, it hurts so bad.”

Then he started gagging and gurgling.

Then puked up a gallon of blood. That’s when Rustin woke with a gasp. And just in time for school.

His sisters were all ready, and his mom was calling for him to “Hurry up”, he’d be late.

But today was not the day he’d get to strut his stuff in the new shoes.

While he was in the shower, he heard the phone ring, and his mom answer. When he got out, his momcalled out again, but this time to say, “School’s cancelled.”

He couldn’t believe it. Not that he’d refuse a free day off.  Always looked forward to them. Prayed for them.

But the shoes.

Rustin went to the kitchen and got his plate from the counter by the stove.

“Why’d they close school?” he asked.

“For the students to process that boy’s death. To see a grief counselor if they want. They’re being provided by the school district,” his mom explained, giving him a quizzical look, like perhaps he might want to see a grief counselor, but she was waiting for him to suggest it.

“Why would anyone grieve for that prick,” he said. Then was surprised at the callousness in his ownvoice.

“It’s not nice to speak ill of the dead.”

“Yeah.” He felt remorse. “Sorry.”

And he really was starting to feel so.

Maybe a little sashay in the new shoes would set things right.

“You mind if I go out?” he asked as he slopped down his powdered eggs.

“Where to?”

“I don’t know,” he said wonderingly. “Don’t really have a destination. Just around?”

She nodded. “Be back by noon. Okay?”

“Sure.”

She gave him a look. “You mean ‘Yes, ma’am’.”

He smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”

She tousled his hair. He went and got ready.

Wearing the clothes he’d planned to wear while showing off the shoes at school, he hit the street and headed for the hiding spot. He just hoped no one had nabbed the things. He’d hate to have killed Martin fornothing.  So he was relieved to find them still there, undisturbed.

He made quick work of switching them out for his cheap pair, and the difference was palpable. Theseshoes were so much softer, so much snugger; the materials, all, of a superior grade. It was like wearing anEscalade or Beemer on his feet. They were luxurious. Glorious.

He stashed his cheap shoes in the hiding place. Not that he gave a crap if someone stole them, but he’dneed them to change back in to, later. And couldn’t be seen walking the street with an extra pair of shoes slungover his shoulder. It would look weird. Noticeable. Memorable.

That done, he strutted out to the street and shone. He could tell, too. ‘Cause, even though his clothes were, overall, low-class; these high-class sneakers were turning the ladies’ heads.

Some older boy even gave him a bobbing nod of approval. This was what he’d hoped for. This was the dream come true.

He felt like the star of his own reality series:  These Shoes.

The day fled away from him as he basked in the glory, and he almost got home late. He had to run back to the hiding place and, boy, was that Mr. Bradbury right. Rustin was like the wind.

When he walked in to the apartment, he was back in his shoes and had cooled down sufficiently to notraise suspicion about what he’d been up to. And his mom was none the wiser.

As a silent Thank You to her, he stayed home and helped with the girls so his mom could get her ironing done. And, that night, he slept well, knowing that tomorrow was The Day. Therefore, he woke with a smile,ready to Rock and Roll.

The previous day, while he’d “Helped out” with the girls, he’d hand washed the clothes worn on that day’s excursion, dried them on the fire-escape, then had his mom iron them. That prompted a look from her thatasked either “Should I be worried about what you did in these clothes?” or “There’s a girl, isn’t there?”

So the clothes were ready to wear again today.

Which wouldn’t be a problem, because no one from school had seen him in them. Besides, they were theonly clothes he had that made the shoes pop.

When he came out to the kitchen dressed in those clothes (sans badass sneakers) it prompted a look thatstated plainly “There’s a girl”.

Rustin just smiled and thought, ‘There is a girl. And today I’m going to knock her socks off!’

He gobbled his breakfast, grabbed his backpack, gave his mom a peck on the cheek (which surprised her), then headed out. Destiny was calling. And he’d waited a lifetime to hear it.

Rustin switched out the shoes at the still undiscovered hiding spot, then hustled to the bus. Of course, noone could really see the shoes on the bus, so there was understandably little hubbub.

School would be a different matter.

Rustin hoped no one noticed that his new shoes were the same style and brand as the ones Martin had worn. The fact that the shoes were missing wasn’t in the news. A standard police investigative procedure. ButMartin’s ass-kissers would certainly remember he’d been wearing them the day of the murder.

But Rustin couldn’t not wear them. That would show total disrespect for the price Martin had paid.Wouldn’t it?

Besides, who would believe shy, quiet Rustin could commit murder. Martin certainly hadn’t.

When he arrived at school, he strode in like an emperor. Even though the shoes weren’t really his (hadn’t been store-bought, but blood-bought), he still couldn’t help feeling a sense of pride.  Just possessing them,much less being seen in them.

But the looks he got weren’t at all what he’d expected. They weren’t the goggle-eyed stares of admiration.

No.

They were the whispering side-long glances that asked “How could Rustin possibly afford those shoes”. And they made him feel the fraud he was.

There was only one remedy for that.

Celia Johnston.

Rustin navigated the hallways, braving the looks, to where he knew she usually was first thing in the morning.

And there she was.

Hearing the opening song of his mom’s favorite movie, Saturday Night Fever, in his head, he strutted down the hall toward her.

There were titters and giggles in his wake.

He stopped in front of her and her group of friends, struck a casual pose, and said merely, “Celia.”

“Rustin?” It was obvious she just barely remembered him.

She looked him up and down. Saw the clothes juxtaposed by the shoes, and said, “You’re too much.”

Then she laughed! They all laughed.

It hadn’t occurred to him, until she laughed, how ridiculous he looked with these shoes and his Rustler jeans. How stark the contrast.

She must have thought it was a joke.

For Rustin, this was what it was to be poor.

He stormed away.

“Rustin?” she called out, confused by his departure.

To hell with it. He didn’t care anymore if the other kids were impressed, even though that had been hisoriginal intent. He felt like gold wearing the shoes.

But, later, in class, when he looked down to admire them and saw a drop of blood dried a dull brown on the tongue and laces, the smile faded from his face. He crossed his ankles to hide the spot from view.

And every time he walked past the hallway leading to the atrium, he couldn’t help looking, an expression of revulsion and guilt on his face.

On the way home, even the short distance between the bus and the hiding place gave him pause. While it was the same glorious promenade it had been yesterday, Rustin started to get paranoid.  The looks he got at school hadn’t bothered him, but the covetous ones he got on the street did.

He’d killed a boy for these very shoes. What if someone killed him for them?

That fear, Martin’s ghost, and his own guilt conspired to cause the initial joy of possessing the shoes to slowly die. A steady decline into self-reproach that destroyed his desire to even wear them anymore.

He had to return them.

But how?

It was a dream, that night, that provided the answer.

Martin was on his knees before him, hands clasped, eyes imploring.

“Please don’t take my shoes,” he begged.

But Rustin kept the gun steady on him.

“Please!”

He repeated the plea over and over, it growing more and more plaintive with each iteration.

Still, Rustin wouldn’t back down.

“Please!”

Blood blossomed slowly from a spot on Martin’s shirt front. Then soaked down the front as hecontinued to beg.

“Please!”

Blood spat out of his mouth with each repetition.

“Please!” Martin screamed.

And Rustin screamed himself awake.

‘His blood,’ Rustin thought as his heartbeat and breathing slowed. ‘His blood.’

When he finally got up to go to school, he didn’t bother with his grooming, and just threw on whatever random clothes were at hand.

Who cared.

He certainly didn’t.

Not after Celia Johnston. Not anymore.

His mother held her tongue and just handed him his lunch. There would be time to talk, later.

Then he left and went and stuffed the new shoes in his backpack, not caring if anyone saw him going into, or coming out of the hiding place. He wouldn’t need it anymore, anyway.

People on the bus avoided him.

People in the hallways avoided him.

Which was just peachy, as far as he was concerned.

He floated through the day in a twilight world of reproach and regret. Just waiting for the last bell so he could get this done. Exorcise Martin’s ghost and his own demons.

The peal of final bell brought him out of his black funk and filled him with purpose. But, even so, he’d have to wait until the building emptied out before he could accomplish his task.

So, before leaving the classroom, last, he took several deep breaths to collect himself, then exited and sauntered down the hall, in no apparent hurry.  And since the new shoes were in his backpack in his locker and not on his feet, no one paid him the least attention.

Rustin took his time at the locker, waiting for the stragglers to drift away. Then grabbed his backpack andheaded for the atrium.

He didn’t sneak about as he had in pursuit of Martin, but just walked as if he belonged where he wasgoing. He’d heard that was the best way to go undetected: to hide in plain sight.

When he reached the hallway to the atrium, it seemed like the vestibule of a shrine.  And, when hereached the end, the dried blood on the concrete floor of the atrium, the flowers and the teddy bears, and theconcealed environs of the place, marked it as hallowed ground. And, empty after everyone had gone, it wassilent as a tomb. He approached the place with reverence, taking his shoes off before entering.

Rustin stopped to pull the new shoes from his backpack, then laid it aside. He walked to the center of theblood stain, knelt, and placed the shoes in front of him, with them standing up.

“I’m sorry, Martin.”

Then the stupid tears came.

He waited for them to subside, then picked up his backpack, and exited to the street as furtively as hehad on the day he’d soiled the place. The looks of the passersby, seeing him barefoot, were filled with concern and compassion. But no one stopped him. No one bothered to help.

He had missed the bus. Would have to walk all the way home barefoot. But that was okay. That was theprice he paid for atonement.

It took about an hour, where in the ghost evaporated, demons were exorcised and his guilt and self-loathing receded.

When Rustin got home, his swollen, throbbing, bleeding feet were in agony, and he accepted that was just what he deserved.

A penance owed and paid.

Fini