Velcro she says is for a different kind of family Let’s get you into the Brannock device Mr Schumann says kneeling Evelyn removes her beloved sandals After the long hot summer the leather insoles bear the imprint of her toes permanent oval shadows Evelyn’s mother hands her a horrible clot of stocking that reaches halfway up her shin and Evelyn places her right heel in the cool metal bowl marked R Mr Schumann adjusts the levers squeezing her foot snugly just for a moment He swings the device around and lowers Evelyn’s left heel into the bowl marked L Still just the two feet he asks Evelyn smiles Even with the T-shirt it’s still jokey Mr Schumann become a size five Looks like you’ve been eating your schnitzel You’ve And I’m going into grade five The stars align Mr Schumann takes the blue shoe and disappears through the curtain into the back When he emerges box in hand his glasses are askew and he’s out of breath Here we are he puffs reaching into the ruffle of tissue The last pair It’s a half-size down but the sizing is
wild with these offshore shoes We may be all right Evelyn slips her feet into the near-runners When her mother prods the ends she draws back her toes Take them for a test drive Mr Schumann says Yes Evie take a spin Give them a whirl Evelyn’s mother and Mr Schumann get along in a way that her mother and father don’t Evelyn thinks it’s because they’re both from Europe The Old World Evelyn’s father is from Alberta The near-runners feel entirely different from loafers They bend with her feet The soles are like licorice instead of breadboards Ha Breadboards LOAFers Evelyn stifles a smile They’re good she says as calmly as she can as her heart thrums You can wear them home her mother says She reaches into her purse Does this modern establishment respect hard cash Or only plastic Anything that’s money Mr Schumann says Evelyn lets out her breath Her feet have graduated She’ll be able to play field hockey in these shoes She hands her old sandals to Mr Schumann who tells her they’ll go into the store’s new high-efficiency incinerator
new shoes But she says nothing After all as her mother would say it’s her own doing Besides her sandals are going up in flames She can never have them back Her outfit for the first day of school is neatly folded at the end of her bed If she stretches she can wedge her toes under the quiet pile A new green T-shirt new jean skirt and new blue tights The blue shoes are side by side on the floor As she drifts off to sleep a smoky picture comes to Every step home Evelyn’s toes bang into the ends of her mind A pile of ash studded with two blackened buckles
2 Evelyn fiddles with the stiff plastic clasp on her pencil case snapping it open buckling it shut She likes to press her fingertips against the pointy nibs of this year’s army of colored pencils then watch as the indents refill as if her fingers are inflating By the end of the year she knows the pencils will lie broken on the battlefield that is the bottom of her backpack and the grade five class of Hillsberry Elementary will be noisy and messy with misplaced snacks and dying bean plants and models made with toilet-paper tubes Tap-shh-tap The teacher writes his name on the board For now though the room is bright and echoey Everyone sits up straight in their seats Socks are pulled high Braids are tight Eyeglasses are squeaky clean
