One of those dump trucks comes roaring by, one of the ones heavy enough to squish the tar into ridges when it's hot. One of the ones with six wheels in the back, four in the front, looking huge and blocky, like they could kill you flat as one of those lizards black as gum-wad splotches on the road. And there’s his sneaker wobbling on its sole as the truck whooshes by, still chilling in the middle where the yellow lines are. Probably about to get flattened any second. Then, there’s the drivers. He could feel their eyes on him. They're wondering why some sweaty shoeless kid is crouched on the side of the road. A giant hole in his sock. Untrimmed toenail all sasquatch-looking. And he thinks they're thinking, What an idiot. And it makes him wish Justin was within punching distance.

With his socked foot, he kicks at the grass growing scratchy at his ankles at the edge of the sidewalk, but it doesn’t feel powerful at all. It feels stupid to kick something that will bend aside, then stand back up like nothing happened. All green and growing and drinking up the dump truck fumes with no care in the world. 

All he wanted was a cold drink on the way home from school. The walk happens twice a day and it’s dreadful and punctuated by the incessant movement of his scuffed shoes, the relentless way they cast a shadow before slamming down onto concrete. The walk takes more than a half-hour most days. All sun, no shade. He comforts himself: at least he’s not the only kid walking home. But, everyone else must live closer. They all dip left and right off the main road until it's just him. Sometimes they break off in groups and he can hear them laughing as they round their corners. He gets all jealous, imagining how nice it must be, to be all clumped together like that because your houses are clumped together, too. 

After, there’s only cigarette butts and chain link fences and people zooming by so fast, but he can feel their eyes on him, he feels this with claustrophobic certainty. Being perceived, even for a second, feels threatening. Their imagined judgments crowd his brain as sure of themselves as unchecked lies. They notice him, he believes, and in noticing, they are judging him, making fun of him. They may even feel sorry for him, but pity is nothing but judgment pretending to be kind. He knows this not in words, but in feeling. It’s a feeling his adolescent manhood rejects more fervently than downright mean-spiritedness. A feeling born in schoolyards and in dining rooms, from witnessing outcasts and angry men. The feeling precipitates and condenses. All the errant emotions respond like freezing substances, hardening into something flint-like in his belly. He’s already learning: pity, like tenderness, like affection, is soft. Softness is illicit because softness is shunned.

Then, there’s Justin, thinking he’s so slick with his motorcycle and bag full of gas station snacks! Justin must've seen him today, looking all obviously miserable with his shirt already half-stuck to his back. He peeled up, speaking all friendly and pulling off into the shoulder before yanking out his keys. His backpack was full of Cheetos. And Gatorades…the light blue kind, too. Next thing he knew, Justin was pushing him down, dropping two of the condensation-covered bottles into his lap. It was done all good big-brother style, like he was really looking out for him. Like he might drive him home after.

But Justin’s always gotta push those buttons. Gotta one-up on things and make himself out to be some hotshot daredevil. But, they are brothers. They know each other like skin knows skin. So, the facade crumbles until an old fact remains. Justin's being dumb again. Going 100 on a 40 road is batshit, he says. That's not stuff to brag about. And all that weaving through traffic. He reminds him how Dad died. But now Justin’s not listening. Getting redder each second, his lips sputtering. Justin parrots all the schoolyard and locker room and dining room shit they’ve both heard, emphasizes his words by rattling his keys, gesturing at his bike, his crotch, at anything that may negate the truth. 

He stares, watching his brother fumble. Silent and knowing yet still innocent somehow. To Justin, this is worse than being perceived by a thousand strangers. So, he grabs the half-tied sneaker, throws it in the road. Forget the empty Gatorade bottles, forget the crumpled Cheeto bag. Justin peels away, almost crashing into one of those dump trucks as it rips around the bend, making them really blast their horn. 

So now he’s left here. One shoe off, one shoe on. The big truck that almost flattened Justin pulls over, hazards on. Stops across the street from him. The guy seems rattled. He hates making eye contact with people when Justin makes scenes like that. Their eyes say BLAMEBLAMEBLAME, like it’s partway his fault, somehow. Ten minutes pass, the truck has moved on and he’s still here, watching the blurryfast traffic. He’s trying to get rid of some liquid feeling that insists on rising, no matter how hard he beats it down. Like vomit he must swallow. He focuses instead on feeling pathetic and indecisive and hating all of it. He focuses on being mean to himself, on lashing out at his weaknesses and fears in hopes they’ll be slapped into sturdier stances. Cuz this story’s about a kid who wants to get his sneaker out the road. That’s all, that’s all. Now, he’s successfully contained himself. Now, he’s just shocked his sneaker’s still surviving out there, missing all the tires by mere millimeters. With each sudden whoosh, it inches further away across the yellow lines. Like a taunt. Like a reason to ditch reason. Like the sneaker’s saying, Come and get me.