Ladybug

The first part of her that I fell in love with were her shoes.
Red rubber boots, nearly up to the knee, speckled with big black dots. The other kids called her Bug, which they thought was really clever. They’d draw out that syllable like a piece of bubble gum, huffing up and going pop. “Buuuuuuug,” they’d snort out between snot-filled, insecure, puberty-ridden laughs.
She’d always flinch a little, so little you could barely notice, and then break into a smile. A big, unabashed, gap-toothed smile.
I’d just flinch.

****

She always reminded me of Dorothy, like the Wizard of Oz.
Her shoes were red and bright like ruby, like sunlight, like burning, like fire. We’d be watching The Breakfast Club in psych and all I could look at were her shoes, the way she swung them back and forth like a pendulum, the way the light from the movie shone off them like a beacon, the way she’d rest them on the back of her chair and not be afraid of how much they’d squeak.
The way they’d stop so suddenly and still when everyone in the movie talked about the dark stuff, the stuff that brought them together.
The way they’d whirl right back to life.

****

So many times I’d dreamed of asking her where she got them, dreamed of the way she’d beam up at me like moonlight off a lake, the way the gap in her teeth would look like the space between stars, the way she’d grab my hand and I’d feel the red pulsing through her and through me and through everything around us.

****

The first time I ever talked to her was six months after we met.
We got paired up in art class to create a collaborative piece, a mural of any subject that our little hearts desired.
When the teacher called my name and then hers, a chorus of snickers slithered out around me. Again her nickname filled the air, but she looked at me and smiled like there was no buzzing.
The room turned quiet as she strode over to me, bright red boots squeaking unapologetically all the way. Their eyes followed her like laser pointers, trying in vain to burn right through her.
When she got to me, she shot her hand out straight and sure, like we were the only two people in the room.

“Pleased to meet you. Let’s make something beautiful.”

What she’d done crossing those couple of feet between us was braver than anything I could ever hope to do.

****

The first thing she told me when we got to talking was that she liked my hair.
“Bright red and long. Like fire.” She stared at our mural as she said this, face turned from me. She then spun around and smiled. “I don’t know if you’d noticed, but I really like red.”
I laughed and looked down, while my face started to match my hair. That made her laugh, too.

****

I dreamed about her all the time, now. She’d be running just in front of me, rain pouring all around us. She’d slip between cracks and behind buildings, laughing all the way.
I’d finally catch up to her, feel my heart pound red in my chest, listen to the red pump of blood in my veins. Feel her stare me down red.
When I reached out to touch her, she scattered like ashes.
The only things left were her boots.

****

The first time I ever saw her cry was in our art room’s supply closet.
School had let out for the day, but we decided to stay late that afternoon and work in the art room.
I got there early and was enveloped by the smell of crayons and clay, the way the light streamed in through the wide windows and turned everything into a still life. It was so beautiful and quiet, without the other students. In my head I imagined that this was the real world we lived in, without everyone else. Just me and her.
The thought made me feel excited, and that made me feel ashamed.
I heard a familiar squeaking and my heart raced, as I tried to steel myself for the sight of her. Right on time, she was there in the doorway. She always huffed a bit, like she’d just finished sprinting, like the world around her was so exciting she could never catch her breath. Her ruby-red rubber boots beamed up at me and I felt something inside me shift.
She clapped her hands together and looked at me unafraid.
“Ready to get to work?”
We splashed out oranges and yellows and reds, touching up our mural.
On that first day, when we were brainstorming, she told me that she really wanted to paint a ladybug. She said to me, “The best way to avoid being the butt of somebody else’s joke is to become the butt of your own.” I laughed at this and told her how brave that was. She smiled and looked down at her boots.
The mural was turning into a sunset bubble of red, striking and warm. She looked at me like she was proud, and I all I could think was that I never wanted to see anything but that look again.
We stared at each other for a while, until she coughed and turned back to the mural.
“Well, looks like we’re going to need black. For the polka dots, you know?”
I agreed and followed her to the supply closet, stacked high with half-used paint bottles and mismanaged brushes. It was a veritable rainbow in there, messy and mismatched but unmistakably beautiful.
She turned back to look up at me, so close that I could count the freckles on her nose. Her face was somehow unsure and determined, and I thought how this was the most vulnerable I’d ever seen her. She shifted slowly in her boots, and somehow that felt like she was asking a question. We were still for a couple seconds, feeling the silence and words unsaid between us.
My heart felt like fireworks when I leaned down and kissed her.
I pulled away and felt wet on my cheek, saw her tears plop fat and heavy onto the paint splattered floor.
She cried loud and heavy, like a child, and clung to me. We stood like that for a while, until she whispered so softly into my chest that I almost couldn’t hear it:
“How did you get so brave?”
I held her so tight that my knuckles grew white, as though I could somehow will us to stay in this moment forever.

—By Grace M., 20, Chicago