One Blue Shoe

As luck would have it.

The first time I met Danny was in the eighth grade. They didn’t have special needs classes back then. It’s clear he was on the spectrum, before being on the spectrum became fashionable and could get you a reality TV show. No show could replicate Danny’s reality, not that anyone wanted to watch a kid get bullied for all the things out of his control anyhow. Kids called him an idiot. Teachers said he had a low IQ. I didn’t say much. I wasn’t all that popular in our large middle school either, but at least I wasn’t Danny.

Bullying continued until graduation, subtle degradations lofted in his direction — name calling or a shoulder bump in the hallway. Physically awkward mannerisms and interactions left him drowning socially. Academically he barely stayed afloat. I caught a glimpse of his report card one quarter. He received all Ds and one C+, which Mr. Cardin the art teacher made sure to highlight with a personalized message. Great job, Danny, you’re really creative! Mr. Cardin gave me an A+. It contained no message.

That same year my mom got cancer. She died a few months before graduation. Some of my classmates attended the funeral, forced by their parents to endure the spectacle for reasons they couldn’t understand. Strangers consoled my dad and doting mothers gave me hugs while kids shuffled quickly by saying their sorries softly. Danny showed up with his own mother, a fragile woman who birthed a fragile boy, but who felt it her duty to let him experience other people’s tragedies in order to mask her own. She wore strong perfume and a gold necklace dangling strange charms. Danny gave me a single red rose. After a few minutes I excused myself to the bathroom, stomped the flower beneath my shoe and then flushed it down the toilet.

I took a job mowing lawns with our neighbor over the summer. My dad said it would be good to keep busy and that I could spend the money however I wanted. I forgot all about Danny and focused on a pair of red Air Jordan sneakers. The hot sun baked my skin, which I hoped would burn out a growing hostility I directed at everyone and everything. Venting only made me angrier. By the time my freshman year of high school arrived, I lost interest in the sneakers. The cash sat in a wad on my dresser and my dad bought me a cheap pair of LA Gear since my old shoes were stained green and brown.

I looked forward to blending into an even larger crowd, getting lost as a nameless face among bustling cliques of teenagers. Danny stood a few lockers down from mine on the first day of school, desperately trying to crack the code on his locker combination. On his feet were a pair of mismatched shoes — one blue and one white. His hands fiddled the dial, then made motions in the air as he rocked back and forth. I imagined him standing there day after day, eventually wasting away until they put a plaque of remembrance up in his honor. I thought of his gesture with the rose and decided to help.

“Hey, Danny, go right clockwise past zero twice to clear it. After that it’s left, right, left,” I said, taking the small slip of paper in his hand with three scribbled numbers on it. He looked confused until I showed him, popping open the door.

“Thank you,” Danny said. He went to place a book in the locker as an older boy came up from behind and swung the door shut. The metal edge caught Danny’s hand and the book went tumbling to the ground.

“Nice shoes, freak,” the boy said.

I turned to witness a few seniors walking away, laughing and mimicking Danny’s posture as he held his hand close to his body like a wounded animal. That’s when I realized things wouldn’t change for Danny. He would be bullied all the same, this jungle no different than the last. The expression on his face told me you didn’t have to be book smart to understand the relationship between predator and prey. I saw him once more at the end of the day. His locker was closed. He stared into the void, contemplating the emptiness and his existence within it.

“Hey, Danny, you okay?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Do you need me to help you open your locker?” I asked.

Danny shook his head and walked away, his one blue shoe squeaking against the linoleum floor while his backpack dragged on the ground like a limp noodle. He walked out the door to the muffled sounds of laughter and taunting. I couldn’t understand how any mother could send a boy like Danny to school with mismatched shoes, further shining a spotlight on his disadvantages. It made me flush with anger, the kind of heat that far surpassed those scorching days mowing lawns, when I would come home dripping of sweat, my neck and arms beet red. I clenched my jaw and suppressed a hot tear.

Against all odds, Danny showed up the next day, still with one blue shoe. He wore a wide smile and moved with a confident upright stride. His backpack was slung over his shoulder instead of flopped down by his side. He elegantly flipped the combination dial on his locker; it opened on the first try. For a moment, the brewing fury within me subsided, until I spotted the same group of boys from before watching intently across the hall, waiting to take advantage of easy pickings on the open plains. They soon huddled around Danny.

“Hey freak. You got nothing to be happy about with those shoes,” the leader said, shoving him into the lockers. On his own feet were a pair of brand-new red Air Jordan sneakers.

I wished I knew how to fight, to throw a jab properly, to bob and weave or find an opening. Instead, I went in wild and mad, flailing my fists in haphazard windmills at the boy’s face and body. One landed square on his jaw, but by his expression I could tell it caused me more pain than him. Easily six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier, he had me by the collar and up against the locker before I could retreat. It only took one punch to the gut to bend me over gasping for air. He slapped me with an open hand that sent me reeling to the ground. Tears filled my eyes and a blackness faded in and out as I struggled to stay conscious.

The bell rang and the boys dispersed, one of them stepping on my hand as he walked away. Danny stood over me with the same stupid smile that I mistook for gratitude.

“You shouldn’t do that. The blue shoe will help,” Danny said, holding out his hand, which I ignored.

“You’re talking nonsense, Danny,” I said, standing to my feet, breathing shallow.

“Mama blessed it last night. For luck. It will give us both luck,” Danny said. “I’m lucky now.”

“Go to class,” I said.

I got a small taste of Danny’s life throughout the day. Word spread fast about my interaction with those boys, the leader of the group a football prodigy named Chuck. More than once I was shoulder checked by Chuck’s groupies, but they hesitated to start another physical fight. The earlier altercation made everyone nervous enough, aware if pushed too far I might take an unpredictable course of action. Other kids that were also bullied in school gave me friendly attention, forming a weak pack in hopes the increased numbers would provide protection. Too bad they didn’t think to bring Danny into their center.

Walking home instead of taking the bus felt like a welcome alternative. I saw Danny while weaving between cars in the parking lot. He stood wavering in the wind like a reed next to a mint cherry red Corvette — Chuck’s car. My instincts screamed keep walking, to run even, to let Danny fight his own battles from here on out. He didn’t seem capable of slashing the tires or keying the doors and yet his mere presence would no doubt find himself in worse trouble. That trouble found Danny alright and approached with an intent to do harm.

While I didn’t want Danny to get hurt, getting into it with Chuck again didn’t seem like the best idea. Whatever anger I possessed from my mother’s death left me angrier when appeased and it forced me to recognize Danny needed a friend just as much a protector. Constantly fighting on his behalf would leave us both disappointed. I rushed to his side, grabbed him by the arm and ushered him toward the bus. Chuck screamed obscenities in the background, choosing not to pursue us in favor of inspecting his car for nicks and scratches.

“What’s the matter with you, Danny?” I asked.

“I like that car. I like blue better, though. Just like my shoe,” Danny said.

“What is it with you and your stupid shoe?”

“It’s good luck. Blessed. Mama said so.”

“It’s not good luck. That superstition is going to get you killed.”

I heard an engine rev and tires squeal when we were almost to the bus. Chuck didn’t let off the gas as he peeled out of the school driveway, upset that a boy like Danny could disrupt his perfect existence. The explosive sound of metal crunching against metal, shattered glass and the screams of a few girls shook me. Classmates gathered around the scene of the accident and mayhem ensued. Teachers fearing the worst ran in the direction of Chuck’s totaled vehicle. A blue pickup truck had smashed into the driver’s side door at an ungodly speed, the evidence making it clear that if Chuck wasn’t dead, he would wish for death the rest of his days.

Danny’s eyes were glued to his feet, an unnecessary guilt weighing down on his shoulders. Whatever his mother had said led him to believe his good luck had the opposite effect on Chuck. For a brief moment she had me convinced the universe granted Danny a reprieve, tipping the scales in his favor because of a blessed shoe. Over the following weeks and months, it convinced others as well. Rumors spread about our brief interaction with Chuck before his accident. Kids kept their distance from the two disease ridden pariah’s whose contagion meant terrible outcomes for anyone too close.

By the middle of my sophomore year everyone forgot about Chuck and my ability to infect. He barely graduated given his condition, no longer a present reminder of the circumstances causing the damage. It also helped that Danny didn’t attend our high school anymore. I’m not sure if he moved or if his mother decided his capacity for academic achievement had peaked. Maybe she knew something deeper I didn’t, about how to control his destiny, or how to manipulate the fates in his favor.

I can keep my anger under control by seeking out the Dannys of this world, by offering them compassion and friendship. It’s an unlikely pairing when it happens. The day may come when I meet the original Danny again. If I’m lucky he’ll be wearing one blue shoe.