Socks

I can feel them sneering at me, their eyes floating down to my knees, whispering to their friends, making rude comments. I block it out the best that I can, but my ears betray me when I hear one of those tween girls muttering to her pre-pubescent boyfriend about the clothes that I had thrown on. A T-shirt of some band I used to like when I was sixteen, khaki shorts that stop just above the knee, some sparkling white tennis shoes I stole from this guy who was completely smashed (at 11 at night, intolerant wanker) at one of those stupid house parties. I only went because I knew Sheryl would be there.

Sheryl.

I am in love with Sheryl.

She’s beautiful, but not in the conventional way. She’s the only girl I know that has her hair in a sharp pixie cut, and is never seen without bright red lipstick painted on full lips.

I used to walk by her house when I had nothing better to do, and more often than not, I would watch as boys climbed out of her bedroom window with their lips smeared red.

I used to dream about the day when I’d be the one covered with the evidence of her kisses. I still do.

I only stayed at last night’s party for a couple of hours. Long enough to nick a couple of beers, grab the shoes, and see Sheryl before she bedded another man. I was watching her sway her petite body back and forth to the pounding beat, her lips pouted, her eyes closed, when some cunt came up from behind her and grabbed her arse. I’d had enough then.

I went home, downed the beers and watched a few episode of The Nanny, a show my mum is obsessed with but I hate. I went to bed early that night, around two A.M.

This morning I got up with the resolution to do something with my life. I wasn’t going to fuck around anymore. I wanted to change the world, make someone smile, shelve some books at the local library, that sort of thing. Stuff that wouldn’t cost much. So that’s why when I put my shorts and grungy shirt on, I went scavenging in my cupboard for these knee length stripy socks my ex-girlfriend two years ago made me wear to a Halloween party. I found them bottom left, beneath clothes I’d outgrown, looking soft and new. I’d only worn them the one time and even then just for half an hour. My friends kept laughing at me.

I put them on, pulling them as high as they would go, so when I stood up, you could only see a bit of my knobbly knees. I put my new sneakers on, and now here I am, parading the streets with proud, striped legs.

I’m not doing it to be different, I’m doing it because I don’t want to be like the sneering folk. Who gives a fuck what you wear? There’s no code, no rule of living that dictates what is appropriate to be seen in.

A shop window displays the sign ‘Embrace your style’. I smile and do a little jig and reply ‘That’s exactly what I’m doing’.

I didn’t notice a young girl, six or seven years old, staring at me from a few feet away. I stare back, unsure what to do. Her hair reminds me of Sheryl’s. She steps towards me, reaching her hand out to touch the ink stained part of my right sock.

‘You look really lovely,’ she says, and walks away.

I turn and see her mother rush forward and put her arm around her child in a protective manner, glaring at me while doing so.

But I just smile, because hey, I do look bloody lovely.