shanmonster | The Plastic Shoes

When I was eleven years old, I lived in the tiny mountain village of Valemount, British Columbia. At this point, I was in a very small trailer park nestled in the pines. My nextdoor neighbours were an older couple and their nine-year-old daughter Carla Burch. Although Carla was not an only child (her brothers and sisters were in their thirties), she was raised as one. She was a meanspirited brat, and I really didn't like her very much, but since there were no other kids in the trailer park aside from my sister, I felt compelled to play with her.

Carla owned a lot of toys. Her room was absolutely stuffed with everything. Her parents basically treated her as a spoiled grandchild, and her adult brothers and sisters loaded her up with all the trendy, cool new doodads. On the flip side, I owned three dolls. One of these was a Barbie knock-off, unremarkable except for her very funky black shoes, which I'd left taped to her feet because I didn't want to lose them.

I remember going for long, exploratory walks in the forest with her. One day, I found a rusted-out hamster cage, complete with wheel. I was very excited at my fortuitous find, and fantasized about getting a pet hamster to put in the cage. But Carla claimed the cage as her own.

It didn't end there, either. Any time Carla saw something she wanted, she took it. If I picked flowers she thought were pretty, she'd steal them. She took my books, my drawings, and even my prized Barbie shoes. When my dog was tied up, she'd sic her dog on him and laugh.

Finally, I decided I'd had enough of her, and stopped playing with her. I only spoke with her enough to ask for my things back. She denied having them, although I'd seen her playing with them on numerous occasions.

One day, while at school, there was an announcement over the intercom system. There had been a car accident, and Carla had died. My first reaction was shock. The next one was hope: maybe I could get my things back. The third reaction was horror at my second reaction.

I really didn't like the girl. My dislike bordered on hatred. But I didn't want her to die.

She hadn't been wearing her seatbelt. The word got out that if she had been, she probably would have escaped with no more than a broken leg. I always buckled up when I went for rides, but this realization made me all the more paranoid about wearing my seatbelt.

I later found out her parents had burned all of her things. There went my chance to get my stuff back--a thought which made me angry at myself.

But I'd really liked those Barbie shoes.