I didn’t know how long I’d been running but what I did know is that I was finally tired. My tennis shoes had holes from the pressure of slamming down the ball of my right foot – a nasty habit my mom used to warn me about. I took them both off, left and right, sat on the curb and thanked my right foot for always trying the hardest.

“Your balance is off – you’ll never run as fast as you want to if you keep abusing your feet like this.” I could hear her say it as if she were right next to me.

This bothered me. I wasn’t abusing my right foot, I was testing its limits. I was testing my limits. And we were fine standing on our own and didn’t mind a challenge.

Whatever, I thought to myself; I appreciate your hard work right foot.

I had ended up on a street corner not far from our first house – the one with the white shutters and the sidewalk without any cracks and the bedroom with the tiny window but a lot of sunlight in the afternoons. I wondered if I would see anyone from the old neighborhood.

After sitting and sweating and breathing for a while, I noticed that it was 5 pm. Primetime for all the moms to go to the grocery store across the street and buy food for their husbands who will be late to dinner because they “needed him at work.” I walked toward the grocery store entrance.

“No shirt no shoes no service”

I ignored the sign and walked in, grabbing a sucker from the cash register as I perused the store. Not much had changed since the last time I’d been in the store. Moms walked slowly and angelically through the aisles with their baskets and carts. Children spilled out of carts, begging for Lucky Charms and Lunchables but only getting broccoli and whole wheat pasta.

I grabbed a box of cereal and slowly opened the cardboard flap. Five kids, ranging from three to seven stared at me with open mouths and wide eyes, their mothers too focused on finding the right type of mushroom broth to notice where their kids’ attentions were currently fixated. I tore open the plastic barrier remaining between me and the fruit loops – and stuffed a handful of the stuff in my mouth.

A seven-year-old in his cart let out a “whoooaoaooomygod” to which his mom promptly shushed him and shoved a carrot in front of his face without glancing up.

With this new audience, I knew I had to push the limits. I opened another cereal box, and then another, and then another, pouring the flakes and marshmallows everywhere, the cereal landing on the shiny white tile floor and all over the shelving near me. Kids all around me were refusing to move forward as they watched in awe of my brilliance and skill, throwing Frosted Flakes, Mini Wheats, and Corn Pops in quick succession while leaping down the aisle and dancing to the store music.

Whitney Houston declared the greatest love of all while I moved into the refrigerated aisle and mothers and store managers started to scream at me. Cheese rained all over my constituents. I opened a box of eggs.

“NO WAY HAHAHAHA DO IT DO IT DO IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” an eight-year-old 20 feet from me screamed.

I did it.

Eggs, eggs, everywhere. White eggs, brown eggs, cheap eggs, organic GMO-free eggs from a chicken named Eric rained around me as a spun, dove, and shimmied through the confetti of eggs falling like snowflakes into to my hair and onto my t-shirt. The manager of the store was running, begging me to stop, but I was faster.

By this point, kids had abandoned their trusted posts as avid spectators on top of their moms’ carts and were grabbing whatever was near them.

An eight-year-old sat on the tile and swirled ranch dressing with extreme concentration into the shape of a dog.

Two sisters battled with frozen peas, taking turns dumping entire bags onto each other. A four-year-old boy was slowly layering different brands of turkey meat into a pathway from the frozen section to the produce section all the way across the store.

I was running, jumping, throwing, sprinkling, tasting, and watching as the kids smeared peanut butter into their friend’s hair to shape into a point at the top of their heads, their mothers clawing at their tiny arms but remaining unable to get a solid grip onto their chocolate syrup covered appendages.

At this point, I had three security guards and five moms running after me in a blind rage. “RICKY IS NOT ALLOWED TO HAVE SUGAR AFTER 4 PM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

But I was running, and I was fast.

Chocolate sauce and red sauce alike squished under my feet as I ran. The air was thick with marshmallows and lemonade and I dodged chocolate chip bullets.

I wiped the ketchup residue from my eyes. The mom from next door at my old house stood in front of me, her hair covered in mustard.

“STACY, GOD, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?? WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO US?? WHY CAN’T YOU JUST GO AWAY???”

I thought of my shoes on the curb outside and the school I had run from earlier that morning after having a paint-splatter fight with myself in an all-white hallway. The walls were just too white and I was way too clean. I expected more people to join in at school. I liked that the kids threw food with me at the store. My shoes were so worn out. I wondered if they’d fall apart if I put them back on again.

I turned abruptly to the right and used the melted ice-cream on the ground to slide a few feet. The security guard behind me fell into a heap along with the manager and my old neighbor lady. I wondered if she still made the chocolate chip cookies with coconut in them.

I sprinted toward the exit door of the grocery store as people in the check out line stared at me with open mouths. On the way, I grabbed another sucker from the front desk and made it out the sliding doors just in time to quickly slip on my shoes. I started to run.

20 minutes later I was in front of my old house, the one with the white shutters and the sidewalk without any cracks and the bedroom with the tiny window but a lot of sunlight in the afternoons. I didn’t see anyone from the old neighborhood. I laid down, half on the sidewalk and half in the front lawn, staring at the sky. The sun was starting to set and it was almost dinnertime.

I had been running a lot today, and I was tired.

My shirt was sticky and covered in various foods and pasty drinks. I wiped my finger through some marshmallow sauce and put it in my mouth. Once again, I took my shoes off and left them on the curb.

Barefoot, I walked through the lawn toward the backyard. The gate to the backyard always stuck but I knew the trick to get it to open on the first try, something my sister was always envious of.

I pulled back in surprise as I saw the backyard. Instead of a pool, there was now what looked like some sort of garden and a deck with patio furniture and a barbeque pit. There were pots with plants in them and decorations that looked like kids who were allowed to get messy and splatter paint sometimes had made them.

My sweat was starting to mingle with the ice-cream on my shirt and neck. For a second I thought I might throw up.

The sliding back door started to open, so I swallowed the nasty chunky taste in my mouth and jumped behind a large bush. A woman came out from the kitchen carrying a bowl of something that smelled amazing despite the rainbow assortment of smells now existing on all parts of my body. The entire table was covered in mismatched bowls and plates like this. It was beautiful.

This woman did not look like the moms at the supermarket.

This woman did not look like my mom.

This woman looked tired, maybe frazzled even, but determined and soft, like she’d had a long day but still wanted to make something, to see her family and to ask someone who lived in that house what they did at school today. She was smiling.

A man, probably the dad, also walked outside with some silverware and started setting the table. He looked at the woman and held up a pair of tongs like a walrus from his mouth. The woman laughed and threw a piece of broccoli at him.

I knew what to do to trigger the sprinkler system and have the entire area around the deck with the table drenched in a temporary shower.

I felt a pang at seeing these strangers together like this and snuck back toward the backyard gate.

I was already sprinting before I hit the sidewalk, slipping on my shoes desperately as I ran away from the house, the one with the white shutters and the sidewalk without any cracks and the bedroom with the tiny window but a lot of sunlight in the afternoons. I no longer wondered if I would see anyone from the old neighborhood.

Everyone was gone and there was a new girl sleeping in my bed.

I ran.

I ran fast, faster than I’d ever run before but not as fast as I could.

My right foot was hurting and I could feel the bare contact the ball of my foot made with the sidewalk through the holes in my shoes every time it slammed on the concrete. My t-shirt, white before school this morning, was now a mixture of wild paint splatters and various food stains. My jean shorts were stiff from sticky lemonade. I thought about just taking it all off but I stayed as I was and ran anyway.

Usually, by this time, I would have been tired, but I felt like it would have been impossible to stop. If I stopped running then I’d have to think, think about my mom, think about my foot, and think about my old house and the new people living in it.

But eventually, I got tired.

I stopped and sat on another curb, this time far away from the old neighborhood and my old school.

It was starting to get dark.

I thought about how easy it would have been to turn the sprinklers on and ruin the dinner in the backyard.

I was glad I hadn’t done it.

– Margaret Stolte