Feet Aren't Made for Walking [BEING PUBLISHED!] #OnceUponNow

Part One

I told my first lie when I was five years old. It was a silly thing. I'd pulled the last pint of chocolate fudge ice cream from the freezer and stuffed my face. When my mother asked where it disappeared to, I opened my sticky, fudge-covered lips and told her I didn't know.

The lies grew over the years. "Does this dress look nice?" Of course. "Did you throw a baseball through the garage window?" Maybe, but I'll tell you otherwise. "Why is your homework late?" Well, you see, my house caught fire last night...

I tried to stop; I really did. Like when my classmates laughed upon discovering I liked Maddie Johnson from sixth grade English. Instead of denying it, I shrugged and said Maddie had a lisp that made her spit in your eye every time she talked – which was true, despite being cruel. When I found out I'd made Maddie cry, I felt so horrible that I avoided her for the rest of middle school. My tactic progressed to bored indifference after that.

"Hey, Leo, do you like so-and-so?" Ehh...I don't know. "Do you want to watch that new superhero flick?" Maybe. "What major are you picking in college?" Not sure.

I wished I could say I wanted to be a photographer, but my mother didn't think that was a viable career choice. She liked marketing managers. Likely because she was one. She was so overbearing that I wouldn't put it past her to hide out in some bushes on campus, armed with binoculars and a thermos of green tea, spying on me to ensure I made it to class on time.

"Leo! I ironed your socks for you!"

And there she was. Mom. Shouting from her home office, where she multitasked every minute of every day. She folded clothes while negotiating client contracts with the same vibrant enthusiasm that normal people exuded when winning the lottery.

"Thanks, Ma." I didn't have the heart to tell her that no sane person scrubbed footwear with an iron.

"And put some pants on, Leonard."

"Ma!" I hated when she used my full name. I gestured to my legs, which were covered in my favorite pair of plaid boxer shorts. "I'm decent."

"Hardly. I told Mia you'd drive her to the library. She needs something for a homework assignment." Mom picked up her desk phone, balancing the receiver between her shoulder and her ear. "Steven," she barked. "Pull up the Wisenhower contract. They're complaining about clause four again." She turned her attention back to me. "Oh, and honey? Put on a coat. It's a bit nippy outside."

"Whatever." I grabbed the car keys and dug through the laundry basket in search of jeans and a sweater.

"And Leo? Don't let Mia pick out a vampire book. Last time she read one, she asked a boy in her class to bite her."

I grunted – my usual noncommittal gesture whenever Mom went off on a tirade.

"And I'm making your favorite pot roast for dinner, so don't be late." She rolled her eyes at her phone. "No, Steven, no pot roast for you. No! Clause four, you loon! Not clause three!" Her gaze swiveled to me again. I felt like I was watching a tennis match. "I'll make sure to cut up your potatoes just the way you like." I'd been capable of cutting my own food since I was four, but try telling her that. Feigning indifference was easiest. It got me out of the house, no questions asked.      

Shutting Mom's door softly behind me, I went searching for my sister. She was usually relatively easy to find. At thirteen years old, Mia Clark's hobbies consisted mainly of screaming over the latest "dreamy" teen actors and screaming even louder over the latest "dreamy" teen boy bands.

"Mia's in the car," Dad said. He was kneeling in the living room, up to his elbows in couch cushions. I paused in the doorway, watching his forehead glisten with sweat as he huffed and puffed and practically tore the house apart. "Your mother hid my remote again." He tossed a cushion across the room, where it landed in the fireplace. "Baseball starts in ten" – a second cushion followed the first – "minutes!" Two pillows brought up the rear.