I’ve always hated high heels. I don’t want to get out of the car because I know that I’ll have to put pressure on my feet again. Driving here was hard enough with three inches of rods attached to them. Whenever I could successfully angle my toes toward the gas petal—my only contact with the floor a plastic 2cm X 2cm pivot point—twenty blunt screwdrivers seemed to wedge their way into my shoe and press ever harder on the pads of my toes and the balls of my feet. I only cried once on the ride, and only for a few minutes. Thankfully I was smart enough to put on water-proof mascara this morning. It’s hard and clumpy, it prevents me from blinking properly, and it isn’t going anywhere.
I have to wear high heels because I’m wearing my mom’s pants because I couldn’t find my grey dress. She hates when I wear her pants and ruin the hem. That was our deal: If ever I wore her pants, I would have to wear high heels to keep the hems nice. I was crying, too, when she got home and found me frantically tearing through her closet. I had allotted just enough time to get dressed and drive to the church, but when I couldn’t find my dress, my schedule was thrown off and I panicked, tears streaming down my face as I ripped apart my mother’s closet. Her bed was littered with grey, black, and pinstripes by the time she got home. She didn’t even yell at me for making a mess.
It’s time to get out of the car now. My mouth is hot, but I can still feel cool, minty pieces of grit from my toothpaste between my molars. I take a deep breath and place my feet delicately on the sweltering asphalt. As soon as I step down, the screwdrivers make their attack again. I rise and extend my sore legs for the first time in almost an hour. There’s nobody else in this parking lot. I parked far away from his family and friends because I don’t know any of them and they don’t know me. I wanted to be able to gather my courage in solitude but I can still hear their hushed chatter from dozens of yards away.