Just My Luck

Jade Moosman

Just My Luck

Seated behind the patriotic dressed figure, white star on the chest, red and white stripes
around the waist, on the open aired motor vehicle is a girl with vibrant, red, shiny hair dressed in
tight black clothes. The two heroes speed down the road until the vehicle slows to a stop and four
eyebrows are raised. The imaginary, sleek motorcycle that is, in reality, a green, scuffed up
four-wheeler is now stationary on the road.
My friend, cosplaying Captain America, turns the key. Nothing. She tries again. Nothing.
She gets off the four-wheeler as do I, the teenage version of Black Widow, red wig, badass high
heels and all.
“What happened?” I ask.
“How am I supposed to know?” she says. “I’m no Tony Stark.”
. . .
“Soooooo, now what?” I ask.
“I guess we should walk back to my house and ask Dad.”
I raise my eyebrows, “That’s, like, half a mile.”
“That’s nothing,” she says.
“Normally, it would be, but-” I raise one foot into the air indicating the four inch, knee
high boots I’m wearing.
“Oh, poor baby,” she playfully mocks. “I can go by myself.”
I purse my lips and sigh. I can’t abandon my fellow Avenger. I shrug and start heading
down the road in the direction of her house. When we get there, her dad, aka Nick Fury, is out
front, working in one of the three raised garden beds in the driveway. Now it is his turn to raise
his eyebrows.

“Where’s the fourwheeler?” he asks.
“Back by the elementary school,” Captain America says. “It stalled.”
“Tough luck. I guess you’ll just have to put it in neutral and push it back here,” he says.
I groan inwardly. We came all this way for him to remind us that neutral exists.
On the half mile walk back Captain America chuckles.
“This will be fun,” she says.
“Yeah, so fun,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
I feel the balls of my feet starting to complain and threaten me with blisters as we walk
back to the fourwheeler. Damn weak feet.
Once we reach the fourwheeler, Captain America switches it to neutral and we are off
back to Avenger’s HQ aka my friend’s house. As we put our back into it, my black leggings and
long sleeve shirt absorbs the sunny spring heat and the thick synthetic wig lays hot over my neck.
Am I complaining? Of course. Is it a big deal? Yes! I’m a little freshman just barely
learning that the world doesn’t play fair. By this point in life I have never owned any shoes with
heels taller than an inch. I am only wearing these for the cosplay because sacrifices must be
made when looking like the badass that is Black Widow; well, a short, less intimidating Black
Widow with empty thigh holsters and no ninja skills.
I never liked high heels, but today I hate them. Sure, they are Noice with a capital N.
Knee high black boots are the bomb until it’s a hot day in May and I already walked half a mile
in them only to have to walk back again to push a four-wheeler with a much less than buff
female Captain America, also on her freshman year, but at least she goes wigless and sporting
brown combat boots. What I wouldn’t give for those.

Who decided high heels were a good idea? A masochist? A torturer? Or maybe even…
one of my fellow short people? I hate to think of it.
Being short. It’s a problem. In theory, high heels could sometimes be beneficial, but
everything always sounds better in theory. I’m not too short most of the time. Granted, I can’t
reach the graham crackers, saltines, glass cups, mugs, or vegetable oil at home. And, yeah, I have
to stretch to my limit and stand on my tip toes, one leg extended out as if I am a ballerina to
reach the oatmeal, powdered sugar, Pepto Bismol, and rice. But that’s what chairs are for.
(Now I’m not hating on anyone who likes heels. No, no. It was I who put the boots on,
BUT I was betrayed by my friend and fellow Avenger who just handed them to me, tricking me.
Come to find out later that Black Widow doesn’t even wear heels. Which makes total sense in all
honesty. My life is a lie.)
On we have to go. Past the houses and ahead a minivan (very common in my rural
hometown, almost as common as SUVs) in which a mom and her three children stare at us. What
I sight we were that I am sure they were not expecting to see in the afternoon. They must have
been asking themselves “Why?” Why are two barely teenager girls dressed up as Marvel
characters? And why are they pushing a fourwheeler? The answer to the first question; because
why not? Answer to the second; my friend and I both know I often have bad luck and
unfortunately for her, she got a dose of it too.
We nod at the woman and smile. Once she passes we look at each other and laughter
ensues.
There are sometimes bigger than normal pebbles on paved roads as everyone knows, but
not a lot. Yet my dang foot just has to step on one of the walnut sized rocks; my ankle twists and
my legs give way. I cling onto the back of the four-wheeler.

“Are you okay?” my friend says attentively.
I stand up, and look her dead in the eyes, “Ask my feet.”
She looks down, “Are you okay feetsies?”
She looks back up at me with a smirk. We both burst into rib aching laughter at a joke
with little to no humor to a person not pushing a four wheeler in cosplay.
The high heels do not show me any mercy. When we arrive at HQ, I immediately kick off
the boots, blisters are already forming on the balls of my feet, but all is made well when we make
our way to the kitchen and lo and behold, the hero, Captain America, gives me an Otter Pop.

Seated behind the patriotic dressed figure, white star on the chest, red and white stripes
around the waist, on the open aired motor vehicle is a girl with vibrant, red, shiny hair dressed in
tight black clothes. The two heroes speed down the road until the vehicle slows to a stop and four
eyebrows are raised. The imaginary, sleek motorcycle that is, in reality, a green, scuffed up
four-wheeler is now stationary on the road.
My friend, cosplaying Captain America, turns the key. Nothing. She tries again. Nothing.
She gets off the four-wheeler as do I, the teenage version of Black Widow, red wig, badass high
heels and all.
“What happened?” I ask.
“How am I supposed to know?” she says. “I’m no Tony Stark.”
. . .
“Soooooo, now what?” I ask.
“I guess we should walk back to my house and ask Dad.”
I raise my eyebrows, “That’s, like, half a mile.”
“That’s nothing,” she says.
“Normally, it would be, but-” I raise one foot into the air indicating the four inch, knee
high boots I’m wearing.
“Oh, poor baby,” she playfully mocks. “I can go by myself.”
I purse my lips and sigh. I can’t abandon my fellow Avenger. I shrug and start heading
down the road in the direction of her house. When we get there, her dad, aka Nick Fury, is out
front, working in one of the three raised garden beds in the driveway. Now it is his turn to raise
his eyebrows.

“Where’s the fourwheeler?” he asks.
“Back by the elementary school,” Captain America says. “It stalled.”
“Tough luck. I guess you’ll just have to put it in neutral and push it back here,” he says.
I groan inwardly. We came all this way for him to remind us that neutral exists.
On the half mile walk back Captain America chuckles.
“This will be fun,” she says.
“Yeah, so fun,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
I feel the balls of my feet starting to complain and threaten me with blisters as we walk
back to the fourwheeler. Damn weak feet.
Once we reach the fourwheeler, Captain America switches it to neutral and we are off
back to Avenger’s HQ aka my friend’s house. As we put our back into it, my black leggings and
long sleeve shirt absorbs the sunny spring heat and the thick synthetic wig lays hot over my neck.
Am I complaining? Of course. Is it a big deal? Yes! I’m a little freshman just barely
learning that the world doesn’t play fair. By this point in life I have never owned any shoes with
heels taller than an inch. I am only wearing these for the cosplay because sacrifices must be
made when looking like the badass that is Black Widow; well, a short, less intimidating Black
Widow with empty thigh holsters and no ninja skills.
I never liked high heels, but today I hate them. Sure, they are Noice with a capital N.
Knee high black boots are the bomb until it’s a hot day in May and I already walked half a mile
in them only to have to walk back again to push a four-wheeler with a much less than buff
female Captain America, also on her freshman year, but at least she goes wigless and sporting
brown combat boots. What I wouldn’t give for those.

Who decided high heels were a good idea? A masochist? A torturer? Or maybe even…
one of my fellow short people? I hate to think of it.
Being short. It’s a problem. In theory, high heels could sometimes be beneficial, but
everything always sounds better in theory. I’m not too short most of the time. Granted, I can’t
reach the graham crackers, saltines, glass cups, mugs, or vegetable oil at home. And, yeah, I have
to stretch to my limit and stand on my tip toes, one leg extended out as if I am a ballerina to
reach the oatmeal, powdered sugar, Pepto Bismol, and rice. But that’s what chairs are for.
(Now I’m not hating on anyone who likes heels. No, no. It was I who put the boots on,
BUT I was betrayed by my friend and fellow Avenger who just handed them to me, tricking me.
Come to find out later that Black Widow doesn’t even wear heels. Which makes total sense in all
honesty. My life is a lie.)
On we have to go. Past the houses and ahead a minivan (very common in my rural
hometown, almost as common as SUVs) in which a mom and her three children stare at us. What
I sight we were that I am sure they were not expecting to see in the afternoon. They must have
been asking themselves “Why?” Why are two barely teenager girls dressed up as Marvel
characters? And why are they pushing a fourwheeler? The answer to the first question; because
why not? Answer to the second; my friend and I both know I often have bad luck and
unfortunately for her, she got a dose of it too.
We nod at the woman and smile. Once she passes we look at each other and laughter
ensues.
There are sometimes bigger than normal pebbles on paved roads as everyone knows, but
not a lot. Yet my dang foot just has to step on one of the walnut sized rocks; my ankle twists and
my legs give way. I cling onto the back of the four-wheeler.

“Are you okay?” my friend says attentively.
I stand up, and look her dead in the eyes, “Ask my feet.”
She looks down, “Are you okay feetsies?”
She looks back up at me with a smirk. We both burst into rib aching laughter at a joke
with little to no humor to a person not pushing a four wheeler in cosplay.
The high heels do not show me any mercy. When we arrive at HQ, I immediately kick off
the boots, blisters are already forming on the balls of my feet, but all is made well when we make
our way to the kitchen and lo and behold, the hero, Captain America, gives me an Otter Pop.