MIDNIGHT RACE OF TIA'S SHOES

Every night, when the moon climbed high and Tia drifted into her deep, peaceful sleep, something curious happened under her bed.

- Ritu Jain

Her red-and-white shoes would come alive. They would wiggle their toes, stretch their laces and whisper to each other, “Is it time?”

And when they were sure Tia was truly asleep—snoring softly, her blanket tucked up to her nose—they would leap out and begin their adventures.

Tia loved to keep her shoes clean. No mud, no scuffs, no puddles. But her shoes? They dreamed of the opposite.

They zoomed through hallways and tiptoed around the family cat, who sometimes opened one eye but never bothered to chase them.

The shoes did everything Tia never let them do. They danced in puddles and jumped into muddy patches. They even once bounced on top of her dad's car roof—though that adventure ended with a loud thud and a panicked dash back under the porch.

More than anything, the shoes loved being together. Left and Right were best friends. Perfect partners. One twirled, the other spun. One leapt, the other landed. They were never apart.

Until one strange night.

They had just zipped down the garden path and rolled behind a bush when the left shoe said, “You know what would be fun?”

The right shoe did a little hop. “What?”

“A race! A real one. Down the street. Just you and me. Let’s see who’s faster.”