Wednesday, December 9, 2015
And the adventure continues! Click here to read part one and find what this is all about.
I remember the day I was unwrapped—her 7th birthday. It was so dark and stifling in there with my plastic covered in rainbow-and-heart wrapping paper. I heard Mollie’s sweet, tinny voice before I ever saw her face, bookended by blond pigtails. She gasped when she saw me, and then she ripped the remaining wrappings off and my whole world lit up like sunbeams. “Oh, I loooove her!” Mollie cried out. “Ballerina Barbie… just what I always wanted!” She pulled me out of my box and hugged me, and from that moment on we were best friends.
For days, Mollie dressed me in sparkly tutus and sometimes in black sweats with the pink stripes for downtime between dance rehearsals. We had tea together and I went for rides in the basket of her bicycle. I didn’t know I was different—and neither did Mollie—until that evil girl Brianna Baker came over.
Brianna brought her own Barbies and their suitcase full of clothing and accessories, and the two girls plopped down on the floor. They played happily with us for a while, and then they decided to switch dolls. I smiled pleasantly, like I always do, my blue eyes sparkling with friendliness, my silken hair combed to glistening. But Brianna didn’t notice any of that; her eyes grew wide and horror-filled as she stared at—of all things—my feet! She threw me down like I was diseased and screamed in alarm. Mollie gently picked me up and cradled me, asking Brianna what was wrong.
“Look… at… her… feet!” Brianna cried out. “They’re flat!”
Confused, Mollie and I both gazed at my perfect little feet. Seemed fine to me. No warts or bunions that I could see. Then I looked at the other dolls—Brianna’s little army—and gaped. My feet were flat and theirs were all elegantly arched.
“It’s okay,” Mollie said uncertainly. “She can stand on her own. Your dolls fall over.”
“It’s not okay,” squawked Brianna. “She’s supposed to be a ballerina! She can’t even go up on pointe! She’s… a misfit.”
Mollie stroked my hair protectively and Brianna did not come back to the house for another playdate, but after that day Mollie didn’t play with me as much, or dress me in different outfits, or take me places. More than once I caught her studying my flat, flat feet with a concerned look on her face.
Then Christmas came, and with it a new toy for Mollie—Hollywood Barbie. Mollie loved Hollywood Barbie, who had the proper arched feet that a Barbie doll should have. And I was left in the bottom of the toy box, alone.
Once again, I was covered in darkness. My eyes did not glow, my hair became snarled with neglect. And then yesterday, I found myself thrown into a box that was tossed this way and that for what seemed like a long time.
Now the swaying has stopped and I’ve crawled out to explore my new surroundings. Sunlight momentarily blinds me, but soon I see a sign with an arrow pointing to an island, and all kinds of toy refugees are marching in that direction. I glance back at the box in which I was imprisoned. The word “DEFECTIVE” is stamped on the outside in big bold letters.
Shaking with fear and fury, I stomp my flat little feet over the bridge to the Island of Misfit Toys.
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