Chapter 4
1648 Words
The park wasn’t any fun alone.
Mickey decided to walk home, her footsteps slow and heavy with the weight of everything that had just happened. The air had cooled since sunset, but the heat from the argument with Sam still clung to her skin like a second layer. Her chest felt tight, like her lungs hadn’t fully expanded in hours.
When she reached her house, she didn’t go inside right away. Instead, she dropped herself onto the front steps, letting the chill of the concrete seep into her legs. Her thoughts ran wild, too knotted to untangle.
The front gate creaked. A familiar voice rang out.
“What’s up? Why are you out here, you nerd?” Amy teased, stepping onto the porch, backpack slung over one shoulder from a friend’s house.
Mickey leaned over and rested her head against Amy’s shoulder without saying anything.
After a long pause, she murmured, “Have you ever wanted to touch the stars?”
Amy tilted her head, clearly caught off guard by the question. “Sure. Who doesn’t?”
“They’re balls of gas,” Mickey said blankly.
“Well, duh. But you don’t think about it that way. They’re... magical. Something we can’t have, so we want them.” Amy shrugged as if that explained the whole universe.
Mickey let the silence fill in the gaps, her eyes tracing the constellations she didn’t know the names of.
“Ever wanted to go to space?” Amy asked, softer this time.
“I haven’t thought about it much,” Mickey replied.
“Well, maybe you should,” Amy said, nudging her. “There’s endless possibilities out there. Unknowns.”
“And that’s exciting?”
“To some,” Amy grinned and winked. “To others, it’s terrifying.”
Mickey gave a small huff of laughter, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Come on. Let’s go inside. Bugs are out,” Amy said, standing and pulling Mickey up gently.
That night, Mickey lay awake in bed, the weight of the evening pressing down like a second blanket. Sam’s words played on a loop in her head.
“It’s complicated.”
Mickey stared at the ceiling, wondering why those words kept bothering her so much. They felt like code—like something she was meant to decode but couldn’t. She tried to brush it off, but it lingered.
Eventually, she drifted into a dream. In it, she and Sam were hiking to their old hideout—a cave tucked away in the mountains, hidden behind trees and overgrown brush. It used to be their place. A world of their own. A haven. In the dream, Sam was smiling again, carefree and full of life. They laughed like they used to. Mickey reached for her, but Sam faded into shadow before she could touch her.
When morning came and the sunlight spilled through her curtains, Mickey stirred, blinking against the warmth. She inhaled deeply, the quiet stillness of the room in stark contrast to the storm in her chest.
Sam had been changing for a while now, hadn’t she?
Mickey sat up slowly, heart heavy with the realization that last night wasn’t just a bad moment. It was a turning point.
She pushed the thought aside, determined not to let it ruin the whole day. Her mom had reminded her that morning about dropping donations off at the thrift store, asking Mickey to sort through her things.
A distraction. That sounded good.
Mickey showered and dressed in her softest sweats and a worn T-shirt, hair still damp as she wandered back to her room and started with her closet. She tugged shirts and jackets off hangers and tossed them onto her bed in chaotic piles. Drawers were emptied next. Pants, old jeans, sweaters she hadn’t worn in years.
She moved to her bookshelf and selected a few titles she knew she’d never reread, stacking them neatly to the side.
A knock came at the door.
“Yeah?” she called out.
“It’s me,” her mom said, stepping inside with a cardboard box. “Here’s one for your donations.”
“Thanks. Everything on the bed so far. Think it’s big enough?”
Her mom raised an eyebrow. “I thought you’d have more, honestly. So... yeah.”
“I’m not done yet,” Mickey sighed.
“This all the clothes?” her mom asked, walking over to the closet and thumbing through what was left.
“Yeah.”
Her mom pulled out a dress, a skirt, then another top. “Mick, there’s so much here you don’t wear anymore. Like this shirt. What even is this?”
“It’s a band shirt. It’s not mine—it’s Sam’s. She gave it to me when we got caught in the rain that one day. I haven’t returned it yet.”
Her mom sighed. “Well, make sure you do. And what about these?”
“Sure, toss them.”
They moved on to shoes, her mom directing like a drill sergeant. Mickey pointed out the pairs that were too tight or uncomfortable, and her mom stuffed them into the box along with the clothes.
“What about those board games?” her mom asked, nodding toward the shelf above her closet.
“Oh... yeah. I don’t really play those anymore.”
Mickey stood on tiptoe and pulled them down, stacking them on her bed.
“How did I get tricked into this?” her mom muttered.
Mickey rolled her eyes. “You volunteered.”
“Now look through those boxes on the top shelf too. If it’s not worth donating, throw it away. You’ve got too much crap.”
With that, she left the room, closing the door behind her.
Mickey stuck her tongue out at the door and sighed. She tossed a few more pairs of shoes into the box and turned back to the closet. She pulled down the first box and dug through it—old toys she hadn’t touched in years. Most went straight into the donation pile.
The next box was full of notes and pictures. She smiled faintly, setting it aside to keep.
The last box was heavier. She dragged it down and flipped the lid open.
CDs. Broken headphones. Tangled cords.
And then, tucked near the bottom, something small and familiar caught her eye.
A Polly Pocket.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She picked it up gently, brushing dust from the tiny plastic case. The doll inside had golden hair, still glossy despite the years. Mickey turned it over in her hand, heart thudding.
And then, like a film reel starting, a memory unfolded—
She was five, clinging tightly to her mom’s hand on her first day of kindergarten.
“Mickey, please. You’re going to be fine,” her mom said, exasperated but trying to sound reassuring.
They reached the classroom door. Her mom crouched down, tugging Mickey’s shirt straight, smoothing her ponytail.
“Now, if you need anything, what do you do?”
“Raise my hand and ask for help.”
“And if you need to get ahold of me?”
“Get the number out of my backpack and ask to call.”
“And who’s right down the hall?”
“Amy, in room seven with Miss Caroline.”
Her mom kissed her on the forehead. “Good girl. Smile. Make friends, okay?”
The teacher’s aide opened the door. “Hello! And who is this?”
“I-I’m Mickey,” she whispered.
The classroom was loud and colorful, but Mickey felt like the only person not moving. Most kids already knew each other. She sat quietly at her assigned seat, watching, shrinking into herself.
Then, a girl with full cheeks, big blue eyes, and long brown hair walked over.
“You’re new,” she said matter-of-factly. Mickey nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“Mickey.”
“There’s this toy I want. If you take it, I’ll be your friend forever.”
Mickey blinked. “Mommy said taking things is bad.”
“It’s a Polly Pocket. A new one. Haven’t you heard of them?”
Mickey nodded again.
“Come on. A Polly Pocket for a best friend.”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Sam. But my friends call me Sammie.”
“Where... where is it?”
Sam smirked. “Follow me.”
They crept to the toy bin. There it was—the doll with the golden hair.
“She has real hair!” Sam whispered excitedly. “You’ll be my friend?”
Mickey nodded.
“Yep. Forever. I’ll keep watch, kay?”
Heart pounding, Mickey slipped the doll into her pocket and ran back to Sam.
“I got it,” she whispered.
“Nice!”
Back in her room, Mickey sat frozen.
Her fingers ran over the plastic casing as she studied the tiny doll’s golden hair, a distant expression softening her face. She smiled faintly at the memory, unsure how much of it was real and how much she had filled in over the years. It had been such a long time ago. That moment—Sam’s smirk, the dare, the promise of forever—felt like something from another life.
She placed the Polly Pocket carefully back in the box, almost reverently, and slid it toward the back of her closet.
For a second, she sat there, still.
She didn’t remember keeping the toy. Didn’t remember seeing it in years. Maybe it had just followed her through childhood unnoticed, tucked away behind games and shoes and old notes.
It didn’t feel important.
But still... there was a strange, quiet tug in her chest. Not quite sadness. Not quite guilt. Just... something small.
She shook it off, brushing her hands on her sweats, and grabbed the next box.
There was still more to sort.
- Writer
