Blush Cutiebunny's Arc

Chapter 4 of 4

Blush sat on the cottage steps that afternoon and counted the cards left in her backpack. Seven. Only seven. She'd made twenty-three at the start of the week, using her best markers and all the glitter glue from the art supply bin. Now kids kept finding her between classes, at lunch, by the water fountain. She pulled out the pink polka dot shoes from the bottom of her backpack and set them on the step beside her. They were too big for her feet, way too big, but she'd found them in the donation box last year and knew they were special the moment she saw them. She'd worn them to the big beach house near school when the mean teenagers were throwing sand at the kindergarteners. She'd marched right up to the nearest grown-up reading on the porch and told her what was happening. The woman had looked at Blush's sparkly cat toy tucked under her arm, at her too-big shoes, and smiled the way people smile at puppies. "That's nice, sweetie," she'd said, and gone back to her book. Two minutes later, a little kid got sand in his eyes and started crying. Blush traced the white dots on the shoes with one finger. She'd kept them because they made her feel tall and important, like someone people would listen to. But that day taught her the truth: grown-ups saw the polka dots and the toy and the kid trying too hard, and they decided none of it mattered. They decided she didn't matter. She put the shoes back in her bag and looked at the seven cards. The cards weren't for grown-ups. They were for kids who needed to believe someone was watching out for them, even when the adults weren't paying attention. That was different from making grown-ups take her seriously. That was making something real that worked right now, today, for the kids who needed it. She stood up and brushed off her jeans. Tomorrow she'd make more cards during art time, enough for everyone who asked. The grown-ups didn't have to believe in heroes for the headquarters to keep working.