Compression

Mitchell Kelly

29/03/2026

The sole of my brand-new green and black Nike pressed hard against my cheek, and I felt the pressure on my face rise and fall like the foot of a rally driver, accelerating on the straights, easing up on the bends, and slamming down out of the corners.

‘Get him, Jesse,’ a voice jeered.

‘Let the little poofter have it,’ another shadow taunted.

There must have been at least ten boys surrounding me, laughing at me, spitting on me. Brett was there somewhere; he’s never far from Jesse.

Some gave sharp soccer kicks to my feet and shins. Others booted my backpack, still strapped to my shoulders, like a footy.

‘How’s that feel? Huh?’ Jesse pushed down, and my other cheek scraped on the concrete as I jolted. ‘Don’t try and get up. Just take it.’

Flat on the ground, my eyes locked on Jesse’s right foot, standing firm in my other shoe. Only, they were no longer my shoes. The shoes, the stocky legs, and everything that rose above them—the footballer’s build, the salty surfer’s face, and the sun-bleached hair—were all his. No one could take them from him. No one would ever try.

I loved those shoes. They were the first pair I’d bought with my own money.

My brother got me a job at McDonald’s when I was fourteen, and I worked after school and on weekends to save up for Archie comics, X-Men trading cards, and the latest Nike shoes.

The school requires us to take off our shoes for drama class so we don’t track dirt across the carpet, which we could roll around on in any number of acting scenarios. As a result, the racks outside the classroom were transformed into a shoe shop for the school’s bravest and boldest students. No money required, a real five-toe discount.

When I exited class last Tuesday, I searched for ten minutes until it was clear the shoes had been swiped. The whole class had gone, and I was left alone on cold tiles like an embarrassed, shoeless Cinderella. But even Cinderella got to keep one slipper.

My drama teacher fetched a pair of manky thongs from a storage cupboard, and I began the trek of shame to the front office to phone my mum, convinced everyone I passed was in on the prank and sniggering at me.

‘Mum.’ The tears came at once.

‘Nathan. What’s wrong?’

‘Someone—’

‘What’s happened?’

‘My shoes. They’re gone.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Someone stole my shoes.’

‘Your new shoes? How does that happen?’

‘I had them off for drama class. Someone took them.’

‘That’s it! I’m coming down there right now. I’ll get to the bottom of this.’

‘No, Mum. No! Don’t worry about it.’

‘Nathan! Who steals shoes? You only just got them!’

‘Just leave it, Mum. I’ll buy more. Can you please come and get me?’

‘I’m coming now.’

On Thursday, Brett told me it was Jesse who took them. We have this weird friendship that only exists in biology class. Mr Corbin assigned seats at the start of the year, and I was next to Brett. We never spoke, we just passed notes back and forth. No one else knew about it.

It had been small notes at first. In the first week of Term One, Brett tapped the table and passed me a ‘Hey.’ I passed a ‘Hey’ back to him without making eye contact.

By Term Two, we had progressed significantly. It was no longer notes—we had a whole book dedicated to messages. At the end of class, Brett would rip out the pages, scrunch them up, and shove them into his pocket. Somehow, I had become the sounding board for the second-most popular boy in school.

‘I made out with R at Jono’s party on the weekend, but I still have a major crush on PW. Do you think I should wait for her or just move on?’ Brett wrote.

‘You’ve liked her for so long. Don’t give up on her yet. S will break up with her soon anyway—then you’ll be in with a shot.’ I wrote back.

‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’

In Term Three, nothing was off-limits.

‘Does your dad ever hit you?’ Brett wrote.

‘When I was younger. Nothing too bad. Just if he’d been drinking. I was probably being a little shit. Why? Does your dad hit you?’ I wrote back.

‘Yeah. Sometimes. And my mum. That’s why I started gym. Gotta protect her.’

And just a few days ago, he broke the news to me.

‘J took your shoes.’

‘What! Why?’

‘He’s a dickhead.’

I waited a few minutes.

‘Why do you hang out with him?’ I wrote.

He waited a few minutes.

‘We’ve been friends since Grade One. I dunno.’

We didn’t write anything else, even though there were still twenty minutes of class remaining. And Brett didn’t produce the message book at all on Friday.

Now, I squirmed on the concrete like a worm waiting to be sliced in two.

‘Fuck off,’ I said.

A roar of laughter erupted.

‘Did you hear that? “Fuck off,”’ he mimicked. He pushed down on my face. ‘I don’t think you’re in a position to tell me what to do, mate.’

‘Let him go, Jesse,’ a voice said.

‘Huh?’

The crowd fell silent. Brett stepped forward.

‘What’d you say?’ Jesse said.

‘He got the message. Let him go.’

Jesse paused. His foot came off my head, and he faced Brett.

‘What’d you say?’

‘Look at him,’ Brett said.

I looked up at the ring of faces. Everyone waited for Jesse’s next move.

‘Is this your new girlfriend, Brettie?’

Jesse absorbed the laughter.

‘As if, he’s pathetic,’ Brett said.

‘Yeah, you’re right. I feel fucking sorry for him. Let’s go.’ Jesse wiped his shoes across my shirt like a doormat. ‘Thanks for the shoes, fuckwit.’

And just like that, the pack of hyenas withdrew.

Brett looked back, and we made eye contact. He nodded. I nodded back. Then I stood up, dusted gravel off my face, and walked to history class in sensible grey joggers.

***

Honourable mention: Mitchell Kelly

Mitchell has more than two dozen pieces of writing published around the world. He won the inaugural Melaleuca Blue Life Writing Competition in 2016. His work includes creative non-fiction, short stories and poetry. Mitchell lives in Foster with his husband and two children and hopes to complete a novel soon.