Eleven

It was the third Halloween since the incident. Marge looked in the mirror and considered her costume. Her whole year had been building up this day, the day of the Halloween Ball, and her chance to redeem herself once and for all.

She took a breath and closed her eyes. She remembered exactly where she was three years ago, surrounded by friends—well, friends then—dancing in zombie suits, dangling nooses, and Hillary Clinton masks. Then the music stopped, and she blurted the phrase that changed everything.

“I HAVE ELEVEN TOES.” The words reverberated through the room, so much so that she could almost see them bounce off the walls as one sentence at first, until they hit the window and split apart. ELEVEN finally landed at her feet. “This feels right,” she thought.

She picked up each letter, one by one. The L and N she put in her pocket. The Es she stacked and tucked under her arm. With her free hand, she scooped up the V and proudly exclaimed to the room, “My feet are beautiful. You are the wrong to judge.”