I press the doorbell and pray that no one answers. My heart pounds a strangled staccato, a knot clogs my throat. I count to three. The door is still closed. I thrill; I can leave. Just as I turn away, the door clicks open. A blinding white fear constricts around me as I realize that it’s too late now, I can’t get away. I want to run. She stands in the doorway, looks down at me. Can I help you, she asks. I try to answer but my voice is a paralyzed whisper. The words come out in a feeble croak, Would you like to buy some cookies? I hold the order form toward her, which has become progressively more mangled by my sweaty grip as I have proceeded from house to house in my ungainly brown felt beanie. The same at each one: I pray that no one is home, or I knock on the door so lightly that I know no one will hear. I am supposed to sell these thin wafers of minty chocolate, these treacly coconut dusted caramel rings. I am supposed to, I don’t want to, I haven’t been able to, I must, I can’t. The afternoon has passed and my order form is still blank. A dog pants behind her. She smiles politely and shakes her head. She closes the door and I run back down to the sidewalk, triumphant. I have escaped. I will not earn a badge for this.
L.V. Leonhard is a writer who lives in Baltimore, Maryland.
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