Rakan and the Shoelaces That Kept Coming Undone

Rakan had new shoes. They were blue, with a bright green stripe down each side and thick white soles that bounced when he jumped. They were the best shoes he had ever had.

There was only one problem. They had laces.

Rakan's old shoes had straps that went rrrip when he pulled them open and scrrrtch when he pressed them shut. Easy. But these new shoes had long white laces with little plastic tips, and they flopped about like two sleepy worms.

"Mama," said Rakan on Sunday morning, "can you tie my shoes?"

Mama knelt down and tied them in two neat bows. Her fingers went loop, swoop, pull, so fast that Rakan could not see how she did it.

At school, Rakan ran in the playground. He jumped off the low wall. He raced his friend Ghaith to the fence and back. And when he looked down, both laces were trailing in the dust.

"Teacher Sawsan," he said, "can you tie my shoes?"

Teacher Sawsan tied them. Loop, swoop, pull.

After lunch, they came undone again. Ghaith's big sister tied them. After the bus ride home, they came undone again, and Grandpa tied them, slowly, with a little grunt as he bent down.

That evening, Rakan sat on the bottom stair and frowned at his shoes.

"Everybody has to tie my shoes," he said. "All day long. I want to do it myself."

Papa sat down on the stair beside him. "Then let's learn," he said. "But I should warn you. Laces are tricky. Nobody gets them right the first time."

"I will," said Rakan.

Papa showed him. "First, cross the laces, like an X. Then tuck one under and pull, so they hug each other."

Rakan crossed the laces. He tucked one under. He pulled. The laces hugged. "I did it!"

"That's step one," said Papa. "Now make a loop with one lace. Like a bunny ear."

Rakan made a loop. It was floppy and lopsided, but it was a loop.

"Now wrap the other lace around the bunny ear, and push it through the little hole underneath, to make a second ear. Then pull both ears tight."

Rakan wrapped. He pushed. The lace slipped out of his fingers. The bunny ear fell flat. The whole thing came undone.

"Try one," said Papa.

Rakan tried again. This time the second lace went through the hole, but when he pulled the ears, they both slid right out, and he was left holding two straight laces.

"Try two," said Papa calmly.

On try three, the first loop was too small, and it vanished. On try four, he pulled the wrong end. On try five, he got a knot so tight and tangled that Papa had to pick it apart with his fingernails, and it took a long time.

Rakan's face grew hot. His fingers felt clumsy, like they were wearing mittens.

"It's no good," he said, and he threw his shoe across the hall. It bounced off the door with a thump. "My fingers don't know how."

Papa did not get cross. He went and picked up the shoe, and he sat back down on the stair.

"Do you know what I was thinking about?" he said. "When you were a baby, you tried to walk. You stood up and fell down. Stood up and fell down. Do you know how many times?"

Rakan shook his head.

"Hundreds," said Papa. "Every single day. You fell on your bottom, plop, and you laughed and tried again. You never once threw your foot across the hall."

Rakan could not help giggling at that.

"Your fingers don't know how yet," said Papa. "Fingers learn the same way feet do. One try at a time."

Rakan took a deep breath. He picked up the shoe and held it on his lap.

"Can I practice slowly?" he asked.

"As slowly as you like," said Papa.

Rakan crossed the laces. Tucked one under. Pulled. Made a bunny ear and held it firmly between his finger and thumb, so it could not escape. Then, very slowly, he wrapped the other lace around it.

"The bunny runs around the tree," he whispered, making it up as he went, "and jumps into the hole."

He pushed the lace through. He pinched it. He pulled both ears, gently at first, then tighter.

They held.

There, on top of the shoe, sat a bow. It was a bit crooked. One ear was much longer than the other. But it was a bow, and it stayed.

"Try six," said Rakan, his eyes very wide. "I did it on try six!"

"You did," said Papa, and he gave Rakan the biggest high five in the history of the stairs.

Rakan untied it at once and did it again. It took a long time, and one ear flopped over, but it worked. He did it a third time, whispering, "The bunny runs around the tree, and jumps into the hole." By bedtime, he had tied his shoes eleven times. Grandpa watched from his armchair and clapped every single time.

The next morning, Rakan put on his blue shoes and tied them himself, slowly, with his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. Mama waited by the door with the car keys and did not hurry him once.

At school, Rakan ran in the playground. He jumped off the low wall. He raced Ghaith to the fence and back. And when he looked down, one lace was trailing in the dust.

But this time, he did not go to look for Teacher Sawsan. He crouched down right there by the fence and tied it, whispering his bunny words.

Ghaith watched with his mouth open. "You can tie laces?"

"Since yesterday," said Rakan. "On try six."

Ghaith looked down at his own shoes, which had straps. Then he looked back at Rakan's neat, crooked bow.

"Will you teach me?" he asked.

Rakan grinned. He sat down on the grass beside his friend.

"Okay," he said. "But I should warn you. Laces are tricky. Nobody gets them right the first time."