Once in an elementary school bathroom, a pair of white and pink Nikes asked me if I believed in Jesus. Huddled together my disheveled red Chuck’s boldly replied no, my faith lay elsewhere. Meanwhile, I struggled to remember which one Jesus was again. Despite my calculated fumbling, we finished together, the red Nikes and I, toe-to-toe crowded around the sink. Who then, those patent leather twins persisted, did I believe in? I stared down at my Chucks for support but the bastards stood silent, too busy to answer, lapping up the liquid that had pooled on the floor with their lanky, fraying fingers.