"This might sound weird," I said, "but a little wax on the metal part of the buckle makes it slide easier. Do you… want me to show you?"

But then I saw it. A single, perfect tear escape her eye and trace a slow path down her cheek.

She wasn't surrounded by her usual awestruck crowd. She was alone, kneeling by the shoe lockers. Her pristine white socks were off, and she was fumbling with the strap of her left loafer. Her face, usually a serene, porcelain mask, was pinched with frustration.