Dick Move by Miriam Fried

Nate had to get his coat and shoes on because his dad was coming over to take him to the city. So, if he was going to finish the tower on his block castle and put his baby airplane to bed in it, he would have to hurry. His mother kept coming in to check whether his shoes were on yet, which they weren’t, because he had to tell his airplane a bedtime story. It was on purpose a short story, but Nate’s mom still thought he should be getting his shoes on instead. 

Before the airplane was even sleepy, Nate’s mom swooped Nate up and plopped him on the bench in the hall and put on his silver sneakers. But she didn’t tie them the right way, and then she wouldn’t start all over again, which was the obvious solution. 

“First this arm,” said Nate’s mom, holding out Nate’s puffy red coat. 

“I don’t like that coat,” said Nate. 

“It’s the warm one, though,” she said. “And it’s a cold day.” 

“I’m not cold,” said Nate, untying one of his sneakers to make things right. 

“Nate!” said his mother. “Why do you have to be such a dick!” 

Nate wasn’t sure what a dick was. It was probably some kind of spacecraft. It was glittery silver like his sneakers, with rocket wings to send it sweeping over the sky the way hockey players zoomed over the ice. “I’m a dick!” said Nate. 

“That’s not true,” said his mother. “I was just frustrated for a minute.” 

“I’m a dick, I’m a dick, I’m a dick!” said Nate, spreading his rocket wings, and then the doorbell rang. 

“How’s my little tough guy?” asked Nate’s dad. “Ready to go?” 

“Only my shoelaces,” said Nate. 

“And your coat,” said Nate’s mom, zipping it up. Then she tied his shoelaces again.

Later, Nate’s dad dropped him off back home. “Right on time,” said Nate’s mom. 

“I’m sorry,” said Nate’s dad. “The hockey game ran long. And then the traffic––“ 

Nate sat on the bench and started picking at the laces. His dad knew how to tie them the right way, but it was also a way that was hard to get loose. 

“I know this will shock you,” said Nate’s mother to Nate’s father, “but every once in a while I might have plans too.”

“Well, he’s home now, okay?” Nate’s dad said. “You don’t have be a dick about it.” 

Nate looked at his mother to see if she was turning sleek and silver. Probably even a spaceship could tell bedtime stories, and kiss him goodnight. But if she was a dick like Nate, she might grow her own rocket wings. He would have to make sure she didn’t fly away. 

Miriam Fried’s writing has appeared in Chicago Quarterly Review, The Threepenny Review, The Republic of Letters, Vita Poetica, Scoundrel Time, Alaska Quarterly Review, Ambit, Crab Creek Review, and The Baltimore Review, among others. Her essay “Losers Keepers,” published in The Rumpus, was selected as a Longreads Editors’ Pick.

4 September 2026