Dancing in Red Shoes Will Kill You (5 page)

Paterson was quiet while Joey talked, like she was deep in thought. When he finished…she announced softly, “You just gave me an idea for my senior art project.”

Joey and I looked at each other and shrugged. “What is it?” I asked.

“You'll see,” she answered.

“Last time you said that, I ended up naked on your bed,” Joey said.

Paterson just smiled.

B
y the end of the week, thanks to Devin's big mouth, my boobs were the talk of the school. People I didn't even know were coming up to me between classes and announcing they were proud members of the new Save the Hooters Foundation. Those were the guys.

Most of the girls, however, seemed to have formed their own underground opposition movement—Reduce the Rack. They faked concern and said things like, “I heard what happened….” Then they'd quickly add, “It might be a good idea, though.”

The only girl who was violently opposed to the whole thing was Paterson, who insisted on calling it
breast amputation surgery, rather than breast reduction surgery.

 

“It's just like the fairy tale,” Paterson said, out of nowhere.

We were at the Steak 'n Shake getting dinner after Friday's rehearsal. I could tell by the tone of her voice that she was back on the subject of the surgery. Lately all roads of conversation seemed to lead directly to my chest. It fit in with her current obsession with feminism, something she had picked up over the summer when we'd gone to New York. While I was dancing, Paterson had taken a women's studies class along with her art courses at one of the universities.

Ordinarily I wouldn't mind Paterson bringing up the subject, but this time Gray was with us. She and Gray shared an art history class, as well as a sketching class, and had become friends. I wasn't sure if this was a good thing or not. Gray was younger than Paterson, and she knew I liked him, but you never could tell what might happen. I hoped maybe he'd been sucking up to Paterson to get to know me better. A little egotistical? I know. But a girl can dream.

“How is what like a fairy tale?” Gray asked.

“The breast amputation,” Paterson said. Every time she said it, a searing pain surged through my chest. “It's
like
Cinderella
,” she continued. “Remember I told you about how in the original fairy tale, the stepsisters cut off their toes so they could fit their feet into the glass slipper? It's the same thing.”

Now I was curious. “How?” I said.

Paterson waved a French fry dipped in ketchup as if it were a paintbrush. “The stepsisters were willing to cut their toes off just to marry the prince. All because of some convention that small feet were more acceptable. They were willing to amputate parts of themselves for the sake of what a bunch of ridiculous men thought was beautiful.”

I took a sip of Diet Coke. “So what does that have to do with me?”

“Your breasts are like feet,” Paterson said.

Joey raised his eyebrows. “Whoa, them's fightin' words. Is this going to end up in a catfight?” He raised his hand like a claw. “Meow!”

A catfight? No. But I wished Paterson would stop talking about my breasts. It wasn't exactly the coolest thing in the world to be sitting in a public place with a guy you've got a major crush on, talking about your boobs. It was
so
not the ideal getting-to-know-you situation.

I looked over to see what Gray's reaction to all of this was. He was pretty absorbed in what Paterson was saying, nodding in all the right places.

“Anyway,” Paterson continued. “Your breasts are like the feet, and ballet is like traditional patriarchy. Just like women were supposed to have tiny feet because of male ideals of beauty, you're supposed to have small breasts because of some stupid ballet tradition. Who even knows who started it?”

“She's right,” Gray said.

Joey and I both stared at him with our mouths open. It was kind of weird to find someone who agreed with Paterson's feminist tirades. No one at school really took her seriously. Gray Foster was definitely different. And definitely worth getting to know.

“My mom's doing some research about fairy tales, and she gave some lectures,” Gray said, a little defensively.

“Finally someone with a brain has come to Farts,” Paterson said. “What did she say?”

Gray squirmed in his seat, but continued. “The Little Mermaid—”

Joey jumped in once again. “She doesn't even have feet.”

“That's the point,” Gray said. “She doesn't, but she's willing to give up the one thing that makes her special in order to have feet so she can be with the sailor.”

“What's that?” I asked. I wasn't even faking interest. The way Gray was telling the story, I really wanted to know.

“Her voice,” he said.

“But she gets it back,” I said. “I saw the movie—the one with the crab and the fish.”

Immediately Joey started singing, “Under the sea, under the sea…” with a Jamaican accent.

Gray laughed. “That's not the original fairy tale,” he said. “In the earlier versions, she sacrifices her tongue—”

Paterson pounded the table like a judge. “Amputation, again.”

“She never gets her voice back,” Gray continued, “and at the end, the prince marries someone else and the mermaid becomes sea foam.”

“They cut off her tongue,” Joey said. He took his two fingers and pulled out his tongue, then made scissors with his other hand. “Gwoth.”

Suddenly my own tongue felt really big in my mouth.

Gray pushed his empty plate to the side and turned to me. “You know, when I lived in New York, I saw a lot of dance companies with people who had all different bodies. Maybe you could be in one of them. Or maybe you could choreograph your own ballet.”

It was quiet for a second, until Joey blurted, “
Booberella
. You could choreograph
and
star in it.”

It was kind of a mean thing to say, but you had to
know Joey and our relationship. Besides, it was funny. Once I laughed, everyone else did too.

“You'd be Booberella,” Joey went on, “and at midnight, somehow you'd lose your bra while you were running away from the ball.”

“Oh,” I said. “So then I'll have to go topless in my own ballet.”

“That part could be offstage,” he said. “Let me finish, I'm on a roll. Instead of the slipper, the prince brings the bra all over the village for all the women to try on.”

I was starting to get into it. “And the women try to stuff their bras with tissues and socks and…”

“Bed linens,” Joey said.

We were laughing so hard, people were starting to stare.

“You know,” Gray said. “It's so over the top, it could work. It would really make fun of the original fairy tale.”

“You're right,” Paterson said. “It would be like a satirical retelling, not like a cartoon or some lame movie like
Pretty Woman
.”

“I kind of liked that movie,” I said.

Paterson groaned. “Haven't you gotten any of this? The movie tells the same story. That the guy is only going to like you if some fairy godmother—in this case, the hotel manager—arrives and makes you acceptable according to some prescribed patriarchal standard. It's
not even anything you have control over.”

“Let's not forget,” Joey chimed in. “Julia Roberts did have some talent in that movie—she was a hooker. That's how she got the guy.”

“Joey, you are so hopeless,” Paterson said. She looked at her watch. “Let's get out of here before I pummel you with Kayla's leftover chicken fingers.”

As we walked out, Gray turned to me. “You ought to think about a dance company in New York,” he said. “You're good enough.”

I could tell by his voice that I didn't have to worry about there being anything between him and Paterson.

 

By the following Monday, my boobs were old news. When I got to the studio to put my dance stuff in the locker room for later, there was a crowd gathered around the door, just like the week before. It felt like déjà vu. For a second I thought maybe Timm with two
em
s had changed his mind and redone the cast list. But I knew that was too good to be true. As I got closer, I could see something red peeking between people's heads. It was a pair of pointe shoes, spray painted the color of blood. Even though it was kind of weird, I couldn't figure out why everyone was so excited about it. That is, until I got closer and read the thin strip of paper streaming out of the shoe: “Dancing in red shoes will kill you.”

A
s I read the note, which swirled from the pointe shoe like the strip of paper on a Hershey's Kiss, Joey came up behind me.

“What's up?” he said, exaggerating a Prince Charming bow. “Someone lose a slipper?”

We stared at the pointe shoes, hung by their four knotted ribbons, suspended by a single nail. The satin straps were no longer delicate and shiny, but thick with flat red paint, already cracking into puzzle pieces. The shoes had been thoroughly stained, inside and out.

“Is this a joke?” Joey said.

Lourdes was suddenly standing next to us. “If it is, it's not very funny. I'm not sure if anyone's wearing red
shoes in the ballet, but it would be pretty creepy if they were.”

“Yes, it would,” a voice from the crowd announced.

Joey and I spun around to find Melissa standing in third position, hands on her hips and her chin in the air. “The winter costume is always red and white. I might be wearing red shoes in the ballet,” she announced. “It figures.”

“What figures?” Joey asked.

The crowd that had gathered around the shoes was now focused on us.

“My mother told me to expect jealousy,” Melissa said. “After Cinderella, I have the best part in the ballet.” She turned toward Lourdes. “Don't worry, that eliminates you.” Then she glared straight at me and sneered, “But everyone else is a suspect.”

Joey grinned at her. “Who are you, Buffy the Ballerina Slayer?”

Devin, who had been quiet until then, burst out, “Hey, the stepmother's costume is red, too—I saw it on a videotape.”

“And here's her sidekick, Dork,” Joey added.

Melissa grabbed Devin's arm and marched off. “We'll get to the bottom of this. And when we do, whoever's threatening us better watch out!”

Even Lourdes, who was usually too nice to make fun
of people, laughed with Joey and me as they stalked off together.

“It's the dancing sleuths,” Joey yelled after them, “catching criminals with their powerful
pirouettes
and their amazing
arabesques
!”

The first bell rang, and everyone scattered off to homeroom as if the red shoes were just a joke. But for some reason, I had the feeling it was more than that. Even though I knew I might be late for class, I stayed for a minute, wondering who would do something like that and what could the note possibly mean? There were some strange people at Farts, but none of them seemed capable of death threats, let alone actually killing someone.

I examined the slippers for clues, rotating them several times. On the bottom of one shoe, a tiny black mark peeked out from a section of flaking paint. It looked like some kind of symbol, but I couldn't figure out what it was. I checked out the hallways on either side. No one was around, so I peeled a little more of the paint off with my fingernail until a tiny letter
E
appeared.

I twirled the other slipper and scratched like a cat on the leather sole. The back of my neck tingled as that old saying about curiosity and cats sounded in my mind. And even though I pretty much knew what I was looking for, the tingling shimmied down my spine and
performed a straddle split to the backs of my knees when I saw the second marking.

For years I had watched her painstakingly inscribe those letters on the soles of fresh pointe shoes—the meticulously drawn
M
on one and the equally self-conscious
E
printed on the other.

Melissa Edwards. What was she up to this time?

I looked around to find someone, anyone, who would recognize the initials and be a witness. But everyone had rushed off to class. I thought about bringing the shoes to the principal's office, but there was no proof that Melissa had written those letters. What did the principal know about Melissa's narcissism and her lifelong habit of marking her territory with ME, ME, ME printed in block letters? It was just my word, which might not be too reliable these days, thanks to Melissa and Ivy and their bulimia blabber.

The second bell was about to ring any minute. Ms. Powers, my European history teacher, was also my homeroom teacher. She wouldn't have understood that I was trying to catch a criminal. She was hung up on Napoleon and couldn't understand why the rest of us didn't share her passionate interest in his exploits. I'd get a lecture ten minutes long on tardiness, and somehow she'd manage to throw in a story linking Napoleon's initial success to his ability to show up on time. I had no
choice but to rush off, taking my suspicions with me.

I hoped Miss Alicia would get to the studio soon and find the shoes before word got to the main office. Maybe she would look at the soles and recognize the initials.

All morning I waited for an announcement over the loudspeaker about the shoes. What I was really hoping to hear was Melissa's name with a request to go to the principal's office. But I never heard either of those things. It was as if nothing had happened.

My mind raced with possible reasons why Melissa would do something so weird. What was up with the red shoes? And why would she announce that
she
might be wearing red shoes in the ballet? Even though I wouldn't put anything past her, death threats against herself was a little too schizo, even for Melissa. Unless…she wanted it to look like someone else was threatening her. Maybe that was what that dancing detective act was all about. But why go through all that trouble just to make it look like someone had it in for you?

I got my answer in third period.

By then everyone had heard about the shoes. And like that game Telephone, the story had become greatly exaggerated.

Third period is calculus for me. I'm not bragging, but hardly any dancers are that far in math by junior year. It has to do with the amount of time we spend at the stu
dio and that right brain, left brain thing. I just happen to be good in math. In fact, most of the people in the class are computer graphics geeks. They don't know much about the dance department, or any other department for that matter. If you're not talking web design or
Star Trek
, they're not interested.

So I was kind of surprised when Donald, the guy next to me, said, “Hey, did you hear about the psycho in the dance department?”

“What?” I said. “A psycho?” Wow, I guessed Miss Alicia had found the shoes and recognized the writing. I was relieved that Melissa had gotten caught, but I did think the word
psycho
was a little harsh. She was immature and mean, but she wasn't all killing-someone-in-the-shower kind of crazy.

Donald looked at me with wide eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “I heard it's some girl who's pissed because she got the understudy role of Cinderella. She's threatening to kill anyone with a better part. Weird, huh?”

I just stared at him. I'm pretty sure my mouth dropped open too.

I didn't have to think too hard to figure out who could have started that rumor. I couldn't believe Melissa had spread it so quickly and that people had bought into it.

“That is totally a lie!” I blurted. “A vicious lie.” Then I noticed a button he was wearing. It pictured an owl.
Where its eyes should have been, huge bare breasts stared out at me. The picture was just ambiguous enough that teachers wouldn't notice. Underneath, in small letters, it read
SAVE THE HOOTERS
.

“Where did you get that?” I demanded.

Donald put his head down. “One of my friends made it,” he mumbled.

“You want to save the hooters?” I said through my teeth. “Tell your friends to stop spreading rumors or I'll rip those buttons off every one of their plaid polyester shirts.”

Donald drew away from me. “Okay, okay.”

I knew I was risking another trip to the guidance office. This time for uncontrollable rage and anger management.

I was livid for the rest of math class. I wasn't sure if it was because of Donald's stupid button or the ridiculous rumor.

I was beginning to feel as if my breasts were public property, something for people to ponder and make decisions about, even though it was none of their business. And how dare Melissa put up those shoes and then try to pin it on me, especially when she'd gotten a better part than I did. How could she be threatened by my pitiful understudy role? What was Melissa's problem?

 

By the time advanced ballet class rolled around, the pointe shoes had been removed from the door. I inspected the inside of the studio—the rosin box, the table with Miss Alicia's music, the corner where everyone threw their sweaty towels—but the shoes were nowhere to be seen. Without them, there was no way I was going to convince anyone they belonged to Melissa.

Before
pliés
, Miss Alicia had us sit on the studio floor. We could all guess what was coming.

“As you all know, a pair of pointe shoes and a foolish note were found hanging on the door of the studio this morning.” She stood with her right foot in a
tendu
and her hands on her hips. “I'm sure no one in here would do such a thing….”

I stared at Melissa's reflection in the mirror to see if I could detect a trace of guilt. Not one iota. She was either a total sociopath, a great actress, or—and this one was hard to believe—an innocent bystander. She stared at Miss Alicia with the same earnestness as everyone else, the same wide-eyed look that Lourdes wore, as if she were asking who would want to hurt a fellow dancer.

I wasn't fooled by her. Nevertheless, I scanned the rest of the class for suspects. Only the faces of Devin and Ivy deviated from the uniform look of apprehension and boredom. Devin was flexing his calf muscle and
measuring the bulge with his fingers, and Ivy appeared to be staring at Miss Alicia's eyebrows. Right then I deemed both of them innocent by reason of inanity.

Miss Alicia continued. “We have all worked very hard this year, and
Cinderella
will be the culmination of our hard work. I'm sure no one wants to ruin this ballet with pranks and tomfoolery.”

Joey leaned toward me. “Pranks and Tomfoolery, sounds like a comedy team.”

I tried to smile, but all I kept thinking about was seeing those black initials underneath that veneer of red paint.

Miss Alicia continued, ignoring the apathy of her audience. “I'm sure that whoever placed those shoes on the door meant it to be humorous, but I would hope that it doesn't happen again.”

Joey leaned in again. “Humorous death threats. Now there's a concept.”

This time I whispered back. “Yeah. If you're Hannibal Lecter.”

Joey mimicked that creepy slurp Anthony Hopkins did in the movie and whispered, “‘I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.'”

Miss Alicia glared at him. “I've heard rumors that some of you believe that you will be wearing red shoes in the ballet.”

Melissa and Devin turned to each other and nodded vigorously.

“Let me say that at this point, it is uncertain as to who will be wearing what, so your speculations are unfounded.”

Devin raised his hand. “There's a videotape at Blockbuster that shows the whole ballet and what everyone's wearing.”

“I'm sure there is,” Miss Alicia said. “But that doesn't mean we'll be wearing the same costumes.”

Melissa raised her hand. “Didn't Ballet on the Beach do
Cinderella
a couple of years ago? If anyone saw that, they'd know what the costumes look like. Timm said we'd be using the same ones.”

“You may be right, Melissa, but we're all friends here and I expect that we will all support each other in this ballet.”

Had it been so long that Miss Alicia had forgotten the rivalries that developed when parts were at stake? Did she really buy that “everything is beautiful at the ballet” stuff? Even the people in
A Chorus Line
who sang those words didn't believe them.

I continued to scour the dancers in the studio for any nuance of guilt during barre exercises as well as during leaps across the floor.

Joey was behind me as I waited for my turn to
grand jeté
. I paused for a second before taking off. “I have
something to tell you,” I whispered. I began the run before my leap.

After his foot gently landed on the wooden floor behind me, Joey whispered, “What?”

Miss Alicia clapped several times. “Let's go. Let's go. We have a lot to do today.”

“Tell you later,” I whispered as I approached the front of the line again and began my second dash across the floor.

For the rest of class, I watched Melissa's face for clues as she performed the standard center work. Her chin, raised above her long, thin neck, was tilted slightly higher than normal ballet posture. More arrogant than elegant. Her tight bun was stuck to the back of her head like a doorknob. I wanted to pull on it and find out what was inside that twisted little mind of hers.

I had to find out if anyone had noticed the initials on the bottoms of the shoes. I rehearsed what I was going to say to Miss Alicia while I watched the other groups perform the combination of
pirouettes
and
pas de chats
. When we finally finished, I pretended the ribbons on my pointe shoe were tangled in a knot so I'd be the last one in the room.

“Miss Alicia,” I said. “I was wondering, umm, what happened to the shoes that were hanging on the door this morning?”

She was struggling to fit a CD into a plastic sleeve. “I'm not sure,” she said. “Someone from the main office came and got them. I think they might have been turned over to Ms. Marone, the guidance counselor. Why do you ask?”

For a minute I thought about telling her what I suspected. But then I realized it wouldn't prove anything. Melissa could say the shoes were stolen from her. She could even say
I
stole them from her. I envisioned myself looking more guilty than Melissa was already trying to make me appear.