Dancing in Red Shoes Will Kill You

by Dorian Cirrone

  “Well,” Joey said, glaring at Melissa, “if that isn’t the anorexic calling the ballerina bulimic? You’re even more of a bitch than I thought.”

  Paterson chimed in. “And it’s too bad your little plan didn’t work. Today Kayla danced better than you’ll ever dance—even in your dreams.”

  Melissa gasped. “I can’t believe you’d think I had some kind of plan. I was only trying to help. I was really concerned about you,” she said, turning toward me. “I guess you just don’t appreciate it.”

  I looked her straight in the eyes. “Excuse me while I go barf.”

  She did half a pirouette and marched off.

  Gray shrugged. “That was weird, huh?”

  “You don’t even know,” I said.

  “I hate to break up the party, but I’ve got work to do,” Paterson said. “Are you guys ready?”

  “Uh, sure.” I was so anxious about the results of the audition, I didn’t care that I had missed a great opportunity to hang out with Gray. All I could think about was seeing my name on the list the next morning.

  Chapter 4

  I got to the kitchen just in time to watch Paterson pour Froot Loops and milk into a bowl. “Pleeease,” I said. “Can’t you have a granola bar in the car, just this once?” She doesn’t even like Froot Loops. She just finds them more aesthetically pleasing than other breakfast foods.

  Mom looked up from the newspaper. “What’s the hurry?”

  I threw my backpack onto an empty chair. “Doesn’t anyone in this family care about what part I get?”

  Paterson shoveled a spoonful of pink and orange Os into her mouth. “You’re not going to get a better part if we get there quicker. It’s already been determined, like the tides.”

  “The tides,” I yelled. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know,” my mother said, “the tides are controlled by the moon.”

  Normally I liked my mother’s hands-off policy when it came to stage mothering, but this was too much. “Why are the two of you talking about moons and tides when my whole future is hanging in the balance here?”

  “Sweetie, it’s not your whole future,” my mother said. “It only seems like it now. I’m sure you’ll get a great part, anyway. You deserve it.”

  “You certainly do,” my father joined in from the hall. “You’ve paid your dues. That ought to account for something.” My dad was big on the idea that certain behaviors yielded certain results. Do something good, get something good in return. It was a philosophy that didn’t always work in the dance world, but in the dad world it was sometimes comforting.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Now please, can we go to school?”

  Paterson swallowed her last mouthful and put the bowl in the sink. As she grabbed the sponge, Mom took it from her. “Go,” she said, “before your sister explodes.” Then she turned to me. “You can tell us all about it tonight. We’ll celebrate over dinner.”

  I got my stuff and followed Paterson out the door. “I hope there’ll be something to celebrate.”

  A huge crowd had already formed around the small piece of paper tacked up on the door of the dance studio. Those closest to the list let out noises that alternated between groans and squeals of delight. Behind them another group stood on their toes and jumped up and down to read the list over everyone else’s heads. I joined the jumpers but couldn’t see a thing—the writing was way too small.

  After my third jump, Lourdes squeezed her way out of the crowd. A few of the freshman dancers trailed behind her shouting, “Congratulations!”

  I turned and smiled at her. “Cinderella?” I said, feeling a pang of disappointment.

  She smiled.

  “If it couldn’t be me, you’d be my next choice,” I said. I really meant it too.

  “Thanks,” Lourdes said, “I’m glad you feel that way because…you’re my understudy,” she screamed. “We’ll be working together to learn the part.”

  “Oh my God!” I threw my arms around Lourdes and hugged her. “That’s so cool.”

  “Hey, what’s with the girl-on-girl action?” The voice behind us was unmistakably Joey’s.

  Lourdes quickly broke away from me and performed a deep curtsey toward him. “My prince has come,” she said.

  Joey, who’s normally cool about these things, jumped up and grabbed both of us. “Yes!” he yelled.

  “Did you see what my real part is?” I shouted to Lourdes over the noise. I figured if I was Cinderella’s understudy, I was sure to get one of the four solo parts—Summer, Winter, Spring, or Fall.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “After I saw who got Cinderella and the prince, I pushed my way out of there. I was getting squished. I guess you’ll have to go in.” She pointed to the blob of dancers still gathered around the list.

  All I could see were the backs of everyone’s heads. I inched forward, my heart pounding. People began to spread out as I made my way toward the front. Understudy for Cinderella was definitely up there on the ballet food chain. I couldn’t wait to find out my real part. Finally I could see over the few heads in front of me. There it was—my name in parentheses next to where it said “Cinderella: Lourdes Castillo.” My eyes trailed down the list looking for another sighting of my name. Winter, no—that one went to Melissa. Summer, no—that one was Ivy. Well, there were always Spring and Fall. But my name wasn’t next to those, either. I continued down the list. I couldn’t help but snicker when I saw Devin was playing the stepmother. Immediately after that, like instant karma or something, I saw my own name. It was next to the word stepsister, which suddenly seemed like the most disgusting word in the entire English language. Stepsister. How could I be a stepsister? I was Cinderella’s understudy. If I was good enough for that, why wasn’t I good enough for a solo? It didn’t make sense.

  I was still trying to comprehend it all when the first bell rang. As the crowd thinned out, a voice chimed, “Congratulations on the understudy role.” It was Ivy, and she was standing next to Melissa.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled. “You guys, too.”

  “You know Lourdes has never missed a class,” Melissa said. “She hasn’t been sick in three years.”

  “Maybe I should have been your understudy,” I shot back. “You’re starting to look a little sick.”

  Melissa smiled her famous fake smile. “Maybe you’ll luck out and Lourdes will break her ankle.”

  I glared at her, then spun around and started toward homeroom. This time I really did want to barf, not because of Melissa’s nastiness, but because of my own. A part of me did want Lourdes to get just a little bit sick. What was the point in learning the part of Cinderella if all I was going to do in the whole ballet was some caricature part? Not only that—I wasn’t just a stepsister, I was an ugly stepsister.

  I went through most of the morning trying to concentrate on things like variables and the scientific revolution, but all I could think about was the ballet. I kept picturing myself in red lipstick, painted up to my nostrils, camping it up next to Devin and some poor freshman who got to be the other ugly stepsister. It wasn’t so bad, though, when you were a freshman. It was actually a big deal to get any part besides dancing in the corps. But as a junior, and as one of the best dancers in the advanced class, it was something else entirely. It was something…incomprehensible.

  I was still in a daze when my name blared from the PA system once again in fifth period. I was ready to stand up and scream, “I am not bulimic!” when I realized I wasn’t being sent to Ms. Marone again. This time it was Miss Alicia who wanted to see me.

  For a second time, I packed up my books and left English lit before it was over. Ms. Halstrom gave me a funny smile and waved. By now she probably had a whole novel about me written in her head: A seemingly innocent ballerina with large breasts has a secret life in a bizarre underworld of danger and deceit. Maybe it wasn’t that far from the truth—especially with my newfound resentment against people I actually liked.

  I wasn’t sure why Miss Alicia would
call me out of class. Either she had talked to Ms. Marone and was volunteering to help me with my supposed bulimia, or it was about the ballet. I hoped it was the latter. I hoped she was going to tell me it was all a mistake, that some typist had screwed up and put my name in the wrong spot.

  Miss Alicia was blocking out some steps to a waltz when I approached the studio. She waved me in and positioned two chairs toward each other. “Sit down,” she said. “I wanted to talk about something before class.”

  Before she could say another word, I blurted out, “I’m not bulimic, if that’s what this is about.”

  Miss Alicia wrinkled her brow. “No, why would I think you’re bulimic?”

  “No reason,” I answered quickly. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

  She rested her ankle on the opposite knee and pointed her toe. “It’s about the ballet. I’m sure you were wondering about your part?”

  “Umm, no…uh…well, maybe.” I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say. I didn’t want to seem like I was questioning her judgment about the part or about what I was feeling.

  “You have a right to wonder,” she said.

  My arms, which had been crossed tightly over my chest, dropped to the seat of the chair. “I do?”

  Miss Alicia held onto the arch of her foot. “Of course. You know you deserved a better part, but you also know it wasn’t my decision.”

  She had told us earlier that Timm with two ems would have the last word. Suddenly I wanted to rip one of those ems off his name and strangle him with it.

  “Timm agreed with me that you were a beautiful dancer, perhaps the strongest female in the class when it comes to technique.”

  Maybe I’d let Timm keep his other em after all.

  “But he did have some concerns.” Miss Alicia pulled her foot closer to her. “He was concerned about your…uh, your…proportions.”

  My mouth dropped open. “My proportions?”

  “Yes, he feels that they’re a…how did he put it? A distraction.”

  “A distraction?” I knew I sounded like an echo, but I couldn’t think of any other reply at first. I was sick of talking in euphemisms. Finally I blurted it out. “You mean I got this crummy stepsister role because of my boobs?”

  Miss Alicia didn’t even bother with her “no small parts” speech. She lowered her eyes. “Timm says that he can’t choreograph for breasts the size of yours. In his words, ‘It’s like they have a mind of their own.’”

  My teeth clenched. At least it wasn’t because of my dancing. But it was almost worse. I could improve my dancing. What could I do with my breasts? Timm had said it all. No amount of training would get them moving with the music.

  Miss Alicia continued. “I tried to reason with him and explain how you’ve been such a wonderful student all these years and how you deserve a moment to shine. That’s when he agreed you could be Cinderella’s understudy.”

  “But Lourdes has never even missed a class, let alone a performance,” I said, realizing I sounded resentful of her good health.

  Miss Alicia looked down. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

  Suddenly the studio didn’t seem so comforting anymore. The smell of rosin and old ballet shoes was making me queasy. “I guess you did the best you could.” I started to leave.

  Miss Alicia reached for my arm. “There’s something else I’d like to talk to you about.”

  I wondered what was left to say. Anything short of a plot to bump off Timm wasn’t going to change my mood.

  “You know,” Miss Alicia continued, “if you want to be a ballerina, you’re going to run into a lot of Timms.”

  I imagined a row of cardboard guys with thinning hair—and me with a rubber dart gun, shooting them all down. “What do you mean?” I said.

  “The ballet world is a tough one. In order to compete, it’s not enough just to be good. You’ve got to look the part.”

  I was getting angry. “Well, I guess we’ve already established that I don’t.”

  Miss Alicia looked down at her foot. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to belabor the point. What I’m trying to say is: Have you ever thought of surgery?”

  “Surgery?” I wondered how long I could go, just repeating the last word of everyone else’s sentences.

  “Yes,” Miss Alicia said. “Breast reduction surgery.”

  I could feel a lump rising in my throat, and my breasts began to feel even bigger than they usually did. “But I wear three bras to class, isn’t that enough?”

  Miss Alicia ignored my question. “The surgery is very safe. I know someone who’s had it for medical reasons—back problems. If you decide you want to look into it, I could get you the doctor’s name.”

  I thanked Miss Alicia for the information and told her I needed to get ready for class.

  “Think about it,” she said as I walked toward the dressing room. My eyes burned. But I was too angry to cry. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know my boobs were big. Or that surgery like that existed. But I was only sixteen. Wasn’t that something you did when you were older—after you’d nursed a couple of babies and your boobs were down to your knees?

  I rushed out of the dressing room after class and headed toward the art room. I didn’t want to hear any more stupid congratulations on getting the understudy role. By now everyone had to know it was a pity part—my real part was one usually played by a man with oversized feet, hamming it up in drag.

  “Hey, wait up,” Joey yelled. He was the only one I’d stop for. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I answered bitterly. “Nothing a little breast surgery couldn’t cure.”

  “What?” came a voice from behind me.

  Just what I needed—a dose of Devin, my new “mother.”

  “Hey, everyone,” he yelled. “Kayla’s going to have her rack whacked.” He turned to me. “Say it isn’t so. I won’t have anything to look at during grands jetés anymore.”

  I squeezed my bio book to my chest and felt my face flush. Joey grabbed my elbow and we bolted down the hall together. “Go try on your tutu!” he yelled back at Devin.

  “That was kind of lame,” I whispered.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I know, but I figured I had to defend your honor.”

  I looked down at my chest. “It’s not my honor that’s in jeopardy.”

  “I can’t believe she even suggested it to you,” Paterson said. She stopped work on her sketch of Lourdes. “What nerve!”

  “I don’t think it was her fault,” I said. “I think she was just telling me like it is.”

  “But…man,” Joey said. “That’s cold. It’s like telling a guy he’s got to have his uh…you know, hacked off before he can put on a pair of tights.” He shimmied. “It gives me the creeps just thinking about it.”

  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.

  Chapter 5

  By 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.