Dancing in Red Shoes Will Kill You

by Dorian Cirrone

  “What did he say?” Gray asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “But I’d love to go to your mom’s reading. What kind of poetry does she write?”

  It was difficult to pay attention to the answer with Paterson falling all over Joey, whispering, “I love poetry. I’ve read The Cat in the Hat at least ten times….”

  I thought I heard Gray say something about mythology, but I wasn’t sure. Paterson was whispering something about Dr. Seuss’s use of metaphor in There’s a Wocket in my Pocket.

  I finally decided there was no way I was going to have an intelligent conversation while Joey and Paterson were performing their little skit. I told Gray we’d talk more in school on Monday and hung up.

  I grabbed a handful of popcorn. “Thanks a lot, you guys.”

  Then I threw the popcorn up in the air and began waving my arms and skipping around, screaming, “I’ve got a date! I’ve got a date!”

  Joey flopped onto the couch. “This is so pathetic,” he said. “We’re at our sexual peak and when one of us finally gets a date, it’s popcorn-throwing time.”

  Paterson shoved him. “We don’t need dates. We have art.”

  “Art?” Joey said. “Sounds like a short fat guy with a receding hairline.”

  “You can afford to make jokes,” Paterson said. “But I’ve got a project to work on. Etch A Sketch wants to see the preliminary drawings this week.” Her words trailed off as she headed toward her room.

  I turned to Joey. “So where were you this morning?”

  He shrugged. “Nowhere.”

  “Do you want to help me plan for my date?”

  Joey laughed. “Not really.”

  “Well then, do you want some lunch?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve got some homework to do. I think I’ll take off.”

  “Since when do you do homework?” I yelled as he was walking out the door.

  I thought it was strange that he didn’t stay for lunch. And that he was going home to do work—especially since he had a severe case of senioritis. But it didn’t matter. I had a date with Gray Foster!

  Chapter 8

  By the time Paterson and I got to Farts on Monday, the whole school was in an uproar. Three more pairs of red pointe shoes had popped up. This time with no notes. Still, everyone knew what they meant. A line like “Dancing in red shoes will kill you” isn’t something you’re likely to forget. And somehow, without the written threat it was even creepier, sort of like the scary music they play in horror movies when someone’s walking down a dark hallway.

  When the first pair of shoes appeared, the administration had tried a hands-off policy, chalking it up to a one-time only prank. After a day or two, even the rumors about the rivalries in the dance department—the false ones that Melissa started—eventually died down. But this time the administration couldn’t ignore it. The shoes had been posted in other departments—outside the art studio, on the door of the orchestra room, and in the hall between the drama department and the auditorium. Even though they were removed immediately, word of their appearance flew like sweat during a double pirouette.

  It was obvious that those in charge of the school had no idea how to handle the whole thing. Throughout the week they tried various tactics. Every afternoon Principal Kovac got on the loudspeaker and announced that he was not a principal who fooled around. This always brought on loud snickering throughout each class. It was widely rumored that Mr. Kovac and the tenth-grade guidance counselor, Ms. Strickland, did, indeed, fool around, although no one could quite figure out why. She was in her thirties and fairly attractive. He was about twenty years older, short, balding, duck footed, and married. The only thing he seemed to have going for him was that he could do whatever he wanted around the school, including make lame announcements every afternoon. Even some of the teachers had to stifle a laugh when he’d make one of his grand pronouncements about how he was going to “get to the bottom of these sinister shoes that threatened to stomp all over the good name of Florida Arts High.”

  After a couple of days, a new No Backpack rule was put into effect. Everyone had to bring their stuff in clear plastic bags so teachers could see if anyone was carrying a weapon—or another pair of lethal red pointe shoes. That was especially fun for me, trying to wrap my leotard and tights around my two giant extra bras so no one would see. After two days of torn plastic bags and builtin excuses as to why no one had their books in school, the No Backpack rule was rescinded.

  Because of the obvious connection, suspicion focused mainly on the dance department. The school police officer had started spending a lot of time watching ballet classes and rehearsals. He was a young guy, and even though he always wore a stern expression, I was pretty sure it wasn’t exactly a hardship for him to patrol a bunch of girls in leotards and tights. Sometimes he’d sit in the auditorium and watch from the audience. Other times he’d swagger backstage as if he were in charge of everything.

  “Who does he think he is?” Joey said one afternoon. “Balanchine?”

  Other than Joey’s sarcasm, things were pretty boring until that Friday—when the costumes came in.

  We all crowded around the six huge boxes on the stage. It was always a big event to see what the costumes for a new ballet would look like. Even more so now, given the circumstances. I sat between Joey and Lourdes as Miss Alicia ripped the tape off the first box. I had an uneasy feeling in my stomach, remembering what Devin and Melissa had said a while ago about being the only ones who could possibly wear red shoes. I was afraid if Melissa was right, the rumors might start all over again. And this time we had Officer Ballanchine just waiting to be a hero.

  I held my breath as Miss Alicia pulled out the first costume—a long pink skirt attached to a satin camisole top. A collective “Ohhhhhhh” floated across the stage.

  Miss Alicia pulled out about fifteen more of the same costume from the box as the guys mimicked us in high-pitched voices. The girls in the corps came up one at a time and held the costumes in front of themselves. I was relieved I didn’t have to fit my boobs into one of those flimsy tops.

  Next came the soloists. Ivy’s costume was a pale yellow tutu with white sequins on the top. Melissa’s was all white with silver sequins. I couldn’t see red shoes going with either of those costumes. Or any of the others in that box. Or the next two boxes.

  By the time we got to box number four, Joey, Devin, Lourdes, and I were practically on top of Miss Alicia. Joey’s costume was first—thick gray tights, a white satin shirt, and a navy vest with gold trim.

  He held the shirt up to his chest.

  “Very princely,” I said.

  Devin took his head out of the box. “Don’t you mean queenly?”

  “Is that any way for a stepmother to talk?” Joey said as he folded the shirt back up.

  Devin’s face got red. “Don’t you have a ‘We’re queer, we’re here, get used to it’ rally to go to?”

  Joey grinned. Whenever Devin resorted to gay insults, it was clear he was feeling threatened. “Don’t you have an ‘I’m straight, I’m great, I’m a loser’ rally to go to?”

  By then everyone was laughing hysterically, Miss Alicia was clapping like mad to get our attention, and Officer B. had made his way from the wings to break up what he seemed to think was the beginning of a brawl, rather than the usual banter between Joey and Devin.

  When things finally calmed down, Miss Alicia pulled out Cinderella’s two costumes. The first was a long gray skirt with an apron and a white peasant blouse. I figured I could fit into that in the off chance that I’d have to step in for Lourdes. But when Cinderella’s ball costume was revealed, I knew my understudy career was over. The flowing gold skirt was fine. But the minuscule top with the gold sequins looked like it would have fit a Barbie doll—a real one, not a life-size doll that would, by the way, have boobs almost as big as mine if it were blown up proportionately. Neither real-life Barbie nor I would ever fit into that costume. If anything were to happen to Lourdes at the last minute
, I’d need about three extra yards of fabric to insert in the side seams. At that moment I prayed Lourdes would remain healthy throughout the performances.

  The last three costumes were for the stepmother and ugly stepsisters—Devin, me, and a freshman named Karen. All three looked like old-fashioned dresses with pinafores and petticoats. Devin took the dress and folded it quickly. I almost felt sorry for him.

  Miss Alicia dragged one of the boxes to the side of the stage. Officer B. took another one. “At least he’s good for something,” Joey whispered.

  “Now I want you all to put these costumes in a safe place before we rehearse,” Miss Alicia said. “Then when you get home, hang them up to get the wrinkles out. You’re all in charge of your own costumes, so take good care of them.”

  Melissa, who had been strangely quiet during the whole thing, raised her hand. “What about our shoes?” she said, her eyes darting toward mine.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Miss Alicia said, gesturing toward the wings. “There’s a smaller box over there.”

  Upon the mention of shoes, Officer B. was hot on the trail. He retrieved the box, plopped it in front of Miss Alicia, and stood over it like a sentinel.

  Several pairs of pink shoes with names written in marker on the plastic wrapping were distributed first. Then a few pairs of white. I was relieved to see Melissa’s name on one of those. A few pairs of black. Then…

  All I heard was a collective gasp. Miss Alicia had pulled out three pairs of red pointe shoes. She turned the first pair to read the marking on the plastic and called out Karen’s name. I knew mine and Devin’s names would be next.

  Before Miss Alicia got a chance to hand any of us our shoes, Officer B. was suddenly beside me. “I’d like a word with you three,” he said in a voice that seemed several octaves lower than it should have been. “And you too, Miss Alicia.”

  I almost laughed, hearing a big guy like him call her Miss Alicia.

  He turned toward her. “Where did this box come from?”

  Miss Alicia gestured toward some markings on the cardboard. “From Ballet on the Beach. Timm arranged for the costumes and shoes.”

  Officer B. folded his arms over his chest. “What about the vee-hicle they were transported in?”

  Miss Alicia tucked a loose bobby pin back into her bun. “I brought them over myself.”

  “Did anyone have prior knowledge as to the color of these ballet slippers?”

  Miss Alicia sighed. “I suppose anyone who has ever seen a catalog of costumes suggested for the ballet would know.”

  Officer B. faced the rest of the dancers who were still on the floor, flexing and stretching. “Has anyone here ever seen a catalog of costumes for Cinderella?”

  A few people looked up from their exercises. No one raised a hand. I wanted to tell him it was highly unlikely that the perpetrator would admit to seeing a catalog. Geez. Didn’t he watch cop shows?

  Miss Alicia turned toward him. “May I start my class now?”

  Officer B. nodded. “I’d like to speak to these three privately.”

  “That’s fine,” she said, “but please don’t keep them long. They need to warm up.”

  Officer B. led us down the stage steps and into the audience seats. He had us sit in the first row while he struck an official-looking stance, his legs apart and feet turned out. He was doing a great second position, but I didn’t think he would appreciate the ballet critique.

  He looked at me first. Well, actually, he looked at my boobs first, then up at my eyes. “Do you have any enemies?” he said.

  I thought for a minute, wondering if Melissa was worth mentioning. It was true that her initials were on that first pair of pointe shoes and she had tried to get me out of the way with that phony bulimia thing, but…when it came right down to it, I didn’t think I could accuse her of anything like murder threats without more proof. I shook my head no.

  Officer B turned to Karen and asked her the same question.

  She shook her whole body no, as if she was shivering. I was pretty sure Karen was like most of the dancers at Farts. Her only real enemy was a jumbo-sized bag of peanut M&M’s.

  Officer B. then turned to Devin. “How about you?”

  Devin hesitated for a few seconds. “N—n—no.”

  “What about that guy up there—weren’t you two fighting earlier?”

  Before Devin answered, he looked toward me. I shot him a glance that told him he better say no. For a second I thought Officer B. had seen it. But he was looking at my boobs again.

  Devin shook his head.

  Officer B. leaned toward us. “I just want you to know that I’ll be watching out for you three. If you ever think anyone’s following you or if you think your life is in danger, come to me first.”

  “Okay,” we all said in unison.

  As we climbed the stairs to the stage, I felt bad for making fun of him. He was just trying to do his job. I guess he felt he had to play a role, just like we did when we were dancing. But did he have to play the role with such a deep voice?

  After we rehearsed the ball scene from the ballet, Miss Alicia dismissed us and told a few people that Timm with two ems would be rehearsing with them over the weekend to work on choreographing their parts. She didn’t say anything about the shoes.

  “So what did you say?”

  “I told him, no, I didn’t think I had any enemies.” Joey and I passed by one of the places where a pair of red pointe shoes had been hanging earlier in the week. We looked at the empty spot without saying a word.

  Joey seemed like he was getting ready to say something else, but as we got closer to the art room we could hear Paterson’s voice ranting in a way I’d never heard.

  When we opened the double doors of the room, Paterson was waving her arms and yelling, “How dare they tell us what is art and what isn’t!”

  I was just about to ask Paterson what the deal was when I spotted Gray, sitting on a nearby stool. My knees went into an involuntary plié as he turned to me, smiled, and then went back to nodding in agreement with Paterson.

  Before she could start up again, Joey yelled out, “Whoa. What’s going on?”

  Paterson spun toward us so fast I could hear her newly magenta hair slap against her face. “What’s going on,” she said, “is that my senior art project proposal has been rejected by Principal Kovac and his administration of obedient puppets.”

  I dropped my backpack on the floor. “That’s crazy. Why?”

  “They think it’s obscene,” Paterson said. “I’ll tell them what’s obscene. Censorship. That’s obscene.”

  I gave Gray a quick smile and turned back toward Paterson. “What do they mean by obscene? What does your art project look like anyway?”

  “Yeah,” Joey said. “You’ve been keeping this thing a secret. What’s up?”

  “Follow me,” Paterson said. She walked to a corner of the room where a drop cloth covered an easel holding a huge canvas. She held the edge of the paint-splattered fabric delicately before the unveiling. “It’s called ‘Tales of Missing Pieces.’ I don’t care if you don’t like it; just tell me it’s not obscene.”

  She jerked her arm over her head and raised the cloth like a curtain on opening night. It whooshed upward and then dropped behind the easel.

  Joey and I gasped. Gray, who wasn’t surprised at all, had apparently already seen it before we got there.

  At the top left corner was a sketch of Lourdes with no foot, except it didn’t really look like Lourdes anymore. To the right was a picture of what used to look like me, but without breasts. At the bottom left was a sketch of a girl’s face with an open mouth and no tongue. And to the right of that was a foot with some toes missing. But the real shocker was in the middle. It was definitely Joey, but Paterson had changed his face. He was totally naked—and circumcised.

  “Hey,” Joey said, staring at the sketch, “I look…uh, I mean, that guy looks good.”

  “So, is it obscene?” Paterson said.

  I hesi
tated. I wanted to make sure I gave the right answer. It was so weird, I wasn’t really sure what the whole thing meant. “Well…”

  Paterson interrupted. “First, you should know that it’s ‘T-a-l-e-s,’ and not ‘T-a-i-l-s’ of Missing Pieces,’ which apparently someone in the administration thought it was. And, second, you should know that it has to do with what we all talked about that day at the Steak ’n Shake when Miss Alicia told Kayla she needed surgery.”

  Joey and I looked at each other. All I could remember from that day was feeling really uncomfortable talking about my breasts in front of Gray. And it was happening again.

  “You remember,” Gray said, “about the fairy tales.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said, “something about Cinderella and The Little Mermaid, right?” I looked at the pictures. “I get it. In this picture the girl has no toes, and in this one the girl has no tongue, like the fairy tales. And then this one is like the story The Red Shoes.” I avoided the picture of the girl without breasts. I knew that one was no fairy tale and I wasn’t going to bring the whole thing up again.

  Joey pointed to the middle picture. “But this guy still has a dick,” he said, then added in a whisper, “Thank God.”

  “Yes,” Paterson said, “This guy still has a penis because men aren’t raised on tales about giving up body parts to achieve their dreams, even though, according to Freud, it’s supposedly their biggest fear.”

  “The old castration complex,” Joey said.

  Gray nodded in agreement.

  “So what are you going to do about your project?” I asked. “Can you do another one?”

  Paterson walked to where Gray was sitting next to a horse sculpture. “You mean something acceptable and noncontroversial like this horse here.” Then she walked toward a painting of a rain forest. “Or maybe these trees. Look at this, how could anyone paint a picture of a rain forest without irony, without the political implications? Art is supposed to make you think.”

  Gray moved away from the horse. “I totally agree. Why does anything that challenges the status quo have to be seen as threatening?”