After being buzzed in, we stood for a while in an empty hallway, wondering what to do. Finally a young woman who introduced herself as Sasha arrived. “You must be Paterson,” she said, staring at Paterson’s pink hair. “Too bad it’s radio and not TV—that would look great on camera.” She spoke in a breathy, husky voice.
Paterson put her hand up to her head. “Umm, thanks.” She seemed a little nervous.
Sasha opened a door off the hallway. “You can wait in here until it’s time to go on. I’ll tell Hal you’re here.”
We stepped into a small room with two round tables and several chairs. Except for one man sitting alone at a table reading, the room was empty. It was deathly quiet, except for the low voices of the radio program being piped in.
I felt as if we were in a church or a library. “Do you still want to do this?” my father whispered to Paterson.
Paterson nodded.
The reading man looked up, and my mother took the opportunity to say hello. Ever the third-grade teacher, she was always trying to make sure no one felt left out. He nodded and returned to his book, but not before taking a good long look at my boobs.
Hal usually featured several guests with opposing viewpoints to stir up controversy. I was wondering whose side this guy was on when suddenly the door flew open. A man built like Humpty Dumpty shouted, “Are you ready to raise some Hal?”
I recognized the phrase from the few times I’d heard his show in the car, while surfing stations. My father extended his hand and began, “It’s nice to meet…”
Hal ignored him and walked toward me. He looked at my boobs, then at Paterson. “Who’s she?” he said.
Paterson stood. “My sister.”
“Does she go to the same school?”
“Yes,” Paterson said.
“Then bring her on in. She can help us raise some Hal.” His voice got louder on the “raise some Hal” part. I wondered if he ever got tired of saying that.
I looked at my parents to see how they felt about me joining Paterson. “Go on,” my mother said. “It’s fine.” I think they felt better knowing Paterson would have some company. As I got up and followed Paterson to the door, Hal yelled out, “Hey, Reverend, let’s go, the commercial break is almost over.”
The other man closed his book, which turned out to be a Bible, and followed us out the door. We walked down another hallway, past some small rooms with large glass windows. I knew I wasn’t one to talk, but as I watched Hal waddling in front of us, I couldn’t help but think he really had a body made for radio.
When we entered one of the rooms, Hal sat at a control panel. Paterson and I sat near one microphone and the reverend sat at the other. He seemed to want to get as far away from us as possible, as if we had some catchy disease.
Hal put some headphones on top of his balding head and looked for a signal from Sasha, who was in a small booth next to us. She made one-two-three motions with her fingers and then one sweeping move, as if she were letting the trumpet section know it was its turn to play. But instead of music, we heard Hal in his booming voice utter his famous phrase yet again. “Are you ready to…” I noticed the reverend flinched every time he heard it.
Hal continued talking at lightning speed, characteristically raising his voice at the end of every phrase. “We’re here with Paterson Callaway, a senior at Florida Arts High School who recently raised some Hal of her own when she unveiled her senior art project—a male nude surrounded by women.” He accented the round in surrounded. “And we also have our favorite Bible-thumper, the Reverend Ronald Williams. So, Paterson, tell us about this project. I’m all for displaying the human body, I’m a regular at the nude beach myself, but what were you thinking?”
I tried to get the picture of Hal at a nude beach out of my mind as I listened to Paterson’s response. “It isn’t really about the nudity as much as it’s about—”
Hal chimed. “What do you think of that, Reverend? It’s not about the nudity.”
The reverend grabbed the mike and brought it toward his mouth. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, we’ve got to bring prayer back into the schools. We’ve got to stop the drugs, the violence, and the fornication. We need—”
Hal broke in. “So what do you say to that, Paterson Callaway. Are you a fornicator?”
I wondered what happened to the questions about the First Amendment and censorship that Sasha had mentioned in the initial phone call. Paterson’s mouth dropped open. She leaned toward the mike but couldn’t speak at first. “N—n—no, my project has nothing to do with drugs or violence or…fornication. It has to do with how women are taught that—”
“Hey,” Hal interrupted, “I’m noticing the reverend can’t take his eyes off your sister’s knockers.” He looked at me. “What’s your name, hon?”
“K—k—ayla,” I whispered.
“I should say here that Kayla is Paterson’s sister who is also a student at Florida Arts High and she’s got some rack. What size are those things?”
I looked at Paterson, not sure how to answer. Before I could, she leaned toward the mike and said, “Getting back to my project…”
Hal broke in with, “And now I’d like to tell you a little about Dry Solutions Carpet Cleaning….” He presseda button and motioned to Sasha in the booth, then took his headphones off and turned toward us. “So what do you think? Wouldn’t you like an exciting career in radio?”
Before we could answer, a tall man with shoulder-length hair stepped into the studio. Hal introduced him as Mark Somebody from the ACLU. I remembered Gray mentioned his father doing work for them. I heaved a sigh of relief that we’d have someone on our side.
Hal put his headphones back on and waited for Sasha’s signal. “We’re here with the Reverend Ronald Williams and high school student Paterson Callaway. They’re duking it out over her controversial art project which prominently features the male organ. And I’m not talking about the one in the reverend’s church, either. Joining us now is ACLU lawyer Mark Fuller. Mark, what do you think about penises displayed all over high school?”
Mark, who was sitting next to the reverend, leaned close to the mike so their faces were only inches from each other. “Hal, you know the ACLU’s position on the First Amendment. We support the right to free speech, especially when it comes to art, even if it means a hundred penises.”
Mark was no help at all. I could tell Paterson was getting frustrated. She grabbed the microphone in front of us and started talking really fast. “My project isn’t about penises. It’s about women and how they’re taught that they’ve got to give up parts of themselves to be happy. My sister’s a perfect example. She’s a beautiful dancer, but if she wants to be a ballerina, she has to…”
I glared at Paterson. I couldn’t believe she was bringing my boobs into the whole thing. Thankfully, Hal broke in once again. For a minute I thought it was a good thing that I wouldn’t have to talk about my boobs in front of a radio audience, but then things took a turn, a double turn, for the worse. “A ballet student?” Hal continued. “So tell us about these killer rivalries in the school. I was going to save that for another show, but since you’re here…I got an anonymous call just today concerning something about red shoes and death threats.”
This time my mouth dropped open. Word had spread that Paterson was going on the show, but who would have called the station? Paterson grabbed the mike again. “That’s all a misunderstanding. There were no death threats. It’s an art project.”
“Another art project?” Hal boomed. “Since when are death threats an art project?” He turned toward the reverend and Mark. “What do you guys think? Can the ACLU defend death threats as a work of art?”
Mark threw up his hands. “No comment.”
“What do you think, Reverend? What’s the church’s position on the art of death threats?”
The reverend grabbed the microphone. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. If we could just bring Jesus back into people’s lives…”
“This isn’t about Jesus and it isn’t about death threats,” Paterson shouted into the mike. “The red shoes are a symbol. The phrase, ‘Dancing in red shoes will kill you,’ is a line from a poem. It’s a metaphor….”
“Whoa there, we don’t use words like that on the radio,” Hal shouted. “And tell me, how is it that you know so much about this? Could you be the one who put those red shoes all over the school?”
“N—n—no,” Paterson answered.
“You seem to know an awful lot about them.”
Paterson turned to me, her eyes fearful. If she told the truth, Gray would get in big trouble. I knew she didn’t want to be a snitch. But she’d already showed that she knew way too much about the shoes.
Hal leaned forward. “Admit it,” he shouted. “You’re just a rabble-rouser. Art shmart. Paterson Callaway, you just want to make trouble, don’t you?”
I moved closer to Paterson. “No she doesn’t. She’s an artist.”
“Hey, it’s the sister now—coming to the defense of her poor sociopath sibling,” Hal shouted. He turned back to Paterson. “So how do you think this will look as a little footnote on your college application?”
I grabbed the mike without thinking. “It was me,” I said. “I put up the red shoes.”
I wasn’t sure why I’d done it. I wanted to think it was out of some sense of social justice or selflessness. But, in reality, it probably had more to do with Gray. Even though it was his fault that we were suddenly in this mess, I definitely had a thing for him. And I didn’t want him to hate Paterson and me for ratting him out.
Hal’s eyebrows rose to where his hairline should have been. “Hey folks, how about that—the ballerina’s a Hal raiser too. So, who’d you wanna off?”
I took a deep breath and sat straight in my chair. Suddenly I understood what the poem was all about. “The shoes are a message about how women are actually being taught to be scared. That it’s our fault if we get kidnaped or drugged and then raped. It’s like all those women-in-peril movies on the Lifetime channel. Even though the guy always gets it in the last few minutes of the movie, you’ve spent almost two hours terrified out of your mind. You can’t undo that feeling with a quick bullet to the villain’s head.”
Paterson leaned forward. “It absolves men of their responsibilities and puts the blame on women for not being cautious. That’s what the poem’s about.”
Hal looked over at the reverend and Mark again. “So what about it, you guys? You believe this poem crap?”
The reverend leaned forward. “The only poetry we need is the poetry of the prophets, telling us the stories of Jesus Christ, our Savior.”
“Save it for Sunday, Reverend,” Hal said. “How about you, Mark? What’s the ACLU’s position on poetry?”
“Hal, you know the ACLU supports the First Amendment right to free expression. That’s why I’m here.”
“But death threats, Mark? Surely the ACLU can’t defend that.”
Mark shook his head. “I’d have to know more about the case first.”
“Folks, we’re almost out of time. For those of you just tuning in, we’ve had the Callaway sisters here from Florida Arts High School. One’s been raising Hal with penises at the school and the other, we just found out, is behind the red shoe death threats. Tune in to find out what happens to these sisters when the school gets a load of this.” He turned toward the reverend and Mark. “Gentlemen, any last words?”
The reverend leaned forward. “Tonight in my prayers, I will ask God to forgive these girls and I will pray for their souls.”
“There you have it, folks. Tune in tomorrow night when we’re going to raise some Hal with animal rights activists. Now, a word about the Mattress Mart.” He motioned toward Sasha and took off his headphones. “That was really something, girls.” He leaned back and smiled as if we were all best friends.
Paterson and I were in shock. What had just gone on? Hal Barker didn’t care about censorship. It was all an excuse to talk about sex and violence. Getting a confession out of me turned out to be an added bonus.
Paterson and I got up as Hal and the other men began shaking hands and joking with one another.
I followed Paterson toward the door. Stopped. And turned back. I faced the reverend and, at that moment, seriously compromised my position in the afterlife by shaking my boobs in his face. I pivoted and marched down the hall.
The car was silent for a minute. “So how did it go?” my father asked.
Paterson shifted in the backseat. “Couldn’t you hear?”
“The volume was down so low, we couldn’t make out what anyone was saying,” my mother said, “except that phrase Hal yelled every few minutes.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It does get a little annoying.” Paterson and I traded glances to determine exactly what we should reveal. I wondered how many of my parents’ friends had been listening. I figured even if a few were fans of Hal’s, they’d at least wait until morning to call.
I couldn’t think about it. All I wanted to do was go home and go to bed. In the morning it might not seem so bad. Maybe by then Paterson and I would have figured out how to convince the school that the red shoes were all about social commentary and not social deviancy.
“So how did it go?” my mother said, echoing my father.
I turned to Paterson and put my index finger over my lips. She nodded. “Fine,” she said, putting her head back on the seat. “But I think I’m through raising Hal for a while.”
Chapter 14
I woke up the next morning with a feeling of total dread. How many people had listened to the radio show? Hal wasn’t exactly Howard Stern, but he must have a decent-sized audience to stay on the air. I hoped it was some twisted part of the population that didn’t have anything to do with my parents or school.
As soon as Paterson and I pulled into the parking lot, I realized that either Hal was more popular than I’d thought or Farts had a lot more deviants than I’d thought. The stares and whispers started immediately as Paterson and I made our way to homeroom.
For the third time in my life and in the same semester, I heard my name on the loudspeaker. “Would Kayla and Paterson Callaway please come to the principal’s office, please.” It was even before the pledge.
I dragged myself to Kovac’s office, trying to contain my anger. Why hadn’t Gray come forward in the beginning? And why did Paterson have to be so controversial all the time? Why couldn’t she just be quiet and draw flowers or something? Even though they’d both taken the focus off me for a few weeks, things were worse than ever. Now I was a psycho with big boobs.
When I got to the main office, everyone stared at me in a new and different way while one of the secretaries led me to Kovac’s private office. I was trying to figure out how I was going to get out of the whole thing without implicating Gray, when I inched through the door and…there he was, sitting next to Paterson.
Kovac gestured to a chair. “Have a seat, Miss Callaway.”
I looked without expression at Paterson and Gray. I squeezed past Gray’s knees, conscious that my butt was only inches from his face, and sat in the middle chair.
Kovac stared at me. “Mr. Foster tells me that this so-called project you spoke about on the radio was not yours, but rather his attempt at art. Is that true?”
I didn’t know what to say. I’d watched enough cop shows to know about the whole technique of lying to one suspect about the other in order to coerce a confession. I thought for a minute. Usually they didn’t do that with both suspects in the same room. I looked at Gray and then at Kovac.
“I already told you it’s true,” Gray said.
Kovac raised his eyebrows, expecting a response from me.
I nodded. “Yes, it’s true.”
“And how long have you known about this so-called art project?”
I cleared my throat. “Since…umm…Saturday.”
“This past Saturday?”
I nodded.
“And it didn�
�t occur to you to come forward with your knowledge, to come to me yesterday in school?”
“I…uh…we were busy with the protest and…uh…then I had rehearsal.”
Kovac glared at Paterson. “Ah, yes, the protest. We’ll get to that later.” He turned back to me. “Miss Callaway, do you think the Hal Barker show was a proper forum for your…confession?”
“No, probably not.”
“And yet you chose to air the school’s dirty laundry on the airwaves with thousands of people listening.”
Thousands? There went all hope of my parents not finding out. I swallowed hard. “I hadn’t planned on even mentioning anything about the red shoes. It just came out because of Hal…you know, and the way he is.”
Kovac nodded and turned to Gray. “Now, Mr. Foster, you say that this art project wasn’t meant to be a threat to anyone.” He said the words art project as if it was something you’d flush down a toilet.
Gray gestured to a book on Kovac’s desk. “I told you if you would read the poem you’d understand.”
Kovac looked down at the page for a few seconds. “Mr. Foster, I fail to see what this poem has to do with the threats you’ve made to the student body at Florida Arts High School.” Apparently he’d taken a speed-reading course.
“Didn’t you hear the explanation on the radio?” Paterson blurted.
Kovac glared at her. “I am not a fan of Mr. Hal Barker. I heard about your little dog and pony show from faculty members. They didn’t go into detail.” He turned toward Gray. “Mr. Foster, where did you get this book of poems, anyway?”
“My mother…she’s a poet-in-residence at the university this semester.”
Dancing in Red Shoes Will Kill You Page 13