Kovac made a face. “I don’t know what you kids think you’re trying to prove. I came to this school because I believed there were talented young artists here, artists who wanted to paint beautiful pictures. Instead I get death threats and penises.” A spray of saliva punctuated his last sentence.
The three of us stared at him. It was obvious that further explanation would have been futile.
Kovac turned toward Paterson. “As for you and your art project, Miss Callaway. Don’t think a little dancing in the street with posters over your heads is going to change school policy. That…thing will not be displayed at Florida Arts High.”
After a tense pause, Paterson broke in. “Can we go back to class now?”
Kovac scowled at her. “Unfortunately, Miss Callaway, you may go back to class…unless, that is, you break any of the rules regarding my decision.” He turned to Gray and me. “You two, however, may not return to class. I’ve called your parents, and they’ll be here shortly.”
My heart sank like a grand plié as Kovac walked to the door and looked into the main office.
“I’m sorry,” Paterson mouthed to me.
I nodded. “It’s okay,” I mouthed back.
Paterson got up and attempted to inch through the opening of the door. Kovac opened it further, then closed the door behind them, leaving Gray and me in the office alone.
“How did he find out it was you?” I whispered.
Gray turned nervously toward the door. “He didn’t. I came as soon as I heard your name. I wasn’t going to let you take the rap. I heard what you said on the radio show. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I didn’t want to get you in trouble. You confided in me. It wouldn’t have been right.”
“You didn’t have to—”
I leaned over and kissed him quickly. “It’s okay. I get what you were trying to do.” I lowered my eyes, suddenly feeling shy about what I’d done. It wasn’t quite how I’d envisioned our first kiss, but it would have to do. Then Gray leaned toward me and for a second I thought we might have an opportunity for another kiss, but the door burst open. Kovac burst through with my mother and Gray’s mother trailing behind.
Once we were all seated, Kovac continued his spiel about beauty and art and death threats. He looked at Gray’s mother first, then mine. Gray and I made faces at each other a few times when no one was looking. We had already heard it all and now it just sounded like blah, blah, blah, red shoes, blah blah, blah, Gray, blah, blah, blah, expulsion.
Yes. Expulsion. The administration apparently was not impressed with Gray’s honesty or his creativity. “A death threat is a death threat,” Kovac said. Not even Gray’s mother’s explanation of the poem could sway him. Gray was being kicked out of school because of the district’s “zero-tolerance policy,” a euphemism for “we have no idea where to draw the line and we’re too lazy to figure it out, so we’re just going to expel everyone who even talks about violence.”
I, on the other hand, was merely suspended for a week. Because I had, in actuality, not made any threats myself, I was punished only for keeping the identity of the “perpetrator” a secret and not reporting him.
Neither Gray’s mother nor mine looked very happy when we left the school in silence after gathering our belongings. I couldn’t tell if it was Kovac or me my mother was mad at. I breathed a little easier in the car when she shook her head and said, “That principal is some piece of work.”
That night we had a family meeting and decided that one sister on suspension was our quota. My parents said Paterson would have to find a way to express herself without a penis. Even though they understood that I had been trying to help a friend, they warned me that my suspension would not be a vacation. I was to keep up with my schoolwork and not leave the house or have visitors during the day. The only place I would be allowed to go would be rehearsals, because they were technically not part of the school day. Paterson would come home to get me and drive me back to school each day. I could take that.
Because we still had about six weeks left of school, Gray’s mother decided to send him to live with his father and finish the year at his old school. We said good-bye over the phone and he left two days later. That was a little tougher to take.
Were those red shoes worth all this?
Chapter 15
Paterson smiled and dropped a huge, thick envelope onto my bed. “From Gray,” she said. He’d been gone two weeks and we’d been e-mailing almost every day, so the package was no surprise.
I threw down my European history book and tore the envelope open while Paterson plopped beside me. Several brochures, as well as a sealed card with my name on the envelope, fell out onto my rumpled sheets.
“What’s this?” Paterson said, picking up the card.
I grabbed it from her and stuck it in my top drawer.
“Okay, okay, I get it,” she said. “It’s personal.” She made a couple of smooching noises, picked up a pamphlet, and then read the words that Gray had highlighted: “dance major with concentration in choreography.” She flipped it to the front. “And how about that? It’s a college in New York.” She grabbed another brochure. “New York,” she said. Then another. “New York. Funny, there aren’t any colleges in Kansas that specialize in dance.”
I grabbed the brochure from her. “Very amusing,” I said. “I don’t remember you looking at art schools in Iowa.”
“I chose New York because it has the best art school, not because it has the best boyfriend.”
I threw the brochure at her. “I’m not looking at New York just because of Gray. They do have the best dance programs.”
Paterson laughed. “I’m just messing with you. I think it’ll be great if we’re all together again in a year. I just wish it could be sooner.”
I leaned my head back onto the pink satin shoe pillow at the foot of my bed. “Me too. I really miss Gray. I didn’t think I would, considering I’ve only known him for seven weeks.”
“But who’s counting?” Paterson said with a laugh. “It does seem like he was around for a lot longer, doesn’t it?” She unfolded one of the brochures. “So are you seriously considering choreography?”
I shrugged. “It never really crossed my mind until you and Gray got me thinking with your art projects.”
“What do you mean?”
“If I’m in charge, I can keep my boobs, shake up the dance world a little, and maybe help someone else who doesn’t fit the ballet mold. Maybe someone who’s overweight or in a wheelchair. Gray told me about a dancer he once saw in New York who performed with a prosthetic foot.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Paterson said. “Hey, c’mon in my room. I want to show you something.”
I followed Paterson to the doorway. It was way too dangerous to step inside. She’d been trying to come up with something to replace “Tales of Missing Pieces,” and the result looked like Hurricane Picasso had passed through. She waded through the junk to the big canvas that was housed in her room since Kovac had deemed it “obscene.” “Look. I wasn’t sure if it would work. But…what do you think?”
I stared blankly for a second. She had drawn a thick black line from one corner of the canvas to the other. The line passed right through the center of the picture and, consequently, right over Joey’s penis. It looked like the “Just Say No” to drugs posters that were plastered all over school.
“You’re not going to believe it, or maybe you will,” Paterson said. “It was Etch A Sketch’s idea. He said it was a way for me to keep the project and maintain its artistic integrity.”
I nodded. “I get it. Something like, ‘Just say no to women giving up their body parts, while men keep theirs.’”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Paterson said. “It’s also a commentary on the school’s stupid rules about what’s obscene. I’m calling it ‘Tales of Censorship.’ And there’s no way the school can say it violates their policy now.”
“Kovac is going to be so pissed,” I said with a grin.
Paterson rubbed her hands together like a witch over a bubbling cauldron. “I know. Isn’t it great?”
Paterson moved some of the junk away from the canvas. “It’s just too bad Gray won’t see it. He’d get a kick out of it.”
I stepped between two piles of squished paint tubes and stared wistfully at the picture of the foot with no toes. “He’s not even going to see me be an ugly stepsister.”
I left Paterson with her revenge, returned to my room, and ripped open Gray’s card. The cover pictured a little girl in a tutu with her leg in a cast. Inside it read “Break a Leg.” Even though he’d signed it just “Gray” and he was a week early, I thought it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done.
On the morning of the ballet, I woke up with caterpillars in my stomach. Not butterflies. Butterflies were for big parts, not ugly stepsister parts.
During the week, we’d gone through the whole ballet several times. One time, I even got to be Cinderella. Just in case…
Just in case what?
Daydream Number One: My life suddenly becomes a Broadway show. Lourdes twists her ankle or develops a pimple the size of a Volkswagen. She can’t dance. I miraculously fit into her costumes. After the final pas de deux, I get a standing ovation and Timm with two ems says, “I knew you could do it,” right before offering me a major spot in his dance company. I turn him down. Flat.
Daydream Number Two: My life suddenly becomes a Hollywood movie. Lourdes decides she wants to quit dancing because she meets a rich guy who opens up her eyes to the capitalism she never enjoyed in Cuba. She hands me the part at the last minute, and I’m brilliant. The whole thing ends with me surrounded by my fellow dancers, applauding my performance. And in the last shot I’m holding a bouquet of long-stemmed roses and getting a big, juicy kiss from Gray.
When I saw Lourdes in her Cinderella costume that night, my daydreams faded like an old leotard. She looked beautiful, even in the tattered dress. As I watched her dance with the broom around the fireplace, I thought about what was coming next—the fairy godmother, the beautiful dress, the uncomfortable glass slippers, the prince. I suddenly realized I didn’t want to be Cinderella after all. I didn’t want to wear delicate slippers. I didn’t want a guy who loved me because I fit a mold. No way.
I wanted to dance in scandalous slippers. Slippers that would have the whole world tsking under its breath.
I knew it for sure now. I wanted to dance in red shoes.
As I watched for my cue from Devin and Karen on the other side of the stage, Melissa snuck up behind me. “It’s too bad Gray isn’t here, huh?”
I didn’t bother to answer.
“I guess if that person hadn’t called Hal and mentioned the red shoes at school, the whole thing would have died down and he’d be sitting right there.” She pointed to the audience.
I spun around and stared her right in the eye. “You called the radio station, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said with a smirk.
“But how did you know it was Gray who put up the shoes?”
“I didn’t. I always thought it had something to do with you,” she said. “I never guessed it was him. You just never know about some people.”
“That’s the difference between you and me,” I said, preparing to leap onto the stage. “I’ve always known you were a bitch.” I took one look back to see her tutu shimmy away with fury.
Fortunately, I was able to use my anger at Melissa to ham it up as the stepsister. With my adrenaline pumping, I felt like I was suspended in the air during my leaps. I whipped through the turns without a stumble. Even Devin looked impressed under his stepmother bonnet.
I admit that during the winter scene I was hoping Melissa would slip and fall. But the ballet went off without a hitch. Melissa and Ivy and all the other soloists were great. Joey and Lourdes were fabulous. And my little turn with the prince at the ball ended up getting spontaneous applause. Even though I wasn’t supposed to outshine Cinderella, Joey made sure he held me tight enough to finish a quadruple pirouette and end in a perfect penchée, with my legs at a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree angle.
We all got three curtain calls at the end. And once we were offstage, Joey said he had to admit I was the best damn ugly stepsister Farts had ever seen. I gave him a huge hug and whispered, “You’re a prince.”
He drew back for a second. “Do you realize we may never dance together again?” His face was serious.
My eyes welled up, and I couldn’t answer. Nothing would ever be the same again after tonight. Not school. Not dancing. Not anything.
When Joey saw my reaction, he grabbed my hand and dragged me onto the stage. “One more pas de deux,” he said, sweeping me into the air and spinning me around and around until we were both so dizzy we fell all over each other laughing.
But when I got to the dressing room and began peeling off my tights, I started feeling sad again. Joey would be dancing with Ballet on the Beach and Paterson was leaving early for college classes. I was thinking about how I was the only one with nothing to look forward to, when Paterson raced in. “You’ll never believe who’s here.”
“Who? Baryshnikov?”
“No,” she whispered. “It’s Gray.”
How was that possible? I’d resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn’t see him for months, maybe not even then. I stuffed my tights into my bag and raced out of the dressing room. Gray was standing by the exit of the auditorium. I threw my arms around him and shrieked, “What are you doing here?”
He laughed. “You were great.”
“Thanks,” I said, smiling. I let go of him, suddenly struck silent. He took that moment to pull a small gold box out of his pocket and hand it to me.
My fingers trembled as I removed the lid and then the tiny cotton square. I saw the gold chain first and lifted it out of the box. Dangling from the bottom of the chain was a pair of tiny red slippers.
“I found it at a museum gift shop,” Gray said. “I thought you might like it.” He unhooked the chain and leaned toward me as he fastened the clasp. My insides fluttered like tiny bourrées. Just as I looked up at him, I caught sight of Melissa, leaving the auditorium. She took one look at us and stormed off, looking more like an ugly stepsister than a ballerina.
I didn’t get a chance for a long while to tell Gray how much I loved the necklace. My lips were otherwise occupied.
Paterson leaned across the table. “How long is he here for?”
I smiled. “The whole summer. His private school in New York is out and his mom has more work to do down here. They can keep the house for three more months.”
Paterson gave a thumbs-up as Gray and Joey returned to the booth.
Gray slid beside me while Joey scooted next to Paterson.
“So what’s going on with Ballet on the Beach?” Gray said. “What’s your first ballet?”
Joey hesitated. “Sleeping Beauty.”
Paterson groaned. “Haven’t you learned anything these past two months?”
Joey threw up his hands. “Hey, Kayla’s the one that’s destined to change the world of dance.” He looked at me. “Are you sure you don’t want to have that surgery and join me next year? I’m really going to miss dancing with you.”
“Right now, I’m sure. Someday I might pay Dr. Marlowe another visit. But it’ll be because I want it done, not because someone else tells me I have to.”
Paterson clapped. “Spoken like a true feminist. I’ve finally converted you.”
“Maybe,” I said. “I have to think about it a little more.”
Gray put his arm around me. “I brought you some more brochures about colleges and dance companies in New York. I’ll show them to you later.”
Joey put down his menu and announced, “If you’re going to keep them, then you have to give them names.”
We all stared at him. “Give what names?” I said.
“You know, your boobs. Like Thelma and Louise or something like tha
t.”
I shook my head. “Too violent. It reminds me of those women in that Austin Powers movie who started shooting bullets from their nipples.”
Everyone laughed. “I’ve got one,” Paterson said. “How about Monet and Manet?”
Gray, who had been staying out of the discussion, chimed in. “She can’t give them men’s names, even though they—the men, that is—were famous artists.”
I thought for a minute. “I’ve got it. Lucy and Ethel.”
Everyone was quiet for a second. Then Joey gave me a high five and everyone joined in, laughing.
I looked down at the shiny red shoes hanging between my breasts and leaned back into the curve of Gray’s elbow. Lucy and Ethel. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from them, it’s that you’ve got to have a sense of humor.
Acknowledgments
So many people encouraged, supported, critiqued, and cajoled me during my road to publishing. If I thanked them all, this section would end up being longer than the novel. I do, however, want to acknowledge the following people:
YAWriters, Pubsters, and the entire cybercommunity of authors who freely share their knowledge and insight into the business of writing and publishing.
All the members of my writing group, in particular Heidi Boehringer, Laurie Friedman, Marjetta Geerling, Nancy Knutson, Joan Mazza, Lucille Gang Shulklapper, and Sherri Winston, for their continuous support. Kathy MacDonald and Gloria Rothstein, for their constant enthusiasm for my work. Alex Flinn, for being one of the most generous writers I know. And, of course, Joyce Sweeney, for being the greatest mentor and friend a writer could ever ask for.
My agent, Steven Chudney, for loving this novel before it was even finished. If not for his support and encouragement, I might still be on Chapter 5.
My editor, Tara Weikum, for her insight into my work, her thoughtful editing of it, and for putting it all together with such a fabulous cover. Lauren Velevis and everyone else at HarperCollins, for being so great to work with and for making my first novel so terrific.
Dancing in Red Shoes Will Kill You Page 14