Ruby's Slippers

by Tricia Rayburn

  She’s wearing red Converse.

  “Of course we’re not practicing. We had to wait for Constellation’s brightest star.”

  My face is the same color as her sneakers when I meet her stare. “I’m sorry,” I say again. “I know time’s running out, and I really didn’t mean to be late. But you could’ve started without me.”

  “Great idea! Why didn’t I think of that?” Ava tilts her head like she’s trying to figure out the answer to her question.

  “Maybe because we didn’t have a routine to start?” Hilary offers.

  Ava snaps her fingers and lowers her eyes to mine. “Exactly.”

  They didn’t have a routine? What happened to the one we’ve been rehearsing for nearly two months?

  “Did someone try to steal our moves?” I ask, suddenly remembering that this has been a problem in the past. “Do we have to change our routine?”

  Ava’s eyes narrow. “Yes.”

  Just thinking about learning a new routine is so exhausting I want to curl up in a ball and cry. “Can’t we stop them? I mean, we already performed publicly. At least a hundred people know those moves are ours. Maybe we can talk to Miss Anita and—”

  “I already talked to Miss Anita,” Ava says.

  “Oh.” It’s clear by her frown that the conversation didn’t go well. “Ava, I promise I didn’t say anything to anyone. I know things got off to a rocky start with us, but I would never betray the group. Ever.”

  “I’m very glad to hear that,” Ava says. “Because you know how important Citrus Star is to us. You know how upset we’d be if we lost after working so hard for so long.”

  “I do.” I nod. “And if we have to change the routine, I’ll practice twenty-four hours a day until I get it right. I won’t let you down.”

  The corners of her mouth lift in a small smile. “Then you better get started.”

  I turn away from the stage and dash to the first row of seats. I drop my stuff in a chair and bend down to undo the complicated sandal straps. As I kick them off and put on my jazz shoes, I wonder how I can convince Ava that if parts of our routine were stolen, I had nothing to do with it.

  Thankfully, I have at least one ally.

  “Megan?” I look up to see her hurriedly gathering her stuff five chairs down. “What are—”

  “Can’t talk,” she says loudly.

  I follow her glance up the center aisle. Ava, Stephanie, and Hilary are marching single file toward the auditorium doors.

  “Wait for me,” I say, scrambling for my backpack and sandals. “Where are we going?”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Megan practically yells.

  I hear a door open and shut. Less than a second later, Megan’s hand is on my arm.

  “Ava’s really mad, Ruby,” she whispers.

  “I figured.” I hook my backpack on one shoulder and hug the sandals to my chest. “But why? What happened?”

  She looks behind her. She’s nervous. Scared, even. “Miss Anita was at the performance.”

  “I know. I didn’t talk to her, but I got the impression that she liked what she saw.”

  “She did. A lot.”

  “So then what’s the problem? And why do you look like you’re worried the Phantom of Sweet Citrus Junior High is going to leap from the shadows and attack you?”

  “I failed my last science test,” she says, leaning closer. “It’s my third F of the year. They might move me to a lower level—with the sixth graders.”

  For a second, this makes me forget my own problems. “Do you want to study together? I learned a lot of the material last year and would be happy to—”

  “Megan Marie Hanley!” a voice bellows through the closed auditorium doors.

  “I need her,” Megan says, backing away and shaking her head. “I’m sorry. She’s my Oz, remember? Without her, I’d always be known as the girl without a brain—or friends.”

  “Megan, that’s not true.” I start after her, but she’s already flying up the aisle. Knowing running after her will only make her run faster, I stop and watch her go. When she opens the auditorium door and lets in a panel of light, I realize she’s wearing red Converse too.

  “Ruby?”

  I look up to see Sam leaning through a lighting booth window.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say truthfully. I feel like I’ve just been sucked up in a tornado, whipped about, and dropped in the middle of a cornfield. “I’m not sure what just happened.”

  He pauses. “My mom made blueberry coffee cake this morning. It’s still warm. Do you want some?”

  I consider the offer. There are about a million things I should do right now, starting with figuring out exactly what happened with our routine and how Ava expects me to fix it . . . but I nod anyway. Despite the million things I should do, eating warm blueberry coffee cake with Sam is what I want to do. At least for a few minutes.

  As I climb the long, narrow staircase leading to the small booth overlooking the auditorium, I mentally replay the events of the last few days and try to pinpoint where I messed up. The only mistake I can think of is when I froze onstage in Ava’s backyard and was late joining the routine. But the crowd didn’t even notice my delay. They loved the performance—just like Miss Anita did. So if it’s not that, then what is it?

  “Holy electronics.” I stop at the top of the stairs.

  Sam looks around the booth, which is filled with big black boxes and long boards with flashing lights. “It looks more complicated than it is.”

  “I don’t buy that for a second. Momma has a fit every time the oven light goes out because she never knows which bulb to buy.”

  “Why doesn’t she write down the model number? Or take the old bulb with her when she goes to the hardware store?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “You’ve obviously never met Momma.”

  “No. But I’d like to.” He smiles, then looks down and fiddles with a knob on one of several control panels in the booth.

  “Speaking of moms,” I say quickly, since he seems embarrassed, “how about that blueberry coffee cake?”

  “Coming right up!” He hops off the stool and removes a brown paper sack from the backpack at his feet. “I have to warn you: It’s more cake than blueberry. Hope that’s okay.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I watch him break the thick, crumbly wedge into two pieces. “Do you bring your lunch to school a lot?”

  “Every day.” He carefully places my piece on a paper napkin and hands it to me. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed . . . but I’m kind of shy.”

  “Really?” I definitely noticed the way he seems to magically appear and disappear, but since he’s been so nice to me, I didn’t pick up on the shyness. “So you bring your lunch so that you can hide behind the paper bag when necessary?”

  “I bring my lunch so that I can avoid talking to people while waiting in line to buy lunch and while worrying about where to sit after that.” He looks at me. “The cafeteria’s a battlefield. I’m not a fighter.”

  “I bring my lunch every day, but I haven’t actually eaten in the cafeteria once. I spend all period circling the room, pretending to look for friends I don’t have. I eat after eighth period, when I’m waiting for Momma to pick me up.”

  “So you understand.” He nods. “I had a feeling you would.”

  Now I’m embarrassed, though I’m not sure why. “Is that why you’re doing the lighting for Citrus Star? To avoid singing and dancing in front of hundreds of people?”

  “Exactly. Every year I present a ten-page plan to Miss Anita so she’ll exempt me from performing. Fortunately, she finds the spotlight extremely important.”

  Considering the ballerina painting and wall of mirrors in her office, this makes sense. “So how did you learn to do all this?” I ask, taking a big bite of coffee cake.

  “I read a lot of books and watch a lot of movies and plays. Lighting affects everything from people’s expressions to how they
talk to the way an entire scene feels. I like experimenting with how I can make performers seem even more of whatever they’re supposed to be—happy and excited, sad and lonely, mad and confused. It’s interesting . . . and safe.”

  “Need an assistant?” I ask hopefully.

  He smiles. “You’re going to be great. I’ve been watching you—I mean, I’ve been watching Constellation, just like I’ve been watching every other group, since I’m doing the lighting for the whole show.” He takes a breath. “Anyway, you’re good. You’re really good.”

  “That’s sweet, Sam . . . but I don’t have a talented bone in my body.”

  “Ruby Lee!”

  We both jump. Unless Ava’s anger has made her voice drop several octaves, I have no idea who’s yelling for me. Sam looks out the window and leans to one side so I can see too.

  “Hector,” he says.

  “Who’s Hector?” I whisper, standing next to him. We’re so close our arms gently bump together, and the touch almost makes me forget Ava, Constellation, and everything that happened only minutes earlier.

  Apparently, the same thing happens to Sam, because it takes him a second to respond. And when he does, he doesn’t use words—he switches on the spotlight and aims it toward the stage steps.

  “Miss Anita?” I groan softly as she and her short male shadow walk across the stage. “What’s she doing here?”

  “You’ll see,” Sam says.

  They stop in the center of the stage. She says something to him, and he shuffles backstage. I’m about to ask Sam what I’m supposed to see when he starts flicking switches and adjusting knobs on the control panel before us. The spotlight shuts off and the overhead lights dim until the auditorium is pitch black.

  “Watch this,” he says quietly.

  I couldn’t look away if I tried. The darkness only lasts a few seconds before the room fills with soft waves of light. They slowly flicker and spin across the walls, making the auditorium glow like it’s underwater. Sam presses another button and another light turns on, this one still soft, but focused. He gets behind one of the big black boxes and aims the hazy ray at the stage, where a beautiful ballerina is standing perfectly still on the tips of her toes.

  I’m so mesmerized by the swirling light and shadows that it takes me a moment to realize the beautiful ballerina is Miss Anita. She’s wearing one of her long, flowing skirts, but she has removed a long, flowing top to reveal a white sleeveless leotard. She’s looking down, and her dark hair hangs over one shoulder.

  Sam holds the light in place with one hand and leans over to push a button with the other. Classical music, very similar to the kind Nana Dottie listens to, fills the room. It starts out soft, then gradually builds in volume. When the song explodes in a chorus of strings, Miss Anita’s head snaps up. She leaps into the air—several feet higher than my best diving-board jump—and lands on the tips of her toes. She leaps again and again, her feet fluttering beneath her as she rises up and comes back down. The music grows quieter, slower, and she pirouettes around the stage, her skirt floating around her like a cloud. Sam follows her the entire time, moving the spotlight faster and slower depending on her movements. As she dances, soft waves of light continue to ripple across the walls, floor, and seats.

  I’m not sure how long this lasts. As far as I’m concerned, we’re no longer at school. Time no longer exists. We’re suspended in some magical dimension filled with light and shadow, music and motion. I’ve never experienced anything like it.

  Eventually, Miss Anita lands for the last time. She bends at the waist, and her torso drops toward her knees. The spotlight has illuminated her from head to toe during her performance, but now it narrows and focuses only on her face. She’s not wearing sunglasses, and her purple-blue eyes are especially striking in the fuzzy light.

  “She’s beautiful,” I breathe.

  And then, as quickly as the performance began, the music ends and the main auditorium lights come on. When my eyes adjust, Miss Anita’s wearing her long, flowing top and sunglasses, and she’s standing next to Hector on the stage. They’re both looking toward the lighting booth.

  I look at Sam.

  “I’m right here if you need me,” he says.

  Given his fear of people and confrontation, this probably shouldn’t be reassuring. But it’s enough to get me moving downstairs. Plus, as much as I’d like to, it’s not like I can hide out here forever.

  “Good morning, Miss Anita,” I say as I near the stage. “That was an incredible—”

  “Ruby,” she says, “do you know what Sirius is?”

  I reach the stage and stop. “Sure do. It’s what I am about Citrus Star. It’s what I am about making sure Constellation’s performance is as good as it can possibly be.”

  She sighs, and I know her eyes roll behind her sunglasses. “Not serious. Sirius. S-i-r-i-u-s.”

  I visualize the letters as she spells them. “The brightest star in the solar system?”

  Hector gives her a quick smile. He, for one, is impressed. Wait till he finds out what I know about Pluto.

  “That’s what you are,” she says.

  Any satisfaction I feel instantly disappears. “I’m sorry?”

  “Ava Grand is good. But you, Ruby. You are great.”

  I sneak a peek at the booth, hoping Sam can shed some light on this cryptic conversation.

  “I know raw talent when I see it, and I saw it in you at your performance preview.”

  “You mean when I froze onstage? And stood like a statue while everyone else sang and danced? That performance preview?”

  “You lack confidence,” Miss Anita says. “That comes with practice. The rest you already have.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, shaking my head. “I don’t understand. Are you—”

  “Ava’s out.”

  My chin hits my neck.

  “Not completely. She’ll still sing and dance backup. But you will be Constellation’s soloist.”

  “No way. I mean, thank you so much for the compliment, but—”

  “This isn’t a compliment. It’s the truth.”

  “Either way, Citrus Star is three days away. I don’t know Ava’s part. I don’t know if I can hit those big notes.”

  “You can’t,” Miss Anita says flatly. “At least not yet. That’s why you should pick a different song. One you already know, one that you’re emotionally connected to. I’ve instructed the rest of the group to do as you say.”

  “And if they don’t?” I ask, trying not to panic and failing miserably.

  She lowers her head. Purple-blue slivers appear above her sunglasses. “That’s not your concern.”

  It’s by far my biggest concern, but before I can tell Miss Anita that, she starts moving across the stage. My panic eases slightly as I watch her go . . . because she’s limping. She usually glides everywhere, but now her movements are awkward, stilted. She favors her left foot and jerks to the right. When she reaches the steps, she waits for Hector. He gently puts one arm under her legs and the other behind her back, and he carries her off the stage.

  I wait until the auditorium door closes behind them before looking up at the lighting booth.

  “She’s right,” Sam says apologetically.

  Which is no help whatsoever.

  19.

  Beyoncé, Fergie, Lady Gaga, Shakira, Pink. Who are these people?”

  “Deep breath,” Gabby says on the other end of the phone.

  “I’ve downloaded twenty of the top one hundred songs on iTunes. I’ve played each song a million times. I’ve found lyrics online, printed them out, and tried singing along. I’ve spent eleven hours watching videos and studying dance moves on MTV.” I stop pacing and drop onto a white leather couch. “And now I’m forty-eight hours away from being laughed all the way back to Kansas.”

  “Perfect! The Curly Creek Country Fair is this weekend. You’ll get here just in time for hay rides and caramel apples.”

  “I love the Curly Creek Country Fair,�
� I whimper, collapsing back into the couch cushions and covering my face with a pillow.

  “Okay, seriously, didn’t crazy ballerina lady tell you to sing something you already know? And that you’re emotionally connected to? Wouldn’t that be easier than trying to learn a song you’ve never heard before?”

  “Yes, except there are only two people at Sweet Citrus Junior High who listen to the same music I do. One’s a seventy-year-old security guard, and the other probably will never speak to me again if I ask Ava Grand to do something she doesn’t want to do. My only hope of surviving this is singing a song everyone already knows and likes.”

  “If you say so,” Gabby says doubtfully. “But whichever one you pick, just remember that crazy ballerina lady wouldn’t have made you the soloist if she didn’t think you could do it.”

  “Right. I’ll be sure to send her a thank-you card.”

  “Better make it an e-mail.”

  I sit up on the couch when the front door opens and closes. Momma comes into the living room and kisses the top of my head, then drops into a nearby chair, closes her eyes, and starts rubbing her temples. When the clicking of Nana Dottie’s high heels across the marble floor heads in our direction, Momma winces.

  “Um, Gabby . . . I have to go. I’ll call you later.” We say good-bye and hang up. “Momma? Are you all right?”

  “Ruby,” she says with a sigh, “if we ever win the lottery and have bazillions of dollars to spend however we want . . . let’s not join a country club.”

  “Okay.”

  She opens her eyes and looks at me. “Seriously. Promise me that even after we’ve bought a house, a car, and more clothes than we’ll ever wear and we still have bazillions left over, that you will not let me spend even one penny on anything in, near, or related to a country club.”

  “I promise.”

  “Thank you, sweetie.” She gives me a small smile, then closes her eyes again.

  “It’s not really fair to blame the club, Francine,” Nana Dottie says, entering the room and sitting next to me.

  Even from five feet away, I can see Momma’s whole body tense. “Blame the club for what?” I ask.