Ruby's Slippers

by Tricia Rayburn

  And then I see sunflowers. Hundreds of big, bright, happy yellow sunflowers. They’re swaying together in a field and seem to be waving to me.

  “Momma?” I whisper.

  “I’m right here, sweetie.” She squeezes my hand. “What is it?”

  “Are we in Kansas?”

  There’s a pause. “No, honey. Not yet.”

  Somehow, my mouth lifts in a small smile. “Then can we go home? To Coconut Grove?”

  20.

  “I don’t think I can do this.”

  I take Megan’s hand and gently pull her away from the velvet curtain.

  “There are a million people out there,” she says, fanning her face with a thin stack of paper. “That’s a million more than I’ve played for in my entire life.”

  “What about your parents?” I ask. “You must’ve played for them.”

  “So they could tell me how terrible I am and suggest I try another hobby, like napping or staring at the wall?” She shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

  We both turn when a high-pitched giggle cracks through the hum of kids around us singing scales, shuffling through dance moves, and whispering about the competition. Ava’s perched on a small table as Stephanie laces her shoes and Hilary freshens her makeup. They all wear the costume Ava’s personal designer created weeks before: a sleeveless leotard, short tutu, and leg warmers made of silk instead of wool that end above the knee instead of midcalf. The only difference between the costumes is that Stephanie’s and Hilary’s are white, while Ava’s is red. Also, Ava looks like she showered in glitter and forgot to towel off. She sparkles from head to toe, which makes the others blend in with the background even more.

  “She probably broke the piano,” Megan whispers. “She probably cut the strings inside so that when I sit down and play in front of a million people, all they hear are the keys clunking down.”

  “No offense,” I say, watching Ava purse her lips so Hilary can reapply her lipstick, “but I don’t think she considers us—or anyone else—competition. She wouldn’t waste her precious time sabotaging what didn’t need to be sabotaged.”

  “You’re not dressed.”

  We turn back to find Miss Anita and Hector standing behind us.

  “Citrus Star begins in four minutes.” Miss Anita peers down at us through her sunglasses. “And you’re wearing a tablecloth and jeans while the rest of your group is wearing leotards and tutus.”

  I glance down at my shirt, which, with its blue-and-white-checked print does kind of resemble something you’d put your dinner on, and then look at Miss Anita. “You said Constellation should do what I asked them to.”

  Miss Anita’s red lips curve down. “You asked them to look like professional dancers while you looked like a professional farmer?”

  I’m glad the backstage lights are dim so she can’t see my face turn pink. “Sort of. There’s a little more to it than that.”

  She steps toward me. Hector steps next to her. He looks nervous.

  “I did make it clear that this was an opportunity, yes? Perhaps the biggest one of your life?”

  She doesn’t sound pleased, but for some reason, being reminded that this is an opportunity makes me feel braver. “You did. And I won’t waste it. I promise.”

  She pauses, as if trying to decide whether to believe me. “I certainly hope not.”

  “She’s going to kill us,” Megan moans when Miss Anita glides away, her bright orange skirt floating behind her. “If I don’t die of stage fright first, I’m going to die by Miss Anita’s evil stare.”

  “She’s not evil,” I say, peeking through the curtain at the inside of the Coconut Grove Theater. It’s as crowded as Nana Dottie said it would be; every seat’s taken and dozens of people stand in the back. “She’s sad. And in a way, she’s generous. She wants for others what she didn’t have for herself.”

  “A lifetime of embarrassment jam-packed into four short minutes?”

  That’s not quite it, but the explanation will have to wait. Sam’s story of how Miss Anita broke her leg during her debut performance with the New York City Ballet and never danced professionally again took half an hour. I expect Megan to have just as many questions as I did, and right now, we don’t have that kind of time.

  “They’re dimming the lights,” she whispers, grabbing my arm.

  The other groups rush toward the curtain as Miss Anita takes center stage. We all clamor for a closer look at our audience—which is now invisible, thanks to the lowered main lights and the spotlight shining on Miss Anita. Her bright orange dress glows and floats in the shifting auditorium air, and I think we could crown her Citrus Star now and call it a day.

  But then, of course, all of our hard work will have been for nothing. It took a while to convince Momma I felt fine after Papa Harry’s car landed in the ditch by the field of sunflowers, but once I did, I slept for ten hours: five during the drive back to Coconut Grove and five in my comfy bed. As soon as I woke up, I started e-mailing.

  I e-mailed Megan and Sam, told them my idea, and asked if they’d be willing to participate. When they said they would, I e-mailed Ava and told her that due to unforeseen circumstances, Megan and I were respectfully bowing out of Constellation and wished her luck. Then I e-mailed Megan and Sam again and the real planning began. Unfortunately, time restraints made it impossible to put all the pieces together at once for a real run-through, but I wasn’t too worried. Sam knew his stuff, and despite what she thought, Megan knew hers, too. I wasn’t as sure about myself, but at that point, I thought I had nothing to lose.

  “Good evening.”

  I’m snapped back to the present when Miss Anita speaks into the microphone.

  “Thank you for joining us for a thrilling evening of singing, dancing, and general stardom. As I’m sure you know, your talented children have been preparing tirelessly for tonight’s performance. And with very good reason. Previous winners of Citrus Star have gone on to see their dreams realized onstage and screen, from Disney World to the Disney Channel. One has even become a popular recording artist with a top twenty hit in Hong Kong.” She waits as the audience buzzes appreciatively. After a moment, she continues. “These children are stars. I know it. You know it. And after tonight, the whole world may know it too. So please sit back, relax, and enjoy the show.”

  The room goes black. My heart jumps. For a second, I think Sam is experiencing technical difficulties in the lighting booth, but then a row of orange bulbs lining the front of the stage flickers on. Music starts.

  And Citrus Star begins.

  There’s a flurry of activity backstage as groups squeeze in last-chance practices before their turns. Coincidentally, the only kids not running through routines are current and former Constellation members. Ava, Stephanie, and Hilary hang out near the restroom. Stephanie and Hilary seem tense, like they wouldn’t mind giving the routine another go, but Ava leans against the wall looking perfectly relaxed—and almost bored. It’s clear she thinks she’s already won, which she probably has.

  As for Megan and me, there’s not much we can do now. Every few minutes she looks at the papers in her hand, but without a piano, that’s not very helpful. And I’m not about to practice my part and alert anyone to our plan.

  The first group opens the show with a bang—literally. There’s a small explosion that sends thick white smoke billowing across the stage. As it thins and spreads, three boys appear like ghosts rising from the ground. I recognize them from my English class, though it takes me a second, since they’re wearing shiny black basketball shorts and baggy black tank tops instead of jeans and T-shirts. They leap and flip across the stage and seem to be playing some acrobatic version of basketball minus the actual ball and hoops. I’m so entranced I don’t realize the crowd’s roaring until the curtain closes and they jog backstage.

  “We don’t have explosions,” Megan whispers. “Or smoke.”

  “We don’t need them,” I assure her.

  The next group juggles flaming ba
tons. The one after that plays, on electric guitars, one of the songs I downloaded from iTunes. The one after that reenacts a scene from Hannah Montana, which Megan informs me is a TV show about a regular girl who’s also a rock star. On and on they go, singing, dancing, hopping, skipping, cartwheeling. Each performance makes the crowd howl even louder than the one before, but personally, I don’t see the big deal. The kids are good. Some of them are really good. But besides Sam’s supreme lighting skills and the occasional pyrotechnic display, Citrus Star doesn’t seem all that different from a Curly Creek talent show.

  Until Ava Grand takes the stage.

  “She looks amazing,” Megan says softly, peering through the curtain.

  It’s true. She does. And as the music begins and the curtain rises, I feel nervous for the first time since the show started. The audience seems to feel the same way; they grow quiet and still, like they know something important is about to happen.

  Constellation doesn’t disappoint. The routine hasn’t changed since we performed it at Ava’s house only days before, but somehow it looks different. I’m not sure if it’s the costumes, Sam’s magical lighting, or the combination of both, but the effect is bigger. More dramatic. Dance moves that seemed robotic a few weeks ago are now strong, purposeful. The singing is flawless. Stephanie and Hilary harmonize like they never have before, and Ava belts out notes like Celine Dion (another of Momma’s favorites who no one here seems to know). They’re a million times better than anything I watched on MTV. In fact, they should probably have their own channel: CTV. Constellation Television. Nothing but Ava, Stephanie, and Hilary, 24/7.

  Not surprisingly, the crowd goes nuts. They scream and whistle. They jump to their feet and clap so fast their hands blur white. They throw things onstage—roses, teddy bears, tiaras—and demand an encore. And I don’t blame them. I’m clapping too. Ava might have given me a hard time for no reason, but she worked extremely hard to make sure Constellation put on a good show. She and the other girls deserve all the accolades they get.

  “Great job,” I say when they dash past us backstage.

  Ava stops short and looks at me over her shoulder. “Nice shirt.”

  They return to their post by the restroom and fix their hair and costumes. They’re getting ready to give an encore . . . and after Ava’s last comment, I don’t even worry about how mad they’ll be when they don’t get the chance.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” A familiar male voice booms down from above. “I hope you enjoyed that stellar performance by Constellation. Those girls are definitely ones to watch out for.”

  I look at Megan. Her face is pale and she’s sweating like the auditorium vents are spewing hot air instead of cold. I put one arm around her shoulders and squeeze.

  “Now, I know your programs indicate that theirs was the final performance of the evening, but I’m very happy to announce that the show’s not over yet.”

  Ava, Stephanie, and Hilary trot back to the curtain. They exchange confused looks, since encores don’t usually require reintroductions, but then they smile as they prepare to face their fans for a second time.

  “We had a late addition,” Sam continues. “And I hope you’ll join me in giving a very warm, very Coconut Grove welcome to . . . Pluto.”

  “What?” Ava glares at me with wide eyes and then storms off, most likely in search of Miss Anita. Stephanie and Hilary shoot me similar looks before racing after her.

  “I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.” Megan stares through a narrow opening in the curtain and shakes her head.

  There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.

  “Yes, you can.” I gently turn her away from the curtain and put both hands on her shoulders. “You’re brilliant. No one in this school can do what you’ve done and what you’re about to do.”

  “I don’t know, Ruby,” she says as the audience takes their seats and grows quieter. “Maybe this is a bad idea. What if they laugh? What if they never talk to me again?”

  “Then it’s their loss.” I hold her eyes with mine. When I speak again, my voice is softer. “You don’t need her, Megan. You don’t need anyone but yourself.”

  I hold my breath. She still doesn’t seem sure, but finally she nods. We hug quickly, and she steps out from behind the curtain.

  My heart races as I watch her sit on the piano bench and arrange the sheet music before her. The auditorium lights dim until the only light in the room comes from a tiny lamp attached to the top of the music stand. It’s just bright enough to illuminate Megan’s blue-and-white-checked shirt and her two long braids tied with blue ribbons. Because you can’t see her hands, you don’t realize right away where the music’s coming from.

  Which is almost too bad. Because she’s as good as I knew she would be.

  The song starts softly, simply. A few notes, like coins dropping in a glass jar. As they fill the room, a wide screen lowers behind the piano. Another follows, and another, and another. They’re all different sizes and hang at various heights. When they stop moving they glow gray, reminding me of a window display at Curly Creek TVs and Toasters.

  Black-and-white images appear. A small house. A large field. An apple tree. An old car with stuffed garbage bags for windows. Two hands, clasped in the grass.

  The song is “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” The pictures are ones I took right before leaving Curly Creek.

  Together, they’re my cue.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I see the images in my head and focus on the music. When I step out onto the stage, I imagine I’m in our old living room in Curly Creek and that the only one watching me is Momma.

  I move slowly at first. My arms and legs are relaxed as I twirl toward the audience and smile. This part of the dance is natural and easy, just like hanging out at home on an ordinary day.

  But then Megan’s fingers move faster. The music gets louder. My body tenses as a small black ball with a million bulbs spins overhead, sending waves of light rippling across the walls. I zigzag across the stage, my movements sharp, almost frantic. Pictures tremble and jump from one screen to the next. The lights grow brighter. My feet move faster. Soon it’s so bright everything disappears.

  And then the music stops. The lights go out. I collapse to the stage.

  It’s dark when Megan starts playing again. The music has changed. It’s not “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” or any other song from The Wizard of Oz—though it does sound like something from a movie. Megan’s fingers hit so many notes at once it’s hard to believe she’s only playing one instrument, and they do so with feeling. Not only did she write the music for this part of the performance, she knows how to play it in a way that everyone can connect to, even without ever hearing it before.

  As the song grows, so do the lights. The stage is bathed in a soft, warm glow. I sit up slowly and watch the screens come to life again. They fill with images of palm trees and orange groves. These pictures are yellow and cream, and they look almost hazy, like they’ve been left out in the sun too long.

  Eventually, I stand up and stretch, as if waking from a long nap. I twirl and leap from one picture to the next, pausing before each one and looking at it as if seeing it for the first time.

  I move faster as the music picks up again. The soft, warm glow fades as spotlights illuminate individual screens. The audience gasps and whispers as they recognize people and places. There’s Sweet Citrus Junior High. The Lemon Grove Mall. HauteCoco. The Atlantic Ocean. Mr. Fox. Mr. Soto. Miss Anita. Hector. Me. Megan. Sam. Ava. Stephanie. Hilary. Kids I don’t know by name walking down the hall, playing soccer outside, talking and laughing in the cafeteria. The screens are alive with color as the pictures radiate red, yellow, orange, blue, green, and purple. The music is bright and happy, and my smile grows as my arms and legs follow the beat.

  Between the pictures, Megan’s song, Sam’s lighting, and my dancing (I hope), Coconut Grove looks like a magical place somewhere far, far awa
y.

  Eventually, the music slows again. The screens rise until there’s only one left, hanging directly above the piano. The song grows simpler, quieter, as it switches back to Dorothy’s famous solo. The last screen fills with a shot of our entire class, which I took last night during the dress rehearsal’s curtain call. And I twirl toward the back of the stage and stand in the shadows as a field of real sunflowers grows slowly from the front of the stage.

  (Okay, it’s not really a field. It’s more like a single row—but it spans the entire stage and looks as good as the real thing.)

  The music trails off. The last screen fades to black and lifts. The regular stage lights come on.

  And nothing happens.

  I catch Megan’s eye, then look out at the audience. They’re not clapping or cheering. They’re not running to their cars or throwing tomatoes at the stage either, but I expected more of a response than total silence.

  “Bravo!”

  I gasp.

  In the front right corner of the auditorium, a man stands and claps with both hands overhead. Soon, a woman in the middle section joins him. Another woman joins her, and then another.

  It doesn’t happen right away, but it happens. We get a standing ovation.

  “Ruby!” Megan shouts over the noise. She’s still sitting on the piano bench, beaming.

  I dash over to her, give her a big hug, and then look toward the lighting booth. I jump up and down and wave to Sam. I’m worried his shyness will keep him from accepting the recognition he deserves, but a few seconds later, I see him jogging down an auditorium aisle. When he reaches us, he hugs me before I can do the same to him.