Dancing in Red Shoes Will Kill You (12 page)

Gray gestured toward the ice-cream place. “Do you want to get a drink or something?”

“No.” I looked around for Paterson and Joey and glimpsed a puff of pink hair. “Let's just walk around here.”

Crowds chattered and clutched their shopping bags
as they bustled by the two of us walking in silence. I felt as if we were in a commercial where everyone had used the same deodorant but us. Then Gray broke the stillness. “This whole thing got so out of hand.”

I put my fingers in my jeans pocket and felt the coins Paterson had given me to call her cell phone if we got separated. “So you only meant to stalk me a little then?”

Gray turned to me. “I didn't mean to stalk you at all.”

“So you did it by accident?”

“No. I mean it wasn't about stalking. It was about art. It was an art project.”

“On what? The art of stalking?” I stopped for a second, then remembered my own rule that we would keep walking the whole time.

“I'm telling you,” Gray said, with impatience. “It had nothing to do with stalking. I didn't even know you'd be wearing red shoes in the ballet.”

I was incredulous. And, strangely, a little disappointed. “So you didn't care who you were after—just any old dancer in red shoes would do?”

“I wasn't after anyone,” Gray shouted. He let out a loud breath and shook his head in frustration. “Remember those blue guitars you saw in my room?”

“Don't try to change the subject.”

“I'm not. The blue guitars were an art project, too.”

“You told me that, but I don't see any connection.” I
didn't want to tell him that I didn't see a connection between blue guitars and art, either. If he were deluding himself about being an artist, I didn't want to be the one to tell him otherwise.

“Remember, I told you at my old school I painted those guitars blue. Well, I put them in places all over the school.”

“And that's art?”

“No. I attached a note to each of the guitars. Just like I did with the shoes.”

“You mean like, ‘Playing blue guitars will kill you'?”

“No, nothing like that. It was a line from a Wallace Stevens poem.”

“Who?”

“Wallace Stevens. He was a great poet from the early nineteen hundreds.”

He could have been a great serial killer for all I knew. “But what does this have to do with the red shoes?”

Gray stopped and swung his backpack around to the front and started to unzip it. I looked around for Paterson and Joey and caught a glimpse of her head again. Thank goodness for passionate pink hair dye.

“Wallace Stevens wrote a poem called ‘The Man with the Blue Guitar.' About the power of art. The guitar's a symbol of the imagination.”

“And…”

“I thought it was a cool way to demonstrate the importance of art, the power of the imagination. The note said, ‘Play it on the blue guitar.' It was kind of like an invitation to art, an invitation to use your imagination.”

I thought about it. His explanation did seem possible. “But what does, ‘Dancing in red shoes will kill you' have to do with the imagination or art?”

Gray pulled a book out of the backpack. “It doesn't. It has a whole different message.” He handed me the book. “Turn to page forty-seven.”

I flipped through it and came to a poem called “A Red Shirt.”

“Look at the last line on the page,” Gray said.

My eyes scanned the poem until it got to the words
Dancing in red shoes will kill you
.

“See?” Gray said.

“See what?”

“The words are from a poem, just like with the blue guitar. I was trying to merge art and poetry to send a message.”

I was beginning to sense his frustration. I thought maybe I'd cut him some slack and try to understand. “Okay, so who was the message for?”

Gray looked down. “It was sort of…for you. But, really, for everyone.”

Now it was my turn to be frustrated. “I'm sorry. I
don't get what you're talking about.”

“You know how I told you my mom makes me read poems that she's researching? Well this one's by that writer, Margaret Atwood, the one we talked about. The poem's about how girls are taught through fables and myths that they should always be careful, how fairy tales tell them they shouldn't wear red and go in the woods….”

“Like Little Red Riding Hood?”

“Yes, and they shouldn't dance in red shoes because they'll get their feet cut off.”

“Paterson was right.”

“What?”

“She said the shoes might have something to do with the fairy tale…. But what did it have to do with me?”

Gray put the book in his backpack. “After you found out why that Timm guy didn't choose you for a lead part and Paterson compared it to those fairy tales, I got to thinking about this poem my mom had given me. She said it meant that girls and women are taught to take the safe path all the time, to avoid risks. Dancing in red shoes is like not listening to all that and taking the risk.”

“But why didn't you tell anyone that's what it all meant?”

Gray looked down and zipped his backpack. “I don't know. I chickened out. I assumed everyone would know it was art. Everyone at my old school in Manhattan
would have.”

“Really?”

“I think so. Anyway, when everyone started freaking out and talking about death threats, I got scared. I thought it would all just fade away if I stopped putting up the shoes.”

I turned toward him. “So it didn't have anything to do with death threats at all?”

“No, I swear. I just wanted to do something different. To make people more aware of the sexist messages they get from everyday life. I was never going to hurt anyone.” He looked me straight in the eye. “Least of all you.”

I stared back at him. “Why least of all me?”

He stuffed his hands into his jean pockets. “Well, you must know that I really like you…a lot.”

Those were the words I'd been wanting to hear. Yet I didn't know what to say. I just stared at him for a few seconds, but then I remembered something. “One more question,” I demanded.

Gray looked sheepish. “What?”

“Why were Melissa's initials on the backs of the pointe shoes?”

Gray laughed.

“I don't see what's so funny.”

“You would if you'd seen her in the school store,
prancing around trying to get my attention. She came in to buy a new pair of shoes.”

“That doesn't surprise me.”

“When she was finally done trying a bunch of shoes on, she left her old ones on the floor. When I told her she'd forgotten them, she said I could have them as a souvenir to remember her by.”

I could hear Melissa's voice, as sickening as six packs of NutraSweet. “And you took them?”

“What else could I do? I put them in a box behind the counter. I wasn't going to do anything with them. But then I got the idea for the project.”

Gray finished his explanation just in time. Joey and Paterson apparently had decided the clock struck midnight. They popped out of nowhere beside us.

“So…” Paterson said, “what's up?”

In those brief moments before she and Joey materialized, I had almost forgotten the whole plan we'd devised. I gestured toward Paterson and Joey and looked at Gray. “You've met my bodyguards?”

After a brief summary of what had transpired, Paterson and Joey realized Gray was no longer a threat to me or anyone else. Paterson claimed she knew all the time it had something to do with the fairy tale and that Gray was a good guy. I didn't remind her about the psycho and smut suspicions, not to mention the
fetish accusations.

“So what are you guys going to do now that you know?” Gray finally asked.

Joey shrugged. “Eat dinner?”

Paterson laughed. “Tell Etch A Sketch you deserve an A in class.”

“I'm serious,” Gray said. “You're all accessories now.”

“Accessories to what—an art project?” Paterson said. “Since when is that a crime?”

Gray laughed. “Depends on the artist, I guess.”

Paterson rolled her eyes. I knew she was thinking of some of her fellow art students. “I just have one more question,” she said.

“What?”

“Did you really think anyone at Farts would get what you were trying to convey?”

Gray shrugged. “At my old school, we combined art forms all the time—poetry and sculpture, music and painting. It was kind of like a puzzle. Everyone liked trying to figure out what the artist meant.”

Paterson shook her head. “You forgot we have a principal with the aesthetics of a slug and an art department head who thinks a single straight line is a thing of beauty.”

Gray raised his right hand. “I promise I'll start sketching buildings or something.”

“So let me get this straight,” Joey said. “You're not a
stalker? Never were a stalker?”

Gray laughed. “No.”

Joey let out a sigh. “So now we can eat dinner, right?”

 

That night was the first in a long time I felt really relaxed. No one wanted to kill anyone. The red shoes mystery was solved. And, best of all, Gray Foster liked me—a lot. I played the day back in my mind. Dinner had been fun. We mostly talked about the protest plans. Before that, there was the whole explanation for Paterson and Joey. And before that, Gray had made his declaration of “like.” That was the part I wanted to freeze-frame and play back my own way. If I'd been making the movie of my life, that's where Gray and I would have kissed. Before I fell asleep, I directed the scene, played the movie, and pressed the pause button just as our lips met.

N
ormally getting up in the dark was not my idea of a good time, but on the day of the demonstration, brushing my teeth by morning moonlight didn't bother me a bit. It was going to be a great day. The protest was all about Paterson. No one at school was talking about my boobs anymore—they were all talking about a whole other part of the anatomy that I didn't have.

Paterson had told our parents what was happening, so at five-thirty they stumbled out of bed to wish us luck. They weren't quite as radical as Gray's parents, but they'd grown up in the sixties and got the whole fight-for-what-you-believe-in thing. “Just don't get kicked out of
school,” my mother yelled as Paterson grabbed two granola bars and ran out the door.

My father patted me on the shoulder. “Make sure things don't get out of hand.”

“Sure, Dad.” I smiled and followed Paterson to the car.

Paterson backed out of the driveway. “This is going to be so cool.”

“Way cool,” I answered, realizing we were probably talking about two different things. Now that I knew Gray wasn't a stalker, I couldn't stop fantasizing about being with him again. I felt a little guilty that my excitement about seeing Gray slightly overshadowed my enthusiasm for free speech. I tried to muster some outrage. “We're really going to kick butt.”

When we got to the Burger King parking lot across the street from the school, Ryan, Sara, and Gray were already getting the posters out of the car. A few other cars pulled up and parked at the same time we did. As I grabbed one of the placards, Gray's arm brushed mine. Our eyes met and lingered for a second. My legs felt as if I'd just done a thousand
jetés
. We smiled briefly, but then it was back to business.

“Okay everyone,” Gray announced, “here's the deal. The permit allows us to protest from six to eight
A.M
., as long as we're peaceful. The school can't do anything
about that. But if we miss class, that's a problem.”

Everyone groaned.

Gray closed the car door and gave me one last smile. “We've got to be in homeroom by the time the bell rings so Kovac doesn't have anything to complain about.”

Ryan's blond spikes popped up next to Gray's dark ponytail. “My dad's sending the TV cameras around seven-fifteen so they can get the reaction from everyone arriving at school. We'll have to hurry and put the posters away around five to eight.”

Gray nodded. “Okay. It's showtime.”

The first hour of the protest was pretty uneventful. About twenty of us paced back and forth across the street from school, holding up our “The Pen-Is Mightier Than Censorship” posters. Some of the art majors who hadn't shown up at Gray's carried their own signs that read, “Farts Stinks of Censorship.” Aside from the occasional junk-food junkies at the BK drive-thru, we were barely noticed. When we were, it was usually by someone yelling, “Hey,
penis
doesn't have a hyphen!” I was beginning to understand why so few people engaged in organized protest. No one seemed to care but the protesters.

Even Kovac had nothing to say as he drove past us and backed into his special space by the front entrance. Some of the art students crossing the street raised their fists in solidarity. Others who saw the signs but clearly
had no idea what the protest was about, shouted “Penis Power” as they drove to their parking spaces and walked into school.

Around seven-thirty the theater majors put on a performance that they'd obviously planned ahead of time. Six of them piled their placards on the ground, lined up beside one another, and began to rap:

On the last word, in perfect sync, they all pulled their pant waists out and looked down at their crotches—even the girls.

It wasn't exactly Will Smith, or Will Shakespeare for that matter, but it got the point across. And it broke the boredom. It also prompted Joey to begin executing
grands jetés
and
pirouettes
up and down the street in front of the main entrance of the school. Not to be outdone, the theater kids repeated their rap, accompanied by an
impromptu booty dance, behind Joey's leaps and turns. During the performance Gray and I took the opportunity to sneak back to the parking lot.

“Is everything okay with us now?” Gray said, leaning against his car.

“You mean since I found out the red shoes were all about a fairy tale instead of a felony?” I joked.

Gray laughed. “I guess that's what I mean.” He reached for my hand. “Maybe we can finally have a real date soon.”

I was about to say I'd like that too, but we were interrupted by the rest of the crew returning the posters. My frustration at never being alone with Gray was making me crazy. Classes were about to start, so we all grabbed our backpacks and headed off.

On the six o'clock news that night, Paterson's message was somewhat overshadowed by a sort of Lord of the Dance meets Sluts in the Street. So when a local radio station called the house that night wanting her to appear on the Hal Barker show the next night, she said, yes, without thinking about it. She was hoping to put some pressure on Kovac. Etch A Sketch, who had always liked Paterson and was secretly sympathetic to her cause, said the demonstration hadn't swayed the administration. Paterson thought maybe more publicity would help.

 

Our parents decided it would be a good idea for all of us to go to the show because the radio station shared a neighborhood with several gun shops and triple X bookstores, a connection I never understood. After a rousing session of raw porn, was it a guy's first impulse to go next door to buy a gun and fire off a few rounds?

When we arrived at the WADD offices, we were greeted by a guard and told to park in a fenced lot. Someone buzzed us into the building. I wondered if all the security was because the radio station feared crime in the neighborhood or because they feared the listeners. Hal, the DJ, was a Howard Stern wannabe who prided himself in antagonizing his South Florida audience of retirees, rednecks, and radicals. He was an equal-opportunity annoyance, never sticking to a particular point of view. He mainly wanted to stir up controversy, which is why Paterson agreed to go on the show. She figured he'd probably be on her side since that was the side getting the most flack.

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 bring
ing 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.”