Dancing in Red Shoes Will Kill You (13 page)

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.”

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 confes
sion. 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.”

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?