Dancing in Red Shoes Will Kill You (3 page)

“I'm saving that one,” Paterson said.

“For what?” Joey asked, affecting a scholarly inflection. “New York's famed Metropolitan Museum of Art?”

“I wish,” Paterson said. “I'm waiting till everything's finished to turn in the whole portfolio.” She picked up her sketch pencil. “Can you guys occupy yourselves for a while before I drive us home…please?”

Joey and I looked at each other. We were always waiting for Paterson to finish something, but it was better than taking the bus.

“C'mon,” Joey said, “let's go to the school store and check out the new guy.”

“Not you too?” I said. “Melissa and Ivy are already in love. What did you hear?”

“Just that his sexual persuasion wasn't immediately identifiable.”

“And you learned this how?” Paterson asked.

Joey looked at the floor. “I admit it wasn't a very good source…. It was Devin.”

Paterson groaned. “Mr. Homophobe himself. I'd be a little skeptical of anything Devin had to say.”

“Don't you remember?” I said. “After I refused to go out with him, he tried to spread a rumor that I had implants.”

“Well, if one of us doesn't get a date soon,” Joey said, “there'll be even more rumors.” He turned toward me. “Maybe you can go out with the new guy and get some fresh blood into this triumvirate.”

“Okay, we'll check him out,” I said. If there was someone at Farts worth dating, I definitely wanted to see it for myself. I turned to Paterson, who was trying to reconstruct Lourdes's left foot. “Fifteen minutes, okay?”

 

Inside the school store, I didn't see anyone who looked like the hot guy I'd been hearing about. I was surveying the lamb's wool and various types of toe pads when Joey called me over. “Look at this,” he said, gesturing toward a poster on the wall next to the tights.

 

Attention Dancers:

The school store has many of your needs.

Leg warmers, leotards

toe shoes, tights

ice packs, Ace bandages

tape and gauze.

But, we're sorry to say,

we're all out of applause.

 

“Very cute,” I said. “It makes us sound like a bunch of masochistic egotists.”

“That wasn't how I meant it.”

Joey and I spun around. I stared into the eyes of the speaker and immediately knew he had to be Gray. My next thought was that the name Gray was all wrong for him. It was too bland, too flat, too insipid. His eyes looked at the poem and then back to me. With those eyes he should have been named Aquamarine, Cerulean, Indigo. Yes, that was it, Indigo.

“I'm Gray Foster,” he said. “I didn't mean to offend the dancers. It's just a poem I put together while I was looking at the inventory list.”

I laughed self-consciously. “I was just kidding,” I said. “I'm a
big
fan of poetry.” Ugh. I was just as bad as Melissa. The only poetry I'd read was in English class.

While Joey introduced himself, I did my own inventory: dark wavy hair pulled back in a ponytail, good body (not as good as Joey's, but good), and those eyes, whoa. I really hoped Devin was wrong.

“Can I help you find something?” Gray said.

“Uh…umm.” Suddenly I couldn't remember what I was looking for.

“Didn't you want some lamb's wool?” Joey said.

“Yeah, lamb's wool,” I said, “for my pointe shoes.” How stupid did that sound? Of course it was for my pointe shoes, or maybe I was going to make a sweater with it.

Gray picked up a small plastic packet with some kind of gel inside it. “We just got these in,” he said. “Some of the dancers are using them instead of lamb's wool or foam rubber pads.”

Joey picked one up and squished it between his fingers. “They look like breast implants.”

I shot him a look, the kind I usually reserved for Melissa. Then I quickly glanced at Gray to see if his eyes were on my breasts. Surprisingly, they weren't. He was looking at my face. Was that a good sign?

“I think I'd rather stick to the lamb's wool,” I said.

Gray bent over to get a fresh box out of the cabinet. Joey and I took the opportunity to check out his butt.

I was in a daze by the time I pulled out my wallet to pay for the lamb's wool, captivated by Gray's looks and charm. I could have forked over two week's allowance and not even known it. By the time Joey and I got out of the store, Joey had invited Gray to watch the auditions for
Cinderella
and I'd professed a deep love for poetry as well as the desire to attend one of his mother's readings.

 

“So what did you two think about the new guy?” Paterson said as she steered her Jetta out of the parking lot.

“I think Devin might have been right,” I said.

“No way,” Joey answered.

I turned toward the backseat. “I'm serious. He didn't even look at my boobs when you made that crack about breast implants. And, by the way, what was that all about?”

Joey shrugged. “I'm sorry. They looked like implants. It was the first thing that came to my mind.”

“Where have you seen breast implants?” Paterson said.

“On one of those TV specials where they show you things like liposuction and plastic surgery. They made little slits around the woman's nipple and—”

“Okay, that's enough,” I said. “We believe you. Let's get back to why you don't think he's gay.”

“Oh, that,” Joey said. “He was checking you out like crazy when you weren't looking. He's a typical guy, just better at it than most. Too bad. He's really good looking.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, secretly shouting
hurray
inside.

“That's okay,” Joey said. “I've got to focus on getting into a ballet company this year anyway. He'd just be a distraction.”

I put my head back on the leopard print headrest and for a few minutes forgot about the next day's auditions. I was definitely ready for a distraction like Gray Foster.

W
e were almost at the end of English lit when my name came booming over the PA system. “Ms. Halstrom, could you please send Kayla Callaway to the guidance office?”

Immediately everyone's eyes turned my way as an undercurrent of curious looks rippled across the classroom. A couple of voices from the back sang an exaggerated “Ooooh.”

I looked at Ms. Halstrom, hoping she could provide a clue as to why, for the first time in my entire sixteen years, I was being called to see a guidance counselor. If it were senior year, it would be different; she'd want to talk about college. But at Farts everyone knew the guidance
counselors were so overworked that, if you were called in during any other year, you had to be either dyslexic or on drugs. To my knowledge, I wasn't either.

Ms. Halstrom looked back at me with curiosity and surprise. I could tell she was already making up some scenario in her head. English teachers like to find all kinds of hidden meaning in things.

But all she said was, “You'd better take your backpack. We're almost ready to change classes.”

Halfway to the guidance counselor, I began to get excited. I knew I hadn't done anything wrong, so I started fantasizing about what she could possibly want to tell me. Maybe there was a dance scholarship she wanted to recommend. Or maybe there was some award that I'd been nominated for and didn't know about. Auditions for
Cinderella
were that afternoon. But I knew it couldn't have anything to do with getting a part because the dance department always handled that.

The guidance office was bigger than I'd expected it to be. I had to stop at a front desk and give my name before I was directed to another, smaller office. Inside a heavy-set woman stood and introduced herself as Ms. Marone. Behind her head—which reeked of way too much hair spray—a huge poster displaying a waterfall and a rainbow read:
IF YOU CAN DREAM IT
,
YOU CAN ACHIEVE IT
. I hoped her advice wasn't as clichéd as her taste in posters.

She pointed to a chair across from her desk. “Sit down,” she said as if she were a doctor ready to give some depressing news about my test results.

She sat behind her dark wooden desk and folded her hands on a green blotter. “Kayla, do you know why I called you in here?”

I was pretty sure the dumb look on my face told the answer, but I managed to vocalize an “Umm, no.”

“You have no idea?”

I could tell by her tone of voice and the guessing game that there was no scholarship or award. I tried to think of the answer she was looking for. “Well, my grades are good. I'm keeping up with the advanced ballet class. I haven't joined many clubs, I know, but the dance program is pretty demanding….” I knew I was rambling, but she sat there, silent, looking at me like I was some sort of lab rat.

She looked down at a piece of paper and nodded. “Yes, your grades are good. And I see you're doing well in the dance program, but…”

I didn't like the sound of that “but.” I stared at the jar of Jolly Ranchers on her desk, watching the light shine through the bright colors.

“Would you like one?” Ms. Marone said.

I looked up, startled. “Uh, no thanks.”

Ms. Marone nodded and gave me a knowing look.
What was that supposed to mean? Did she think I had false teeth?

She folded her hands again. “You know, you have some very good friends.” She paused.

I felt an obligation to fill in the silence. “Yes, very good,” I said. But was that the reason she'd called me in? Was this the day to call in everyone with very good friends? Shouldn't there have been more people then?

Ms. Marone nodded. “These friends of yours care very much about you….”

I felt a lump rising in my throat. I still wasn't sure what I'd done, but I was beginning to feel really guilty about it.

“And they're very concerned about…”

Suddenly I knew what she was talking about. I'd been at a party the week before with Joey and Paterson, and I'd taken a sip of someone's beer. I was just about to blurt out that it was only a sip and I didn't even like it, when she finished her sentence.

“…your bulimia.”

“My what?” I was all set to confess to ingesting a teaspoon of alcohol. But bulimia? That was like the total opposite of ingesting. Maybe she'd gotten me confused with one of the other dancers.

“It's okay,” she whispered. “It's natural to deny it. Bulimia is one of those hidden diseases that no one
wants to admit to. That's why it's good that your friends came forward.”

“But I'm not bulimic,” I said.

“It's okay. You can talk about it here,” she said. “This is a safe place for you to discuss your emotions.”

She seemed so caring and professional. I began to wonder if maybe I
was
bulimic and just didn't know it. I racked my mind to think of the last time I'd vomited. There was that time in eighth grade that I ate a bad corn dog in the school cafeteria and lost it all over Nicky McNerny during last period and, before that, in fourth grade, when I woke up with a stomach virus and threw up in my bed. That didn't seem like enough times to qualify as bulimia. In fact, vomiting was something I found really disgusting, not anything I'd do voluntarily or on a regular basis.

“You know,” Ms. Marone continued, “I recently read some startling statistics about the ballet world—as many as fifteen percent of dancers suffer from a serious eating disorder. And, one out of two has some struggle with eating.” She whispered, as if she were in church. “So you're not alone.”

I could see she had done her homework. I wanted to scream out that I was the other one out of the two—not the one with the disorder, the one that ate enough and kept it all down. But it was obvious she'd already pegged
me as a barfing ballerina. My eating habits were suspect until my food was proven digested.

Ms. Marone continued to regale me with tales of ballet and bulimia. “You know,” she continued, “I've read that every few years, they have to change the pipes in the bathroom at one ballet company in New York because the stomach acid from the girls throwing up erodes the metal.”

I bit my upper lip to keep from laughing at the vision in my head of dancers lined up in their tutus retching in choreographed unison at the open stalls. Just then the bell rang, and my thoughts immediately turned to the auditions. Like Cinderella at midnight, I realized I had a deadline. I grabbed my backpack. “I've got auditions this afternoon, and I've got to get to ballet class this period to warm up. I can't be late.”

“But we're not finished discussing your…problem,” Ms. Marone said.

“I'm sorry,” I answered more emphatically, “but I have auditions.”

 

I slipped into class in the middle of a
plié
combination and mouthed the word
sorry
to Miss Alicia. She looked at me in a sympathetic way. Had she known where I'd been? Was she in on this bogus bulimia conspiracy? I went through the whole barre warm-up, looking at
everyone's reflection in the mirror in a different way than I usually did. This time I wasn't comparing my extensions or the arch in my foot. I was looking for “friends.”

After ruling out most of the class, including Miss Alicia, who I knew would have approached me first, it all came down to the usual suspects—Devin and Melissa.

Devin definitely had it in for me, especially if he thought I was interested in Gray Foster. Had he seen Joey and me talking to Gray in the bookstore? Ms. Marone had said “friends” were concerned about me. Had Devin and Melissa teamed up for this
pas de deux
of deception?

I couldn't let it occupy my mind. After class we were all going over to the auditorium for the audition. I had to be ready physically and mentally. How could I dance like Cinderella when I felt like an evil stepsister inside?

 

From the stage, the auditorium looked pretty empty except for the people from Ballet on the Beach and some others who had come by to watch. I looked around for Gray, but it was hard to see who was sitting in the back. I wasn't sure if I really wanted him there. His presence would have definitely proven he was interested. But then again, I was nervous enough dancing for the judges. I didn't need the added pressure.

Everyone in the dance program was crowded onto
the stage, sitting and listening to a guy named Timm, “with two
em
s,” explain the history of the ballet. I wasn't sure why he told us about the two
em
s. I heard him say something about Prokofiev, but after that I tuned out. I was imagining myself as Cinderella at the ball when Ivy leaned over and whispered to me, “Are you okay?”

We were sitting in the back so Timm with two
em
s couldn't see us. I turned to her and whispered, “Yeah, why?”

“You know,” she said.

I was beginning to suspect I knew, but I played dumb. “No, I don't, what do you mean?”

“You know,” she repeated. She took her index finger and motioned it toward her open mouth.

“It was
you
?” I blurted out.

Timm inserted a
shhh
into his speech.

I lowered my voice and talked through my teeth, trying to keep my lips still. “Why did you tell Ms. Marone I was bulimic?”

“We just wanted to help,” Ivy whispered.

“We?”

“Yes. Melissa and me.”

“And why did Melissa think I was bulimic?” I said, trying not to scream.

“Remember in the locker room the other day when you said, ‘Excuse me while I go barf'?”

I dropped my head into my hands. Ivy was a bigger idiot than I thought she was, and Melissa apparently was a more devious enemy than I thought
she
was. I understood now what was going on. Melissa must have hoped I'd either be stuck in Ms. Marone's office or, at the very least, be too upset to do my best at the auditions. And she'd gotten poor, dumb, eyebrow-loving Ivy involved in the whole thing too. Well, I'd show her. I lifted my head and turned toward Ivy. “That's just an expression,” I whispered, calmly.

Her eyes opened wide. “It is?” Looking confused, she slumped and added, “I'm really sorry.”

I didn't answer her. I was trying to figure out how to let Melissa know her little scheme wasn't going to work. Or maybe it was better to pretend for a while that I didn't know it was she who had spilled the bogus bulimia beans, and then go in for the kill when the time was right?

I tuned back into Timm's speech. He explained that he'd be conducting the auditions for the judges sitting in the audience. We would first learn two combinations together and then do them in groups. After that we would be paired up to perform a
pas de deux
. Ivy leaned toward me one last time. “He could stand to tweeze a little, huh?” she whispered.

Timm instructed us to stand and get ready to learn
the first combination. Simultaneously all the girls, including me, pulled down our leotards, which had crawled up our butts while we were sitting. It looked as if it was part of the choreography.

Timm had brought a couple of dancers with him to teach us the steps. Both girls looked like waifs, which was in contrast to Timm, who looked like he'd been hitting the Häagen-Dazs a little too much lately.

The first combination was fairly easy—an assortment of basic steps, ending in a double
pirouette
. We learned it in one big group, walking through the steps and practically falling over one another. I was glad Melissa was on the other side of the stage. I might have been tempted to accidentally land on her foot.

Once we learned the steps, Timm had us do them in four groups of eight. Melissa and Ivy were in the first group with Joey. Lourdes was in the second group. Devin was in the third. And I was in the fourth. I was glad I'd get a chance to watch Joey as well as the major competition.

Melissa and Ivy clearly were the best dancers in their group, excluding Joey, who managed to fit a quadruple
pirouette
in at the end. I looked at Timm to see his reaction. He nodded and smiled as Joey walked to the wings.

Once the second group moved forward, Melissa inched her way toward me as I stood against the back
curtain. She leaned over and whispered, loud enough so I could hear her above the music and the clunking of pointe shoes, “Lourdes is getting fat, don't you think?”

Wasn't that just like her? Pretending to be my friend now so she could knock out more of the competition. I guessed it was some kind of weird compliment that she put me in the same league as Lourdes. I ignored her, but she just kept talking.

“I heard she might be pregnant.”

I turned toward Melissa and scowled. If she thought she was going to rope me into her petty rivalries the way she had roped Ivy in, she was mistaken.

I watched the second and third groups in silence. I knew why Melissa wanted to get Lourdes out of the race. She was definitely the most Cinderella-like. Her huge brown eyes had an innocence, as well as a sadness, about them. Her mother had sent her to Miami from Cuba with an aunt and some cousins when she was ten years old. They had planned to bring the rest of the family soon after, but it had been seven years since she had seen her parents or her two brothers. How could Melissa even think about trashing Lourdes? What went on in her warped little mind?

Devin's group had a few freshmen and sophomores who could have been in the running for some of the good parts. Usually, though, Miss Alicia made sure the
best dancers who had paid their dues in the corps for a couple of years were rewarded. I figured it was my turn for a reward. I'd worked harder than ever since the school year started.

By the time my turn came, I was psyched. The combination was fairly easy, so I was able to show off my extensions. I tried to look Cinderella-like and show the kind of emotion the part called for. When it was over, I was afraid I might have looked more indignant than sad over not being able to go to the ball. But I knew I'd danced well.