Dancing in Red Shoes Will Kill You (6 page)

Miss Alicia shoved the CD into a plastic filing box.

“No reason,” I said. “I was just wondering what the big deal was about them.”

“I don't think there is any big deal,” Miss Alicia said, “I'm sure it's someone's idea of a joke. But I'm glad you came to see me.”

What was it this time, I wondered. Did Timm with two
em
s think I needed a nose job, too?

Miss Alicia reached into her drawer and pulled out a business card. “This is the doctor I told you about. I've heard good things about him. Another friend of mine went to him for the opposite problem, and she was very happy with the results.”

I wrapped my fingers around the card without looking at it. “Thanks,” I said. I hadn't really thought of my
breasts as “problem breasts.” It made them sound like children who wouldn't behave. Miss Alicia's friend must have thought her breasts were too small. That didn't seem to qualify as a full-fledged “problem” to me. Few fulfilling careers required cantaloupe boobs. And even if they did, you could always wear a Wonderbra. Victoria's Secret had yet to make an undergarment that could hide eight pounds of flesh. I looked down. No bra was going to keep these babies a secret. And those tips for the full-figured girl in the magazines. Please. Even NASA couldn't design a tank suit to camouflage my proportions.

 

When I got to the art room, Paterson was working on a new sketch of a girl's face. Joey was watching intently until he heard me come in. “Where were you?” he said. “I waited for you by the girl's dressing room, but you never came out. And speaking of coming out, I don't think Gray will be any time soon—he asked me yesterday if you had a boyfriend.”

I dropped my dance bag on the floor, nearly missing my toe. “Are you serious?”

“As a bunion.”

“Why didn't you tell me this morning?”

“Oh, you mean during the killer pointe shoe fiasco?”

“You're right,” I said. “I guess death threats should take precedence over prospective boyfriends.”

Paterson stopped sketching. “Death threats?”

“You didn't hear?” I said.

“All I heard was something about red shoes.”

Joey slid a painting of big purple flowers down one of the art tables and hoisted himself up, his feet dangling. “Where have you been all day?”

“In here most of the time,” Paterson said. “Old Etch A Sketch gave me a pass so I could work on my project.” Etch A Sketch was Paterson's nickname for Mr. Walker, one of the art teachers whose work seemed to show a passion for straight lines, something Paterson didn't find particularly interesting.

“It's a little more than a pair of shoes,” I said. “No matter what Miss Alicia thinks. That's what I was trying to tell you in class, Joey.”

Paterson stopped sketching. “You're right.”

For a second I thought maybe she knew something and could shed light on what was going on. Until she added, “They're phallic symbols.”

I groaned. I was not up for a psychological discussion. I was being framed, and soon everyone was going to know it.

Joey laughed. “To paraphrase Freud, sometimes a pointe shoe is just a pointe shoe.”

“I'm serious,” I said. “I think Melissa's trying to set me up. This kid in my calculus class told me he heard a
rumor that the shoes were put up by a psycho who got the understudy role of Cinderella.”

Paterson was drawing a large open mouth on the girl in the picture. “No one's going to believe you would do something like that.”

“She's right,” Joey said. “Melissa's the only person who would be capable of that kind of thing, and everyone knows it.”

I wasn't sure if I could believe them or not. The ballet people knew about Melissa, but the rest of the school didn't. What if she was able to convince everyone else that
she
was the victim?

“I forgot to tell you the most important part,” I said. “I looked at the bottom of the shoes and peeled some of the paint off. Melissa's initials were printed on the soles.”

“Whoa,” Joey said. “She
is
a psycho.”

Paterson dropped her pencil. “Wait a minute. You mean they're her shoes? She painted them, put them up there with a death threat, and now she's trying to pin it on you?”

Joey shook his head. “That is so wrong. Did anyone else see the initials?”

“No,” I said. “That's the problem. And now who knows where the shoes are.”

Paterson pulled the cover down on her sketch pad and packed up her pencils. “I don't think people would
believe you'd do a thing like that.”

Joey jumped down from the art table. “And if they do, you can always teach ballet to your fellow inmates at the women's detention center.”

I hit him with my backpack as we walked out.

 

That night when I pulled my dirty leotard and tights out of my dance bag, I found the card Miss Alicia had given me crumpled up and stuck inside my pointe shoe. I smoothed it out and looked at it.
DR
.
ANDERSEN MARLOWE
,
PLASTIC SURGEON
.

Marlowe, I thought, like Marlo Thomas. I remembered reading in one of Paterson's books about the controversy the actress caused in the old show
That Girl
when she didn't wear a bra and her boobs bounced all over the television screen. What the hell was everybody's thing with breasts?

I put the card on my dresser next to my hairspray. I knew what Paterson would say about Dr. Marlowe.

I stuffed clean dance clothes into the bag and thought about how much had happened that day. My head was swirling with thoughts of death threats and plastic surgeons. Whatever happened to sugarplums and fairies?

I'd almost forgotten about Gray Foster. If anything could take my mind off my problems, it was him. As I
crawled into bed, I thought about what Joey had said. Gray had to be interested in me—why else would he care if I had a boyfriend? I closed my eyes and tried to picture Gray's face. But those stupid red pointe shoes kept floating in front of it.

“W
ake up. Wake up,” a voice commanded. I opened my eyes to find Paterson standing next to my bed with a book and a videotape in one hand and a bowl of popcorn in the other.

I squinted at her. “What are you doing, waking me up so early on Saturday?”

“It's almost noon,” she said. “I've already been to the library and back.”

I rubbed my eyes and sat up. “What for?”

She held up the book and tape. “Clues,” she said.

“Clues? Who are you, Nancy Drew?” I hadn't intended the pun, but when I realized what I'd said, I laughed and added, “Get it? Drew. You're an artist?”

Paterson ignored me. “I thought you'd be a little more concerned about psycho ballerina and her killer pointe shoes.” She pulled the covers off me. “C'mon, we've got work to do.”

I didn't think Paterson had taken me seriously when I'd told her about Melissa's initials being on the shoes. It had been almost a week since the whole red shoes fiasco. And, more importantly, three days since I'd last run into Gray before rehearsal. We didn't have any classes together, so there was no chance of seeing him during school. I'd fantasized about running into him somehow over the weekend, but I had no idea where he lived or hung out.

Instead, I was going to spend my Saturday playing detective with Paterson. I made my way to the bathroom, getting a whiff of popcorn and turning up my nose as I passed her.

“I just popped it in the microwave,” Paterson said, following me to the bathroom. “It's low fat. You'll be glad we have it during the movie.”

“What is this movie, anyway?”

Paterson held up the box.

I brought it close to my eyes. “
The Red Shoes—
I've heard of that somewhere.”

“It's a classic,” Paterson said, “from nineteen forty-eight.”

After I put my contact lenses in, I got a better look at the front cover. Under a picture of a ballerina, the caption read:
BETWEEN HER ART AND HER DREAMS WAS HER HEART
. I looked up at Paterson. “Just like me,” I said, “except between my art and my dreams are my boobs.”

“Hold that thought,” Paterson said. “It might be a clue.”

I squeezed a mint-green snake onto my toothbrush. “Are you kidding?”

“No,” she said. “Whoever put up those shoes, whether it's Melissa or not, they had to know something about the fairy tale, the movie, or both.”

“What fairy tale?” I asked through a mouthful of toothpaste.

“
The Red Shoes
,” Paterson said with impatience. She held up a children's book that pictured a girl wearing a huge white dress and red pointe shoes. “Our psycho picked red shoes for a reason. The note didn't say, ‘Dancing in pink shoes will kill you,' or ‘Dancing in puce shoes will kill you.'”

“Puce?” I said, spitting into the sink.

“It's a dark red,” Paterson said. “But it's all beside the point. The fairy tale and the movie have to be the keys.”

I didn't have the energy to argue with her. By the time she fed the tape into the VCR and pressed
PLAY
, I was already on the couch with a mouthful of popcorn.

“Why don't we call Joey to come watch it with us?”

“Already called this morning. He had something to do.”

What could Joey have to do on a Saturday that didn't involve us? I vowed never to forgive him for making me sit here and watch this with Paterson, who seemed to have gone all
Murder She Wrote
on me.

I couldn't believe she was making me watch this. It was the slowest movie I'd ever seen. Normally, I don't like car chases, but this film practically cried out for one. Aside from the fact that the movie showed a bunch of laughable close-ups with melodramatic music, the thing that was really noticeable was the ballerinas' bodies and technique.

“Look at those
arabesques
,” I said. “They're barely at ninety degrees.”

“It's just like athletes,” Paterson said. “Years ago people thought it was impossible to break a four-minute mile, then some guy in the fifties did it and, suddenly, thousands of people were doing it. The bar's always rising.”

“That's for sure,” I said. “Even with the bodies.” I pointed to the screen. “A few of those ballerinas have got some major thighage going on. What's up with that?”

“It's like those art books with the rotund women you were looking at,” Paterson said. “It's all cultural. Once society accepts something, it becomes the norm.”

Just as I reached for some more popcorn and sank back into the leather cushion, the doorbell rang. Paterson hit the pause button and I galloped to the door. Even a Jehovah's Witness would have provided welcome relief.

“Hey,” I said, relieved to find Joey standing there. “I thought you had something to do.”

He walked by me and made his way to the popcorn. “Finished early,” he said.

“Lucky you,” I answered. “You're just in time to join the Sleuth Sisters and their search for clues in the great Red Shoe Riddle. But the real mystery is why we're watching this boring movie.”

“Okay, that's enough,” Paterson said, punching the play button.

Joey took off his sneakers and sat cross-legged on the couch next to me. For the next hour, we talked in sign language and made faces behind Paterson's head. Then, all of a sudden, something caught our attention—a big blowup between the main ballerina's husband and the ballet director. They were making her choose between them.

“Why can't she have both?” I said.

“Nineteen forty-eight, remember?” Paterson said. “A good wife doesn't go traipsing all over the world to dance.”

“Why not?” Joey said.

I brought my finger to my lips. “Shhh. It's starting to get good.” The dancer had defiantly put on a pair of red pointe shoes and her husband was storming off. It looked like she had chosen ballet over him. “Yay,” I said. “He wasn't even cute.”

“Not even a two,” Joey said. “Where did they get these guys?”

But then, suddenly, the ballerina was going after the husband, running on pointe in the red shoes, out of the dressing room, out of the theater, onto a balcony, calling after him, nearing the railing and then…
splat
!

“What the—” I cried. But before I could finish, there was her husband next to her and, apparently, she could still speak. In a limp voice she uttered the words: “Take the red shoes off.” The husband removed the shoes and put his face near her legs.

“Kiss those bloody feet,” Joey said as the husband put his lips on the shredded and stained tights.

For a minute I thought the ballerina was going to survive, but then she abruptly turned her face, closed her eyes, then…Boom. Dead. “That was the worst ending I've ever seen,” I said. “Why didn't she stop when she got to the railing?”

“Did she kill herself?” Joey said.

Paterson turned around. “It was the red shoes.”

“That's crazy,” I said. “How could the shoes kill her?”

Paterson picked up the book she'd had earlier. “It's like the fairy tale,” she said, leafing through the pages.

“What's that all about?” Joey asked.

“A little girl who disobeys the woman who adopted her by wearing red shoes.”

I sat up and adjusted my bra. “What's wrong with red shoes?”

“Something about vanity,” Paterson said. “Anyway, she wears the shoes and then, somehow, they get stuck to her feet and she can't stop dancing in them. She dances herself into such a frenzy that she has to have her feet cut off to stop.”

“That's pretty harsh,” Joey said. “Then what happens?”

Paterson looked at the book. “First she gets wooden feet, then she goes to heaven.”

“Isn't there some religious belief that someday your soul will be reunited in heaven with a perfect body?” I said.

“Sounds familiar,” Paterson said. “But whose idea of perfection are we talking about?”

“I don't know, but I was kind of hoping I could spend eternity in a size thirty-four B Victoria's Secret bra instead of one like this.” I pulled a two-inch-thick bra strap out from under my T-shirt.

Paterson laughed. “Maybe God loves your boobs. Maybe
She
thinks they're perfect and wants you to keep them forever.”

“That's sick,” I said.

“You know you're probably going to hell for that, Paterson,” Joey added.

“It's not as bad as a death threat,” Paterson said. “Remember, that's what we're here for—to figure out what's going on.”

“What?” Joey said.

“I guess I didn't really explain it all. Paterson thinks the red shoes at school have something to do with the movie or the fairy tale.”

Joey just laughed.

Paterson popped the videotape out and slid it into the container. “What's so funny?”

“I don't know,” he said. “Wooden feet? Homicidal pointe shoes?”

“Joey's right,” I said. “Besides, who in the dance program would even know about this movie—or the fairy tale. Everyone's so into ballet. I'm telling you, Melissa's initials were on the backs of those shoes, and she's practically illiterate.”

“Do you think she did it to frame you? To make it look like you're the one with the problem?” Paterson asked.

“It wouldn't be the first time,” I said, remembering a performance when she stole Ivy's sequined sash and stuck it in my dance bag.

“But why red shoes?” Paterson said. “Is that what she's wearing in the ballet?”

“I don't know,” I said. “But she seems to think it's common knowledge that red shoes go with her costume. Maybe there's a catalog somewhere—” My thoughts were interrupted by the ringing phone.

I leaned over to pick it up and immediately felt a tingling sensation in the backs of my knees when I heard the voice at the other end. “Hey guys,” I yelled, “it's Gray.” I wasn't sure why I'd announced it to everyone, but I was so surprised to hear his voice on the other end of the line that it was the first thing that came out of mouth. He must've had to do some digging to get our phone number because it wasn't listed. Score one for the ugly stepsister!

“Hey, Gray,” Paterson shouted.

“Gray, what's up?” Joey added in a loud voice.

Then Joey grabbed Paterson and pretended to be Gray, making out with me. He ran his hands along Paterson's back and murmured, “Oh, Kayla, you're such a great dancer. Will you go out with me?”

I rolled my eyes and tried to keep my mind on what Gray was saying. “He wants to know if we can go to his
mother's poetry reading next Saturday,” I reported to Paterson and Joey.

Gray cleared his throat. “Actually,” he said. “I was wondering if
you
would want to go.”

My stomach fluttered like the arms of the dying bird in Swan Lake. This was more than I'd hoped for. Not a foursome or a casual meeting in school. A real date. Who cared if it was to go see his mother read her poetry? It was still a date.

I covered the mouthpiece and whispered to Paterson and Joey, “He meant just
me
.”

Paterson mouthed the word
dork
and then yelled loudly, “Can't—got to work on my art project.”

Joey quickly added in a booming voice, “I've got to wash my jockstrap that night.”

Paterson pretended to knee him in the crotch.

“What did he say?” Gray asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “But I'd love to go to your mom's reading. What kind of poetry does she write?”

It was difficult to pay attention to the answer with Paterson falling all over Joey, whispering, “I love poetry. I've read
The Cat in the Hat
at least ten times….”

I thought I heard Gray say something about mythology, but I wasn't sure. Paterson was whispering something about Dr. Seuss's use of metaphor in
There's a Wocket in my Pocket
.

I finally decided there was no way I was going to have an intelligent conversation while Joey and Paterson were performing their little skit. I told Gray we'd talk more in school on Monday and hung up.

I grabbed a handful of popcorn. “Thanks a lot, you guys.”

Then I threw the popcorn up in the air and began waving my arms and skipping around, screaming, “I've got a date! I've got a date!”

Joey flopped onto the couch. “This is so pathetic,” he said. “We're at our sexual peak and when one of us finally gets a date, it's popcorn-throwing time.”

Paterson shoved him. “We don't need dates. We have art.”

“Art?” Joey said. “Sounds like a short fat guy with a receding hairline.”

“You can afford to make jokes,” Paterson said. “But I've got a project to work on. Etch A Sketch wants to see the preliminary drawings this week.” Her words trailed off as she headed toward her room.

I turned to Joey. “So where were you this morning?”

He shrugged. “Nowhere.”

“Do you want to help me plan for my date?”

Joey laughed. “Not really.”

“Well then, do you want some lunch?”

He shook his head. “I've got some homework to
do. I think I'll take off.”

“Since when do you do homework?” I yelled as he was walking out the door.

I thought it was strange that he didn't stay for lunch. And that he was going home to do work—especially since he had a severe case of senioritis. But it didn't matter. I had a date with Gray Foster!