Free Dancing in Red Shoes Will Kill You by Dorian Cirrone Page A

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.”
    â€œHold that thought,” Paterson said. “It might be a clue.”
    I squeezed a mint-green snake onto my toothbrush. “Are you kidding?”
    â€œNo,” 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.”
    â€œWhat fairy tale?” I asked through a mouthful of toothpaste.
    â€œ 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.’”
    â€œPuce?” I said, spitting into the sink.
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œWhy don’t we call Joey to come watch it with us?”
    â€œAlready 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.
    â€œLook at those arabesques ,” I said. “They’re barely at ninety degrees.”
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œThat’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?”
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œHey,” 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.
    â€œLucky 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.”
    â€œOkay, 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.
    â€œWhy can’t she have both?” I said.
    â€œNineteen forty-eight, remember?” Paterson said. “A good