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

wife doesn’t go traipsing all over the world to dance.”
    â€œWhy 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.”
    â€œNot 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 !
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œKiss 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?”
    â€œDid she kill herself?” Joey said.
    Paterson turned around. “It was the red shoes.”
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œWhat’s that all about?” Joey asked.
    â€œA 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?”
    â€œSomething 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.”
    â€œThat’s pretty harsh,” Joey said. “Then what happens?”
    Paterson looked at the book. “First she gets wooden feet, then she goes to heaven.”
    â€œIsn’t there some religious belief that someday your soul will be reunited in heaven with a perfect body?” I said.
    â€œSounds familiar,” Paterson said. “But whose idea of perfection are we talking about?”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œThat’s sick,” I said.
    â€œYou know you’re probably going to hell for that, Paterson,” Joey added.
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œWhat?” Joey said.
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œI don’t know,” he said. “Wooden feet? Homicidal pointe shoes?”
    â€œJoey’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.”
    â€œDo you think she did it to frame you? To make it look like you’re the one with the