videos, not to mention a creepy
cutout of Julia Child holding a slimy chicken carcass. Classy. The other half is baby-doll pink and suited to a dancer. I wonder which side is Ivy’s.
I continue to look around, checking to see if anything appears off, finally spotting
a rack of ballet slippers. They’re all so pretty and delicate—like tiny works of art.
Even though I’m not a dancer now, I used to take ballet when I was a kid—back when
it was okay for little-girl ballerinas to be something other than white and emaciated.
But sometime around the age of eleven, when I started to sprout boobs and booty, and
when I decided to trade my frizz-ball hair bun for neat little cornrows, my ballet
teacher suggested that my “look” and body type might be better suited to hip-hop,
which totally squelched my dreams of being in Swan Lake one day. I haven’t danced since, which Dara always thought was crazy. “You’re an
incredible dancer,” she used to say. “Don’t let someone else’s opinion dictate your
life.”
If only Dara had taken her own advice.
I peer over my shoulder to make sure that no one’s looking, and then I go to try on
a shimmering white slipper, but I can barely squish my toes in, confirming what my
ballet teacher was talking about: some of us simply don’t fit.
I move over to the closet, noticing a stash of glittery costumes, hoping that there’s
one for Princess Odette, my favorite character from Swan Lake . I search the racks, eager to find one before someone comes in and sees me here.
There are costumes from The Nutcracker , A Midsummer Night’s Dream , Peter Pan , and Sleeping Beauty , but I don’t see any for Swan Lake . I take some Nutcracker wings, imagining myself as the Sugar Plum Fairy.
Then I spot something else. At the back of the closet. A streak of red on the wall.
I part the costumes to get a better look. Dark letters on the back of the closet spell
out GET OUT BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE .
“O KAY, WHO HAS THE SICK sense of humor?” someone shouts.
“Sounds like somebody’s looking for me,” I holler back, proceding down the hallway,
wielding my mighty ax.
It was Shayla’s voice. She’s in Ivy and Taylor’s room. There’s a sexy little smirk
on her face. “Did you do this?” She points inside a closet.
Before I can ask or see what she’s talking about, the others come back upstairs. I
swing the ax, picturing myself as Sidney Scarcella in Hotel 9: Blocked Rooms in the lobby scene, when poor Mrs. Teetlebaum ventures from her room in the middle
of the night. But they’re all so busy blathering on that they don’t even notice.
“Ohmygosh,” Shayla bursts out as soon as she sees Parker. “So, I was just checking
out the costumes, and…wait, where did you get that?” She’s looking at me now, referring
to my ax. A curious smile sits on her lips. I can tell she wants to play too.
“In the bathroom. The blade was stuck in the wall—just a sweet little reminder of
why we’re all here.”
“Is it real?” Ivy asks.
“Unfortunately, no.” I sigh, scratching my head with the plastic blade. “But it’s
the thought that counts, right?”
I move into the room and take a peek inside the closet. The costumes are pushed to
the side, exposing the back wall. “Get out before it’s too late,” I say, reading the
flaming-red words. I let out a big fat yawn. “I mean, seriously, this is it ?”
“Did you do it?” Parker asks me.
“If only I could take the credit.” I step closer to examine the writing. Some of the
letters have fingerprints in the individual strokes. But, I know my stuff. “It wasn’t
written in blood,” I say, “in case that was a concern.”
“This from the guy who thinks that blood is as blue as his balls,” Frankie says.
“I don’t really believe that blood is blue. I just wanted to see if I could convince you that it was.” I smile, making sure to expose my pointy incisors,
cutout of Julia Child holding a slimy chicken carcass. Classy. The other half is baby-doll pink and suited to a dancer. I wonder which side is Ivy’s.
I continue to look around, checking to see if anything appears off, finally spotting
a rack of ballet slippers. They’re all so pretty and delicate—like tiny works of art.
Even though I’m not a dancer now, I used to take ballet when I was a kid—back when
it was okay for little-girl ballerinas to be something other than white and emaciated.
But sometime around the age of eleven, when I started to sprout boobs and booty, and
when I decided to trade my frizz-ball hair bun for neat little cornrows, my ballet
teacher suggested that my “look” and body type might be better suited to hip-hop,
which totally squelched my dreams of being in Swan Lake one day. I haven’t danced since, which Dara always thought was crazy. “You’re an
incredible dancer,” she used to say. “Don’t let someone else’s opinion dictate your
life.”
If only Dara had taken her own advice.
I peer over my shoulder to make sure that no one’s looking, and then I go to try on
a shimmering white slipper, but I can barely squish my toes in, confirming what my
ballet teacher was talking about: some of us simply don’t fit.
I move over to the closet, noticing a stash of glittery costumes, hoping that there’s
one for Princess Odette, my favorite character from Swan Lake . I search the racks, eager to find one before someone comes in and sees me here.
There are costumes from The Nutcracker , A Midsummer Night’s Dream , Peter Pan , and Sleeping Beauty , but I don’t see any for Swan Lake . I take some Nutcracker wings, imagining myself as the Sugar Plum Fairy.
Then I spot something else. At the back of the closet. A streak of red on the wall.
I part the costumes to get a better look. Dark letters on the back of the closet spell
out GET OUT BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE .
“O KAY, WHO HAS THE SICK sense of humor?” someone shouts.
“Sounds like somebody’s looking for me,” I holler back, proceding down the hallway,
wielding my mighty ax.
It was Shayla’s voice. She’s in Ivy and Taylor’s room. There’s a sexy little smirk
on her face. “Did you do this?” She points inside a closet.
Before I can ask or see what she’s talking about, the others come back upstairs. I
swing the ax, picturing myself as Sidney Scarcella in Hotel 9: Blocked Rooms in the lobby scene, when poor Mrs. Teetlebaum ventures from her room in the middle
of the night. But they’re all so busy blathering on that they don’t even notice.
“Ohmygosh,” Shayla bursts out as soon as she sees Parker. “So, I was just checking
out the costumes, and…wait, where did you get that?” She’s looking at me now, referring
to my ax. A curious smile sits on her lips. I can tell she wants to play too.
“In the bathroom. The blade was stuck in the wall—just a sweet little reminder of
why we’re all here.”
“Is it real?” Ivy asks.
“Unfortunately, no.” I sigh, scratching my head with the plastic blade. “But it’s
the thought that counts, right?”
I move into the room and take a peek inside the closet. The costumes are pushed to
the side, exposing the back wall. “Get out before it’s too late,” I say, reading the
flaming-red words. I let out a big fat yawn. “I mean, seriously, this is it ?”
“Did you do it?” Parker asks me.
“If only I could take the credit.” I step closer to examine the writing. Some of the
letters have fingerprints in the individual strokes. But, I know my stuff. “It wasn’t
written in blood,” I say, “in case that was a concern.”
“This from the guy who thinks that blood is as blue as his balls,” Frankie says.
“I don’t really believe that blood is blue. I just wanted to see if I could convince you that it was.” I smile, making sure to expose my pointy incisors,
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