tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-92208495632978344532024-03-12T18:37:28.726-07:00The Souls of Her Feet BLOOKWe'll start publishing when we get 100 readers signed up; tell your friends!Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.comBlogger50125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-70320128305647519572013-06-04T19:26:00.000-07:002013-03-03T16:38:25.564-08:00The Story So Far...<br />
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Two <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/04/frontispiece.html" target="_blank">writers of a musical</a> (a.k.a. 'The Creators') create a <a href="http://fairy-tale-reality.blogspot.com/">blog</a> and ask people to post stories about their "fairy tale realities" for a project they're working on. <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/05/my-dear-creatives.html" target="_blank">A letter arrives</a> from a mythology professor, introducing her student, Ashley St. Helens Prince. <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/05/with-stockinged-feet.html" target="_blank">A letter arrives</a> from Ashley herself, which <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/06/your-personal-fairytale-life_03.html" target="_blank">piques the curiosity</a> of the writers. After a few flurries of <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/06/re-hashing-my-story-to-death.html" target="_blank">letters</a>, <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/06/les-contes-de-perrault.html" target="_blank">postcards</a>, and <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/06/ping-dwarf.html" target="_blank">emails</a>, Ashley begins telling her story.</div>
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In Chapter One, <b>Once Upon a Time</b>, Ashley <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/07/air-of-sweetness.html" target="_blank">recounts her childhood</a>, which was happy until her mother died and her father remarried a woman named Sylvia who had two daughters, Debra and Donna. (<a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/07/isnt-it-something.html" target="_blank">The Creators converse</a> about her story and talk about publishing it as a book as well as a musical.) Sylvia's <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/07/my-fathers-face.html" target="_blank">true colors show</a> just before Ashley's father dies.</div>
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Chapter Two, <b>The Virtue of Rags</b>, sets the scene with Ashley <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/07/dust-and-clutter.html" target="_blank">withdrawing</a> in sorrow into the attic room, emerging only to clean her mother's house. (<a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/07/opening-number.html" target="_blank">The writers interrupt</a> the story a few times in this chapter, to discuss musical business.) One day, while she is <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/08/teen-princess.html" target="_blank">doing the laundry</a>, the phone rings... after too much discussion of clothes, especially <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/08/super-underpants.html" target="_blank">undergarments</a>, and her stepmother, Sylvia, <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/08/sibling-rivalry.html" target="_blank">acting weird</a>. (Aside, <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/08/writer-to-writer.html" target="_blank">the writers discuss</a> Ashley's current relationship with these people, and articles about these topics.)</div>
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In Chapter Three, <b>Miss St. Helens Erupts</b>, Ashley answers the phone. It's Harry Carrington, her <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/09/harry-godmother.html" target="_blank">long-lost godfather</a>. He encourages her to <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/09/bitch-is-verb.html" target="_blank">let out her feelings</a>, and as it turns out, she has quite a few. Then he tells her where to look to find a <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/09/vintage-silk-taffeta.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+SoulsOfHerFeetTheBlook+%28The+Souls+of+Her+Feet+%28blook%29%29" target="_blank">very special (practically magical) dress</a> she could wear to prom.</div>
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Chapter Four, <b>My Father's Shoes</b>, begins as <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/10/wannabe-prom-queens.html" target="_blank">the stepsisters come</a> to say goodbye (and in this installment, the musical begins to take shape) on the night of the prom, as does Sylvia. Ashley <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/10/the-vines-of-doom.html" target="_blank">wanders the house</a>, struggling with her self-esteem. Is she worthy of her dreams?</div>
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Just as she is ready to curl up with a book, <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/10/a-familiar-embrace.html" target="_blank">Harry makes a dramatic entrance</a> to kick off Chapter Five, <b>The Souls of My Feet</b>, and shares his <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/10/no-such-thing-as-shoe.html">philosophy about shoes</a>. <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/11/the-foot-of-mortal.html">They bond</a> while remembering her parents as they choose the perfect pair, and Harry gives Ashley <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/11/my-fairy-godwhatever.html">an emotional makeove</a>r as well as a physical one. The chapter closes with <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/11/zombie-ballet.html">a series of email exchanges</a> in which we find out the project may be having some trouble.</div>
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Just minutes after her arrival, <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/11/in-style-of-democracy.html" style="font-weight: bold;">The Toss of a Coin</a> (Chapter Six) determines Ashley's fate as the <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/12/whats-girl-to-do.html">surprise queen of the prom</a>. As she and Jeff do their <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/12/the-fairytale-catfight-waltz.html">victory dance</a>, Harry confronts Sylvia. Behind the scenes, there is a <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/12/cancer-sucks.html">change of plans</a> with the writers, but <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2012/12/all-ripples.html">Ashley runs</a> from the prom when she is discovered. </div>
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The next morning, <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2013/01/king-phineas-food-bank.html" target="_blank">Harry and Jeff show up</a> at Ashley's house, reminiscing about what had happened at <b>The Stroke of Midnight </b>(Chapter Seven). They eat brunch and tell her about the Squash Coach's <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2013/01/the-day-glo-orange-jacket.html" target="_blank">strange behavior</a>. Behind the scenes, <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2013/01/sleep-whats-that.html" target="_blank">the writers launch</a> a crowdfunding campaign; Sylvia's daughters discover <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2013/01/a-boy-of-character.html" target="_blank">her distasteful attempt</a> to fix the prom and a <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2013/02/free-to-be.html" target="_blank">shouting match begins</a>. Then, Harry invites Ashley to live with him.<br />
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<b>A Fairytale Ending</b> begins with <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2013/02/my-stiff-upper-lip.html" target="_blank">Jeff going upstairs</a> with Ashley to help her pack. On their way down, <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2013/02/who-was-that-girl.html" target="_blank">it dawns on Donna</a> and Debra that Ashley is now popular girl—not that she cares. They return to the living room just in time to hear <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2013/02/goodbye-sylvia.html" target="_blank">Harry's confession</a>, and Sylvia kicks them all out of the house. But when <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2013/03/that-one-big-step.html" target="_blank">Ashley turns back</a> to face Sylvia, the final shoe drops: she finds out she got a scholarship...and now her dreams have come true!<br />
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Everyone's dreams come true ten years later when the musical about Ashley and her fairytale family finally makes it to the stage.</div>
Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-88462170965183341992013-04-02T09:36:00.001-07:002013-04-02T09:36:42.790-07:00Let's Put Our Feet Up!<br />
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And So it Begins!</h3>
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Thank you, friends, for being there for me as I finished writing this story. If it were not for my commitment to you, I wouldn't have made myself stick it through to completion. Knowing you were there, salivating for each new twist and turn, kept me accountable to the project.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JcvIymBTFHk/UU5mmQIswII/AAAAAAAACc0/TGLLXd5su5M/s1600/coming+soon+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JcvIymBTFHk/UU5mmQIswII/AAAAAAAACc0/TGLLXd5su5M/s200/coming+soon+cover.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="133" /></a>And now look what we've done. The blook is going to grow up to be an ebook. And the musical has come back to life.</div>
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What Happens Next?</h3>
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<a href="http://shoesmirrorrose-blook.blogspot.com/2013/03/a-five-minute-survey.html" target="_blank">Here is a short survey</a> that will enable you to give me any feedback you can and you care to. If you would like a FREE copy of the ebook, I'd love to give you one. Just put your email in the bottom of the form.</div>
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Come to the Launch Party!</h3>
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On April 21, the ebook will go live. The following Saturday, we'll celebrate by giving our feet some love. If you're in or near Oakland, I hope you can join me! But no matter where you are, I hope you can get some friends together and go pamper your feet with a pedicure, a foot massage, or even... (do you need an excuse?)... a new pair of shoes!</div>
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/573988452613305/" target="_blank">Here's a link to the event</a>. Feel free to invite your shoe-loving, fairy-tale loving, drag-queen loving, or just loving friends.</div>
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(And please feel free to post a picture of your beautiful, happy feet afterward!)</div>
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After That... Making Music!</h3>
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Thank you to all who have contributed to our <a href="http://www.indiegogo.com/projects/the-souls-of-her-feet?website_name=thesoulsofherfeet" target="_blank">Indiegogo fundraising campaign</a>! Your donations have already helped us accomplish two major things:</div>
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<li>A membership to <a href="http://www.fracturedatlas.org/site/fiscal/profile?id=4493" target="_blank">Fractured Atlas</a>, our fiscal sponsor... this means all future donations are tax-deductible AND we will be eligible for foundation grants (this is HUGE), and</li>
<li>Train tickets for Michael to come out and finish the music around Kristen's piano in May.</li>
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Any further donations will go towards hiring actors and musicans to create a really great demo recording. We also hope to create some videos for YouTube to kick off "The Patchwork Princess Project"—in which glee clubs and high school theater groups record scenes from the musical.</div>
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Let's Keep in Touch!</h3>
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You can subscribe to:</div>
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<li>Kristen's occasional newsletter, <a href="http://oi.vresp.com/?fid=d3a061faad" target="_blank">"The Cobbler"</a> or</li>
<li>Blog posts from <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">the musical</a> (the actual history is on that site, too...)</li>
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You can 'Like:'</div>
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<li><a href="https://www.facebook.com/shoes.mirror.rose" target="_blank">Shoes, a Mirror, and a Big Pink Rose</a> - ongoing news about the musical trilogy</li>
<li><a href="https://www.facebook.com/kristen.cavens.imagination" target="_blank">Kristen Caven's Imagination</a> - featuring all sorts of offerings</li>
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You can 'Follow:'</div>
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<li>The Patchwork Princess Project <a href="https://twitter.com/krs10bc" target="_blank">@shoesmirrorrose</a></li>
<li>Kristen <a href="https://twitter.com/krs10bc" target="_blank">@krs10bc</a></li>
<li>Michael <a href="https://twitter.com/DMichaelODell" target="_blank">@DMichaelO'Dell</a></li>
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What about the Blook?</h3>
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If you stay subscribed to this blog, you may get an occasional announcement in the future. The posts may "fade into obscurity" (disappear from the site) after the ebook comes out. And then, some day, for some special event, they may be published again, in order, over a series of weeks, NOT months.</div>
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You can feel free to unsubscribe now, at any time (or don't, and see what happens). Thank you for taking all these steps with us...</div>
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<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">we've arrived!</span></b></i></div>
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<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></i></div>
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<i>A huge thank you to<br /> Ann and Charlotte Hutcheson-Wilcox<br /> for the hilarious and beautiful cover photo!</i></div>
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Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-46201312552195243732013-03-30T11:00:00.000-07:002013-04-02T09:35:14.545-07:00A Five-Minute Survey<br />
<iframe frameborder="0" height="2400" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" src="https://docs.google.com/forms/d/1sEBd9WlmgW6ca3qukLgOaWnNUyVGL8NMMjiYnBvy0gA/viewform?embedded=true" width="400">Loading...</iframe>Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-20758744162884432232013-03-24T08:30:00.001-07:002013-03-24T11:13:52.864-07:00A "Mirror Imag(in)e" Teaser....<i>Mädchen March, Ph.D.<br />
Castleton College<br />
Black Forest, OH 44883<br />
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July 25, 2010<br />
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My Dear Creatives,<br />
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I just received the most delightful letter from Ashley about your work together, and I wanted to wish you well on your project.<br />
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Ashley asked if I would write something about Nevada LeBlanc. Poor Nevada, what she went through really changed her. She worked for me during her Freshman Year, helping with one of my research projects on Urban Mythologies. Although she, Ashley, and Linda were quite the show together in Freshman mythology class—sparking debate, causing laughter, and prodding one another (and everyone within earshot) to think more deeply—one on one Nevada seemed quiet, attentive, grounded, sweet, and even simple.<br />
<br />That being said, Nevada always had the keenest sense of justice of any student I’d ever had. She seemed to be able to sort out right from wrong in the cloudiest situations, and make sure that the underdogs were given the rights due to them. Once I remarked that she was “the fairest of them all,” and her classmates took up the tease (well-naturedly, of course). Who knew it would be so portentous!<br />
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As a matter of fact, Nevada was the driving force behind my efforts behind the New York City Sewer Alligator Rescue Service, once we discovered this urban legend actually had some teeth. She actually shed tears at the terrible plight of pipe-bound crocodillians and this prodded me to action.<br />
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Because of this quality of hers, the heartbreak we all felt at the injustice done to her was ever the more painful. When Nevada returned to school, she was a changed person. More reserved, more skeptical, and a even, I must point out, a few shades paler. And perhaps not-so-strangely, her interests had moved from social justice to neuroscience.<br />
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Because Nevada is now such a private person, I would be surprised if she agreed to share her story with you. But on the other hand, I would not be surprised if her friends convinced her; they are, as I mentioned, quite taken with your project. Even I was talked in to writing to her!</i><br />
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<i>By the way, you may be interested to know that since I last wrote you I have rescued two mice from a French laboratory (named Melibellule and Tigrounette), who have inspired my new research on the transformational aspects of rodentia in the Cinderella myth. There may even be some shamanic involvement that I cannot yet, at this time, confirm. </i><i><br />
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Curiously,</i><br />
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Professor Mädchen March<br />
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Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-14438012378936697022013-03-17T13:54:00.000-07:002013-03-28T22:10:21.567-07:00Roll Credits<div style="text-align: center;">
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<i>The Souls of Her Feet</i> interactive BLOOK was brought to you by:</h3>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Kristen Caven</span></b></div>
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in collaboration with both the real and the fictional<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Michael O'Dell</span></b></div>
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and the following artists:</div>
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<b>Frontspiece photo (artified):</b></div>
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Gyorgy Vass</div>
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<b>Demos for "Big Bitch," "Ashley's Blues," and "If The Shoe Fits"</b></div>
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Jenn Graham as Ashley (sung) and Brian Yates Sharber as Harry. </div>
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(Spoken parts & photo of Brian's <a href="http://www.thesoulsofherfeet.com/images/toes.jpg">feet</a> by Kristen Caven)</div>
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<b>"When You Try to Clean With Dran-o"</b></div>
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Kristen Caven using Autotune*</div>
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<b>"It's A Waltz"</b></div>
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The robots at XtraNormal*</div>
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<b>New York stage reading cast:</b></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: start;">Narrator.....Jen Ponton</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: start;">Ashley.....Juliana Marx</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: start;">Donna.....Dina Plotch</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: start;">Debra.....Cassandra Bodzak</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: start;">Sylvia.....Susan Neuffer</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: start;">Harry.....Keith Levy (a.k.a. Sherry Vine)</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: start;">Jeff.....Blake McCorvey</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: start;">Coach.....Robert Kalman</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: start;">Heckler.....Roger Wingfield</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: start;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 18px; text-align: start;"><i>Chorus (Understudies):</i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: start;">Kerri Ford (Ashley), Jen Ponton (Ashley), Giancarla Boyle (Donna), Joanna Schubert (Debra), Alex Beck (Jeff), Roger Wingfield (Coach) JenMarie Pierce, Kris Doubles</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 18px; text-align: start;"><br />
<i> “Midnight Mouse”</i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: start;">Piano.....Michael O’Dell, Jess Stewart</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: start;">Bass.....Brian Holtz</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: start;">Drums.....Rossen Nedelchev</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">See more about who these fine and awesome actors are <a href="http://shoesmirrorrose.blogspot.com/2008/08/cast-complete.html" target="_blank">on the blog</a>.</span><br />
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<i>*All other music everywhere by Michael O'Dell, of course.</i></div>
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Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-19822654504745282502013-03-10T08:30:00.000-07:002013-03-10T17:07:29.502-07:00Three Blocks from Broadway<span style="font-family: 'Andale Mono'; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15pt;"><br />
From: FTR <info@fairytalereality.com><br />
<info fairytalereality.com=""><ash-prince gmail.com="">To: Ashley <ash-prince gmail.com>, <crankingitout@gmail.com><br />
Date: Sunday, 28 August 2011 7:07:07 <br />
Subject: Congratulations<br />
<br />
Ashley, Congratulations to you, Jeff, Harriet, and Peter on the newest little Princes... (and one is a Princess!) I hope you are recovering well and enjoying your first few days being the mother of twins. Michael and I are sending something along for the little ones.<br />
<br />
And here’s a treat for you: the video of the staged reading. We were only three blocks from Broadway! It was wonderful to meet some of your friends in the audience. It seems Nevada has come around and is willing to tell her story—with a little help from Cadwallader, Linda, and Professor March.</ash-prince></info><br />
<info fairytalereality.com=""><ash-prince gmail.com=""><br />
Enjoy the mini-musical. It’s rough, of course, but everyone was tremendous and worked so well to pull off a good show with so little rehearsal time. The story isn't exactly how we want it yet, but we got the broad strokes... hope you like it! We’ve already started the rewrite, and are taking the next “little steps.” As your life has grown and developed into something so much more than it was when you were seventeen, we hope this story of yours will grow and develop into something that can really touch people’s hearts.<br />
<br />
It’s been wonderful working with you. Thank you for sharing your story.<br />
<br />
With gratitude and affection,<br />
Kristen and Michael</ash-prince></info></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Andale Mono'; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15pt;"><info fairytalereality.com=""><ash-prince gmail.com=""><br /></ash-prince></info></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Andale Mono'; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15pt;"><info fairytalereality.com=""><ash-prince gmail.com=""><br /></ash-prince></info></span>
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<span style="font-family: 'Andale Mono'; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="375" mozallowfullscreen="" src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/57103916" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe></span></span></div>
<br />
<a href="http://vimeo.com/57103916">The Souls of Her Feet - NY Staged Reading</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user13472789">Kristen Caven</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-40914408838987951452013-03-03T08:30:00.000-08:002013-03-15T15:21:05.563-07:00That One Big Step<br />
We crept back into the living room, hoping to grab them from the windowsill and go, but Sylvia was still sitting where we had left her, staring into space. Light played over her fraying hair from the glass beads when we moved the shoes.<br />
<br />
“Ashley,” she said, looking up, “I’m sorry.”<br />
<br />
Startled, I turned to look at her. I had never heard her say those words.<br />
<br />
Sylvia’s eyes went from liquid to solid in an instant, as her dominant and dominating persona regained control. “If you walk through that door, though, I swear to <i>God</i>, you will never get an ounce of support from me again."<br />
<br />
Jeff and I just stared at her. "You are leaving your HOME behind! How could you do that?”<br />
<br />
“Well I don’t want to,” I retorted, feeling my temper rise through my fear, “but Harry’s right." Jeff touched my back, and I took a breath and kept going. “I don’t have to live like this anymore. I’m tired of you yelling at me all the time. I’m tired of doing all the work and being called names. I deserve better than this.”<br />
<br />
Her eyes softened again, and the rare vulnerability returned. “I am just <i>so angry</i> right now I can’t stand it. But Harry’s right. You don’t <i>have</i> to stay. <i>You</i> are winning, and <i>I</i> am losing the one thing...the one thing I have left of your dad. Who I really loved.”<br />
<br />
Sylvia started crying again, and I felt a rush of empathy and sorrow. Why hadn’t she ever said this before? We had that in common. Things could have been so different. Why did she have to see it as a war? “I’m sorry, Sylvia,” I said. From the corner of my eye I could see Jeff rubbing his neck. He later joked that he got whiplash from her sudden mood shifts.<br />
<br />
“Can you just do me one favor,” she asked, in a softer voice than I'd heard in years, since before she started taking me for granted. “Can you help me clean this mess up? I just can’t… I just don’t know how I’ll get through the day. With the girls and all. And then tomorrow…”<br />
<br />
I looked at Jeff, whose inner eyebrows were creeping into his forehead, then looked at Sylvia, pressing her hand to her mouth, and realized I could end this on my terms. The mess she was referring to was a nicely set buffet table—with mom’s china—a few dirty dishes, and a pile of papers on the floor by her desk. I lifted my chin and said “Of course, Sylvia.” Together we stacked the plates up and put them back in the cabinet. She poured the punch down the drain and I packed it carefully back into the box, wrapping crumpled newspaper around each cup, dated from my parent’s wedding month. I folded the tablecloth—the way I wanted it folded. Jeff helped me put the plastic slipcovers back on the furniture, and bent to scoop up the piles of paper from the floor by the desk, from when Sylvia had cleared it in her fury.<br />
<br />
“Ashley,” Jeff called out, “there’s mail for you.” Sylvia rushed towards him, laughing nervously, “You know! Maybe I should clean up my own desk! You guys can go.” But it was too late.<br />
<br />
“It’s a letter from Castleton,” Jeff said, narrowing his eyes at Sylvia. He handed it to me and I tore it open.<br />
<br />
“They accepted me,” I said, feeling the weight of my long and painful wait leave my shoulders. And when I got to the bottom, I shouted, “and a scholarship!” I jumped up and down. This was the dream I had been waiting for.<br />
<br />
Jeff threw his arms around me and twirled me around and away from Sylvia. “I’m going there, too,” he grinned. That was the dream I could never have hoped for!<br />
<br />
“I-I was waiting for Debra and Donna’s to come so I could give them to you all at the same time,” Sylvia stuttered, suddenly self-conscious. I stood up straight and looked her in the eye, trying to find some response to what I could see clearly now as bullshit. In spite of all the sincere emotion of half an hour ago, now I was just done with her. I opened my mouth up with every intention of speaking my feelings—the ones Harry had helped me articulate for the first time just two nights ago—but I couldn't bring myself to use the B-word. She probably deserved a flood of words more colorful than I could ever knit up with a tongue that had been trained to be as tempered as mine. But even Harry's words hadn't slowed her down. And I knew from experience that language like that would just fuel her fire. Plus, letting fly is just not my style.<br />
<br />
So I took a deep breath and, permitting myself only the slightest whiff of snootiness, simply said, “Sylvia, I think you can clean the rest up yourself.”<br />
<br />
Jeff told me later he wanted to laugh out loud. Instead, being the stud that he is, he took my hand and held it tight, drawing me gently away.<br />
<br />
“Goodbye, Sylvia,” I said for the last time, taking that one big step out the front door and into my own life.Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-49319251080748248292013-02-24T08:30:00.000-08:002013-03-03T16:36:56.574-08:00Goodbye, SylviaWhen we came back down the stairs, we heard loud voices and stopped to make faces at each other. Down in the living room, Harry and Sylvia were continuing their argument from the dance floor. Harry was talking about my dad. “He was such a loving person, you destroyed him, and then you moved on to his daughter, to crush her, too.”<br />
<br />
Sylvia spat, “You’re just jealous I married him, aren’t you?”<br />
<br />
Harry sat down heavily. “I can’t deny that.”<br />
<br />
“Hah!” Sylvia cried.<br />
<br />
“You know I really loved him,” Harry sighed. “I loved them both. They loved me, too.”<br />
<br />
Sylvia startled, then attacked again. “How can you say that to me? How can you be so selfish knowing what I've been through? Get the hell out of my house! I don't want you here! I never wanted you here! You undermine everything I am!” As she flew at him, he glanced up at us and stepped to the door. “And what the hell were you doing at the prom last night anyway, all dragged up or whatever you call it? I can’t figure you out. Did you just come there to get in my face?”<br />
<br />
Harry shook his head with pity. “You really don’t get it, do you? I was there with Ashley.”<br />
<br />
Sylvia barked. “Hah, that’s a laugh. She was here at home. Looking like a ‘before’ picture with her sweatpants and tennies. She had plenty to do.”<br />
<br />
She looked up as Jeff and I came down the stairs. She saw the dress and was silent. Then it all came clear to her. Tears streamed down her face. She sat down hard, realizing her defeat.<br />
<br />
Harry spoke quietly. “Well darling, things are going to change now. You’re going to lose your house slave.”<br />
<br />
“Harry,” I said, not wanting to be cruel. It was hard enough that I was leaving. Then I said the words I’d been longing to say. “Goodbye, Sylvia.” Jeff held the door open. Harry followed us out and took my things from me. He put them in the car. The three of us looked at each other, not sure what to say.<br />
<br />
“Well.” Said Harry, finally.<br />
<br />
“Well,” I said. “Thank you, Harry.”<br />
<br />
“Thank you, Harry,” said Jeff.<br />
<br />
Harry looked at Jeff, as if for the first time. “Thank you,” he said. “So what was your plan, when you came here?”<br />
<br />
“I just wanted to see if Ashley wanted to hang out for a little bit. Maybe go for a drive.” Harry glanced over at Jeff’s car, a brick red vintage Volvo sports coupe, handed down to him by his grandfather on his 16th birthday. He sighed.<br />
<br />
“Okay,” he said. “You kids do that. I’ll take your stuff home, Ashley. It will give me time to cool off, and get things ready for you.”<br />
<br />
“Okay,” I said, hardly believing how great this was.<br />
<br />
“But one thing,” Harry said, as if realizing all at once that a) he was now my parent, and b) I was about to get in a car with a boy, “seat belts.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, of course,” said Jeff, a total Boy Scout. “Always.”<br />
<br />
<i>“Always,”</i> Harry emphasized. “Even when the car is parked. Understand me?”<br />
<br />
Jeff looked him in the eye and said, “Yes, sir.” Then he glanced at me and shrugged. We all laughed.<br />
<br />
Jeff and I buckled up for safety and prudence while Harry drove away. Jeff pulled out into the street, but before we had gotten too far, he stopped.<br />
<br />
“WE FORGOT THE SHOES!”Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-49010203710042766902013-02-17T08:30:00.000-08:002013-02-19T13:22:52.561-08:00Who Was That Girl?<br />
Passing Debra’s room, we heard the sounds of sobs. I knocked and twisted the knob. “Juicy” and “Pink” were spelled across the the bed. The sisters sat up and Debra said, “You can come in.”<br />
<br />
“I wanted to say goodbye, you guys,” I said.<br />
<br />
“Goodbye?”<br />
<br />
“You can’t go!” That felt really nice. It could have gone the other way.<br />
<br />
“Harry asked me to come live with him,” I said.<br />
<br />
“Oh, my, God,” said Donna.<br />
<br />
“He’s my godfather,” I said, not wanting to elaborate.<br />
<br />
“Is Jeff still here?” Debra asked.<br />
<br />
“I’m right here,” Jeff said, sticking his head in behind me. “Hi.”<br />
<br />
The girls stiffened, and then Debra said, “We have something to ask you.”<br />
<br />
“Ask away,” Jeff said.<br />
<br />
“Okay, we know we’re not popular,” said Debra.<br />
<br />
“And we know our mom meant well,” said Donna.<br />
<br />
“But why? Why not?” said Debra. “We’re cheerleaders, we wear cute clothes, we have hot bods, we have all the latest stuff, we’re friendly and outgoing.”<br />
<br />
“We try so hard,” said Debra.<br />
<br />
“Maybe because you try too hard,” said Jeff.<br />
<br />
“Oh,” they both said, surprised.<br />
<br />
“I mean, remember that time you texted me your boobs? Why would you DO that?”<br />
<br />
“Um,” said Debra. “I noticed you were looking at them.”<br />
<br />
“Well, you were sort of showing them off in that low cut, cropped sweater with the horizontal stripes,” he replied.<br />
<br />
“And they were brand new,” said Debra, gazing down at her breasts. “My 18th birthday present. No one said anything.”<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry,” said Jeff. “I should have commented. How rude of me.”<br />
<br />
“Can you give us any advice?” Donna said. “I mean, in spite of our, our everything, we really have a hard time meeting the right people.”<br />
<br />
“Um, maybe,” said Jeff, reaching for my hand, “we could double, I mean, triple date sometime. I have some friends….”<br />
<br />
“That would be awesome,” said Donna, her eyes twinkling with excitement.<br />
<br />
Debra eyed our hands. “Are you two… together?” We looked at each other, we looked at her, we nodded.<br />
<br />
“Then who was that girl….?” Donna looked puzzled. Then Debra got it and she elbowed her sister. They looked at each other wide-eyed, then looked at us again, differently this time.<br />
<br />
“Was it you?” Debra asked. We nodded.<br />
<br />
“No! WAY!” Donna said. The two of them looked so conflicted, remembering how they treated me last night before they left, remembering their frustration when Jeff chose me, remembering the approval of the crowd and realizing my newfound and immense popularity. Disdain, anger, and admiration flickered over their faces and finally they settled on a feeling. I was glad it was wonder, and approval. The social significance of the event dawned on them much quicker than it did me.<br />
<br />
“Oh, my, God,” said Debra. “Our stepsister is the most popular girl in the school!” They hugged each other to celebrate this new victory. Their words sunk in to me and I started to wonder what Monday would be like. I would be rocketed into a new life—if the rest of the student body ever put two and two together—which they would if Jeff ever walked me to class and… Jeff squeezed my hand, as if to reassure me that it would be all right. (It was. Nevada, as it turned out, would show me the ropes and protect me, allowing me to keep my nerdy AP friends and be my introverted self while handling all the stares….)<br />
<br />
And there would be my stepsisters. Who, even though my father was gone and we no longer had a legal relationship, would always be my special somethings. Suddenly it struck me the difference between the two of them and me: they had only ever had Sylvia for a mom.<br />
<br />
“Do you have something I could write on?” I asked, reaching for Debra's diary, which she kept on a shelf above her bed. I flipped it open to find a blank page—and of course, there were plenty—and jotted some notes down. “For later, when you don't know what to do,” I said.<br />
<br />
Debra reached up and grabbed something else from the shelf. “Here. Before you go, Ashley. I want you to have this.” She pulled down a six-inch glass Pegasus with a thick, graceful, arched neck, whose wings stretched forwards as if to gather speed, and whose muscled hindquarters were gathered as if she were about to explode free of the glass base.<br />
<br />
“Thank you so much,” I said, hugging her. “You don't know what this means to me.”<br />
<br />
Her expression grew as clear as I'd ever seen it. “Actually, I do,” she said.<br />
<br />
“You can have my glass unicorn,” I told her. “They lay their horns in the laps of virgins.” She made a face to her sister like I was crazy. “And the pure of heart,” I added. “Plus,” I said, as Jeff and I turned to leave the room, “they can heal anything.”<br />
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Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-78594305878838574722013-02-10T08:30:00.000-08:002013-02-12T08:09:19.798-08:00My Stiff Upper Lip<br />
“This is where you live?” Jeff had to duck to come through the small arched attic door.<br />
<br />
“Not anymore, I guess,” I said, surveying the room. Dust motes twinkled in the stillness of the late spring sunlight streaming in through the small open window, which had crawled like a slow spotlight since I’d awakened down the length of my unmade bed, and was now touching the stack of cardboard boxes, stacked furniture, old trunks and suitcases. I pulled a suitcase out and dumped my old baby clothes onto the bed, then started scooping things up and putting them in.<br />
<br />
We talked a little while I packed. Jeff hadn’t been over to the house since before Dad married Sylvia. “I remember the last time I was here,” he said.<br />
<br />
“We were studying for something,” I recalled.<br />
<br />
“French,” he said. “We were watching <i>The Red Balloon</i>, when the Hills came over for dinner. Debra and Donna were sort of fun back then.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, things have changed a bit,” I said, trying to decide what to take, my senses sharp as I realized I was about to leave my home. I was keenly aware of my parents’ stuff in the boxes and trunks around me. The family photos. The old clothes and trinkets. The antique sewing machine. The lamps and chairs in the corner. The hand-hooked rag rug.<br />
<br />
“Maybe we could start watching French movies again at my house,” he suggested.<br />
<br />
<i>“The Discreet Charm of the Bourgoise?”</i> I smiled, glancing up at his dancing green eyes. Something passed between us.<br />
<br />
“I’m such an idiot for not recognizing you last night,” he said. “I’m so glad you tricked me.<br />
I didn’t know what to say.<br />
<br />
“Did you read all of these books?” Jeff was perusing the stacks of hardbacks and paperbacks in the shelves around the knee wall.<br />
<br />
“Just up to under the window. I’m going to miss them.” Jeff picked up <i>The Once and Future King</i>. “Can I borrow this?”<br />
<br />
I smiled. “Of course.” I looked down in my hands, where I held <i>The Tao of Psychology: Synchronicity and The Self</i>. “You should read this, too; it's great.” He reached out for it, but instead of taking the book, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me to him.<br />
<br />
“Hey, speaking of French,” he said, “we were interrupted last night.” My whole body tingled as I slid my hands up his shoulders and leaned in. When his lips touched mine, it was nothing like the big deal I’d always fantasized; it felt normal and natural and, well, quite delicious. I laughed.<br />
<br />
“What,” he said.<br />
<br />
I touched my mouth. “It’s my stiff upper lip,” I said. “It’s been that way for such a long time.” He tenderly kissed it; neither of us could keep from smiling.<br />
<br />
“You’ve probably been keeping a stiff lower lip, too.” He put his mouth to my lower lip.<br />
<br />
“Might take some time to un-stiffen them both,” I said. So we worked on that a little bit.<br />
<br />
I said, “Can I ask you a question?”<br />
<br />
He said, “Would you like to ask me another?”<br />
<br />
“Was it the shoes?”<br />
<br />
“The shoes are pretty fabulous,” he said, “even a dumb straight jock like me could see that.”<br />
<br />
“Jeff, you're not a—”<br />
<br />
“Ashley—why did you ask?”<br />
<br />
“I mean—" I blushed. "Do you really want to lick my toes?” He laughed.<br />
<br />
“Can I?”<br />
<br />
“We’ll have to work up to that,” I laughed, and kissed him a little more. Then I grabbed my backpack and took The Dress in my arms. He carried my suitcase downstairs.<br />
<br />
<br />Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-56979308592443202962013-02-03T08:30:00.000-08:002013-02-15T12:13:55.144-08:00Free to BeMoments ago the mood in this room had been delightful; now, waves of crazy were emanating from the corner desk and no one was speaking. I started cleaning up. Jeff studied the paper. “Photo source: Justin Case,” he read, “wait – he’s a private detective! My dad knows him! Now he’s selling photos to the paper?”<br />
<br />
“I sold the photo,” said Sylvia. “To pay for his services.”<br />
<br />
“That’s unethical!”<br />
<br />
“Well at least I gave him a photo credit,” she retorted. “Besides, what would I know about ethics? I never went to college. I’m not the one with the law degree,” she said, glaring at Harry, completely unaware of the hole she was digging. I could tell Harry was biting his tongue, not wanting to laugh out loud.<br />
<br />
“Why would I? I was <i>prom queen</i>,” she went on. “I had four marriage proposals by the end of the night! Everyone but <i>everyone</i> wanted me! But did I marry? NO! I leveraged my assets, managing my looks and social calendar and turning them <i>both</i> into a living over the years. I mean, when the twins came I figured out how to live on child support from <i>both</i> of their dads! It took me <i>years</i> of community service to build my reputation, and to find a man who could love and support me for who I really am, and give my girls the life they deserve… until YOU!” She glared at Harry, furious, then at Jeff, then at me. <br />
<br />
With a shriek of frustration, Sylvia swept the contents of her desk to the floor. “Who the hell WAS that girl anyway?” She advanced on Jeff, holding the champagne bottle, having abandoned the pretense of orange juice several swigs ago. “You had no <i>right</i> to choose your own prom queen! All this <i>planning</i> and <i>hard work</i> by adults—and you kids go and do whatever you feel like.”<br />
<br />
“Sylvia…” Harry tried to calm her down.<br />
<br />
“Children are so <i>ungrateful</i>! They need <i>so</i> much support, and it’s hard for one person to do it all.” She took a swig. “Especially when the person you <i>hoped</i> and <i>dreamed</i> and <i>vowed</i> would be there with you for the rest of your <i>life</i> not only comes with so much <i>baggage</i>,” here she gestured at me, but was clearly appealing to Harry, “...and his constant <i>memory</i> of her, which is bad enough <i>already</i> but then he up and <i>dies</i> on you, leaving you in <i>charge</i> of said person, and so now rather than being taken <i>care</i> of for the rest of your life, you are forced to take care of <i>her</i>, and of that <i>memory</i> of his, and not <i>him</i>, but <i>her</i> face in your face, in your own house! But what’s worse, it’s not even your own house! In his will he leaves it in some <i>trust</i> for her and you have nothing, really, <i>nothing</i> of your own! You have no <i>idea</i>! It’s too much! It’s just too much! I work full <i>time</i> mothering these girls, there are no other options!”<br />
<br />
Harry stepped between Jeff and Sylvia, cleared his throat, and commandeered the conversation. <br />
<br />
“Sylvia, there’s something I’ve been trying to talk to you about. It might actually help solve your problems. I was trying to invite you out for coffee and do this the nice way, but you’ve blocked me at every turn.” Sylvia just glared, exhausted but still lost in her rage. Harry took a breath and continued. “I found letter from Ashley’s mother from before she died, saying if anything happened to both of them, she’d like her to live with me.”<br />
<br />
“What!?” Sylvia stared, stunned.<br />
<br />
“What?” I stared, stunned.<br />
<br />
“What do you think <i>godparent</i> means?” Harry turned to me. “Ashley, I have a proposal, I mean, a proposition for you. I was hoping to ask you this last night but events took on a life of their own. Can I… I mean, will you… I mean….”<br />
<br />
Jeff and I looked at one another, incredulous. “On one knee, big guy, that’s how it’s done,” he teased Harry, and I laughed, falling in love with him just a little more. But Harry was as worked up as Sylvia and didn’t finish his sentence. <br />
<br />
“It was a big decision for me, as you can imagine. Becoming a mother? At my age?” Jeff and I cracked up. “Starting with a teenager?” Harry was now relishing his moment.<br />
<br />
“I was furious with Sylvia, Ashley, who would never,” he glared at her, “let me even finish my sentence, which may have included the phrase, ‘take her off your hands’ if I’d known how you felt…. I went on a research rampage for the next few weeks, trying to figure out how I could get you out of there without the bit… without Sylvia’s consent. And I finally found out… I realized… ”<br />
<br />
“What, Harry?” I had never really considered my legal status before. <br />
<br />
“Ashley… you’re an orphan. Sylvia never adopted you. You’re over sixteen. You can be,” He took a breath, “legally emancipated.”<br />
<br />
“Emancipated?” It sounded like the end of slavery.<br />
<br />
“You don’t have to live with her anymore.”<br />
<br />
I sat down, unable to stand for a moment, and stared at him.<br />
<br />
“Ashley… if you want to… would you like…would you like…like to live with me?” He stammered, blushed a little. “I could even adopt you, but the fact is that you have a choice in the matter. You’re not a little girl. You are free…free to be…”<br />
<br />
Jeff said, “Free to be you and me? Free to be?” <br />
<br />
At first I hesitated, wondering what would become of the house if I left, but one look at Jeff’s open, excited face reminded me of Harry’s lecture the night before: What would you think of doing some take? I took. I took the chance—again.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, yes,” I nodded. I heard some choking noises from Sylvia’s direction. But I was crying now. <br />
Harry was crying, too. “I mean, when you’re eighteen, you could do whatever you wanted, but until then I thought you’d like to have some options ... We can fix up my spare room. You can have a real bed. You can have rainbows and unicorns... or paint the walls black and be rebellious if you want. I got up and went around the table and sat in his lap and hugged him like I used to when I was little. He kissed my hair.<br />
<br />
“I’ll go pack some things.”<br />
<br />
“I’ll go with you.” As Jeff and I dashed up the stairs, a stony silence closed on the living room behind us.Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-26707494403309720972013-01-27T08:30:00.000-08:002013-01-28T12:06:52.715-08:00A Boy of CharacterThe stairs creaked. We looked up to see Donna coming down. She took one look at Jeff, who had just excused himself to go to the bathroom, made a little “eep!” sound and turned around to run back up the stairs, where she crashed right into Debra. They whispered excitedly and then came wiggling down together, pulling their scrunchies out and tossing their hair around their shoulders. One wore a pink sweatsuit that said “Pink” across the buttcheeks. The other wore a green sweatsuit that said “Juicy.” Donna called out, “Hhhhiiii, Jeff!” <br />
<br />
Jeff waved back as he closed the door under the stairs.<br />
<br />
The Girls were astonished and excited. “Go tell mom,” Debra said, elbowing her sister.<br />
<br />
“You go tell mom,” said Donna. <br />
<br />
“Tell me what,” grumbled Sylvia, stumbling down the stairs behind them in her satin robe, hair frizzing uncharacteristically around her elegant shoulders. She stumbled into the kitchen without noticing who was on the couch.<br />
<br />
“There’s coffee,” I said to them all. <br />
<br />
“Ooh, and punch,” said Donna, discovering the beverage table. “Ashley, this is so nice. Who else is coming to our brunch?”<br />
<br />
“It’s cancelled,” said Sylvia, coming into the living room with the orange juice pitcher in one hand and a champagne bottle in the other, a glass tucked under her arm. She sat down hard at her desk. “Close that damn curtain.” Then she looked up and noticed the company.<br />
<br />
“Harry! What the hell?” <br />
<br />
Jeff walked out of the bathroom and Sylvia jumped out of her chair, her tone turning solicitous. “Jeff! What are you doing here? Did you come to apologize? That’s so wonderful! In spite of your rash actions last night, I knew you were a boy of character!” Jeff had no chance to reply because he was suddenly surrounded by The Girls, who were making conversation that required no effort on his part at all. I introduced them to Harry.<br />
<br />
I served the spiced sausage strata, a favorite recipe of my mom’s, which sent Harry down memory lane and drew no complaints from the girls. Sylvia stayed at her desk, thinking, drinking mimosas. When she lit a cigarette, the three of us girls exchanged worried glances—she never smoked in front of us—but Jeff was such a stabilizing presence that the mood stayed light. We balanced plates on our knees rather than sitting around the dining table, and it felt like a real celebration even though no one knew exactly what was going on. We moved in and out of the sparkles of light from the shoes, which no one seemed to notice.<br />
<br />
“Hey Jeff, remember that time you were here studying with Ashley in ninth grade?” Debra sat onto the couch next to Jeff. “You left these…” She reached her hand into the cushions and pulled out a box of Tic-Tacs. Jeff stared at her blankly. Donna lunged.<br />
<br />
“Give me those! I found them first!”<br />
<br />
“Sure, Donna. You can have them. Jeff’s right here by me.” She tossed the candy box. Donna shook it. There was only one left.<br />
<br />
“Oooh!” Donna glared and tossed the box aside. There was no room on the other side of Jeff; he was sitting at the end of the couch. She plumped back down in an armchair with her food and picked up the paper from the coffee table. Then she gasped. “Oh! My! God!”<br />
<br />
She turned the Town Herald Sunday Edition around so we could all see the front page. The headline read, “Black Forest Coach Stripped of Position.” There were two photos above: one of Coach Pupkin with the basketball team, and one of Judy Garland singing. We all went, “huh?” Harry spit tea onto his chintz armrest.<br />
<br />
“Black Forest High’s senior P.E. teacher,” read Donna, “who led the Trolls to a state championship last year, was outed by an anonymous parent last week, who called for his resignation.” In unison with Debra she turned and said, “Mom!” Sylvia sucked her cigarette and shrugged. <br />
<br />
I grabbed the paper and read on. “Down at the Teddy Wolf nightclub, no one guessed the winner of last week’s drag competition was Coach Jonathon “Jack” Pupkin of the local high school—” <br />
<br />
Harry hooted. “She was amazing! The most sensitive Judy we’d ever seen!” He slapped his thigh. “I can’t believe it! How could I miss that? I’m so good with faces! What an artist!”<br />
<br />
“‘I can’t believe he was juggling so many balls,’ remarked one admiring judge when asked for comment on this story. ‘It takes a lot to sing like that, to dress like that. And to teach six hundred students physical culture for a day job. It took a lot of guts, a lot of guts.’”<br />
<br />
“Who writes this stuff?” Jeff wondered aloud.<br />
<br />
Harry glared at Sylvia. “Why would you DO such a thing, Sylvia? Of all the low tricks! He may or may not be gay but it’s nobody’s business to speculate!”<br />
<br />
Sylvia screamed, “We had a deal!” To our blank stares, she spat out the words: “We had a deal one of my daughters would win!” She gestured so clumsily that papers flew off her desk.<br />
<br />
“You… you <i>blackmailed</i> him?” Harry whispered. <br />
<br />
“You <i>fixed</i> the prom?” Jeff looked like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be furious.<br />
<br />
Donna and Debra looked ashen, and stuttered through the logic together. “You mean—” <br />
<br />
“—you <i>arranged</i> for us to be elected to the court?” <br />
<br />
“You mean—” <br />
<br />
“—we weren’t nominated by <i>anyone</i>? ” <br />
<br />
“You mean—” They looked at one another, horrified, and screamed in unison, <br />
<br />
<i>“—We’re not popular?”</i> They dissolved into tears and ran up the stairs, sobbing, a fork flying, a half-eaten muffin rolling onto the carpet, under the chairs.<br />
<br />
“Nice going, mom,” sneered Harry, settling back in his chair. Jeff and I stared uncomfortably at anything but her. I thought about Nevada, and all the others who actually deserved the honor my family had stolen.<br />
<br />
Sylvia stared, stricken, out the window, her veiny hand pressed to her mouth.Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-65855653286288334882013-01-20T08:00:00.000-08:002013-01-20T08:00:03.785-08:00Sleep? What's That?<span style="font-family: 'Andale Mono'; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15pt;"><br />
From: crankingitout@gmail.com<br />
To: FTR <info@fairytalereality.com><br />
Date: Thursday, 7 July 2011 10:45:22 <br />
Subject: NYC<br />
<br />
hey k -<br />
<br />
the reading is one month away! i definitely think we’ll have to pull out our credit cards for this. i like your idea of selling tshirts & giving to actors...also my parents kindly donated some cash for a cast party.<br />
<br />
~m~<br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
From: FTR <info@fairytalereality.com><br />
To: crankingitout@gmail.com<br />
Date: Thursday, 7 July 2011 10:45:33<br />
Subject: worried<br />
<br />
Michael, are you going to be able to get the songs together? I know there’s no time to edit everything like we wanted to but we can still see how the story goes with what we have, right? And p.s., I do like how you’ve pepped up the shoe song; maybe we can get the cast to do a kick line for the chorus. I also really like “Dare to Waltz” but I was hoping for something more Viennese –sounding — maybe in the next iteration.<br />
<br />
K<br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
From: crankingitout@gmail.com<br />
To: FTR <info@fairytalereality.com><br />
Date: Thursday, 7 July 2011 10:55:20 <br />
Subject: re: worried<br />
<br />
k~<br />
<br />
we can rethink songs & music after the dust settles and we can sort things out. I feel like we’re trying to fill a beer bottle with a fire hose right now.<br />
<br />
~m~<br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
From: crankingitout@gmail.com<br />
To: Ashley <ash-prince@gmail.com><br />
Date: Tuesday, 12 July 2011 10:55:20 <br />
Subject: NYC Show<br />
<br />
asheley, great news, harry’s friend wants to read his part —imagine, an actual drag queen doing the role! apparently s/he’s quite famous. please thank him for the referral! this is going to be fun...<br />
<br />
~m~<br />
<br />
------<br />
<br />
From: crankingitout@gmail.com<br />
To: FTR <info@fairytalereality.com><br />
Date: Tuesday, 12 July 2011 11:01:10 <br />
Subject: re: re: re: re: re: re: actors<br />
<br />
So I just got eight more queries from the craigslist ad *and* confirmation from (ta dah) sherry vine! resumes attached — can you send them scripts? my friend agreed to play ashley — i'll ask her to help cast jeff since i can’t decide, so much talent out there! looking forward to sleeping again some day.<br />
<br />
~m~<br />
<br />
-------<br />
<br />
From: FTR <info@fairytalereality.com><br />
To: crankingitout@gmail.com<br />
Date: Tuesday, 12 July 2011 11:31:19 <br />
Subject: re: re: re: re: re: re: re: actors<br />
<br />
Sleep? What's that? Glad we had a chance to hang out before you went to NY. The video is going to turn out okay. Hope to finish this weekend. Yay on Harry! I really like some of these other faces. To think we might be "discovering" someone. It's like playing God, creating this alternate reality!<br />
<br />
K<br />
<br />
-------<br />
<br />From: FTR <info@fairytalereality.com><br />
To: crankingitout@gmail.com<br />
Cc: Ashley <ash-prince@gmail.com><br />
Date: Thursday, 7 July 2011 4:45:12 <br />
Subject: Buttkicker Campaign!<br />
<br />
Okay, here it is! I managed to kluge the video together for our crowdfunding campaign, using snippets of music from the Shoe song and the Fairy Godwhatever instrumental rough for the ending – good finish, no? Tell your friends!<br />
</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.indiegogo.com/thesoulsofherfeet" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="245" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ybFtaY-tIwg/UPsNiEAwZHI/AAAAAAAACS4/FM361vjK5hU/s400/beautiful.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.indiegogo.com/thesoulsofherfeet" target="_blank">Click to view the movie!</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-4909836503510118782013-01-13T08:00:00.000-08:002013-01-13T08:00:07.053-08:00The Day-Glo Orange Jacket“Good morning you two!” I called out the window. “Isn’t it a beautiful morning?” Jeff and Harry looked up, big smiles on each of their faces. “Would you like to come inside?” I grabbed the shoe from the windowsill and tromped down the stairs again. <br />
<br />
When I opened the front door, I had to sort out my second impression from the outrageous woman who had walked in last night. This well-groomed, low-key forty-something fellow was a foot shorter than her, but he matched my childhood memories, which was an equally great surprise. “You look divine,” he said, in one smooth move bending down to grab the Sunday paper, handing it to me, kissing me on the cheek, and touching my head. “You have eyelashes in your hair, dear.” <br />
<br />
Then Jeff stood square in front of me and stared, grinning from ear to ear. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, probably having the same disconnect with me that I’d had with Harry. “Look, I have one, too,” he said, nodding at the shoes we were both cradling, stroking like puppies. <br />
<br />
“They’re so soft, aren’t they?” I ran my fingers over the suede and glass beads. He stared and smiled some more. “Want some coffee?” I offered. “Or tea? Or OJ?” We all moved into the kitchen and I reached in the cabinet for a mug, forgetting I’d laid out a beverage table with the punch bowl and the shining silver samovar. <br />
<br />
“Champagne?” Harry found a chilled bottle, making himself at home as if no time had passed at all, as if it was still Mom and Dad’s house. “I think there’s an occasion.” <br />
<br />
“There’s sparkling cider for us,” I said to Jeff, grabbing glasses. “Muffin?” I asked with a smile as I pulled a pan out of the oven, the shoe tucked under my arm.<br />
<br />
“Yes, Honey Bunch?” Jeff teased, leaning against the counter top. Harry laughed. Jeff marveled at how nice everything looked. “Wow, even the top of your refrigerator is clean!”<br />
<br />
We settled in to the now-naked armchairs, the three of us in a celebratory mood. “Did you try that shoe on everyone in town before you got here?” I asked Jeff, who was carring it like a football. “Or just Harry?”<br />
<br />
“Oh! Here! I should give it to you,” he said, handing it to me. “Or is it yours?” He shoved it at Harry.<br />
<br />
Harry took both shoes and got up to place them on the windowsill nearest the door, where the sun was coming in strongest. The transparent soles glowed white, the mystical carvings throwing swords of light onto the walls. Sparkles danced about the room, flecking all of our faces, making us laugh and shake our heads and blink the dazzling pinpricks of light out of our eyes. Jeff sang, “Aaaaaah,” like a choir of angels.<br />
<br />
“Darling, you wouldn’t believe what a scene you missed last night,” said Harry. “You left just before midnight. Sylvia never knew it was you. She was all, like, ‘who stole my daughter’s crown?’ and once you were gone, ‘Jeff, for God's sake, dance with my daughters!’ And the band had stopped playing, and everyone was staring at her—”<br />
<br />
“Aawwk-ward!” Jeff chimed in. “Especially since I was dancing with Harry.” I gave him a curious look.<br />
<br />
“I even dipped him,” said Harry.<br />
<br />
“He dipped you?” Now I stared at Jeff. He blushed. Harry punched his shoulder and rushed on.<br />
<br />
“In the silence,” Jeff continued, “Coach’s watch starts beeping; it’s midnight. Well, Sylvia forgets about us—”<br />
<br />
“—and we stop dancing—” Harry pointed out.<br />
<br />
“You dropped me,” Jeff mentioned.<br />
<br />
“—and she reaches into her purse.”<br />
<br />
“People freaked out—they thought she was reaching for a gun!” Jeff said, gesturing with his hands. “Some kids even hit the floor!”<br />
<br />
“But no, it’s a cell phone,” says Harry, “and she dials a number and says, “‘Run it,’” glaring at the coach the whole time.<br />
<br />
“Their eyes were locked,” Jeff said, illustrating by pointing two fingers at my eyes, then his, then Harry’s, then his. What on earth? Now I was thinking about the Chanel blouse and the girdle….<br />
<br />
“Then Coach starts peeling off his clothes!” Harry was nearly doubled over laughing at the memory. He stood up and started mimicking a strip-tease. “The orange cap. (Ba-dump.) The day-glo orange jacket. (Ba-dump.) The whistle, the squash team sweatshirt—he peels them off and throws them one by one at Sylvia’s feet.”<br />
<br />
“The dude is buff,” Jeff said. “And now he’s standing there in jeans, a white t-shirt, his hi-tops, and his now silent watch.”<br />
<br />
“Kind of hot, actually,” Harry murmured. “In a James-Dean-at-forty kind of way.”<br />
<br />
Jeff continued. “And he goes, glaring at Sylvia, ‘I said what I had to, but it’s over now.’ Then he looks up at the crowd and says, ‘Party’s over, kids, go home. And goodbye. —” <br />
<br />
Harry finished. “—Effective immediately, I’m no longer the coach. I’m going back to being Jack Pupkin, regular guy.’” <br />
<br />
“No!” I couldn’t believe it. <br />
<br />
Jeff started laughing hysterically.<br />
<br />
“What?” We both turned on him. <br />
<br />
“I just got it!”<br />
<br />
“What?” He had to catch his breath first.<br />
<br />
“Come <i>on</i>, Cinderella! Your <i>coach</i> turned back into a <i>Pupkin</i> at midnight!”Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-32364978095762702082013-01-06T07:48:00.000-08:002013-01-06T17:52:00.661-08:00King Phineas Food BankWhen I became conscious the next morning, the first thing I noticed was the birds were singing. I lay with my face in the pillow for a moment, trying to figure out which of these images in my mind was reality and which was a dream: unlocking a great big door with a key as big as my backpack, or dancing with Jeff. When my eyes focused on the dress hanging on the wardrobe, I still wasn’t sure; I could have dreamed putting it on. Then I spotted the single glass shoe on the windowsill and I knew… both realities were true.<br />
<br />
I pulled on my dad’s old sweatpants and tiptoed down the stairs to the hall bathroom, where I tried to coax my crispy-sprayed hair into a braid. I laughed when I saw my morning-after face in the mirror — eyes rimmed with black smudges, pink crusted lips, and a false eyelash sprouting from my cheek. I scrubbed myself clean, then remembered to go back upstairs and dig out my mom’s punch bowl from under the bed. Sylvia had asked for it —okay, demanded it—since she was planning a brunch this morning for whichever one of her daughters woke up prom queen. I supposed she could use my help.<br />
<br />
By mid-morning, the table was ready and the buffet was set up, but I hadn’t heard a peep from upstairs yet. Sunlight streamed in to the living room from the tall windows, which I opened to let air in, and then set about taking the slip-covers off the furniture. I frowned at my dad’s old rolltop desk in the corner of the room, now piled high with Sylvia’s papers—I thought about rolling it shut but when I started to push a stack of papers, I heard her voice screeching in my head not to touch her desk. Turning my back on the mess, though, everything looked lovely. I didn’t really know what to expect next; I was just happy. I looked down at my toes, painted with pink swirls, and got an idea that I should maybe wear something pretty to the party.<br />
<br />
I trotted up the stairs and changed into one of my mom’s summer frocks. I was stabbing a pencil through my twisted-up, hopeless hair when I heard a car pull up in the driveway, then another car. Voices floated in through the small attic window.<br />
<br />
“Good morning, Jeff!” It was Harry.<br />
<br />
“Hello, um… I’m….” Jeff was baffled.<br />
<br />
“It’s me, Harry,” said Harry’s voice.<br />
<br />
“Carrie?” Said Jeff. And then I heard him laugh.<br />
<br />
“What did you say last night, all forlorn, when you were holding that shoe like a newborn baby? ‘No one could ever fill her shoes?’ Well…try me!” I peered out the window and saw something almost as strange as last night’s sight. There was a middle-aged man in a sweater vest standing in front of Jeff, pulling one of his pant legs up to expose a length of flexed calf, a bare ankle, and a woven leather boat shoe on a pointed foot. Jeff held the other shoe in his hands. I breathed a sigh of relief, delighted to see the shoe, delighted to see them both, delighted to see the two of them together.<br />
<br />
“Okay, that’s just creepy,” Jeff laughed. “Hi Harry.”<br />
<br />
“It was charming dancing with you last night,” Harry said. My jaw dropped. What did I miss?<br />
<br />
“I’m so glad you cut in when you did!”<br />
<br />
“Swear to God, Sylvia would have puppeteered you around the dance floor to get you to dance with one of her daughters.”<br />
<br />
“Or both! Did you see how she shoved them at me?”<br />
<br />
“Well, I’d just been puppeteered so I wanted to save you from that fate. That woman is stubborn,” said Harry. “Have you ever tried calling this house to talk to Ashley?”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, now that you mention it, but I always end up talking to…”<br />
<br />
“I’ve got such news for her, but I can never get through… and when I get Sylvia, it’s like she can’t hear me!”<br />
<br />
Ah, suddenly something came clear.<br />
<br />
About a week ago in the kitchen, Sylvia had stepped on some mashed potatoes with corn, and then was freaking out and blaming everyone who came near, spinning a line of logic that made it my fault for not cleaning it up, Donna’s fault for being the last one to eat, and Debra’s fault for having a craving for Kentucky Fried Chicken biscuits. It was also for some reason her “goddamn mechanic’s” fault for forgetting to put a “fucking sticker” on the windshield six months ago to remind her the car needed a “fucking oil change.” A few seconds into her rant, I knelt down with a paper towel to wipe up the mess (spotting a Chee-to and a scrunchie under the cabinet while there), but then she lit into me about wasting paper towels when I could have been using a sponge. At which point I stared at her, since just last week she had gone off about me using a sponge on the floor when I should have used a paper towel…. She shrieked, suddenly, that there was some goo on her shoe, and shoved her pointy white pump in my face. That was too much. I stood up and summoned the courage to say something.<br />
<br />
Just then the phone rang, breaking the tension. Sylvia reached out to answer it. “Hello, St. Helens and Hill residence…” Her voice was suddenly singsong and professional, like a receptionist at a tanning spa. She chuckled gently and smiled at me and said, “No, I’m afraid you’ve missed her again; I’ll give her the message you called.” I gave her a curious look but she just listened, and her smile stretched tighter until she was talking through her teeth. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And then she took the sharp tone of someone trying to rid themselves of a phone solicitor. “No, I really have no interest in that. Besides, I just don’t have the time, trying to keep three teenaged girls clothed and fed, plus my extensive volunteer work with the King Phineas Food Bank, I’m sure you understand.” “No, I’m sorry, you’re not hearing me, I really can’t. No thank you. Bye-bye for now.”<br />
<br />
“So I finally reached her last Friday,” Harry told Jeff, leaning on the hood of his Cadillac. “But I got carried away when I heard it was prom, because, well fairytale weekends don’t happen every day!” He was getting quite worked up, starting to laugh and cry all at once. “Oh! Did you hear what I just said! Carried away! Don’t you get it?” Jeff didn’t get it at the time, and neither did I—but Harry was laughing because his stage persona is a fallen Southern Belle drag queen named Carrie D’Aweigh. She headlines on Sundays down at the Teddy Wolf in the pink light district. Carrie D’Aweigh is my fairy godmother. Carrie D’Aweigh is who danced with both Sylvia and Jeff at the prom.Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-9434685602870004122012-12-30T11:51:00.002-08:002013-02-05T08:27:56.830-08:00All the RipplesI was halfway home before I remembered Harry. I should probably go back, I thought. He’s my ride. I had rushed out of the gym in such a panic that I wasn’t thinking clearly. I slipped off the shoes and ran like the wind.<br />
<br />
My mind was such a jumble of thoughts and feelings that I didn’t actually notice my feet slapping the pavement until I saw the creek path up ahead in the moonlight. I leaned into the turn and felt the earth under my heels. And then I started laughing. I couldn’t believe I was wearing a dress—at full speed! I glanced up the creek, where the full moon was reflected in the water, and my mind calmed. I looked back—there was no one chasing me. I slowed down and caught my breath, and when I held my arms out to the side to cool my sweaty pits, I realized I had been clutching only one shoe to my chest. How had that happened?<br />
<br />
Sylvia had screamed, scaring me half to death, just as Jeff was leaning down to kiss me! “Who is that? Who is that?” She was literally clawing her way towards us through the crowd. Apparently she had figured out what the heck was going on…but she still didn’t know who I was.<br />
<br />
From the stage, Debra and Donna were pointing down at us and screaming, “There she is! There she is!”<br />
<br />
“I think I’d better go,” I said sweetly, to Jeff, who was still holding me tightly. I ran through the crowd to the gym’s side door, where Mrs. Armor, my Latin teacher, was standing with a group of students. I paused among my classmates to twist off the amazing shoes—I didn’t want anything to happen to them, or to my ankles as I ran. “Veni, Vidi, Redii Domum,” I joked as I backed out the door. They all laughed, and pulled the door shut as I turned to run the mile home.<br />
<br />
The bolt of fear that had shot through me when I saw Sylvia was gone; now my heart pounded from running. I trotted back up the creek path and peered up the street I’d just run down, but the other shoe was nowhere to be seen. For a moment I fretted about what to tell Harry, but I knew that he loved me and things would turn out all right. But that thought led to the next, like electricity in a step-up transformer: I also knew, in my heart, that Jeff loved me!<br />
<br />
This time I danced down the creek path, twirling so my dress flew out and the crystals caught the moonlight. I skipped, I started running again, loving the cool earth on the soles of my feet.<br />
<br />
The soles of my feet. When I hit the bridge, my steps rung like thunder and I stopped to still the noise and catch my breath. The soles of my feet on the wood, on the path, on the earth, grounded me. I had taken this shortcut when I was a child, and after things changed, I always slipped off my flip-flops when I walked by the creek. I had brought all my sorrows to this bridge, and cried so many tears over the edge. The trickling sound of the water and the cool shade of the leaves above had always made me feel better. I always found myself able, after a visit to the creek, to set my mind right about things.<br />
<br />
I peered down at my toes, sticking through the railings of the bridge, and thought about how Harry had talked about the soles of my feet. Had he really said 'souls' or had I just heard it that way? Being barefoot did always calm me down. I was barefoot on one particularly bad and cold Sylvia day, many months ago, when I had cried my dreams out loud. “I want my life to be better,” I had wailed to a clotted winter night when my tears fell on the river's blanket of ice. “I know this is silly,” I had called out to no one, “but I want my parents back. I want love back.” I gripped the cold railing. “I don't care how, but I want love all around me. <i>I want love all around me!”</i><br />
<br />
I took some deep breaths and felt joy flow through my body like the water through the reflection of the giant moon. I noticed all the ripples were moving in one direction. I turned and finished my flight home.<br />
<br />
--------<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Andale Mono'; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15pt;"><br />
From: Ashley <ash-prince gmail.com> <br />
To: FTR <info fairytalereality.com><br />
Date: Wednesday, 22 Jun 2011 08:51:22 <br />
Subject: Nevada etc.<br />
<br />
Hi Kristen,<br />
<br />
Attached is the final installment of my story! But I just got off the phone with Nevada, and there is something interesting I want to share that is not in the manuscript.<br />
<br />
I helped Michael put a friend of hers from college back in touch with her; he is kind of “putting the gang back together” to help tell her story for your project. Anyway, while they talked, she put some pieces together that she had to tell me about: it couldn't have been stomach flu that kept her away from the prom, since no one else had it, not even her childhood friend (I can't say his name; he's kind of a somebody now) who held her hair back while she threw up!<br />
<br />
As we talked, the memory returned to me of Sylvia baking muffins for the prom committee the Friday night that Harry called. She never baked. (And I remember thinking that as I cleaned up the mess.) The next morning as they left for their mani-pedi-fest, she was carrying a tray to drop off at the gym for the prom committee. I noticed one muffin that had “good luck” written on it — I assumed at the time it was for Debra or Donna </span><span style="font-family: 'Andale Mono'; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15pt;">— but why was there only one of them? Now it’s all come clear: Nevada says The Girls presented it to her very sweetly. (Poor Nevada, to be poisoned more than once. It’s no wonder she wants to put those days behind her!)<br />
<br />
We’re going to have to confront Sylvia about this one of these days...! She’s currently in a twelve-step program so there may be hope.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, I’m so excited to hear about the staged reading! I can’t make it since my due date is the week after – and since it’s twins they might be here early! Harry was tickled that you thought to ask him to read his own part, but he’s away in Uganda speaking on civil rights issues. He said he’s got some friends in the business who might be available,though — shall I connect you?<br />
<br />
Cheers,<br />
<br />
Ashley<br />
</span>Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-47246296437402866082012-12-16T15:02:00.000-08:002013-01-31T20:46:06.734-08:00Cancer SucksJeff and I talked as we danced, catching up as quickly as if it had been weeks, not years, since we’d been as sweet on each other as peanut butter and chocolate. “I heard about your dad,” he said. “Cancer sucks.”<br />
<br />
We flirted, suddenly feeling like grownups. I worried about Nevada with her stomach flu, who everyone thought would be Jeff's queen tonight—was I intruding? Jeff said they were just friends, but had been wondering if something might happen with her tonight, which put me off a bit. But he was so much happier it was me. He reminded me of our vow, in second grade, to get married when we were twenty. I pretended to be shocked but of course I’d remembered it all these years. Twenty is too young, of course, but it had seemed so grown-up when we were seven.<br />
<br />
I told him about Harry, but we couldn’t spot him in the crowd. Jeff said he had to thank Harry for wrapping me up like a Christmas present.<br />
<br />
Look at me, I’m totally giddy writing this. I have seen so many couples fall in love and then break up. I still think it was some sort of miracle that our dreams of each other were reliable. Jeff grinned at me like an idiot for the rest of the song, and I grinned at him right back. Even my feet were smiling. His dimple deepened. He said, “I’m thinking about kissing that lipstick off your face.”<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Andale Mono'; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15pt;">-------</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Andale Mono'; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15pt;"><br />
From: <crankingitout@gmail.com ><br />
To: FTR <<info fairytalereality.com="fairytalereality.com">info@fairytalereality.com><br />
Date: Monday, 20 Jun 2011 12:11:12 <br />
Subject: cadwallader<br />
<br />
hey k ~ <br />
<br />
been a long time, i’m so sorry i’ve been so awol... somewhat settled with a ton of things to do, still i can’t wait to tell you i met up with cadwallader in nyc and its trippin’ me owwwtttt...!<br />
<br />
remember he’s the guy who says he was “one of snow white’s dwarves?” guess what, he’s talking about nevada le blanc! his friend (another ‘dwarf’ went to black forest high and he went to her house, then went to the prom. he’s pretty sure it was food poisoning, not stomach flu. he's got a heck of a story, i'll call you later.<br />
<br />
meanwhile meeting lots of theater folks here, all hungry like us but enthused about the project...shouldn’t be too hard to pull a reading together with what we’ve got.<br />
<br />and meanwhile meanwhile, think we should do a kickstarter or indiegogo for some funds?<br />
<br />
i have a draft of the waltz song, in which jeff/ashley dance and sylvia/harry fight.<br />
<br />
~m~</info></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Andale Mono'; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15pt;"><info fairytalereality.com="fairytalereality.com"><br /></info></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Andale Mono'; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15pt;"><info fairytalereality.com="fairytalereality.com">---------<br />
<br />
From: FTR <info@fairytalereality.com><br />
To: <crankingitout@gmail.com><br />
Date: Monday, 20 Jun 2011 2:41:52 <br />
Subject: re: cadwallader<br />
<br />
First of all, can we talk tonight? I can’t wait to hear your story! <br />
<br />
Second, do you think we could get this together in six weeks? I’d love to do a run-through in early August if that works for you. I know someone who works at a big-name theater school and we could rent some space for cheap.<br />
<br />
Third, yes, we should definitely do some crowdfunding, but if we’re putting up a show in six weeks it will have to wait. (Tighten belts, get credit cards out...)</info></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Andale Mono'; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15pt;"><info fairytalereality.com="fairytalereality.com"><br /></info></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Andale Mono'; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15pt;"><info fairytalereality.com="fairytalereality.com">Fourthly, still haven't gotten to hear the Fairy GodWhatever song... I know you've been busy with the move, but...?<br />
<br />
And finally, I was playing around with some NEW dialog for the waltz sequence and had some virtual actors run the lines. The music’s terrible... but do you think it has potential?<br />
</info></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Andale Mono'; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15pt;"><info fairytalereality.com="fairytalereality.com"><br /></info></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Andale Mono'; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15pt;"><info fairytalereality.com="fairytalereality.com">Kristen</info></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe frameborder="0" height="312" src="http://www.xtranormal.com/xtraplayr/14026038/a-box-of-noodles" width="504"></iframe></div>
Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-5720597237333750332012-12-09T08:48:00.000-08:002012-12-09T17:25:14.630-08:00The Fairytale Catfight WaltzAs Jeff and I melted into each others’ arms, only half-aware that we were becoming legendary ourselves, Harry sauntered up to the shell-shocked Sylvia.<br />
<br />
“My presence didn’t cheer her up much,” Harry told me later, after he tracked me down back at the house. “Of course, I came in all smooth, all ‘Sylvia darling, you’re looking trim…ish. Swellegant party. Shall we dance? I can lead OR follow.’ At first she didn’t recognize me. Thought I was some PTA mom, maybe we had worked together on some committee. I said no, we had only met a few times; mostly knew each other from the phone. Then—it was great to see her face, think of Katherine Hepburn in <i>Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner</i> but not so gorgeous—she figured it out.”<br />
<br />
“‘Harry!’ She goes. ‘Why...who...<i>what</i> are you doing here?’” (Harry did a marvelous and over-dramatized Sylvia impression.)<br />
<br />
“‘I thought we might dance,’” Harry said he said. “‘We can talk. I can lead <i>or</i> follow.’ I grabbed her around the waist, and waltzed her around the floor…actually, it was more like we wrestled…and she kept craning her neck over the crowd to try to see you, to find out who the heck—HAH!—stole her daughters’ crown. But I held on tight, because I had a few things to say to her.” <br />
<br />
Over the years, our friends have recounted stories of being in the crowd at the prom and witnessing this epic lady fight/dance wrestling match/royal ass-kicking as the two plowed through the crowd in time to the music. They overheard Harry saying things like:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>“You may have kicked me out of your life, you wicked witch, but you couldn’t kick that sweet kid out of my heart.”</li>
<li>“When she was born, her mother entrusted her spirit to me, and that meant something. But it seems you made it your job to destroy it in every way.”</li>
<li>“She was such a carefree child, but now she carries the cares of the world. Of <i>your</i> world, to be specific.”</li>
<li>“I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw her tonight—she was a shadow of what she once was, of what she could be.”</li>
</ul>
<br />
Although Sylvia had figured out that this tall, flamboyant lady was actually Harry in disguise, she didn’t realize it was me in disguise who had ruined her plans until later. At first she didn’t know what Harry was talking about, and couldn’t quite grasp that he’d seen me that night. She threatened Harry: “How dare you accuse me of all of this?” Harry laughed. Ana Sueño was standing right above them, looking down from the stage, when she heard Harry say, “How dare <i>I</i>? How dare <i>you</i>! You’ve tied her down with all of your menial tasks; you’ve denied her the gorgeous unfolding that is the right of a girl in her teens!” (I will never forget that line, and it has made me a better mother.) Of course, Sylvia denied everything. “What are you talking about?” She even said, “I love her like my own daughters,” which of course made Harry snort. He spun her around the dance floor, and spelled it out like only a barrister-drag queen could: “You have stifled her will, abused her rights, made her your slave, and deprived her of her <i>much-needed </i>beauty sleep!” When Harry tells the story, he says Sylvia wouldn’t even look him in the eye. “I told her she could kiss my big, hairy ass (and later he mentions it isn’t really all that big or hairy) and kiss her reign of terror good-bye!” Ana says it was like watching Bette Davis and Joan Crawford fighting, and she wasn’t even sure which one was which. She calls it the <i>Fairytale Catfight Waltz</i>.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, across the dance floor, I was totally oblivious to all of this, aware only of Jeff’s strong arm under mine, his hand firmly holding my back, and the way we seemed to fit so well together. With the tall shoes on, I could look him right in the eye. Green eyes. Flecked with gold. He said he thought I looked familiar. <br />
<br />
And then, just for a moment, the magic faded away. I thought he knew who I was, but alas, I was just a mysterious stranger who arrived at a convenient time, to save him from the unpleasant fate! I struggled with my feelings, both upset with him and attracted to him, wondering what to do.<br />
<br />
“You’re blushing,” Jeff said, noticing that I’d stiffened up. Fortunately I remembered what Harry said about me having the power. Rather than blurt out my identity, rather than feel insulted, I smiled brightly and decided to make him work for it.<br />
<br />
“Of course I look familiar, I’ve watched you grow from a boy who likes bugs into the man you’re just beginning to be.”<br />
<br />
“You’ve watched me?” Excellent. Just the reaction I’d hoped for. Behind his eyes, I could see his brain searching for files….“I still like bugs,” he mumbled.<br />
<br />
“Paper airplanes ring a bell?” He shrugged. “Spaghetti bracelets? Lego racers?” His eyes wandered up and to the right, as eyes do when the brain searches for a memory. “Finger paintings?”<br />
<br />
“Of naked ladies?” He asked, eyes starting to sparkle again. I nodded.<br />
<br />
“We got in trouble,” we both said it together. Suddenly he lit up like I was Santa Claus.<br />
<br />
“Ashley Stain Helens!”<br />
<br />
“Siegfried Jeffrey Prince!”<br />
<br />
“Shhhh, no one knows my real name,” he said, looking around.<br />
<br />
“I’ve kept your secret all these years.”<br />
<br />
“My honeybunch,” he grinned, hugging me. “I still have the macaroni necklace you made me! But...” he held me at arm’s length for a second. “But...you look so different from in Calculus class.”<br />
<br />
I lifted an eyebrow. “Yeah, I don’t usually dress up for math.” Then my worrying nature kicked in: Maybe he likes the make-up, not me. Yeah, that made sense. Yeah, obviously; how could I have been so stupid to think otherwise? The vines of doom reached for me, even in my moment of destiny. This couldn’t really actually be happening to me; I’m dreaming, I must have fallen asleep on my book back at home. I pulled away.<br />
<br />
But he grabbed my hand. “Ashley, that not it, I swear. There’s something else about you tonight. You look radiant. Amazing. Happy. You look like yourself. Even though you’re wearing a dress. Even though you grew up without me noticing. And I can’t tell you how happy I am that it’s you. I was wishing and praying that something wonderful would happen tonight. I like Nevada, I love Nevada, she’s great, she’s beautiful, and something might have happened, but seriously, everyone thinks we’re the class couple because we liked each other in ninth grade… but I love her like a sister, we’re good friends, and we both want something real.”<br />
<br />
Something real. As much as this was all pretend—the glitter, the big hair, the fog machines—the fantasy of it all had actually coaxed something I’d always imagined into reality. I couldn’t answer, I just put my cheek to his, and it was warm, and we danced. I closed my eyes and I could feel our two auras sort of settling in together. I could feel the ankle straps of the amazing shoes pull against my skin with each step. I could feel the cool taffeta of my mother’s dress slide around my body like a blessing. For the first time since I’d lost her, I felt ready to dream about being like her one day. I sent her and dad a silent prayer of thanks for sending Harry to me tonight, for sending me love.Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-55238742728865306902012-12-02T07:53:00.000-08:002012-12-02T07:53:00.672-08:00What’s A Girl To Do?As the crowd cheered, the most incredible thing happened: Jeff looked straight at me. He was glancing all around the room, making eye contact with his adoring fans, and when his eyes lit on me, they came back. It was like “oh, it’s you, hi,” And then, “what? Woah!” And then he was just smiling at me, his teeth like shooting stars in the changing light, his mouth open, his eyes puzzled, his eyes happy, and me just grinning like an Elmo doll. Then everyone on stage was staring at me. Then everyone in the crowd was staring at me. Then I felt my cheeks starting to get hot and my heels starting to sweat.<br />
<br />
The coach, oblivious to my excitement, wiped his brow again and went on. “So, uh, moving along here...the choice of prom QUEEN seems to have been a more difficult one...Nevada LeBlanc, our front-runner, bowed out of the race at the last moment with a bad case of the stomach flu.” He glanced again at Sylvia, nervously. “Aaaannnd…between the two remaining candidates, we have, um, a tie.” Debra and Donna stopped hugging each other and started glaring at each other, not noticing the coughing and fidgeting of the crowd. “Three votes each.” Their cluster of giggling girlfriends squealed and clapped and whistled.<br />
<br />
But Jeff ignored them. He leaned into to the microphone in front of Coach to say something. A hush fell over the crowd. His dimple was gone; he was dead serious. And then the most miraculous thing happened. He spoke out loud. He waved a little wave, and said, “Hi.”<br />
<br />
The coach patted his pockets, reaching in here and there, pulling out bits of paper. Meanwhile, Jeff pointed at me and said, “How about you?” By all rights, I should have fainted right then and there. It was <i>so </i>romantic, <i>so </i>flattering, <i>so</i> scary. I felt like I was floating above myself, looking down on the scene. <br />
<br />
“So. Um.” The coach glanced nervously at Sylvia again, and kept speaking, shouting really, since Jeff was breathing heavily into the mike, waiting for some sort of answer, as if anyone could have answered that question. I stood there, rooted to my spot, unable to stop smiling. “The prom committee, or, ahem, the ‘revered administration of the crown,’ you could call it, decided to let blind justice choose our queen.” The coach pulled out a shiny silver dollar and held it up. His hands were shaking.<br />
<br />
“Yes, you,” said Jeff, again, nodding, beckoning me now with his adorable finger, and there came the dimple again. In the years since, I always deliver this line at this point in the story: “What’s a girl to do?” And everyone laughs at my seemingly rhetorical question. But at that moment, I really had no idea. The coin went up, up, up, and I took a careful step forward in my shoes that should have been in a museum. The coin came flying down but when the coach reached out he missed it; it hit the floor, ringing in the silence, bounced off the stage, and rolled into the oblivious crowd. Yes, oblivious; hardly anyone saw this but me, while I was seemingly floating above my body. Everyone was totally tuned in to Jeff, who stared at me with such intention I was mesmerized. My feet took another step or two for me. There was a smattering of applause. Debra’s face fell. She jabbed Donna with her elbow. They both stared at me. Suddenly, my knees seemed to magically transform into stuffed animals. <br />
<br />
Someone out there yelled, “I vote for her!” <br />
<br />
Then everyone started shouting. “Me, too!” “She’s the one!” Just when I thought my stuffies would collapse, people reached for me. Hands touched my arms, pulling me, pushing my back, gently, helping me get to Jeff. Hands guided me to the stage, practically lifted me up the stairs. The coach shrugged, and signaled to the band behind him to start playing again. Ana Sueño, last year’s prom queen, returning from college for this special moment, put something on my head as I walked past, but I barely noticed. Sparkling stars were shooting into the edges of my field of vision. All I could see was Jeff, reaching for my hands.<br />
<br />
“Hello, gorgeous,” he said.<br />
<br />
“Hello, yourself.” His hands were very warm and steady.<br />
<br />
“You look fine,” he said, and I felt like I was in an old romantic comedy I’d watched many times with mom and dad. <br />
<br />
“I <i>feel</i> fine,” I responded, as if reciting my line. But it was true. I did feel pretty fine, in a way I never had before. The cheering crowd parted as we walked down off the stage to dance, and the band started playing the dreamlike <i>Fairytale Waltz</i> that had been played at our school's prom since the legendary class of 1929.<br />
<br />
There are moments in everyone’s lives where they feel as if the current of a greater story has swept them up; when suddenly, without warning, their lives converge with destiny, and somehow the confusion of everyday life dissolves, and they know just what they must do. This is how Jeff describes the moment he saw me and lifted that adorable finger. I felt that way, too, but in a strangely passive way. Like, it wasn’t my own actions that mattered in that moment, but people around me suddenly knew what to do. And that, I believe, is what made my life a fairy tale—not the coincidental details of shoes and godmothers and pu(m)pkins. The feeling I got to experience, of being chosen <i>just for being who you are</i>, is different in a fairy tale than in a hero’s journey. And this was my wonderful fortune.<br />
<br />
Wonderful not only because Jeff “discovered” me…but because also, at this point, it was time for Harry to stand up to Sylvia.Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-44832865196760062012012-11-25T08:24:00.000-08:002012-11-25T08:24:00.431-08:00In the Style of Democracy<br />
We got to the high school at about ten thirty, and cruised around the parking lot looking for a space. Harry slowed to a crawl as we passed by an occupied car with steamed-up windows, which seemed to perplex Harry. He peered through his eyelashes and stroked his chin, smiling and frowning in quick succession, then glanced over at me.<br />
<br />
“What?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “You look so beautiful.” He licked his finger and patted down a lock of my hair.<br />
<br />
He pulled up in front of a crowd of kids that were hanging out in front of the gymnasium doors to catch some air. He peered out, again, muttering something about smoking, then smiled and said, “Madam, you’ve arrived.” I opened the door and gathered the folds of my dress around my legs, being careful where I stepped with the magical shoes. With everyone watching, I was glad I’d thought to wear deodorant. I turned to Harry, unsure of myself for a moment, and he gave me a cool look, sucked in his cheeks and purred, “Knock ‘em dead, kid.”<br />
<br />
I walked carefully, finding my stride in the famous shoes, through an archway made of pink and yellow and white balloons. The gymnasium had been transformed by the prom committee, and I turned all around to stare and appreciate their vision. Round tables draped with gold lamé were scattered with balloons, curling ribbons, and candy. Golden stars moved across the high ceiling, the projected rays of light cutting through wisps of fog. Giant painted windows hung from the ceiling, hiding the concrete walls, showing painted scenes of some faraway land in the sunset, and gauzy curtains wafted around them, stirred by some secret breeze. Clusters of students gathered around clusters of giant potted palms, talking and laughing, sipping peach-tinted soda from sparkling plastic cups, their faces, and the faces of the dancers, sparkling pink and gold from disco balls hung at various levels around the room. A huge banner, not the printed vinyl kind, but hand-sewn decades ago on yards and yards of draped fabric, hung from wall to wall across the bandstand and proclaimed a profound wish for my generation in scrolling velvet letters: “Happily Ever After.”<br />
<br />
I wandered through the room with my mouth open, drinking in all the detail and trying to reconcile the well-groomed boys in suits and stylized girls in slinky gowns with the kids I saw every day at school in their jeans and t-shirts. Everyone looked radiant, happy, and a little dazed, just like me, as if no one knew what would happen in the next few minutes. Who would they see? Would they feel a touch on their shoulder? Would their favorite song come on, and would the one they wanted be by their side when it did? So this was prom; I’d made it. I stood in the middle of the room under the star-sprinkled ceiling taking it all in, savoring the moment and feeling lit up by my success in a permanent way.<br />
<br />
There was a subtle shift in the crowd around me as the lights changed and the music turned to quiet. Coach Pupkin was climbing the stairs onto the bandstand, followed by the court. The kids all loved “Coach P,” who led our squash team to the state championships year after year. He had wooed me to join the squash team in ninth grade. And tenth. And eleventh. He was not too tall, not too thin, and even now, in his suit jacket, he was wearing his signature orange cap and a whistle around his neck. He played that whistle like an instrument, sometimes blowing a sharp blast, sometimes a low gurgle, always following up the alert with a word of guidance that everyone—not just the athletes—respected as being given with keen observation and caring. He was a solid, predictable, and reliable pillar of our community. And yet, we would all find out soon, Coach P was not what he seemed. (One of the little lessons that fairy tales can teach us all about real life!)<br />
<br />
Three guys held the elbows of two girls who teetered on the stairs—I recognized them as Debra and Donna, and suddenly remembered who I was. I thought I had been kidding when I said they looked like prom queens—suddenly it sunk in that all of that wasn’t just talk. Suddenly I could hear, again, everything Sylvia had been saying in the laundry room; I knew they’d been nominated but where were the other contestants? The two of them were wiggling like puppies, jumping up and down, holding each other’s hands (to the dismay of their escorts), as if this really were Miss America. If they had been anyone else, they would have been totally embarrassing themselves, but that’s who they were. I spotted Sylvia standing near the stage, making hand-motions for them to pat their hair, stick out their chests, suck in their stomachs, and smooth their dresses. Coach Pupkin glanced at her nervously as he took center stage. He tapped the microphone, which howled back at him at first, then cleared his throat and started to speak.<br />
<br />
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” he said, and everyone laughed at his trademark Disneyland opener. “It’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for. It’s time to announce those hallowed icons of adolescence, the King and Queen of the Prom.” Suddenly I was aware of Harry in the doorway behind me. I gave him a little wave with my gloved hand (he’d brought a pair of black gloves); he must have found a parking place. He made a “chin-up-and-tuck-your-tummy” gesture and I smiled, jerking my head towards Sylvia. He smiled, rolled his eyes, and slapped himself on the hand.<br />
<br />
“As you know,” spoke the coach, the microphone whining at him again, “it was very difficult to narrow the field of nominees to only three men and (ahem) three young ladies.” He shot a nervous glance at Sylvia and mopped his brow with a small rally towel he fished out of his pocket of his black blazer, flashing a bright orange lining. “In the, um, style of—” he cleared his throat again— “democracy, you all voted for your favorites, and I must say, the tally was overwhelming. Three hundred and twenty-seven out of three-hundred and twenty-eight votes were for your new prom King...” There was a drum roll. Two of the three guys shuffled their feet. The crowd was beginning to cheer. My heart was in my throat—I knew who I had voted for— “Je-e-eff Prince!”<br />
<br />
Jeff stepped forward, gracefully, and I held my stomach laughing, and kind of crying at the same time, genuinely happy for him and so happy to be there to see him win. If anyone deserved the honor, it was Jeff. He was really cute, of course, with soft brown hair and a dimple when he even just barely smiled, but he was also mature, unassuming, funny, cool, smart, really good at everything he did, and friendly to everyone. My stomach hurt a little with longing for him, missing our friendship, wishing I could stand closer to him. I imagined every girl around me felt the same way. He had ascended to rock star status when he’d gotten hit by a truck last year in Village City when he jumped in front of it, waving his crimson jersey, after winning a football game; the driver swerved and narrowly missed the herd of escaped preschoolers chasing a black cat across the street. Jeff was on the Tri-State news, a hero. Signatures had filled his cast so completely that people had started putting stickers on it and the paper was like an inch deep.<br />
<br />
As the coach handed Jeff the shiny gold crown that had been displayed in the front hallway’s trophy cases since 1929, I remembered the cardboard and glitter crowns we had made in kindergarten. Someone in the crowd shouted out, “Speech! Speech!” Jeff ducked his head and his dimple deepened. When the applause died down, he spoke quietly into the microphone.<br />
<br />
“Well gosh, I couldn’t exactly vote for myself, could I?” <br />
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Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-69164246457528607242012-11-18T08:00:00.000-08:002012-11-18T08:00:00.804-08:00Zombie Ballet<span style="font-family: 'Andale Mono'; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15pt;"><br />
From: Ashley <ash-prince03@gmail.com><br />
To: FTR <info@fairytalereality.com>,<br />
crankingitout@gmail.com<br />
Date: Monday, Tuesday, 24 May 2011 13:21:12<br />
Subject: Harriet as Aunt Donna<br />
<br />
I’m glad things are moving along so well with the musical. Unfortunately, Harriet likes “The Big Bitch” so much it’s causing issues in rehearsal. (They’re performing Cinderella on Friday—remember, she plays a stepsister?) The teacher just called me. Maybe I can get her to sing “If the Shoe Fits” instead....<br />
<br />
Ashley</span><br />
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<br />
From: crankingitout@gmail.com><br />
To: FTR <info@fairytalereality.com><br />
Date: Thursdsay, 25 May 2011 01:12:49<br />
Subject: Shoe Song ok?<br />
<br />
k-ashley seemed to like the shoe song but it's thursday and i haven’t heard from you yet. Should i be nervous? i was not sure how the rhythm would grab ya… wanted to try something upbeat and contemporary… you holding out?<br />
<br />
also i have news—got a gig in NYC that’s too good to pass up—i'm sure i can do it and keep writing.<br />
<br />
Fairy Godwhatever song is coming along — I’ll send roughs in the morning.<br />
<br />
~m~<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Andale Mono'; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 15pt;"><br />
From: FTR <info@fairytalereality.com><br />
To: crankingitout@gmail.com<br />
Date: Friday, 26 May 2011 09:15:23<br />
Subject: Re: Shoe Song ok?<br />
<br />
Hey Michael,<br />
<br />
You guessed it, I have been mulling over the song and trying to figure out how to tell you I only like it 75%. I mean, it’s really great (and the actor did a great job and I can’t BELIEVE his feet…) But I am not seeing how it works musically with the concept of a soft-shoe with a Busby Berkeley-style dance number. I thought we were on the same page but I didn’t hear the roughs and you went right to the recording.<br />
<br />
Also, I was waiting to write you with good news this morning but it’s bad news, instead. They announced Lantern Grant winners, and we're not on the list. Plenty of vampires and zombie projects are coming out, even a cinderella zombie ballet. Maybe we're not postmodern enough. Maybe we're not violent enough for this wartime, post-Halo zeitgeist.<br />
<br />
Going to Peets now to listen to some classical music and drown my sorrows in iced Decaf Sumatra.<br />
<br />
-Kristen<br />
<br />
p.s. Congrats on the NY job – I’d like to hear more about it, and I guess I'm glad you'll have some income. I was planning to go there myself around my bday. (I hope it doesn’t slow you down — you’re really “cranking it out” as advertised!)<br />
<br />
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<br />
From: crankingitout@gmail.com><br />
To: FTR <info@fairytalereality.com><br />
Date: Friday, 26 May 2011 04:32:40<br />
Subject: Re: Re: Shoe Song ok?<br />
<br />
oh, booooooo, terrible news about the grant. do we have a plan b?<br />
<br />
re: our feedback, yeah, i was afraid of that—i was so inspired i kind of rushed the process… will do a rewrite after FGW. i understand.<br />
<br />
lets talk this weekend and i'll give you deets on the job—also let me poll my resources-i may have some leads on $$ but it’s crazy out there. a lot of arts funding has just dried up–orgs are giving priority to schools (maybe we should call harriet’s teacher, ha ha) and now everyone’s competing for those dollars like never before, it’s pretty bad.<br />
<br />
But we have such a winning story, right?<br />
<br />
Here’s Fairy GodWhatever roughs….<br />
<br />
~m~</span><br />
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<br />
From: FTR <info@fairytalereality.com><br />
To: crankingitout@gmail.com<br />
Date: Friday, 26 May 2011 10:11:26<br />
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Shoe Song ok?<br />
<br />
You’re right, we’ve got a winner. Was it Mike Nichols who said “Cinderella always works?”<br />
<br />
FGW was not attached... please resend!<br />
<br />
-Kristen<br />
</span>Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-26978980277512436782012-11-11T08:30:00.000-08:002012-11-12T20:23:53.586-08:00My Fairy Godwhatever"But Harry," I argued, "What if I ruin the shoes? Or the dress?" I sighed, and Harry read my sigh correctly to mean, “What if I don't know how to stand, how to act, what to say? Would I fit in, wearing this old dress? Would anyone talk to me?” He pulled me to his lap.<br />
<br />
“Look, Ashley, I happen to know that you have found yourself in a position that takes advantage of your sweet nature. You give and give and give. What would you think of doing some <i>take</i>?”<br />
<br />
“Take? Like what?”<br />
<br />
“Take some initiative. Take a chance. Take a look around you at how you live! You can’t let Sylvia and her snots run your life forever. You won’t ever have another senior prom. This is your one and only chance to have that experience, so take it... to the limit! So what if we get there late and you only have an hour? Make it the best hour of your life!” I smiled. How could I say no? “That’s my girl,” he said. “Let’s make your mom and dad proud.”<br />
<br />
While we both wiped our tears away again, he reached into his suitcase and pulled out a handful of makeup brushes and a box of rollers. “Ashley St. Helens, I am going to make you look like the princess you really are!”<br />
<br />
He had me take off the dress and shoes, and put on my robe. We snuck down to Sylvia’s bathroom—which was much more fun with him than it had been alone—and this time I did <i>take</i> a tub! “Soak until just before your fingers get pruny," he ordered, "and then scrub your feet while the water goes out.” When I came out, he gave me the royal treatment: a blow-dry, a pedicure, a manicure, and makeup. I had been a little nervous about the makeover—I mean, I never wear makeup, and didn’t want to show up looking like a clown in face paint. But Harry (who had fixed his own face while I bathed) insisted the transformation would have to be dramatic. <br />
<br />
“I want Sylvia to see you for who you are,” he said as he brushed powder on my eyes with a deliciously soft brush. I didn’t want to say out loud what I was thinking—which was that he seemed to be turning me into someone else. But when I finally looked in the mirror, I actually did look like me, just a more polished, grown-up version of me...with really gigantic eyelashes like Harry's. And glitter. <br />
<br />
As he worked, we talked and talked. He told me about his work. He’s had this brilliant legal career that went from being a habeus corpus petition specialist for a prestigious civil rights non-profit to directing a controversial innocence project for post-conviction relief. (Which, of course, made no sense to me in my heightened emotional state; all I understood that night was the "lawyer" part.) He talked about mom, and about dad. I told him all about school, and caught him up on some of my friends he used to know; oh my GOD, it was great just to have someone to talk to like that... and to laugh! We joked about how he was my “Harry” godfather, my “fairy” godmother—and he pulled aside his dress a little to show me that he was also my “hairy” godmother, as well.<br />
<br />
“I don’t care-y that you’re a fairy, you’re my hairy god-whatever,” I sung to him.<br />
<br />
"Godwhat-e-e-ver," he sung with me. By the time I was ready to put on my dress again, I felt transformed on the inside as well as on the outside.<br />
<br />
He wanted to put the top up on the convertible, but I really wanted to enjoy every drop of air on this most wonderful of all evenings, so he just drove slowly. It was only about a mile to the school, anyway. At a stoplight, we stared at each other, grinning like we were in love. “I’m so glad you’re back in my life,” he said.<br />
<br />
I said, “Me, too.”<br />
<br />
"Ashley, I've been..." Harry opened his mouth, then closed his lips and pressed them together, just as the light turned green.<br />
<br />
“What, Harry?”<br />
<br />
“I’ll save it for later. My dear…your destiny awaits.” The familiar streets and neon signs flickered by, and I felt like my destiny had already arrived. With the dress smoothed over my knees, the magic shoes on my feet, Harry taking care of me like, well, like a dad, or a mom, or both...I felt like I was in a world that was mine again. Harry had, in a few short hours, built a castle on the foundation my parents had laid. I knew in that moment that, whatever happened next, I would have a well of love to draw from, for the rest of my life.<br />
<br />
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_________________________</div>
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<span style="color: #555555; font-family: 'Andale Mono'; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px;">From: crankingitout@gmail.com></span></div>
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To: FTR <info@fairytalereality.com>, Ashley <ash-prince03@gmail.com</div>
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Date: Monday, 23 May 2011 10:22:19</div>
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Subject: Shoe Song</div>
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another song writes itself! wonderful writing, ashley! (you made it easy for kristen.) hope harry likes it. (of course, it's first draft and a rough demo... i'll take feedback!) </div>
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<embed align="middle" autostart="false" height="16" loop="false" src="http://www.thesoulsofherfeet.com/music/If%20The%20Shoe%20Fits%20DEMO.mp3" style="background-color: white;" title="QuickTime" volume="60" vspace="1"></embed><br /></div>
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you won't believe this, guys. brian yates sharber, the actor i hired to do this demo... well, you just have to see <a href="http://www.thesoulsofherfeet.com/images/toes.jpg" target="_blank">this picture of his left foot...</a></div>
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~m~</div>
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Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-72032331317747324592012-11-04T08:00:00.000-08:002012-12-30T14:39:10.144-08:00The Foot of A Mortal<br />
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"Harry," I said, "you're sharing your shoes with me?" I turned my head and looked into his eyes—her eyes, noticing how much she was blinking. False eyelashes fanning the air between us, eyelids shimmering in the late afternoon light. I shook my head and he was Harry in a wig again. </div>
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"I... I thought I should come in regalia," he said, reaching a finger to the corner of his eye, "but maybe... maybe I didn't think through the makeup." Tears started squeezing through the thatch of his lashes, and he sniffed. "No, I'm okay." He took a deep breath and squeezed my hand. "Yes, I can't really believe it myself. But when you said you could wear your dad's shoes last night, I...well, I remembered we have the same sized feet." He reached down and picked up the trainer I'd taken off, sparkling white, and his makeup started to run freely. I reached for a box of tissues.</div>
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"I have the same ones. We bought them together a few years back...a few months after your mom passed...? I don't know, it's been so long, but it seems like it was—this sounds cliché—but like it was yesterday. Mine are still white like this, too. We never did go running." I put my hand on his back. A wry laugh sounded from his chest. "He met Sylvia.... Oh, I miss him so much." Now the tears demanded release, from his eyes and from mine. We wrapped our arms around each other and let the emotions come. It felt so good to share the pain with someone. His arms were so strong, and I felt safe for the first time since... well, since Dad.</div>
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He laughed into my shoulder, then pointed out the swirl of colors on my skin. "Oh, but this will never do," he said, dabbing me with Kleenex. He grinned foolishly, one of his eyelashes sticking out at an odd angle. "You have a ball to go to, Cinderella, let's get back to work." We looked over our shoulders at the avalanche of shoes. "You'd better get busy," he said. "Here, try these." He chose a right green suede pump and a left yellow lizardskin sandal.</div>
<br />
I didn’t have a mirror in the room, so Harry was my mirror. He’d choose two different shoes, and I’d put one on the right, one on the left, and he’d cock his head, squint his eyes, and purse his lips. Then he’d point at the best one, and I’d take off the other one. I tried on pin-up pumps, pumps with pointy toes, flats, slides, stilettos, and espadrilles. For the first time since I was a kid, I thought my feet looked pretty when I looked down, down below the swirling colors of my beautiful dress.<br />
<br />
Harry talked a blue streak, all the way through, ticking off his talking points for each shoe on his fingers. <br />
<br />
“Consider the virtues of the evening shoe. A stacked heel or stiletto elevates your view, so you’re looking over the heads of normal, puny humans. Your legs grow longer, you look leaner, your curves are accentuated, and when you <i>walk</i>… when you walk, your hips swing a little, mmm-<i>mmm</i>! Makes men want to glorify your charms, darling! Oh, those <i>gladiators</i>! Strappy, sexy sandals! Men will want to lick your toes, darling. Lick! Your! Toes!”<br />
<br />
“Harry, that’s disgusting,” I laughed, and he slowly raised an eyebrow, ‘oh, really?’ I shook my head and stared at my feet, but my mind turned to Jeff. I imagined <i>him</i> touching my toes, and I felt my cheeks flush.<br />
<br />
"That's a nice color," Harry teased. "Oh, I know." He turned and scanned the pile of shoes and pulled out a pink pair. I laughed and flushed more. "Wait, these might be better..." He held up a red ankle boot. "I'm sorry! I'm just kidding. But tell me...," he touched my shoulder, "Is there someone waiting for you tonight?” I shook my head no, but couldn't stop smiling. He slowly nodded and said, "Ah."<br />
<br />
Finally, it was down to two pairs. I liked the one on my left foot, a very elegant-looking spike-heeled sandal in the same green as the flowers in the rustling dress—but Harry thought it was too sexy-grownup. He liked the one on the right, a velvet pump with a peek-a-boo hole in the toe and a bow that he thought made my large feet look ‘cute.’ I closed my eyes and walked around. The truth was, they both hurt. A lot. I sighed, and plunked down on the bed amidst the footwear. I was ready to give up and be thankful that we had gotten this far, when Harry opened his other bag. His face was silent, even reverent.<br />
<br />
“I had a feeling it would come to this,” he said. He pulled out a box, and unwrapped yards of white tissue from a shoe so shapely and it seemed alive. I put my hand on his and peered into the tissue at what I thought at first might be a sleeping animal from another dimension. It was so divinely crafted it did not seem suited for the foot of a mortal, especially one as mere as me. But soon strips of soft green and violet suede cradled my foot like a slipper, curving upward in elegant spirals that twisted sensuously around my ankles. Glass beads were embroidered into the edges of the suede in a feather-like pattern that made me think of angel's wings. My foot balanced on a pad of clear Lucite shaped like a wave that swept my heel up a few modest inches above an intricately carved scroll, like the feet of a translucent antique chair. My toes peeped out modestly between two overlapping bands, topped with two pinched glass buttons like tiny candy kisses.<br />
<br />
“It's a genuine Arpad concept shoe, recreated illegally by a Balenciaga craftsman for himself...in his own size,” Harry whispered. “Nineteen thirty nine. He was a wizard with early plastics and all sorts of materials, sought after by all the great designers of the time. A real eccentric, who cherished the independent life. You should have seen his collection. He gave me these shoes on my twenty-first birthday. I lived with him for a year in Barcelona after....” Harry's voice trailed off. “Here. Put the other one on.” He slipped it onto my foot.<br />
<br />
“Are you sure?” I could see how much these shoes meant to him.<br />
<br />
“It’s meant to be, darling,” Harry said, choking up. “You can't fight the magic.” I stood up and looked at him with surprise.<br />
<br />
“They’re comfortable. <i>How can that be?</i> My feet look so... so <i>curvy</i> in them.”<br />
<br />
“They’re not shoes, they’re <i>art</i>,” he cried. Then we both stared silently at my amazing, sexy feet. <br />
<br />
“Now STAND UP, girl, confident.” Harry’s voice rose again, full of passion. “You’re radiant. You’re the woman of the hour.” He clutched his chest and swooned. “They’re so dramatic! Ah, glorious! Magnificent!” I spun. I felt gorgeous. “Don’t forget the source of all your power now—it’s not the shoes, it’s Mother Earth. Nature’s gift to <i>you</i>. And all who know you! Draw it in, girl, from the <i>souls</i> of your feet!”<br />
<br />
I felt tingly all over. He grabbed me and we danced a few steps toward the book shelves. “What I learned in Spain,” he crooned, “is that when you’ve got a great pair of shoes, you don’t have to worry ‘bout <i>nothing</i>.”Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-48824441377694114222012-10-28T08:30:00.000-07:002012-10-28T08:30:00.477-07:00No Such Thing As A Shoe“There is no such thing as a shoe! Don’t believe me? Let me prove it to you. When I say ‘shoes,’ what do you think of? Maybe you think of your dad’s tennies, or of high-heeled boots that could minimize your feet. Me, I think of my favorites, my fabulous 1940s Carmen Miranda dancing shoes with the painted wooden cherries dangling from the ankle straps—cha cha cha—they’re in here somewhere. So what is a shoe? Shoes are an idea. An ideal. An ethereal concept that we attach to any variety of...of thing we attach to our feet. Shoes don’t have to cover your feet, or even protect your feet, necessarily, and you don’t even have to be able to walk in them. The one thing shoes all have, though, is a sole.<br />
<br />
“Think about it. Say the word with me.”<br />
<br />
“Sole.” <br />
<br />
“Now say it again,” he said, zipping up the back of my dress, “What does it sound like?”<br />
<br />
“Soul?”<br />
<br />
“That’s right. Coincidence? I don’t think so! We all walk our own paths in life, and our shoes give us direction! They give us definition! We wake up in the morning and say, Who am I? Who will I be today? A soldier? I’ll wear army boots. A sailor? I’ll wear deck shoes. A spy? James Bond dress shoes with daggers in the toe, as shiny as mirrors so you can see up the skirt of that beautiful woman you’ll seduce in the midst of danger. Darling, there’s a purpose to every variety of shoe, don’t you see? Fuzzy slippers keep you warm. Movie star mules with a pouf of marabou on the toe, they don’t keep your heels warm, but they do say, <i>aren’t I just the girl? </i><br />
<br />
“Shoes both reveal and work with your identity, too. For example, indians wore moccasins to sneak around in the woods, to be part of nature, to ride their horses bareback. Cowboys wore high heels to hold them in the stirrups so they wouldn’t fall out, with tough leather soles so they could step on cactus, attach spurs, walk through a cow pie without it getting stuck in the tread. Indians do their sensitive campfire animal dances in the mystic smoke, communing with their ancestors. Cowboys stand up tall and strut, all ego; they square-dance and get drunk!” He did a little doe-si-do around me. Then he took my hands and pulled me down beside him on the bed.<br />
<br />
“Ashley, do you know what it means to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes? <i>Empathy</i>. How can you understand someone unless you start with their feet? Wear their soles and you know their souls. Is any of this sinking in?” It was sinking in. It was blowing my mind! I wasn’t missing <i>Rosencranz and Guildenstern</i> so much anymore. <br />
<br />
“So think of your own soul, think of how it makes you feel when you’re really feeling it, when you’re really knowing who you are. Footwear is important—but you’re never fully dressed without a smile, so if you love your shoes, and they fit both your feet and your feelings, you’re going to be a brighter light in this world.” He finished, took a deep breath, and checked his cherry-laquered nails. I sat there, soaking it all in. I could have applauded. I shook my head, instead.<br />
<br />
“But Harry….” I had a serious problem. Two of them. “Look.” I held my feet out in front of me. My pontoons. My giant sleds. My cricket bats with bangers on the ends. Harry looked at me blankly—at my feet, at my face, my feet, my face. Finally, he leaned down and unbuckled his own shoes—metallic blue, high-heeled pumps with tiny ankle straps. His feet were encased in panty hose, but I could clearly see the nails were neatly manicured and painted the same girly red as his fingernails—but with pink swirls on top. I had to smile.<br />
<br />
“No, <i>you</i> look,” he said gently. “Look closely.” I peered again. There was something odd about his left foot. What was it? It wasn’t ugly, it was...it was larger than life. He had an extra toe, right in the middle! “Honey,” he said, “sometimes what’s weird about us makes us special.” He crossed his ‘special’ left foot over his right knee, and then picked up my right foot and crossed it over my left knee, holding it to his, so our soles touched. I felt a tingle run through my leg, and thought of Kurt Vonnegut. Our toes and heels lined up. Our feet were the same size. “Don’t you get anything I’m saying? Look.” He waved his hand at the bed behind him, where shoes of every shape and style and color spilled out of his largest suitcase. “My shoes are your shoes, and I’m going to help you find the perfect one.” All of a sudden, I understood.<br />
<br />
Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9220849563297834453.post-85276295540339285562012-10-21T19:01:00.000-07:002012-10-23T06:38:46.702-07:00A Familiar EmbraceA loud HONK from outside nearly startled me out of my chair. I looked out the window and couldn’t believe my eyes.<br />
<br />
A shiny gold Cadillac convertible with white-walled tires, gleaming orange in the sunset, was pulling into the driveway. A large woman with gigantic hair waved at me from the front seat, reminding me of these commercials for the Konvertible King that we all used to see as kids. The lady parked, checked her lipstick in the mirror, got out and adjusted her skirt, pulled a few suitcases out of the back seat, and turned again to wave at me. She was wearing a colorful dress with chunky gold jewelry, almost like something Sylvia would wear, but on her it was the opposite of frumpy. Her hips were thin, her shoulders strong, her legs long and lean. She wore heels as high as Debra and Donna’s, but on her they didn’t look sleazy, they looked fun. I opened the window and remembered to close my mouth, not wanting to be rude.<br />
<br />
“Hi,” I called down. “Can I help you?”<br />
<br />
“Ashleeeeeeeeeey! Look at youuuuuuu!” She threw her arms wide open. “Get down here and give me a hug!”<br />
<br />
I recognized the voice: it was Harry.<br />
<br />
As I tore down the stairs, I understood why he had said I could call him my God<i>mother</i> as well as my God<i>father</i>. Harry was not a small man to begin with. In high heels, and wearing a two-story wig, he absolutely filled up the foyer. His eyes darted around to take in every detail of Sylvia’s decorating style before they rested on me.<br />
<br />
“Darling. How WONderful to see you again! My you’ve grown up <i>nice</i> — mmm, MMM, just the image of your dear mom. I think I may cry.” He held an embroidered hanky up to the corner of his eye and sniffed. I had to laugh. “There. Now give your old Godpop a hand with these suitcases. Where’s your room?” What, was he moving in? He talked and moaned the whole way up the stairs about how pretentious Sylvia’s decor was. And how <i>awful</i> that she had gotten rid of the Art Deco light fixtures in the upstairs hallway and replaced them with those <i>tacky</i> faux candle-sconces with flickering bulbs. I opened the door to the attic stairs and he gave me a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look. “This is where your room is?” He had to stoop to get through the doorway at the top. “Good Lord child, I was in the closet so long, I think you must be a woman after my own heart!”<br />
<br />
Harry threw his suitcases on the bed and flopped himself down between them, poking the mattress, peering underneath. “I see you’ve adopted a literary solitude, how wonderful and romantic! But a gal as lovely as you <i>really</i> ought to have some semblance of a social life.”<br />
<br />
I could barely get a word in edgewise. “Harry, what exactly are you doing here?” I knew the answer, in my heart, which was dancing in my chest.<br />
<br />
He ignored me, stomping over to the wardrobe in his clunky shoes. “I’m here to help you transform, of course,” he said, spinning around and giving me the full sunshine of his beaming face. “You’re growing up tonight, right? Well. I know the art of becoming a woman. I do it myself, several times a week. And let’s see what you’ve got in here...” He made a face at the sweater and the jacket, pulled the dress out, and practically danced across the floor with it. “Oh! It’s like seeing an old friend! I wonder if it will fit?<br />
<br />
“Did I tell you the story? Your mom wore it to her senior prom. We went together.” He turned and winked at me as he lowered his voice and said, “Let’s just say I ended up wearing it later that night.” Harry hung the dress over the door and measured the waist with his large, manicured hands. “And I think it will fit you, just... so.” He put his hands around my waist, squeezing through layers of sweatshirt. I couldn’t help it. I threw my arms around him. I felt like myself, like I had felt when I last saw him at seven… although he felt very different, smelled different…. He picked me all the way up off the floor and crushed me in a familiar embrace (well, familiar except for the fake bosom). It was like the other me with the terrible attitude that I was fifteen minutes ago had been someone else.<br />
<br />
“Oh my dear, I’ve so missed watching you grow up.…” He put me down and kissed me gently on the forehead. “You’ve been locked up in a tower and I’m here to set you free. Are you going to put your gown on? Or just sit here like a bump on a log all night?” <br />
<br />
I couldn’t believe it was happening. I jumped up and down like a kid, then reached for the dress. Harry excused himself to the hallway while I wiggled out of my sweats and pulled the sweet-smelling silk over my head. I shook out my hair, then stepped into my dad’s clean white tennis shoes—I’d thought about it all day; it wasn’t the eighties anymore; Sharon Stone had even worn tennies to the Oscars. I brushed out my hair, and opened the door. <br />
<br />
“I’m ready!”<br />
<br />
He stared through me for a moment, like I <i>was</i> a bump on a log. Then he shook his head and laughed a great big laugh. “Nikes with an evening gown? Girl, just DON’T!” I had to laugh, too. Those <i>Just Do It </i>ads always made me feel guilty that I couldn’t get out to exercise enough. “Now take your daddy’s shoes off, darling, and listen to what I have to tell you.”<br />
<br />
He turned toward the bed and started opening up his suitcases. The latches snapped open, and Harry lit into a lecture I’ll never forget.Kristen Cavenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10999837105204056577noreply@blogger.com0