Excerpt from
Dancing in Red Shoes Will Kill You

It isn’t every day you walk into your sister’s bedroom and find a naked guy on her bed, especially when that guy is your best friend, Joey.

Now that I’ve gotten your attention – it’s not what you’re thinking. But isn’t it amazing what happens when you hear the word naked? The thing I didn’t mention is that my sister, Paterson, is an artist, and her bedroom doubles as a studio.

My parents named her that because she was conceived in a Paterson, New Jersey, motel room about eighteen years ago. When she was younger, she used to ask why she couldn’t have a normal name, like Ashley or Christine.

“You were lucky,” my mother would say. “If your father had taken another road, you could have been named Secaucus Callaway.”

It turned out my parents did a good thing – she’s definitely not an Ashley or a Christine. She’s tall and thin and her wardrobe consists mainly of various shades of black, with an occasional pair of jeans thrown in for comfort. Sometimes her hair is pink. Other times it’s orange. Lately it’s Electric Blue. She draws the line at piercings and tattoos because of their permanence. She says her body is an ongoing work of art.

Not too long after Paterson was born, I was conceived. It’s a picture I don’t want to think too much about, but it must have taken place in a pretty ordinary location because my parents named me Kayla – after nothing in particular. Just a name they both liked, with a little bit of alliteration with Callaway to satisfy my mother’s enthusiasm for poetic devices.

I’d almost forgotten that Joey was coming over to model for Paterson’s senior art portfolio. I knew Paterson had chosen him because he has a body most guys would kill for, but I didn’t expect him to be totally naked. Or is it nude? …