This is not good.
My shoe, an object that had been one with my right foot moments earlier, was now cartwheeling through the air in slow motion.

For a moment, my line of sight floated above it all: I saw the shoe – black patent leather glinting in the stage lights – as it tumbled agonizingly closer to the first row audience members and farther from my stocking-clad foot; I heard grainy French music buzzing in my ear, a pounding reminder that I had mere milliseconds before I either ran offstage (and possibly into a neighboring country) or continued doing the can-can with my fellow étudiants de Français; and I saw myself – bug-eyed, jaw dropped, and with a leg still in the process of extending to full kick position.

It was this kick that had provided my shoe with the force and will power necessary to make its journey across stage left and toward my math teacher (and writer of college recommendation letter #2) in seat A8. My mind raced ahead: in a flash, I could see the shoe's heel whacking Mrs. Gregor in the kisser.

This is so not good.

I'd love to say that what followed was due to some great revelation along the lines of The show must go on or If I continue, Mrs. Gregor might overlook her swollen lip and write of my heroic courage in the face of fashion mishaps, but I can't. Instead, as the shoe neared the end of its journey, my mind blanked. I couldn't think, and (despite all the slow mo) I didn't have time to think.

The shoe clattered down upon the edge of the stage.

Five seconds later, my mind caught up with my body and realized that Elizabeth Leader was still on stage and still dancing (albeit in a slightly lopsided manner). Bit by bit, a grin spread across my face.