Shiny Broken Pieces

“I didn’t push Gigi.” My words echo in the room. They feel heavy, like they’re my very last words.

“If you’re innocent, prove it.”

I can. I will.

STUDIO D BUZZES LIKE DRAGONFLIES swarming in the September sunshine. Everyone’s chatting about summer intensives, their new roommates, and their ballet mistresses. The parents are comparing ballet season tickets or grumbling about the rise in school tuition this year. New petit rats storm the treat tables, and other little ones steal glances, cupping their hands over their mouths. I hear my name whispered in small voices. None of the other Level 8 girls are here.

Just me.

I should be upstairs, unpacking with the rest of the girls on my floor. I should be breaking in new ballet shoes to prepare for class. I should be getting ready for the most important year of my life.

Mama’s hand reaches for mine. “Gigi, please be an active participant in this discussion.” I’m back to reality, where Mama has Mr. K pinned in the studio corner. He looks pained. “Mr. K, what have you put in place so that Gigi is safe?”

“Mrs. Stewart, why don’t you set up an appointment? We can go into more detail than we did in our last phone call.”

Mama throws her hands up in the air. “Our last conversation was all of ten minutes. Your phone calls have been—how can I put it? Lackluster. You wanted her back here. She wanted to be back here. You told me she’d be safe. I am still unconvinced.”

Her complaints have been following me around like a storm cloud. Why would you ever want to go back to that place? The school is rife with bullying! Ballet isn’t worth all this heartache.

A younger dancer walks past me and she whispers to her friend, “She doesn’t look hurt.”

I look at my profile in one of the studio mirrors. I trace my finger along the scar that peeks out from the edge of my shorts. It’s almost a perfect line down my left leg, a bright pink streak through the brown.

A reminder.

Mama thinks the scar might never go away completely, even though she bought cases of vitamin E oil and cocoa butter cream made for brown skin. I don’t want it to go away. I want to remember what happened to me. Sometimes if I close my eyes too long or run my finger down the scar’s raised crease, I’m right back on those cobblestoned streets, hearing the metal-crunching sounds when the taxi hit me, the faint blare of sirens, or the steady beep of the hospital monitors when I woke up.

I flush with rage, hot and simmering just under my skin.

I will figure out who did this to me. I will hurt the person who pushed me. I will make them feel what I went through.

Mama touches my shoulder. “Gigi, participate in this conversation.”

I watch her anger grow.

“She’s still in the hall with all those girls.” Mama’s tone is pointed.

“Each student lives on a floor with the others in their level. The Level 8 hall has been traditionally the most sought after of them all,” Mr. K says in that soothing voice he uses with benefactors and board members. “We wouldn’t want to isolate her.”

“She is already isolated by virtue of what she looks like and what happened to her.”

“Mama, it’s fine. It’s where I need to—” She shushes me.

Parents turn their attention to us. In this room, Mama sticks out like a wildflower in a vase of tulips, in her flowy white dhoti pants, tunic, and Birkenstocks. They all take in Mama’s exasperated hand gestures and facial expressions, and how calm Mr. K remains under all her pressure. He even smiles at her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, like he’s inviting her into a pas de deux.

“I assure you that we’re doing everything we can to make sure she is safe. She even has her own room this year—”

“Yes, and that is much appreciated, but what else? Will there be a schoolwide program initiated to address bullying? Will teachers be more mindful in addressing incidents? Will security cameras monitor—”

“Aside from Gigi having her own personal guard, we will do as much as we’re able to,” he says.

She jumps like his words are an explosion and shakes her head, her billowy afro moving. “Do you hear that, Giselle? They don’t care. Is ballet really worth all this trouble?”

I touch her arm. “Mama, just stop. We’ve had this conversation a million times.” A flush of embarrassment heats every part of my body. “Please trust me. I have to be here.”

No one moves. Mama’s eyes wash over me. I chew on the inside of my cheek, afraid that she’ll change her mind and take me back to California. I want to tell her that she doesn’t understand what ballet means to me. I want to remind her that I almost lost the ability to dance. I want to tell her that I can’t let Bette and the others win. I want to tell her that I’m stronger than before, and that those girls will pay for what they did. I have been thinking about it since the day I left the hospital. Nothing like what happened last year will happen to me again. I won’t let it.

Mr. K winks at me and moves to stand beside me. He places a very warm hand on my shoulder. “She’s moya korichnevaya. She’s strong. I need her here. She was missed during summer intensives.”

His words fill up the empty bits of me. The tiny broken parts that needed a summer of healing, the ones that needed to know I am important here. I am supposed to be dancing. I am supposed to be one of the great ballerinas.

It took all summer to heal from a bruised rib, fractured leg, and the small tear in my liver. I stayed in Brooklyn with Aunt Leah and Mama, dealing with countless X-rays and doctor visits, weekly CAT scans and concussion meds, physical therapy twice a day after getting out of my cast. And, of course, counseling to talk about my feelings about the accident.

I worked too hard to get back to this building.

Mama touches the side of my face. “Fine, fine.” She pivots to face Mr. K. “I want weekly check-ins with you. You will have to make yourself available.” He walks Mama to the beverage table. She’s smiling a little. It’s a tiny victory.

Warm hands find my waist. I whip around. Alec’s grinning back at me. I practically leap into his arms. He smells a little like sunscreen.

“They’re calling you the comeback kid, but can I just call you my girlfriend?”

I laugh at his terrible attempt at a joke. Young dancers look up from combing through their colorful orientation folders, full of papers that list their current ballet levels, new uniform requirements, and dorm room assignments. I grab him and push my tongue deep into his mouth, giving them something to stare at.

I didn’t get to see Alec a lot this summer. Dance intensives kept him too busy. Phone calls and video chatting and texting took the place of hanging out. I almost forgot what he tasted like, felt like, smelled like.

He pulls back from kissing me. “I’ve been texting you.”

“My mom’s been interrogating Mr. K.” I point behind me. Mama and Mr. K are still talking.

He groans. “Wouldn’t want to be him.”

“Nope.”

“You all right?”

“I’m great.” I stand a little taller.

“Nervous about being back?”

“No,” I say, louder than I mean to.

He touches my cheek. My heart thuds. The monitor around my wrist hums.

“I’ve missed you.” He takes my hands in his and turns me like we’re starting a grand pas. He lifts me a little, so I’m on my toes. My Converse sneakers let me spin like I’m on pointe. It feels good to partner and dance, even if it’s just playing around. Being hurt made me miss dancing every single day.

Everyone clears away, giving us some space. Enthralled, they watch us.

We do the grand pas from The Nutcracker. Our bodies know every step, turn, and lift without the music. I can hear it in the rhythm of his feet and how he reaches for me. Invisible beats guide our hands, arms, and legs. The music plays inside me. He sweeps me into a fish dive.

“You’re even better than you were before,” Alec whispers as he brings me back down, his mouth close to my ear.

His words sink deep into my skin, making it feel like it’s on fire. The room claps for us. Mr. K beams. Mama smiles.

No one will take this away from me ever again.

IT’S LATE BY THE TIME Jayhe and I finally get to school. Jayhe double-parks his dad’s delivery van and hops out to unload my stuff. Usually my mother drops me off, and we suffer the whole hour trek in from Queens in an uneasy silence, her disapproval seeping into every nook and cranny of her silver car and my brain.

But this year, everything is different.

I have a boyfriend. Now that I know about Mr. Lucas, my mother doesn’t have the power to control me anymore. My hard work is finally paying off. Summer intensives went well, and I’m ready to be on top this year. It’s finally my time. I plan to enjoy it.

I look up at the towering buildings that surround Lincoln Center. The conservatory sits nestled in the northwest corner of the complex, in the shadow of the most beloved performance space in the most important city in the world. Sometimes I still have to pinch myself to believe this is actually my life—that at this time next year, I’ll be one of two apprentices at the American Ballet Company. Well, if all goes according to plan, anyway.

Which it will.

“Hey, you going to help?” He rushes around to the front of the building with the first batch of stuff. His too-long hair falls into his eyes and his forearms flex as he lifts the heaviest boxes first.

“In a second.” I breathe in the scents of dogwood trees, the fountains, and even the pretzels sold at the food truck on the corner, so familiar, so comfortable, like a second skin. Jayhe pauses all his hauling and pulls me into a deep kiss. It makes me want to leave those boxes on the stairs and get back into the van, to let him drive us off somewhere. It erases the world around me until I’m forced to take a breath.

As I open my eyes and see the school buildings rising behind his head, part of me aches for the daily tedium of school, like muscle memory. I crave the countless ballet classes, the endless rehearsals, the control that comes with calorie-counted cafeteria meals, and even Nurse Connie’s scales.

I stay with the van as he finishes unloading. I spot other girls—ones with moms and dads—lugging boxes inside. A father teases his daughter about the rocks he claims she filled the boxes with. “Dad!” She giggles, her eyes lighting up with love and laughter. The word dad thuds inside me like an anchor, and I think of Mr. Lucas, even though I shouldn’t associate that word with him. My dad. A flush of embarrassment zips through me when I think of the email I sent him this summer and the voice mails I left on his phone that went unanswered. I won’t make that mistake again. I can’t even remember why I tried to talk to him.

I hear a giggle again and see one of the younger Korean girls point in my direction. I stare right back at her until she walks up the school stairs. I look left and right for Jayhe, but he’s still MIA. I wonder if Sei-Jin’s here already, if her aunt dropped her off early like she usually does. Her texts popped up on Jayhe’s phone this summer, and I know he didn’t respond. I checked. I feel bad for a second, but I have to look out for myself, even with him.

I’m afraid to ask him about the exact details of their breakup. What did he tell her? How did she react? How did they leave it? He probably let her down easy, with his usual diplomatic touch. But did he mention my name? Deep down, I don’t really want the answers to those questions. I shouldn’t want to know. I shouldn’t care. It doesn’t matter. But it does.

His cheeks are rosy when he comes back down, and there’s a bit of light sweat running down the side of his face. The old June would think it’s gross, but I kind of think it’s sexy. Everything about him is sexy—the depths of his eyes, the charcoal on his calloused fingers from his hours of drawing, the way he says my name—especially when he’s annoyed.

“There’s only a small box left.” Jayhe sets it on the curb. “You got it?”

“Yeah.” I want to be in two places at the same time: here on this curb with him and upstairs in my new single, unpacking.

Jayhe’s phone rings and for a tiny second, the paranoid place in my heart and brain thinks it’s Sei-Jin. He speaks in a flurry of Korean, but I hear the words restaurant, grandmother, and busy. I’ve learned more Korean from hanging out with him these past few months than my mom taught me in all of my sixteen years. He would cup his hand under my chin and make me speak the words back to him—wouldn’t kiss me till I got them just right. I always had to ask him in Korean—kiss-jwo. No Korean, no kissing. The thought makes me smile.

He hangs up. “I left your stuff in the foyer,” he says. “They wouldn’t let me upstairs. Something about no boys on the girls’ dorm floor even on move-in day.” The irritation must show on my face, because he touches my cheek and grins. “Parent volunteers are taking it up.” His hands wander to my waist. “I’m really glad you got a single this year.”

“Me, too,” I whisper, suddenly feeling embarrassed. Gigi got a single this year because of her injuries, and that means I get one, too, by default. It’ll finally give me and Jayhe some space. Part of me thrills at the idea of sneaking him past the RAs and anyone else who’s watching, at the chance of getting caught, at the possibility of people knowing that a boy wants me. That Jayhe wants me.

I grab the last box, the one with my teakettle, and my rolling bag. I give him one more kiss and head around to the front of the building.

Ten minutes later, keys in hand from the front desk, I’m ready to make myself at home. I take the elevator up to my new floor—twelve—where only the senior girls live. But when I finally get up to my room, the door is wide open—and someone else’s stuff is sprawled all over it. Well, most of it. A pink frilly comforter covers one of the beds, ballerina posters hang on the wall, and postcards from Paris are already lined up on the bulletin board above the pair of desks. When I look across to the other side, there, entangled on the bare mattress, are Cassie and Henri, sweaty and giggly and flushed like little pink pigs.

Henri nods, acknowledging my presence, and tries to get back to nuzzling Cassie’s neck. But she shuts him down cold, sitting up straight and readjusting her deep V-neck sweater.

“About time you got here,” she says, perfectly content and casual, as if she was expecting me. I was most definitely not expecting her. “Nurse Connie came looking for you. You missed dinner. Apparently she thinks I’m your keeper.” Her voice is as cold as those ice-blue eyes.

“What are you doing in here?” I ask.

“I was supposed to have the single, but I gave it up, you know, because of Gigi’s situation. I don’t want to make things harder on the poor girl.” She frowns at me.

“But—”

“Look, I’m not happy about it either. But it’s not like you’re entitled to a single.” Her words are clipped, sharp, with a hint of a British accent popping up now and again. “Anyway, it’s too late to do anything about now, right, E-Jun?” She stretches out my name like it’s a heavy, foreign thing she has to carry. A burden.

“Everyone calls me June,” I say, which she should know because we’re not strangers.

“Cute,” she replies flatly. It makes me feel like I’ve said my American name is Star or Poppy or Rainbow.

Then she lumbers off my bed, as if it just occurred to her. When she catches me frowning, she shrugs. “He knows I hate messing up my covers.”

Henri smirks. “Among other things,” he adds, then winks in my direction. Gross. He gives her a deep, grabby good-bye kiss before he slinks off. I shudder at the thought of him. Something about that boy has always been off to me, and I hate the idea of him being here, in my space. Well, our space, I guess.

I seethe in silence as I start unpacking slowly, mentally willing away Cassie and all her stuff. There’s just so much of it. The closet is two-thirds full already, and she’s got stacks of books—Machiavelli, Marx, and other political things, along with all the major ballet books—lining her shelf. In the corner, a small cube is filled with dance gear—dead toe shoes, leotards, ribbons, warm-ups. My side of the room—what’s left of it—is stark in comparison.

When Cassie started at the conservatory in tenth grade, she’d take half her ballet classes with us in Level 6 and the other half in Level 7 with the junior girls. No one really knew her. No one really wanted to know a girl who was too good of a dancer. She was Alec’s cousin—my cousin, I realize with a start—and everyone knew that she’d been specifically recruited from the Royal Ballet School. She was that good. But then, after what Bette and the girls did to her—the hair, the shoes, and especially the lift accident with Will—she disappeared. Now here she is, completely invading my space.

I unpack the box marked “tea” and plug in the electric kettle, filling it with bottled water, hoping it will relax me. I open up my new glass-lidded tea box—a gift from Jayhe—and pull out a small satchel of chamomile and lavender that he prepped for me. “It’ll help you chill,” he always tells me. As if anything could really help with that tonight.

“Careful with the kettle,” Cassie announces. “Fire hazard and all.”

“I’ve had it for years and nothing so far.”

I don’t realize I’ve said it aloud until she whips around and comes right up in my face. “I don’t want any attitude from you.” She stares down at me, her skin pulled taut over her skull, like Charlie, our bio class skeleton. I wasn’t exactly nice to her when she first came to ABC. When I flinch, she laughs. “Mr. K pretty much promised me the Sugar Plum Fairy, and that basically guarantees one of the apprentice spots. So you better not mess with me.”

My heart sinks into the depths of my stomach, where it’s sloshing along with the bits of grilled chicken I ate off my sandwich. It all threatens to come up again, right then and there. I rush to our private bathroom, locking the door behind me.

Cassie’s put down a bubblegum-pink mat that’s enough to get me nauseated. I run the tap, waiting until I hear the room door close with a thud. She’s gone. Thank God.

There’s a scale in the corner. The last time I checked my weight was during summer session. Mom doesn’t keep scales around the house. I try to focus on breathing and my face in the mirror. But I can see it out of the corner of my eye.

I can’t resist. I need to know. The numbers quickly shift from 0 to 80 to 90 to 100 and then 110, 112, 115. I shift my weight a little and they scramble again, settling, finally, at 108. That’s heavier than I’ve ever been. By far.

I swallow down the sob that’s rising in my throat. I hear Cassie’s nasty words in my head again. Seconds later, I’m cradling the toilet, the tile floor cold and hard under my hands and knees, the familiar scent of lemon disinfectant triggering that same response instantly. With it comes relief, a sense of control. I tell myself it’s just the bile and burning that’s causing the tears. No matter what Cassie says, I’ll be the Sugar Plum Fairy when that cast list goes up, just like I’m supposed to be. My performance in Giselle last year made that happen.

This is my year. This is my turn. I’ll be the lead soloist. I’ll be chosen for the company. I’ll do whatever it takes.

I’M SITTING ACROSS FROM MY father in his favorite steak house downtown. The restaurant, with its high ceilings and marble floor, echoes with snippets of stuffy conversations and the clink of wineglasses being set on white-clothed tables. Ours overlooks the Hudson, and while he chews, I watch a boat sail up the edge of Manhattan, headed north. You can forget this place is an island when you live close to the large expanse of Central Park cutting right through the middle.

He’s grown his beard in. White hairs poke through the blond. He lives about eight blocks from our house on the Upper East Side, but I haven’t seen him in months. My mother insisted on having it that way, ever since I was twelve and he bailed on Adele and me for a Christmas brunch, jetting off to the Turks and Caicos with his latest assistant girlfriend instead. But before that, he was around, sometimes, randomly, cooking breakfast in the kitchen on a Sunday morning or spending the afternoon reading the Times.

The Times Magazine pokes out of his bag under the table. I peep at it, wondering if it’s a sign that things will go back to normal. I used to love reading it with him while Adele was busy in the basement, getting in extra rehearsals with the latest Russian expat ballet mistress my mother had hired. He’d tell me about the state of the world, explain it to me like I was a grown-up, like it should all make sense. And it did, the way he said things. I would fish those old magazines out of the trash to save in stacks under my bed.

Blood seeps out of his rare steak, and I watch it ooze out into the fluffy mounds of mashed potatoes. I push my salad around my plate, my appetite disappearing.

“I guess Adele isn’t coming,” he says after finishing his bite. Even though we’ve been sharing this awkward silence for forty minutes. Even though we both already knew that and ordered without her. Even though he’s halfway through his steak. Even though she hasn’t spoken to him in years. She won’t even talk to me about it.

“She has rehearsals,” I lie, not sure what she has planned this evening.

“What role is she dancing? What ballet are they performing again?”

He doesn’t even realize that casting hasn’t happened for the winter season yet.

“I don’t want to talk about ballet.” Our gazes finally meet, and it’s like looking into my own eyes. Ice-blue and cold. Adele says I crinkle my nose like he does when I’m upset or I’ve said something rude.

“What do you want to talk about?” He motions for the waiter to bring him another Scotch and soda. I want to give him a list of off-limits topics: my mother, Adele, ballet, school, what I plan to do with my life, what actually happened last year, the reasons he’s been away so long, why he left us, his latest girlfriend. Which means that we really can’t talk about anything aside from the weather, which is relatively cold for a Sunday in the middle of September.

“Your tutor? How’s that going?” There he goes again, with the interrogation. “The private ballet lessons? Your friends? Have you seen any of them?”

I don’t answer. What is there to say? Nothing’s changed, least of all him.

“The point of having dinner is to talk to each other,” he says. “How’s Alec?”

“I don’t want to talk about that either.” I fill my mouth with slimy lettuce tossed with too much low-fat salad dressing. I wish that I didn’t still eat like a ballerina. I’m in the real world and not in the third-floor café at the American Ballet Conservatory. I could eat like a normal person—whatever that is—if I wanted to. But I have to stay in shape for when I get back to school.

My dad raised an eyebrow when I ordered salad—just salad—for dinner. He hasn’t gotten used to the difference, still. We haven’t had that many meals together since he left, and he still expects the little Bette that would order a kiddie burger or chicken nuggets when he’d pick me up from the conservatory for a visit.

Plates come and go before us, even a palate cleanser of mint leaves. I escape to the bathroom and open up my locket. I swallow a pill and I wait for some kind of focused calm to emerge after it hits my system. I wait for the warm flicker of relaxation. But it doesn’t come. I want to wretch or scream or call Adele and cry, which would be the worst thing of all. I dread the I-told-you-so on the other end of that call.