Tiny Pretty Things and Shiny Broken Pieces

An hour later, it’s hugging her body and she doesn’t even look like a ballerina anymore. Eleanor has always been like my own personal Barbie doll. Her mother never taught her all the little tricks of being a girl that my mother taught me, so she lets me take over in that department. When we were twelve, the costume mistress Madame Matvienko pulled her aside and told her to get her act together, that she looked like a slob. She came to me, snotty and crying, asking for my help, and I’ve always been there for her since day one at the conservatory. Tonight she lets me tease her ponytail and line her eyes in the darkest kohl. I purple her lips and drape four long, beaded necklaces over her neck. She’s so tiny under all that makeup and shine and sparkling beads that she practically disappears.

As my mother would say, the dress is wearing her.

My dress is the color of my skin: ivory-white and off the shoulder. Green high heels. Nothing to hide.

I knock on Liz’s door and give it a little push. “Ready?”

It’s dark and smells like a mix of sweaty feet and leotards and vomit. Eleanor says she can’t take it and stays in the hall. Liz is all wrapped up in blankets and not in the dress I told her to wear for tonight. Her roommate, Frankie, isn’t in the bunk bed above her.

“Why aren’t you ready?” I say. “And it smells terrible in here.”

“It’s too cold to go out,” she says, looking up at me with hollowed eyes, wrapping herself tighter, and clicking on her heating pad.

“You sick?” I ask, not wanting to deal with the fact that this is all something else. The sudden weight loss. Well, not so sudden when you think about it. But I don’t want to think about it. At all. And she’s been bragging to me about it. Sending me little texts when she meets her goals.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m so tired.” I tell her that I’ll bring her some tea. “Stay in bed, okay? You need the night off.”

After delivering Liz’s tea, Eleanor and I take the long route out of the building—down the elevator for a basement visit first. I avoid any talk about Liz. I can’t add another bad thing to think about to the growing pile in my head.

“Can’t we just go straight outside?” Eleanor complains, already limping in my expensive heels. She tugs at my five-hundred-dollar dress. “We do this every time.”

“This is the best part,” I say. “And I need it, okay?”

The coed student lounge is full—some watch TV, Henri and a few boys play pool, others play air hockey, and Alec strums his guitar in the corner.

Will spots me and sighs loudly, which gets Alec’s attention. I blow Will a kiss. He used to go with me when I went out. It used to be all five of us—Alec, Liz, Will, El, and me—out in a little pack. Now I can’t stand the thought of him going anywhere with me. He frowns, looking the same as he did the first day I met him. New kid sobbing outside of the boys’ ballet class after being caught by Mr. K in pointe shoes. I’d consoled him. That reality is so far away.

I bump Henri’s pool cue on purpose when I pass by.

“Pardon,” he says, then steps so close to me I can smell the chocolate he must’ve just eaten.

“Move,” I say. “You’re in my way.”

“No.” His eyes scan me from top to bottom. “You stepped in my way. Made me miss my shot.”

Eleanor grabs my hand. “Let’s go,” she says, trying to pull me away.

I glance back at her, only to see if Alec is watching. And he is, his hand frozen on his guitar, which makes me happy. He still cares. I turn back to Henri. I put a hand on his chest, and push a little. “Are you going to make me stand here all night?” Instead of irritation, I decide to flirt and add a smile, enjoying the whole thing.

“Would that be such a bad thing?” he says, his lilt teasing. “Or maybe you’re going to invite me to go with you? Isn’t that what girls like you do?” He takes my hand from his chest and holds it, squeezing it a little, until I snatch it away. I step forward, planning to walk through him. He’s nothing. He’s nobody here. Dancing a pas with me will make him something.

“You don’t know anything about me or this place,” I say, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“I’ve seen your type before. Plenty of you at Paris Opera,” he says. “Yes, you’re nothing special. In fact, I know all about you.” He leans close to my ear. “Especially what you did to Cassandra. Pretending to be her friend.”

I snap back and feel my cheeks redden. I give him a look that screams You don’t know anything. I hope my face doesn’t betray me, doesn’t reveal that I know what he’s talking about.

Alec walks past us without even stopping, without even checking if I’m okay. I follow his back with my eyes, not understanding why he didn’t stop to help. Even Eleanor shifts away from us, leaving me cornered by Henri.

“I know a lot, Bette Abney. I know lots of things you probably wouldn’t want me to know. And I plan to prove it. Show everyone who you are.” He lets his fingers graze my collarbone.

“Don’t touch me,” I say.

Does he really know the things I did?

I can’t seem to move.

He laughs. “Your secrets are safe with me,” he says. Then he adds, “Well, maybe not.”

Eleanor bucks up. Finally. She grabs my shaky hand and pulls me away from Henri. In a daze, I let her drag me all the way to the school’s side door entrance. I don’t even put my coat on before we step out into the cold November air.

“What’s wrong?” Eleanor says, but I ignore her, my thoughts haunted by Henri’s accusation, by Cassie and what I did. I sink down to the stoop, my legs weak and wobbly. All I know is, if I’m going down for this, I won’t be alone. We were all in on it together.

Last year, I thought it would be a brilliant idea to get close to Cassie. After all, she’s Alec’s cousin from the Royal Ballet School, here to take on New York, she’d always said with her fake British accent, thinking it was cute. Not just a normal new girl who’d be easy to get rid of. But she was too good, and it got so hard to watch her come in and dance the parts I wanted, the parts I’d been training for at this school since I was five.

In April, I sat along the edges of studio B, watching Cassie’s pas run-through for the spring ballet La Sylphide with Scott Betancourt, a senior boy likely to be offered an apprenticeship with the company. My mother made sure I got to be there, probably after accusing Mr. Lucas and Mr. K of preferential treatment. She always knew how to throw her weight around in just the right ways.

Scott labored when lifting Cassie over his head that day because she was all clenched up, stomach muscles braced and flinching at his touch.

“Let him hold you,” Morkie had yelled. Cassie tried to adapt. She wasn’t as pretty when she was worried. I tried not to smirk, fought with my lips to stay relaxed. I tried not to enjoy that she wasn’t as good as the teachers always said. That I could’ve been cast. Should’ve been cast. I liked seeing Cassandra’s eyes get all big and watery with confusion and worry.

Morkie clapped her hands in an angry beat along to the music. “Ballet is woman,” she’d hollered, and continued to scold Cassie about letting Scott support her in the flying shoulder lift and hold her low in the hips because she was so tall. “He’s trying to make you look beautiful. But you don’t trust him.”

Will slipped into the studio while Cassie and Scott resumed their battle to dance like soul mates. He’d sat down next to me with a huge smile on his face, and I knew he wanted me to ask. I’d thought about not giving in, but I needed to know what he was doing here. “Why are you in here?”

“Mr. K says I get to understudy this pas.” The words tumbled out so fast he was almost screaming them.

“When did that happen? You didn’t tell me.” He was supposed to be one of my best friends. I would expect a text, at least, right after he found out.

“Two days ago,” he said. “I didn’t want to mess it up. Make sure it was for real first.”

“I’m so happy for you,” I said, feeling a knot of jealousy tangle in my stomach. I glanced at the glass wall where Liz stood in the hall, glaring at Cassie, and thought through all of our midnight chats, where Liz, Eleanor, and I plotted to mess with her a little. “Is it all official? The casting?”

“Yup,” he said, pushing down into a deeper stretch.

“Can’t be taken away? Not a ‘let’s see how rehearsal goes’ thing in case you mess up?” I whispered, an idea storming through me.

“Why?” He sat up, and I pulled him closer. We’d spent so much time curled up like this with our secrets and gossip and machinations. I smoothed down a hair sticking up on his head. And I remembered what I loved about him the most: he was solid and thoughtful, and certain. He would always help me.

“Favor?” I said, in just the right way, the way that always got him to do whatever I needed him to. “You owe me for getting you out of that fiasco with your mom catching you with Ben, and that other time when you needed Vicodin and—”

He frowned, and pushed a hand over my mouth, annoyed. “Okay, okay. What?” he said, a little pissed now. I bit his palm.

“Drop her,” I’d whispered quickly, before I could lose my nerve. “Just once. And not too hard. Just enough.”

His nose crinkled a little, so that I knew he was judging me.

“Injuries change cast lists,” I’d said, sort of not believing what I actually was saying. Like I’d stepped into some alternate version of my life, where I could just do whatever I wanted. “You owe me. Your mom even thinks we’re dating. I still text with her, you know?” The silence stretched between us so long I thought he’d never say anything again. That I’d finally done it. Ruined us. But somehow, I kept that icy calm, that sheer force that the women in my family have, even though I was seething inside. He shouldn’t have even hesitated. I patted his leg in just the right way. My way. “Please.”

My hands were all shaky, and I gazed around for Morkie and Viktor. They hovered right beside the piano.

Will started to speak. I railroaded through his response. “C’mon, you have to.” I managed a smile to soften it. Alec always said I’m beautiful when I smile. Cassie rushed over and plopped down beside us before he could answer me. Will and I swallowed the entire conversation, and I felt lost, afloat, unsure of my footing. Cassie whined for a while about drinking and being “off.” I pretended to sympathize, but come on! She was the only sophomore Level B girl to get a solo. I didn’t feel bad for her at all.

Then Morkie called them to the center. Will looked back at me, and for a minute I wanted to tell him not to do it, and tell him I was sorry for bringing up his homophobic mother. But my mouth just hung open. I had to dance her part. I had to be like Adele, a ballet prodigy. And this could make it happen, make all my dreams come true.

The moment Cassie fell out of Will’s arms, I’d flashed her a smile that was so goddamn pretty she wouldn’t ever forget who was on top, who she should thank, who she should’ve been afraid of.

The memory sends shivers down my spine.

I’d had nightmares that evening. The kind that came with screams and flung blankets and a desperation so deep I woke Eleanor up. She’d brought me water and a cool washcloth, like I was her kid and not her friend. Even when I was hurt or sick or panicked, my mother never did that for me. Just having Eleanor in the room with me wasn’t enough, though. I needed someone to share the responsibility. I needed to take off a tiny bit of the weight of what I’d done. I couldn’t very well tell Alec. He was so good, so right all the time, and not to mention related to Cassie. He’d hate me. He’d never speak to me again. I couldn’t bring it up with Will. He made it clear that our conversation never happened. That it’d been an accident.

So I told Eleanor. Begged her to tell me it was okay. Made her promise, on her life, on her reputation at the school, that she wouldn’t tell anyone else, ever. I had never been so honest with someone, but it seemed like the only way out of the guilt and panic. She hugged me and said she understood. I cried into Eleanor’s pillow. Slept much more soundly in Eleanor’s bed with her spooning me. We never spoke of it again. I waited every day for a month to get pulled into the office for what I did. But it never happened.

The memory won’t go away. Eleanor squeezes my hand and whispers, “Henri doesn’t know anything, Bette.” And even if she’s lying, it makes me feel a little better, like no one will ever find out.

I let Eleanor take me back upstairs to our room where I curl up with that memory and a white pill to try to erase it all.

AFTER REHEARSAL, WE’RE ALL HERDED into the assembly room, which is an offshoot of the lobby. The room is full of skylight windows and reminds me of a solarium my mom took me to once. The whole night sky spreads above us and I could find it pretty if I wasn’t too busy fixating on Nurse Connie, Morkie, and Mr. K. They whisper in front of us, exchanging glances that mean we are about to have a serious conversation. Around me, everyone rehashes rehearsal, but I can’t. I want to know what they’re about to say. It must be big, since they didn’t let us go straight to the café for a snack, then homework, and then bed. They hate to disrupt our evening routine. Maybe a casting change?

I don’t like surprises.

Gigi plops down next to me. She’s twitchy and agitated, and I wonder if she’s discovered her medical report in the Light yet. If she knows I took it, and just isn’t saying anything. That was sloppy of me. The last time I checked the closet, it wasn’t there anymore. Someone took it down. I gaze at her chest and wonder how her heart could be so messed up and it not show. I didn’t really understand the terms, but looking at the EKG, it was pretty obvious that something’s really wrong with her. And I sort of feel a little bad for a second. Just one.

“Why are we meeting?” she asks, pulling her wild hair from its bun, and surrounding me with the scent of the greasy crap she puts in it. Coconut oil, I think. It makes my empty stomach heave.

I shrug in reply, not actually wanting to talk to her. I turn my attention back to the front, back to Mr. K.

The Korean girls sidle past us. Sei-Jin pauses right above me. “Oh, don’t play coy, June. Don’t ignore your roomie.” She winks at Gigi like they’re old friends. “You know exactly why we’re meeting.”

“Go away, Sei-Jin,” I say, not acknowledging her presence with eye contact.

“It’s ballerinas like you that make them waste all of our time,” she adds before plopping down not too far off. I squirm at her taunt.

Mr. K claps. Three hard ones, his signature. “Please heed the seriousness of what we’re going to say tonight. It is of the utmost importance. You are dancers. Your bodies are your instruments. They are sacred, and must be cared for as such. And I will not hesitate in making the necessary changes if you fail to do so. And I have. Liz is gone.”

Everyone looks around for her, like he’s lying. I watch Bette put a hand over her mouth, like even she didn’t know.

“She will not be returning, and we will be selecting someone to dance her role, Arabian Coffee. We want to see who can rise to the occasion. And we’re considering shuffling some people around, and adding the Harlequin Doll to the cast list just as we did last year. So don’t get too comfortable in your part.”

Gripes and mumbles explode through the room. He waves his hand in the air to silence everyone. “The moment you think you’re on top is the moment you’ve lost your passion. Might as well retire.”

Then he puts his arm out to Nurse Connie, who steps forward.

My stomach gripes. I bite my lips and scratch at my tights. This can’t be good.

“We would like to make a few announcements regarding health before opening night of The Nutcracker,” Nurse Connie says. Her voice doesn’t have the lovely depth of Mr. K’s, so the sound is anemic in comparison. Forty ballerinas groan and lose interest. “We all know this, of course, but I’d like to reiterate that the rule still stands. If you fall underweight you will be sent home. No questions asked. No excuses made. Underweight dancers will not be tolerated. Even very talented ballerinas. As I’m sure you can all see.”

I prefer Mr. K’s straightforward address to Nurse Connie’s pointedly vague one. Still, what she is going for works. My stomach drops a little. I start to sweat behind my ears. Liz is gone. And it could’ve been me. I was close again, last week, to falling under. I can feel Nurse Connie’s eyes fixed only on me.

“I’ve brought along my trusty food pyramid poster,” she continues, and I can’t help it—I sigh. Even with her eyes right on me, gauging my response, I can’t muster up the appropriate, thoughtful, curious expression. Not again.

Nurse Connie and Morkie exchange another pained look, and Nurse Connie goes on to talk us through the food pyramid herself. She also has posters for BMI and height-to-weight ratio and the evils of laxatives and diet teas. She describes what happens to girls who starve themselves: the loss of hair and bone density, peach fuzz on cheeks, kidney failure, tooth decay. The consequences crash around in my head like train wrecks and car accidents. I focus on my hands, blocking it all out.

Morkie just stands there with her arms crossed over her chest, neither endorsing nor disagreeing. I always get the feeling Morkie and Nurse Connie are in a silent battle with each other over our bodies. Over my body. And every time, Morkie wins. Ballet is most important. What the Russians want—beautiful dancers—trumps everything. Unless you go too far like Liz. Unless you get out of control.

I tune it out. Gigi does not. She is scratching away at a pad of paper taking notes. Notes! A little bit of pink tongue peeks out of her mouth as she scribbles, and I decide that I don’t just find her annoying, I actually hate her. All the nice moments we’ve had, the times where I thought we might be able to be friends, are gone. Each one of her pen strokes echoes, making me flinch.

It must be half an hour before Nurse Connie packs up her posters and finishes handing out pamphlets. She looks each of us in the eye when she gives us the little packet of insane brochures she’s brought for us. I do not imagine it when she lingers next to me.

“Please look these over, June,” she says in a fake whisper. If she were a real nurse, she wouldn’t accuse me in public like that. There has to be some law against that. “You still have some work to do.” She pats me on the shoulder.

I count to twenty. She waits for me to look up. Like she won’t move unless I do. My makeup runs a little, and I give in and look up, so she can see my eyes and move on.

I fly out of there, ignoring Gigi’s questions about whether I’m headed back to the room or not. I dash into the closest studio to get my head together. I can’t let anyone see me like this. They might think Nurse Connie’s speech had something to do with me. I have to keep it together. I have to make them see that if they’re going to give out a role or shift things around then they should move me.

I rest my leg on the barre, stretching deep as I breathe in and out until the tinges in my muscles disappear. I think about Liz standing on those scales, about the number that flashed. It had to be super small. And I fight the urge to want to be as small. I wonder how long it took her to pack her things. If she goes to another dance school, she’ll have to tell them what happened, they’ll call Mr. K, and she might never get to dance again. This kind of thing haunts you. I shudder. I hear Sei-Jin and the other girls giggle as they shift past the studio’s glass walls and open door. Their conversation drifts in.

“I need to hurry up and shower. Jayhe’s almost here. He’s gonna kill me for being late,” Sei-Jin says loud enough for everyone to hear. Typical.

I hear the other girls fawning over her and her big plans. On a weeknight, no less. This impresses them. They follow her mindlessly, like little ducks in a row, gasping about his hair, and his perfect teeth, and how strong he is, despite not being a dancer. Idiots. I used to be jealous of her after she started dating Jayhe. And I’m sure she knew it. She paraded him through the school. But really, I knew she was putting on a show. I knew I had the power to blow her perfect little life to smithereens. I just chose not to. Because of the friendship we had once. Because of what we used to be. Jeol chin. Best friends.

Once they’re gone, I take the elevator down to the basement and to the place where Sei-Jin always meets Jayhe to sneak him into the building. Past the rec room is a weight room that has a side door that leads out to the school Dumpsters. A service staircase and an emergency exit with a broken alarm. That’s where he’ll be waiting. All of eighth grade, it used to be just she and I waiting for him, peeping out into the dark for his head to appear. She used to tell me how she didn’t really like him at first and how she was just dating him because her mother wanted her to. She also used to date one of the white boys. Shane, who graduated last year. Jayhe never knew about that.

I guess she loves him now. Maybe.

I perch near the window, waiting to see him. I don’t know exactly what I’m going to say, and this whole sabotage plan is starting to feel half-baked. I should’ve plotted it out. I’m too shaky. But this opportunity couldn’t be better. Before I can rehearse the conversation in my head, I see a shadow in the dark and then his face. His hair is shaggy and black and the black-rimmed glasses he always wears drift down his nose. A rush of heat hits me. I remember how it felt to like him.

He spots me in the window and scrunches his nose up, like he’s confused. I open the door for him.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” he says, sliding past me, careful so we don’t touch. “What are you doing down here? Where’s Sei-Jin?”

“She’s still upstairs,” I say. “We had a late meeting after rehearsal.”

“Oh” is all he says, shifting back and forth from one foot to the other.

“I was down here lifting weights,” I lie.

He laughs. “Seriously? What can you bench?” he jokes, his voice husky and teasing. It sends an unexpected shiver up my spine. He’s being weirdly nice. “I bet you can’t even lift fifty pounds,” he says, a grin spreading across his face. “I bet you only weigh fifty pounds.”

His words hit, and for some reason I can’t control the tears that pour down my cheeks and the sob that escapes my mouth. I can’t remember the last time I cried, and the thought of that makes me cry even more. This is not part of the plan.

“I’m sorry, June. I didn’t— I was just—” He pulls me into a hug, his body warm and strong. For some reason, this catches me off guard. I bury my face in his hoodie, let the spicy scent of his cologne mellow the shakiness out of me.

He keeps apologizing and trying to get me to calm down, but I stay there. He asks me if he should go get someone or call my mom. I don’t answer. So then he just stops talking, strokes my hair, and squeezes his arms tight around me, as if he’s done it a thousand times before. So tight I think I could disappear. He somehow takes the sharpness out of me.

I look up at him, even though I know my makeup’s a mess and I’m a mess. I want to ask him, “Why did you disappear? Why did you choose her over me? Weren’t we friends? Did you believe the things she told you about me?”

“My halmeoni asks about you all the time,” he says, mimicking her soft accent: “‘Where’s that little girl with the too-light hair?’”

She would always say my hair was unusually light for a Korean. A pale, ashy brown. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that my dad was white. He doesn’t answer any of the questions swirling through my head, but he makes me smile.

We laugh, and I hiccup. He wipes a tear from my cheek. And I feel like I’m that little girl in his basement again.