by A. K. Small
I’d eaten my French fries and Sebastian’s at dinner.
Aroma sensitivity.
I’d recently started to hate the smell of cigarettes.
Mood swings/irritability.
God.
Tingles ran up my spine. I felt like I was glowing. I lay on the floor and tasted the sour apple lollipop. I thought of the closet, how contraception had never crossed my mind. Sex here was forbidden (Rule 3), periods never discussed. Condoms and sponges were foreign objects. I’d been too young to talk about sex with my dad before Nanterre. Plus, wasn’t that a mother’s subject anyway?
My father floated in front of my eyelids. The hollowness returned but more shallow this time, the drug cushioning the pain. At once, I remembered him saying long ago to one of his colleagues that my love of dance, my need to study it, might help me get over my mother’s disappearance and that giving me a dream to pursue, even if I went far away, was the only gift he thought he could impart, that if I was lucky classical dance might help me heal. Back then, eavesdropping from the top of the stairs, I’d clutched the banister, imagined myself twirling in front of millions of spectators, then wished more than anything for my mom’s return and for my father’s words to come true in the meantime. But now, even with the drug swimming inside me, I knew the sad truth.
There was no meantime. My mother was never coming back.
Years ago, inside the language lab, I’d looked her up and had found a variety of addresses for her, one in Maine, one in Illinois, then somewhere in Northern California. Elated to have found her virtually, I’d shoved aside the images of her curled up drunk under our stairwell or hidden beneath blankets in her dark bedroom, and I’d replaced them with a new her, tanned and strolling on a beach by the Pacific in a colorful sarong. I’d even dialed the Cali number to beg her to come home but the line had been disconnected. Then one day, Delaney Sanders dropped off the grid. Just like that. All her addresses, even the Cali one, vanished. She might as well have been dead. The thought had crushed me then and still crushed me now. During these moments, my ambition, my love for dance and the stage, felt inconsequential. The main reason I still wanted The Prize was because winning it would keep me from doing what my mother had done, from floating away or, worse, from dropping off the grid altogether. Plus, didn’t I owe my poor dad one mere accomplishment?
Except that having a baby, Jesus, a baby would ruin everything.
The lollipop wrappers I’d strewn around the room looked like angelfish. For a while, I stretched out on top of them. The pang in my heart fused with the words Cyrille and baby, and with something new that felt like panic. But a little drug-induced voice buffered everything inside my head.
Get back up on The Boards, it scolded.
One snafu, even a big one like growing a baby, will not destroy you.
At least, not all the way.
Right.
I stood up, spun, and sang a silly song about boat anchors and the sea. A baby? I repeated.
I held my balances in the center of the room, hands up in couronne, until all the angelfish sailed up to the ceiling and, poof, disappeared. I yanked the blinds open, checked the clock, and, at once, knew what I had to do. It was as if J-P’s little pill gave me magical powers to understand everything. Clean your room, it whispered in my ear. Get a test, see if it’s positive, and when it is remember your mother, how she left you in order to save herself. No matter what, do not think about a baby.
eleven
Marine
I was hiding in the costume room on Sunday afternoon. It was my favorite time to be there. I loved the quiet under the eaves, the smell of rosin and glue, and the colorful material spilling from bins and hanging from hooks. Satin, taffeta, chiffon, silk. Tutus galore. I loved Tasha’s perch in the corner where the seamstress sat on weekdays, sewing capes or embroidering leotards with lace. But today was different. The Witch had announced ratings in the cafeteria and canceled D1 générales, and I had company in my quiet place. I’d just pushed myself up from the Nutcracker dresses and was thinking about trying on a pair of giant Giselle fairy wings when Cyrille walked in.
“I brought you a picnic,” he said.
He unzipped a backpack and took out a water bottle, an apple, and a bag of strawberries. At the sight of fruit, my mouth watered. Kate had threatened that if I continued to starve myself she would tell on me for my own good, but starving was a big word. I preferred to say “dieting.”
“We need to talk.”
“Why?” I asked, wondering if this had something to do with “dating” Kate, if he was about to break a crazy rule and beg faculty to swap anchors or something.
But instead, he said, “You know how you threw yourself into my arms the other day?”
At the thought, my ears warmed.
“How that one action made you climb The Boards?” he continued, handing me a strawberry.
The whole thing had been a beautiful accident. Chevalier had blared Tchaikovsky and I’d lost myself in it, spinning like a top. I’d fallen backward, fingertips reaching toward the sky, laughing, into Cyrille’s arms. It hadn’t really been about him. The music—the violins, the cellos, and the flutes—was what had loosened me up.
Cyrille said, “I think that we need to spend time together outside of the studio too.”
At once, I remembered the confetti in Kate’s bucket. What if the codes belonged to him? Yet, among props, mounds of pointe shoes, and sewing machines, Cyrille didn’t look like the kind of guy who would quiz you, do a body check, or even sleep with you to win The Prize. Sure, he was hot and oozed de la lumière des surdoués, the light of the gifted, which we all wanted to rub up against, but still. If I had to guess, I’d point straight to Jean-Paul. That creep was capable of anything. Cyrille, on the other hand, just seemed overly enthusiastic—the type who was masterful but in constant need of attention. Just like Oli. When we’d finally eaten the last two strawberries and the apple, Cyrille said, “Chocolate?”
“Are you nuts?”
He lay back, rolling his backpack under his neck. “Rule Seven. Watch the lines of my body and fuel them accordingly. Key word: accordingly.”
I tried to chuckle but the sound came out bitter. Cyrille never dieted. He didn’t have to. He was The Demigod. I was about to get up and leave when he said, “Don’t go.”
He took my hand. His fingers were warm and for a second I relished his touch. I saw myself rolling around with him on the floor, l’un contre l’autre, one against the other, doigts et jambes enlacés, limbs entwined, baignant dans une brume dorée, bathing in a golden haze, kissing him to Jupiter and back, how delicious touching his gorgeous quads would feel, but quickly pulled myself together and broke his grip.
“You’re such a flirt,” I said. “You’d come on to one of the headless mannequins over there.”
Cyrille laughed. “Want to check out the beehives next door and see if Mireille has honey to spare?”
“No.”
“Then why don’t we sit here and you tell me about Oli.”
At the shock of my brother’s name coming from his lips, I stayed silent, hoping Cyrille was joking, but his gray eyes held mine. A slew of images blossomed in my mind—Oli, standing in fourth position, thighs lifted, knees locked; Oli, rehearsing Le Corsaire, exploding upward in midair; Oli, doing the splits, his feet arched like scythes. I could have focused on each memory, trying to capture them kaleidoscopically, but instead I said, “Do you know what it feels like to lose a twin?” I didn’t want to cry but familiar Oli tears welled up anyway. “Like someone, each day, drains the color from your life.”
With that, I walked out the door. But Cyrille trailed me.
“Know what I noticed in class?” he said. “He sits like tar on your shoulders. I thought that talking might help lift the weight off you and enhance your overall performance.”
“Fuck you,” I said. �
�If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be here.”
Cyrille said, “Do you think you’re the only one carrying around childhood battle scars? Try growing up with a family of manly men and telling them that you are in love with ballet. My father always said, ‘You can be anything you want, except for two things: a trash collector or a boy wearing a tutu.’”
I didn’t care about Cyrille’s private life but I thought of the circular studio, of falling backward into his arms.
Cyrille continued. “The past is the past. What I need now is someone who understands the necessity of movement the way I do. That’s why I came to find you. I want us to open up to each other. Give ourselves a real chance.”
Last year, or even yesterday, I would have walked away. I would have thought of Kate, of our pact, of Oli’s photo inside the barre, of all the Sixth Division rats that counted on me. How as long as I remained strong and private and picked the right people to associate with then everything would work out for the best. But tonight my world was shifting. Kate was mad at me for my new Number 2 ranking. I knew because she’d kept throwing around the word chouchou after telling me not to fast. And Cyrille was not only my anchor partner—he was trying to be my friend.
“What do you want to know?” I said.
“How Oli died.”
I gripped the banister, looked down into the spiral staircase, and decided that talking out loud about Oli, even for just a few minutes, might uplift me somehow. I went back into the costume room, gesturing for Cyrille to follow. I shut the door, sat down once more, then took a deep breath. Vas-y, I thought. I’d never told anyone this, not even Kate.
“It was in fifth grade,” I said. “Right before summer vacation. We were at recess. While I was busy hiding behind the girls’ bathroom, looking at my crush Pierre’s secret pet hamster, Oli climbed an oak and stepped onto a dead branch. It broke under his weight and I wasn’t there to catch him.” Toute ma faute. All my fault, I thought for the millionth time, the old guilt engulfing me like a tidal wave. I could still see it, that late May afternoon, the sun shining through green leaves, how Oli had fallen onto his back while I’d petted the stupid hamster, wishing bad boy Pierre with the army shirt would kiss me on the lips already, and how when I’d finally gotten a sick feeling to my stomach and had run to my brother, it was too late. Oli looked like he was doing snow angels on the concrete. None of the teachers noticed because they were huddled together, smoking.
Cyrille put his hand on my leg warmer. “I want to help,” he said.
“Why?”
“Sometimes the heart makes decisions all on its own.”
I thought of the minutes before Oli died. Cyrille was right. My heart had decided to tell Oli that I’d audition for him at Nanterre and that if I got in I’d dance for him until he got better or until I made it into the company. My brain cursed me later, still cursed me now for that colossal promise.
“Congrats by the way,” he said. “Number Two is no small feat.”
“But who knows if it counted? It wasn’t even on The Boards.”
“Anything The Witch announces counts,” he said.
He blew me a kiss and left.
I stayed sitting among the costumes and props. When I felt certain that he wasn’t coming back, I got up and tried on the pair of fairy wings. They were heavy on my back, and in the cracked mirror I looked like an angel.
“I don’t know what to think of him, O,” I said.
As I twirled around, admiring the wings, a few loose feathers floated in the air and fell to the floor in a heart shape, as if Oli’s ghost had heard me and plucked them himself.
twelve
Kate
When I pushed through the side door of the cafeteria, I shuddered both from the sudden impact of being outdoors and the fear of getting caught. Sneaking up to the older boys’ dorms was one thing, but exiting the campus in the middle of the day during lockdown was another. The sky was metallic gray. I rushed down the path, grazing the dorm wall. My goal was to walk to the nearest pharmacy on Rue de l’Esplanade.
The only person I’d told about this outing was M. Not that I’d wanted to tell her. The Boards and Cyrille had made things unbearable between us. But when, not half an hour ago, I’d opened the door to our room with a sweater wrapped around my waist, Marine’s dark eyes filled with worry.
“Where you off to?” Marine asked. She sat on her bed sewing.
“I’m pretty sure I’m—” The word tried to seep out. After all, Marine was my best friend. Speaking to her was what I did. But I snapped out of it. What the hell was I thinking? No one could ever know about this. No one. Not even Marine. Especially not Marine. “Sick,” I finally chose. “I need stuff stronger than what the nurse has so I’ve got to go to that twenty-four-hour pharmacy down the street.”
“Want me to come? Four eyes are better than two.” M smiled a troubled smile, one dimple creasing.
God, she had no idea. “No thanks,” I lied. I yanked the door of our bedroom open, afraid I might break down if I stayed an extra second.
M hopped off her bed, ran to me, and squeezed my hands. “I’ll cover for you if someone knocks,” she said.
When I reached the big fence, the exit barrier, I looked right and left, then bolted down the sidewalk. Cold air whipped my cheeks. I buried my hands in my pockets and scurried down the street, choosing to worry about Friday’s Boards rather than my chances of getting caught. M and I had tied at Number 2. Last year—or even in September—a tie with M would have made me slapstick happy, but somehow now a tie felt more like a standoff. As I walked past stores, I swore that this draw had something to do with being fat and with my stupid weigh-in from the week before. Mademoiselle Fabienne had invited me into the little examination room the morning after I’d ingested J-P’s pill, then she’d asked me to step onto the beastly scale—something that resembled a weapon more than anything else. I’d worn nothing but my underwear and belly bloat. No matter what, I’d thought, do not think about a baby. I’d tensed up so much that the nutritionist had placed her fingers on my shoulders and said, “Breathe.” She’d added, “You’ve gained one point five kilos.” Later, I’d converted the number to pounds: 3.307.
At Nanterre, one extra pound was substantial.
Except that today I was correcting things. By next week, I’d be rail skinny again. I’d make Gia look chubby.
As I passed a nearby boulangerie, I ran my finger over the glass and swallowed the scent of bread. It reminded me of Marine’s family, how sometimes when I longed for a maternal voice, I dialed the bakery, and how Madame Duval and her sister, Françoise, were always there to chat. I kept on moving. Leaves bordering the street shone red. Pigeons hopped on the sidewalk. A woman sold roasted chestnuts in front of the Métro station. A few more blocks, I told myself. It seemed like, with every step, the pharmacy got farther away.
When I finally turned the corner and saw the fluorescent green cross that every pharmacy here had, I breathed better. Until I noticed Monsieur Chevalier facing the store near the steps. In street clothes, without his T-shirt browned from sweat at the armpits, he looked like any old man. No one important. But I knew better. He was a magician, someone with divine powers that could turn me into the very best dancer.
Children laughed on the other side of the street. I prayed for him not to turn around. My ears rang as I stepped backward. Monsieur Chevalier spun around. For a brief second, he stared at me. But he now seemed wrong. His nose was too short and bulbous. Curly eyebrows I’d never seen before had sprouted above his eyes. This man was not Monsieur Chevalier at all. I took my trembling hands out of my pockets and hugged myself. Once I’d recovered, I walked up the steps and leaned against the door, pushing it open.
The scent of menthol inside the pharmacy soothed me. Everything will be okay. Get what you need and get out. I browsed, trying to seem casual. I perused face creams, bath salts, then lingered
in the vitamin aisle. I needed a test that would confirm my hunch, and then the special pill that would make everything go back to the way it was. At least I lived in France where I could easily get what my body needed.
“Can I help you?” the pharmacist asked, pulling glasses off his nose.
Something was lodged in my throat.
The pharmacist came around from behind the counter and said, “Are you unwell?”
His eyes were dark, his nose long. I decided that if I was going to confide in a perfect stranger, it might as well be someone who looked smart and might be able to help me, like this pharmacist.
“I might be—” I paused. “Enceinte?” Pregnant. The French word sounded foreign on my tongue. It came out tentative, more as a question than a statement.
“I see.” The pharmacist raised his chin toward the ceiling as if he was thinking. No one else was in the pharmacy. An overhead light flickered. A phone rang somewhere in the back.
“A test,” I suggested, suddenly eager to go, to get this mess over with. “I need that test to check.”
The pharmacist began taking things down from shelves. “Here,” he said, handing me one. “But you perhaps need more than that. What if you are pregnant? You’re a dancer, right? From the school?”
I stared down at my feet. God, he knew where I came from. Of course he did. I looked like a dancer. What should I say? Should I lie? Say I was not from here? Maybe I should have used my American accent. Maybe I should have told M. Maybe I should have gone to Louvet and told her about what happened in the closet. But no. It was too late. I needed to finish what I’d started.
“No one can know about this,” I said, shaking a little.
“Of course. How far along do you think you might be?”
“Not far,” I whispered, dying for him to give me what I needed.
“Days or weeks?”
“Days,” I lied.
“More than seventy-two hours?”
“No,” I said.