Tiny Pretty Things

by Sona Charaipotra

  I recognize Sei-Jin’s mother on her computer screen, and a part of me wants to wave hello. Just so Sei-Jin is forced to talk about me and make up some lie about why we aren’t friends anymore. Just to make her feel that pinch of discomfort in catering to Korean social graces. Sei-Jin’s mother used to visit the conservatory when we were smaller, and she always reminded me of my own mom. When we lived together, Sei-Jin and I would compare notes on them, complaining about their constant stress and their ugly haircuts and disdain for American music and food. I taught Sei-Jin how to say curse words in English, and we’d whisper them under our breath when our moms made us angry. She’d delighted in the sounds, and taught me a few key phrases in Korean that I once let fly at my mom during a particularly heated argument. It was worth facing my mom’s wrath when I got to tell Sei-Jin about my triumph.

  That feels like a long, long time ago. I don’t even remember myself in that friendship. And I definitely don’t remember her.

  She takes off the headphones and microphone. “When my mother saw you walk in, she asked who the ugly new American girl was,” Sei-Jin says, just as I’m about to exit with my English paper in hand. Her accent emphasizes the harshness of her words. “I told her it was E-Jun Kim, and she said she couldn’t believe it. She said whoever your father is, he must be one ugly American pig.”

  She emphasizes the insult pig, like it’s a current thing normal American teens use. I want to laugh at her. I want to push her out of the way, and explain to her mom how our friendship changed.

  “Oh, right, you don’t have any idea who he is. Yes, must’ve been a pig to make you.”

  I try to stop my body and face from reacting, but the parts don’t listen. I inhale sharply, stumble over one of my own feet, and wish away the sweat gathering behind my ears. I try to remember my plan to hurt her.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Sei-Jin says, watching my face. “Maybe I translated wrong?”

  She smiles, but even then her perfect creamy skin doesn’t crack. Not a single dimple or smile line or flaw. She hasn’t translated wrong, of course. Her English is perfect, but she always blames her cruelty on the language barrier anyway. And I can’t even defend my mystery dad. I have no idea who he is. Only that he’s white and practically a ghost. The other girls pause their own individual conversations to watch Sei-Jin and me.

  Most of them came from Seoul when they were six, right when I enrolled. At first we were all friends. They stayed with nearby Korean relatives, and my mom would invite them to do things in the city with us. We’d have dinners and sleepovers. But after Sei-Jin spread the rumor, they all took her side. That’s when they stopped speaking in English around me, or coming to my room at night to talk about the stupid American girls. I went from being part of their group, part of something that felt so comfortable, to being a total outsider.

  Now Sei-Jin likes the others to believe that I don’t fit because I’m half-white, because I can’t speak much Korean, because I’ll try to make out with them all. It’s enough to offend their prudish ways and keep me away, for sure. But really, Sei-Jin is scared of the secret only I know about. How would they treat her? What would Jayhe think? She’d be the one all alone, left out.

  “My mother said your mother slept with a lot of people to get ahead,” Sei-Jin says. “She said your father was probably one of the teachers or someone with a bunch of money.” She cocks her head. Unable to defend my mom—for all I know, it’s true—I walk out without another word. But I know her mom said none of these things. Those were my theories I used to go through with her when I was upset with my mom for not telling me about my dad. Sei-Jin’s mom is always nice to me when she sees me. Always pats my head and tells me how pretty I am.

  Heat crawls up my neck, and I try my hardest not to look back, even though I can feel Sei-Jin’s heavy gaze on me, her mean words still ringing in my head, taunting me. I walk slow and straight and composed, as if she’s not affecting me at all.

  After my run-in with Sei-Jin and her followers, the nutritionist’s office is almost a sterile, metallic relief. Almost. At least I can sit on the cool metal table and savor the quiet until Nurse Connie shows up to ruin everything. The white tissue paper crinkles under my butt as I fidget with anxiety. Her office is sandwiched between the studios on the first floor, a constant reminder that she’s in here lurking and ready to make sure we’re all following the rules about our weight.

  The tools of Nurse Connie’s trade are on display in the office: two gleaming, mean-spirited scales, one digital and one traditional. And there, on the wall, are tape measures, strung like snakes that nip at your wrists, your waist, your thighs, threatening to expose your darkest secrets. When these come down, you know you’ve gone too far, that home beckons, that your skin and bones aren’t enough to sustain you any longer.

  I’ve only had to face the snakes once, in eighth grade, when I hit ninety-six pounds, and the school called my mom, who nearly hauled me home. I ate and ate and ate that weekend, gorging myself like a fat pink pig, until I hit one hundred and they let me come back to school.

  I feel the weight of the coins, comforting, and that’s what I think about when Nurse Connie breezes in, not saying a word before taking my blood pressure—it’s low again—and checking my heart rate.

  “Remove your dance skirt, please,” she says.

  “I didn’t mean to—” I stutter.

  She waves her hand in the air. Today, she doesn’t want to hear it.

  “When was your last menstrual cycle?” she says.

  “Two weeks ago.” The lie comes out effortlessly, because I track when my period would come if I still had it. Just to be prepared.

  “Are you sexually active?”

  “No,” I say, and wonder if one day that answer will change. She gives me safe sex reminders. I remember last year how crazy sex rumors went around about Cassie cheating on her Paris Opera school star boyfriend, Henri—futile attempts to break them up and pollute their budding fame as ballet’s new It couple. But I wonder if they were having sex. If that helped them dance so passionately together. If Nurse Connie had to give her more than just gentle reminders.

  “Stand,” Nurse Connie says, and I do, stepping onto the wobbly pad of the traditional scale, old-school and as mean as any of our teachers. Meaner, maybe. I close my eyes and hold my breath, wondering if the air might make me heavier. She shifts the weights from one end to the other and back, dark and calculating, determining my fate, as she does every week.

  “Hmmm,” she says. The concerned tone seeps into my pores. A cold sweat drips quietly down my back and dots my hairline, taking my makeup with it. And that’s when she says it. “About a hundred and one. Not good. Get on the other one.”

  I do as she instructs, stepping automatically on the digital scale, as I’ve done once a week for a decade now. I clasp my hands together in almost prayer formation. I gather my breath, again. Liquid churns in my stomach. She doesn’t look happy. She holds a chart that records my height and weight and soul, deciding whether or not I deserve a place in these halls.

  “One hundred and one,” she repeats, and I exhale with relief, though it is peppered with fear and doubt and, yes, satisfaction. “Not good at all, E-Jun.”

  “I know.” I can’t tell her that I just needed to get above one hundred. That was my goal.

  I step down, like a good girl, and take a seat, praying, praying, praying that those snakes don’t slither my way today. They’ll give me away for sure. She touches my leg muscles. I wince and imagine she’s about to say my legs are too skinny, my arms too frail to support the ballet movements. That at some point I’ll collapse, unable to support my own weight. And I can’t have that now, not when I’m so close. Not when I can nearly taste it. Not when my mother is threatening to pull me out of the conservatory.

  “I know I don’t have to remind you of this,” she says with a patronizing tone, “but you need to eat more. Tell
me, what did you have for breakfast and lunch?”

  I don’t tell her the real items. Instead, I repeat my memorized lines: “Half a grapefruit, a cup of nonfat yogurt with fresh cherries, two bananas, a salad with tuna, coffee and cream.” As I give her that embellished list, I can almost feel the bite of the imaginary caffeine and calories swooshing in my stomach.

  She looks intently at the chart, seeing right through my lies. “You weren’t in the cafeteria last night. I don’t have your signature on the list.” Her evil sign-in sheets stare up at me—her prison-inspired way of making sure we are present for all meals. “What did you eat for dinner?”

  “My mother brought me some baechu gook.” I smile sweetly, knowing that the foreign words will fluster her. “Because I’ve been working so hard, you know, as understudy for the Sugar Plum Fairy.”

  She smiles back, but I know she doesn’t quite buy it. She needs to focus on girls like Liz. She’s the one who’s severely underweight. I kind of want to say that, but I know it’ll only make me look guilty. She rests her hands on the tape measures. I hear my heartbeat echo in my ears. They’re coming down.

  “Well,” she says, “I’d like to see you back up to a hundred and four in two weeks, with a goal to get as close to a hundred and ten as possible. And I want to see you at the cafeteria each evening. I will look for you myself, and the resident advisers will be informed, too, and make sure you’re eating a proper, balanced meal.” Suddenly her voice is ice. “Because, E-Jun, you know this is very serious. You’re sixteen now. And you know the rules. From now on it’s one strike and you’re out. There are no more second chances.”

  I do my best to maintain that sweet smile, but I can feel it slipping. My heart threatens to leap from my chest. She’s not on my side. Not any of ours. She’ll report us, and start the paperwork to send us home. She’ll get the guidance counselor involved and then Mr. K. She doesn’t care what it means to be a dancer. What sacrifices it takes. And she knows that Mr. K will easily let me go. That I’m nothing. I can be replaced. Girls are a dime a dozen in ballet—not like the boys who are treated like princes. Another girl will be plucked from some audition somewhere.

  “Sure.” I move to grab my bag. “I know. One hundred and three. Next week.”

  “One hundred and four,” she reminds me sternly. “And if you can’t, we’ll have to just schedule a bone density scan.”

  “I don’t need one of those,” I say, the smile disappearing from my face.

  “It’ll tell us exactly what you need, actually. And find all the things my scales miss.”

  I chew the inside of my mouth and don’t know what to do. Say something else. Turn around and walk out. Lunge at her. Cry. Last year, one of the Level 6 girls got a bone scan, and it showed all her little secrets: how little food she ate, how she didn’t get her period anymore, how many stress fractures she’d danced through just to keep her roles. They sent her back home after that. To Texas.

  “I’ll ask my mother if I need one,” I manage to get out.

  “No need. I have her medical waiver. That’s enough for us to order one if we need to. I am here to take care of all the dancers, to do what’s best for them, so they can be strong and healthy onstage.”

  I try not to breathe too hard. I want to call her a liar.

  “Oh, and Gigi’s your roommate, right?” she asks, like she hasn’t just said something that could potentially ruin my entire life.

  “Yes,” I say, a little harsher than I meant to. I don’t want to be Gigi’s roommate. I was here before her. She should be June’s roommate. June, the girl who’s been at the school for ten years.

  “You headed up to your room now?” she says.

  “Yes,” I say, cautious, unsure of what she wants.

  “Tell Gigi to come down and see me, please. If she’s up there. I have something for her.” She taps the top of a messy pile of sealed envelopes. One has Gigi’s name printed on it.

  “Okay,” I say. She goes into the interior office without saying good-bye. I know she’s done with me. I pluck the envelope from the stack. There are so many envelopes here, she won’t miss this one. She’ll think she’s misplaced it, and print out another copy of whatever it is. I thumb it between my fingers, wondering what’s inside. Even if it’s nothing, it’s still good to know everything. Or maybe it’s something that’ll keep her from dancing. After all, injuries are the reasons for understudies. I rearrange the rest of the envelopes and slip out the door, my prize in hand.

  I leave the office, hiding a smile, excited to return to my room for some light reading. I’ll just take a peek. No one will ever know.

  13

  Gigi

  “WE NEED TO PRACTICE OUR grand pas,” Alec says after rehearsal is officially over tonight. “I need to get our lifts just right.”

  He takes my hand and leads me out of the rehearsal space to studio F across the hall. I feel Bette’s gaze on my back, but ignore it. I’m not doing anything wrong. We do have to practice. He closes the door behind us. Not that it could hide us in here behind all this glass. Right away he goes to the barre and takes hold of it. I stand behind him, admiring the muscles in his legs and how broad his shoulders are. I’ve never wondered about what a boy might look like undressed. I’ve never considered what little details I might be missing, given all I already see of their bodies.

  “Let’s warm up again,” he says. “Then practice the lift. You up for it?”

  I nod, and drop my bag against the wall, ignoring the mess that spills out of it. I don’t bother putting on pointe shoes, instead just slide off the squishy mukluk slippers Mama sent me from her trip to New Mexico, and walk barefoot to him. We stretch our legs onto the barre. My limbs feel twitchy being so close to him. When my parents and aunt moved me into the dorms, Alec was the first one to introduce himself. Marched right up with a smile and welcomed me to the conservatory. And every day after that he’d check on me, asking me how my day was and how I was adjusting, always ready to give me little tips here and there. He’s the one who told me that June’s frowning isn’t about her not liking me, that it’s just the way her face is. I chuckle at the memory. Alec gives me a what’s-so-funny look.

  “Nothing,” I say, pushing deeper into the stretch.

  “Did you always dance?” he asks.

  “Yeah, pretty much,” I say, leaning to the right, feeling the stretch up my side. “You?”

  He follows my pattern. “My whole life. My dad danced here. The great Dom Lucas.” He mimics Mr. K’s thick Russian accent.

  “Oh, right,” I say, feeling a little stupid for not remembering that. “I always forget Mr. Lucas is your dad. That must be . . . amazing.”

  “My sister and I like to forget,” he says with a sad smile. “He doesn’t act like much of a dad.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I just let my hand find his back, and stroke the spine in a few long, careful brushes.

  “I’m sorry,” I say at last. “I didn’t know.”

  He smiles back at me, and then guides my body to switch sides with his. I gaze around the room. We’re alone, but it makes me feel strange. Seasick. I try to snap out of it. This is what I wanted, right? And I’m getting it.

  “Can you help me stretch my leg?” I ask, not really needing him to, but wanting him to touch me.

  “Yeah.” He moves closer. I place my leg on the barre, then he lifts it gently off until it’s above my head. I look up at my foot. My hip loosens and I feel a satisfying pull.

  “That feel okay?” he asks.

  I nod, feeling each one of his words land on my cheek. I want him to kiss me. I shouldn’t have a crush on him. Even saying the word in my head makes me blush. He’s with Bette. We’re only dancing together. It’ll be all over after The Nutcracker performance. He lowers my leg, then I lift the other one for him. And he repeats the movement, pushing into me, his chest against my leg. He taps
a beat along my thigh and I try not to laugh.

  “Hey!” I say with a big smile.

  He flashes his signature grin at me and puts my leg down. “Here, let me try a few of those lifts. Do you mind? I’m struggling with them.”

  I almost ask him if I’m too heavy. But I bite my tongue. He’s used to dancing with Bette, who is smaller, wispier than me. I shake off the thought. I shouldn’t worry about something so foolish when my body is so strong and reliable. I need to focus on getting these lifts right, finding the right partner rhythm with him. The Nutcracker’s grand pas de deux is one of the most intricate and difficult partnering variations. The audience anticipates the dance between the Sugar Plum Fairy and her prince the entire ballet. I won’t let it be a disappointment.

  We don’t do the lifts in the staged, practiced way we’re supposed to. We don’t mark our movements, the way our teachers showed us, then slowly slide into the dangerous positions. Instead, Alec just grabs me by the waist, presses his thumbs into my back, and raises me sloppily into the air for a shoulder lift. It isn’t a sanctioned ballet move. It isn’t part of our choreography or anything we would ever rehearse in the pressure cooker of the ballet class. But I soar and he is strong beneath me. I throw my head back and let myself get lost in the cracks of the ceiling. My arms stretch behind me, my heart thumps, and Alec’s arm muscles twitch below me.

  The way down is slippery and hot. He lowers me so that my body meets his, our torsos kissing. I am all tingles in my spine, my stomach, my heart. The beat pulses all over me, and I’m embarrassed. If he touches my skin, he’d feel it, and know how excited he makes me. We do the lift a few more times until his thumbprints are permanently indented in my back, and little raw blisters have started to form. I don’t let him see the pain as he slides me down for the last time.

  I stand below him, my head still back so that I am lost in his eyes. And while I’m distracted by the way blue meets green meets black at the very edge of his pupils, he surprises me by touching my face. Letting his fingers linger along my cheek and down my neck, like he’s drawing shapes on my skin, leaving a burning a trail behind.