Tiny Pretty Things

by Sona Charaipotra

  “Bette,” she says, making her name sound light and airy.

  “Oh, right, yes!” My mama touches my cheek, then hers. “Such pretty girls.”

  Bette and I look at each other, both holding awkward grins on our faces.

  41

  Bette

  I KNOW THAT NECKLACE IS all I can think at first. Mr. Lucas and his wife know the necklace, too, of course, and I wonder if they’re thinking what I am: that the way it looks around Gigi’s neck is all wrong. It was supposed to hang around my neck, closer to my throat than my locket, but the same silver glint, the same delicate, antique links of the chain.

  Gigi keeps running the tips of her fingers over the chain, back and forth. Fidgeting. A girl who fidgets should not be a prima ballerina. A girl who fidgets should not have the Lucas family heirloom or a place next to Alec. It looks all wrong, having her fill the space where I should be. I say good-bye to Gigi’s parents and try to hold in my rage as I head to the buffet table.

  My mother swoops in next to me before I’m tempted to snatch some finger food. No Adele. No Eleanor. No June, even. Just my mother in her black gown and too-sparkly diamond earrings.

  “You just let her take it all, huh?” she says in my ear.

  I make fists with my hands and wonder why she didn’t bring flowers, why she didn’t give me a real hug, or wish me luck on our performance tomorrow, why she is thinking so intensely about Gigi and not at all about me.

  I look back over at them—the perfect happy family—they’re all talking with Mr. K now. And Alec has barely left her side, like he’s some part of them now, and not part of me. He hasn’t even spoken to my mother tonight.

  I’ve let my hair down from its bun, but I dressed like the ballerina I am instead of wearing regular people clothes. Long white tulle skirt and an embroidered bodice that hangs off my shoulders. Not a freckle in sight. Just a hint of sparkle I dusted on my collarbone and shoulders, and otherwise snow-white, unblemished skin. That hasn’t changed. Neither has my almost-white hair, my pink lips, the way I hover an inch above my mother.

  They all want me to be jealous of Gigi’s freckles and brown skin and wild hair, but when I catch sight of myself in the mirror, I’m still a replica of the ballerina in the music box: the golden-haired one in the glistening tutu with long legs and a perfect pirouette.

  I almost cry with the realization.

  The pride.

  Even Gigi’s mother said so.

  That’s why there’s nothing to be afraid of when I stop listening to my mother and Mr. K and the voices in my head. The petit rats still skip over and pull on my hand and ask me for autographs and kisses on their cheeks. They all want to be like me. Not her.

  I watch Alec kiss Gigi’s hand, and I regret taking that pill. I can’t seem to not focus on the tiny ways he touches her. I want to go snatch him away, and remind him that I am the one for him. I find a quiet corner in the room and open my locket. I skip over the white pills and take the pale-blue oval ones in the middle. One from my mother’s stash and the other one a little gift from my dealer. Then I watch as Alec leaves Gigi’s side and stands with his dad and stepmom. It seems like they’re in some heated conversation. Gigi’s parents have left. And I wonder if they’ve been introduced to the Lucases. I imagine Alec’s stepmother’s chilly reception of Mrs. Stewart and her hippy-dippy dress and mannerisms and multiculturalness, and it makes me smile a little, knowing she’ll always love me and my mother, and Gigi can never have that.

  Last year Alec and I paraded around the spring gala and put on an impromptu show. We performed complicated lifts and turns just to thrill the crowd. I gulp down more champagne and ignore how many calories it’s adding to my body. Or maybe if I just wait long enough, he’ll grow tired of her. Because there will always be a huge difference between Gigi and me. She won’t always be new and fascinating and strange and mysterious, but I will always be the girl in the music box, the girl who has known him practically forever. Nothing she does can change that.

  Henri joins me at the buffet table after my mother makes a dash to speak with Morkie. He doesn’t greet me, just brushes his body against mine. I feel his breath in my hair and the anger rising off him. The pinch of his fingers digs into my hips, snapping at me like the predator he is.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I say, facing him. “Get away from me.”

  “You should start being nicer to people,” he warns.

  I don’t acknowledge him, and with a ballerina’s walk—pointed toes, turned-out legs, head high—I join my sister, who has just walked into the room with some of the dancers from her company. I take another glass of champagne from a tray, and another pill. I need it to kick things into high gear. And I’m Bette Abney, determined, willful, successful. The girl who makes things happen.

  It will be a good night. A night to remember. A night that changes everything. I will make something happen.

  42

  June

  I RECOGNIZE THE KNOCK AT my bedroom door. Fast, light, aggressive. Bette.

  “Tonight’s the night,” she says. She’s decked out in a fringy silver number, and has another dress in her hand. We’re supposed to be resting for opening night tomorrow. “We’re all going out.” She looks at my pajamas, disapproving. “Like I promised.”

  I open my mouth to decline, but she doesn’t let me. “It’s tradition,” she says. “Mandatory. You know that. All the Level 7 girls did it last year. We have to.”

  I can’t believe she actually meant what she’d said—that we’d go out. All of us. I’m so stunned I leave the door open and stumble backward a little. Girls chatter in the hall about Bette’s dress. They wish she’d come to their rooms. Or invite them wherever she was headed. They tell her she looks gorgeous.

  “I don’t—” I try, but she pushes past me and enters the room without listening for a response. Gigi went off with Alec and her parents, saying she’d see me later.

  I never go out. It’s just not me. And yet within two minutes, I’m somehow letting Bette dress me up like a little doll, like her little plaything. Part of me hates myself for it, but another part, albeit a much smaller one, has longed for this. Because this is what normal girls do. They play dress-up and dance and get a little crazy. They have girlfriends and share secrets and giggle about boys. They’re sisters, maybe not by blood, but in the moment at least, when it feels like nothing will ever be this real again. That’s what tonight will be. I can feel it in my bones. And I’ve never done this before.

  “You’re really going to steal his eye tonight,” she says, pulling one of her dresses—a deep plum number—down over my head. Her breath smells of alcohol, and her pupils are dilated and glossy.

  “Who?” I say, not sure how she knows anything.

  She pauses to look me in the eye. “Oh, c’mon. There’s got to be someone.” She doesn’t even give me time to nod. “Then it’s time for you to claim him.”

  “She’ll never let him go,” I find myself saying, even though I’ve never said anything to anyone about Jayhe. Well, except Gigi.

  She rubs makeup into my cheeks, puts shadow and liner on my eyes. Then she speaks again. “The thing is,” she says, “you have to realize that this isn’t about her. It has to be about you.”

  I don’t know if she’s talking to herself or me, but her words ring true.

  I feel hopeful in Bette’s capable hands, I’ve become glittering and shimmering and sweet and sexy. Somehow Bette’s makeup skills have made me look brand-new. I am all flawless skin and deep-set eyes and a throaty, heady laugh that will make all the boys want me. I am who I’ve never been before, and may well never be again, if I’m honest. I’m everything Bette wants me to be, and for right now, I’m okay with that. My reflection in the mirror allows me to believe I am a girl Jayhe could want—that any boy could want. I smooth the front of the dress and like my profile, for once.

 
I’m in a cab with Bette and Eleanor, and we’re racing down the West Side Highway, the windows wide open and the spring air blasting through, heading down to the Meatpacking District to some club Bette knows the bouncer at. I’ve had way too much to drink. Bette pushes another mini vodka bottle into my hand. I shake my head no this time. I text Jayhe. Maybe he’ll come here and see me and choose me once and for all. Maybe he’ll see the new June—colorful and beautiful and pretending to be bright again—and fall head over heels. For real.

  We all climb out of the cab, and the guy waves us in, not even asking for ID. I’ve never been to a club, but this is just what I imagined, the music pounding through me like a heartbeat, the crowd pressing in on all sides, moving in unison, one big collective soul.

  As soon as we walk inside, we see the others. Gigi, Alec, Will, and everyone. It seems tonight all is forgiven, we’re putting on a united front. For tradition’s sake.

  I should be self-conscious, worried about the way I move, but I just let myself shake it out with the music, go with the flow. Will takes my hand and starts twirling me, and it feels too familiar, too much like ballet, so I pull out of his grasp.

  “Thanks for not saying anything. I was so paranoid. Everything is fine. No, everything is great.” His words are slurred and wet as he yells in my ear. I nod and try to slink away. He grins, then points to the bar. He disappears to get drinks.

  Gigi is beaming, wasted. She glows with happiness, or maybe it’s just the black light, as her face falls in shadow and her teeth sparkle like little white lights in her mouth. She spins and shakes and shimmies and giggles, and I find myself doing the same, dancing close, laughing, just like real girls do. Like friends do. She shouts something toward my ear, but the noise is too much, it just absorbs the sound of her voice like she’s said nothing at all. Then she points toward the door and I see them. Sei-Jin and her girls. And Jayhe, trailing sheepishly behind them.

  Suddenly, all my drunken happiness washes away, gone instantly, like what I’d imagine a sober, regretful, hungover morning would feel like. Like what tomorrow will feel like. That’s why he never texted me back.

  Will brings back drinks, glowing bright neon green in clear plastic cups. I snatch mine from Will and down it. Then I grab his hand and start grinding up on him, putting on a show. Will is surprised, but he catches my eye, then follows my gaze, willing to play along. Will might be gay, but Jayhe doesn’t know that.

  I try to lose myself in the pulse of the dancing again, to forget that Sei-Jin and Jayhe are here, to recapture that energy I’d felt just moments ago. But it’s gone, and I’m suddenly utterly drained.

  “Restroom!” I shout to Will, then start to push my way through the crowd. Sei-Jin and her girls are all on one side of the dance floor. They scowl at me as I pass. When I finally get to the ladies’ room, there’s a line a mile long, winding deep into the club, all the way back to the bar. I look at my watch. 2:34 a.m. What am I doing here? This isn’t me. This will never be me. I should just leave the others, hop in a cab, head back to the dorms. The performance is tomorrow. Maybe Gigi will be too hungover to dance.

  I’m pondering the best route out when I feel it—that familiar way he traces his fingers along my hip, up my side, to my shoulder, the way his fingers splay on the back of my neck, luring me close, leaving no space between us.

  “Hey,” he whispers, his breath hot in my ear. “I’m sorry.”

  He pulls me in even closer and kisses me. Right there, in the club, in front of a million people, where anyone can see us. “I’ve missed you.” He kisses me again. And again. And again. And all I want to do is lose myself in him, in the way he makes me feel. Like there’s only the two of us in the world.

  But instead I pull away, and the anger floods back, tears pricking at my eyes. I never cry. I just don’t. I won’t cry now. “Too bad,” I say, and push him way, clawing my way forward through the crowd, toward the door. He follows me out onto the cobblestoned streets, just inches behind me as I stumble and nearly fall. He catches me.

  “Hey, wait, June,” he says, grabbing my arm in that familiar vise, the one that I can’t get away from. “Wait, I came here for you.”

  “No you didn’t!” I’m shouting, but no one notices. “You’re here with her. It’s always her.”

  He’s shaking his head, and there’s a sadness in his eyes that tells me it’s not true. That he really is here for me. Even if it never feels that way, even if everything else rings false. “Can we go somewhere?” he says, already leading the way.

  Minutes later, we’re in the backseat of his car in one of the parking garages, the beat-up old car his dad used to drive to church when we were kids, the silver faded to gray, the shine long gone. It’s eerily quiet, like we really are alone in the world, even though the thump of the club is just half a block away. And he’s looking down at his hands, worn and cut up from chopping vegetables at his mom’s restaurant, the exhaustion I feel reading heavy on his face. He’s pondering what to say, how to fix it, worried it’s too late.

  Then suddenly I’m sobbing. And his hands stroke my hair, my face, and he’s whispering that it will be okay. But it won’t. Nothing will ever be the same again. Because now I know.

  “I have a father,” I say through tears. “I know who he is, finally.” I’m shaking, but I have to tell someone. I have to tell Jayhe. “And he doesn’t want me. Nobody ever wants me.”

  I don’t let him say what I know he’ll say. That he does want me. That he never stopped wanting me.

  So when he turns to me, finally, and opens his mouth, about to fill the space with unnecessary words, I just kiss him. To make it quiet again, to go back to that warm, safe place. But this time it’s not soft, not safe, like it was in my room that one time. This time, it’s urgent, now or never, decision time. And every part of me is saying it’s time to give in, to say yes, to put the past behind us and make the future look bright. Like Bette said, it’s time to claim Jayhe, to make him mine. To have one thing that’s real.

  43

  Gigi

  THE DJ’S SPINNING HIP-HOP MUSIC and I can’t stop moving. Not ballet moves.

  Wild. Unsanctioned. Loose.

  Positions Morkie would hate. Movements Mr. K would frown at. We’re all bunched in a group, dancing all together, laughing all together. Bette is laughing and smiling. Even June—who I thought had left—is back and letting loose, this faraway grin on her face. I feel a little better. Spirits lifted just like Alec promised.

  Alec leaves to go get more drinks at the bar. While I wait for him to return, the floor oscillates in waves beneath me. The lights streak across the floor like rainbows trapped inside. I stretch my arms and legs out and feel the room spin. My wristband glows different colors and I don’t know if it’s my eyes or the actual wristband. I don’t mind wearing something other than my monitor. I’ve had too many glasses of champagne and god knows what else. More alcohol than I’ve ever had in my entire life. More alcohol than Ella and I ever consumed back home on the beach for her sixteenth birthday last year. It feels nice to float, and I wish I had my very own cloud.

  I laugh as the whole room spins me in a circle, like I’ve fallen into a whirlpool. I think I can feel the earth’s rotation and I’m positive that I’m turning along with it. I feel like a regular teen again.

  I’m sure I’m imagining things.

  “Truce?!” I hear over the music.

  Bette holds out a drink. It’s got a pineapple slice floating around in it.

  “What is it?” I holler.

  “A special delivery,” she says, her words running together. She seems pretty drunk already.

  I laugh. “No, really.”

  “Seriously. That’s what the drink it called.” She pushes it into my hand. “I’m sorry for my part in some of the stuff this year. I was wrong.”

  I don’t know what to say. What new thing is she exactly owning up t
o?

  “I didn’t put that glass in your shoe, though. That wasn’t me,” she says. She puts her hands up, like she’s not guilty. She stumbles forward, and I catch her arm. “And I sure as hell didn’t kill your butterflies.”

  “Okay . . . ,” I say back, not sure how to respond.

  “So, starting over?” She raises her drink. I let it hang there for a while, then give in to get her to go away. I clink mine with hers, and sip the drink.

  Alec returns. We all dance and spin until I can’t feel my legs anymore. He pulls me closer to him. Buries his face in the place where my neck meets my shoulder. At first he just rests there. Then he starts kissing the soft skin.

  I’m shaking from the mix of the alcohol and the nearness of him. The feel of his tongue near my earlobe. The heat between us.

  “I can feel your heart pounding,” he says. “Are you okay?”

  “That feels amazing,” I say, barely recognizing the breathiness of my voice. He moves from my neck to my mouth and the kiss is intense, passionate. I wrap my arms more tightly around him. Listen to the sharp intake of breath when I press myself against him. Soon he’s got me pushed into a dark corner, his hands are up my dress, wandering from one patch of skin to another eagerly. I’m focused on Alec, but I can feel eyes on me. Bette’s probably, of course, despite what she might say. But when I look up, I also see Will watching us, and Henri not far behind him. For once in my life, though, I don’t care. Let them watch. Let them want.

  We pull apart to catch our breath and neither of us can hold back our smiles. He kisses me again, and I crumple into him. Alec parts my legs with his hand and my mouth with his warm tongue. I love the heavy way he feels, like I’m in a safe little space beneath him.