Tiny Pretty Things

by Sona Charaipotra

  I slip in and out of time until Will interrupts us. “Time to go, lovebirds. RAs figured us out. They’re on a rampage. I’ve got a dozen calls. Mr. K is on his way down here.”

  We race outside. Alec is ahead of me. I feel a hand on my shoulder. I look up. My vision is blurred, but it’s Will.

  “Heyyy,” I say, wanting to thank him for the heads-up about Mr. K coming down here. But Alec calls my name from ahead, and I try to catch up.

  My feet slip and slide on the old-fashioned cobblestones, but I feel like I should be able to walk on these streets if I can dance in pointe shoes. I can’t stop laughing. We’re all falling over one another, and thrilled by the idea of Mr. K’s angry face. The excitement (or maybe all the alcohol) is making me light-headed. June, all buttoned up again but softer still, smiles at me as she walks beside Jayhe, even though Sei-Jin’s watching them, about to explode. I wonder what’s going on. And Bette and I even laugh at the same stupid joke Will makes on our way out the club doors.

  I step into the street to cross over. My heel snags on one of the cobblestones. I feel hands on my back, and my body lurches forward.

  My eyes go blank.

  The irregular beat in my chest quiets.

  The street stands still.

  44

  Bette

  THERE ARE SCREAMS AND SO much movement on the street it feels like backstage before dress rehearsal. I feel the beginnings of tears in my eyes. The world is fuzzy. I am frozen in place, heavy and slow; it feels like I’m underwater. And I’m drowning.

  All I want is Alec.

  Gigi is stretched out on the street in front of a yellow taxi. One leg is bent beneath her, the other is covered in blood. She isn’t moving.

  The cabbie is frantic, crying, worrying, on the street, and somewhere not too far off, sirens are zooming, closer by the second. I back away and almost fall backward onto the curb. Will stands there with his hand cupped over his mouth.

  “Where the hell is Alec?” I finally manage to say, and I know I’m spitting out the words. I know I don’t look well.

  “What . . . just . . . happened?” Will says, all trembles—hands, mouth, voice.

  The sounds of sirens echo from down the block.

  “Where’s Alec?” I say.

  Will gives me a good long stare, and strange emotions pass over his face, one after the other in quick succession. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t look away, just lets the feelings overcome him until he gets his voice back. He’s frozen in place.

  “I can’t find Alec,” I say when a minute has passed and some amount of the news has sunk in.

  “Alec!” Will shouts like he’s come back to life. He knows what to do.

  We run through the crowd, dodging onlookers. Bodies blur around me, a mosaic of arms and legs and moving parts.

  “Will!” I whip around at the sound of Alec’s voice.

  “Gigi was right behind me,” Alec says. The look on Alec’s face says it all. His blue eyes are all big and cloudy. He sinks to the curb and sits.

  “Where have you been?” I say. My voice starts rising.

  “Let him breathe, Bette,” Will says. But I want to claw at him for suggesting I need to do anything but figure out what is happening.

  “I can’t explain it . . . ,” Alec says, trailing off.

  “What happened?” I say. I keep stepping closer and closer to Alec, who just will not get off the ground. “We were all standing there . . .”

  Ahead of us in the street, the paramedics surround Gigi. Cops push back the crowds. They start asking questions. I bolt, and I try to blend into the crowd. I get farther away from the curb. I find Eleanor nearby, whose eyes are red from crying.

  “Jesus,” she says when she sees me. “Where’d you go?” She’s worried, but she puts an arm around me. Hugs me to her. And I know I can trust her. She’s the same girl I met when I was six years old—my best friend. I try to stop my body from shaking. It all happened so fast. The scene replays in my head like some twisted ballet: where everyone was standing, the cacophony of the taxis’ blaring horns, the uneven cobblestones. I try to make it all make sense in my head. We called a truce. We were all pals, hanging out. I didn’t touch her. Did I?

  “Please tell them I was standing beside you. Please. I think they might accuse me.” I cry then, dig my head into her shoulder and hide there. She doesn’t agree or disagree, but she rubs my back, and I think maybe it will be okay. She whispers in my ear, “I was across the street, Bette. You were right beside Gigi, and so were Will and June.”

  When I emerge from the moment on Eleanor’s shoulder, I look up to see Alec talking to the police. I want to run again, badly, but I hold back. I squeeze Eleanor’s arm until she yelps. I need her to hold me steady. Like she’s always done when things get bad. I feel like I might fall.

  “You’re hurting me,” Eleanor says, but I can’t let go.

  I’m next. I know they’ll call me next. I turn around and look to see if I can go inside a nearby store, to at least get a grip before trying to talk to police about this girl that everyone knows has been my enemy all year. But I can’t get out of the crowd, because a wide set of shoulders block me.

  “Hey there,” Henri says. He’s not crying. He’s not shaking or sad. He’s not hiding his face in his hands. He’s smiling. He’s smirking. “Where do you think you’re going? The police want to talk to all of us.”

  He’s terrifying. The ambulance lights wash him in blues and reds. His eyes almost glow.

  The cops approach with their pads. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I just want to call my mother. I want her for the first time ever.

  “Where were you standing?” the cop asks for the fourth time.

  I can’t answer.

  Eleanor squeezes my hand. “Bette, answer.”

  Henri raises his hand like we’re in English class, and says, “Officer, I saw Bette Abney push the victim into the street.”

  45

  June

  WE ALL MOVE IN A dream state. I watch the paramedics roll Gigi to an ambulance. She is strapped in and her head is in a brace. Pretty face, long limbs, perfect feet all a mess.

  The others bombard me with questions, so I make my shoulder shrug over and over. Up, down. Up, down. Up, down. Mouth a little bit open. Eyes blinking slowly. Hand making its way to my forehead every few minutes, like I could somehow wipe away the headache.

  I’m barely here.

  Bette bursts into tears. Not angry ones or bitter ones. Little girl tears. Sad tears. Unexpected, after all the vitriol in her voice. I almost reach for her, to pat her arm or something, but she’s still Bette. She’s still untouchable and unpredictable, and I’m still June. Even in my tight dress and overpowering makeup. Not that much has really changed.

  She screeches, “I didn’t push her!”

  And the cops move her to the side.

  Since everyone but Will is frozen, and Bette and Alec are locked in some horrible death stare, I don’t know what to do or where to go. I sink right down on the curb. I think through what just happened. I try to place everyone on the street.

  I was the last one to leave the club. Henri was first. I think Bette, Gigi, Alec, and Eleanor went out together. I think Will was in the clump, too. I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t think. I can’t rearrange them in my head.

  Gigi’s parents and Aunt Leah appear out of nowhere, and they are crying and turning from person to person, looking for answers. We don’t have any. A few of the dancers pat Mrs. Stewart on the shoulder, but the rest of us just look at the ground and mirror her tears. Gigi looks like her mother—big, curly hair like a lion’s mane, a few freckles, warm eyes, that caring smile. Her father just stares blankly at everything and everyone.

  Mr. K passes right in front of me. I didn’t know he was here yet, but people keep popping up on the street, unexpected, the way they
are in dreams. Out of context. He isn’t in his normal clothes. Has a robe wrapped around him and uncombed hair. Mr. K has bed head and a panicked voice. The world is all wrong.

  “Get inside these cabs,” Mr. K orders. “Everyone. Now!” But there’s no power behind the order. And for the first time ever, we don’t listen.

  46

  Bette

  I STILL FEEL LIKE I’M going to pass out. I walk in circles, trying to keep myself awake, not allowed to move from the spot where the policeman told me to stay. I’m biding my time before more police and Mr. K and Gigi’s parents approach me.

  But I have not evaded Alec.

  His hand is on my shoulder, and at last, the one thing I’ve been so desperate for actually happens. He pulls me into a hug, kisses my hair. Squeezes so hard, I could get lost in the feeling if I wanted. “You’re shaking.”

  “I didn’t do it,” I say. “I swear I didn’t do anything.” I look up at him, my blue eyes meeting his in a silent agreement. We haven’t looked at each other like this in months.

  “I know,” Alec says, his voice slow and careful, like he knows exactly what happened and who did it. “But someone did.”

  47

  June

  THE CROWD CLOSES IN ON me. Gigi’s parents are approaching, and the questions from the cops are coming fast and furious. I drank all that champagne, I threw up both the alcohol and party food, and my roommate is gone. My mouth waters, and I see sparkles all around.

  I faint.

  It’s just one little moment; any other day it would be small enough a thing for them to ignore, maybe, or to earn another lecture from Nurse Connie. But tonight, with EMTs swarming and Gigi already carried away, they are all on top of me. I come to one half-second later and an EMT is in my face, chewing gum and asking questions. I shudder under his touch.

  He checks my pulse, searching for it on my wrist, and then using a stethoscope on my heart. Looking for the beat like they just did with Gigi.

  “Stop it,” I snarl.

  “You’re not well,” the EMT says. “Don’t get up.”

  “I’m fine,” I say. I keep squirming away from him, but he won’t stop prodding.

  “Your blood pressure is so low I’m surprised this hasn’t happened before. We need to tell your teachers. Talk to your school nurse.” The EMT goes on, but Mr. K interrupts and puts me in one of the cabs.

  We return to school, but Mr. K doesn’t allow us to go up to our beds.

  Instead, I sit in his office, surrounded by him and Mr. Lucas and Morkie and two suited detectives with grim expressions. They ask me the same questions over and over again. How it all happened. Who was next to Gigi? What were we all doing? Drinking? Drugs? Did she have any enemies? Did anyone have a motive? They ask me about the butterflies, the glass in the shoe, the message on the mirror, the dead cockroaches in the box. Piling up evidence to pin on someone. They keep throwing out the questions and I think I speak, I think I respond, but I’m sniffling and sobbing and I’m not sure anything I’m saying is making any sense.

  Then the door flies open, and everyone is shocked out of our circular discussion. It’s my mom. And she’s angry. Her face is red and splotchy and she’s wearing her pajamas and a robe, like she rushed over here as soon as she heard. Underneath all my pain and frustration and sadness, I register that this pleases me, that she might actually care, that I was important enough that she shattered her illusion of perfection to get here as fast as she could. And that this is her first time inside this building in nearly a decade.

  She stops like she’s been hit. She and Mr. Lucas stare at each other. The whole room waits for her to speak or blow up.

  “Ma’am?” one of the detectives says.

  “My daughter should be in bed. You can ask questions later,” she says to the room, but she’s looking right at Mr. Lucas, whose face has drained of all color, as if he’s seen a ghost.

  “Dominic, did you hear me?” She wags a finger two inches from his face. “She fainted. Don’t you care at all?” She’s so aggressive, the other detective urges her to calm down.

  All the while, their eyes watch each other. My mind and heart do flips as the magnitude of him being my father hits me. He’s the man my mom fell in love with. He was her pas partner. He’s the man who cruelly discarded her and abandoned me even before I was born. He’s the man who’s chosen to ignore his own flesh and blood for all these years, even as I stood there, close enough for him to cast a shadow.

  My mom fires off a zillion questions: “Why is she being brought in? What does she have to do with Gigi? Why would she have any reason to want her dead?”

  Mr. Lucas sits in glum silence as my mom rampages, and I keep trying to figure out what to say to placate her.

  “I—uh—” My first instinct is to say not dead, but gone—but obviously that would really put the bull’s-eye right on me. I can’t trust myself not to give anything away. So I decide to keep my mouth shut. I can’t focus on the conversation.

  “How dare you bring my daughter into this,” Mom says, and she’s glaring right at Mr. Lucas. “I will take her right out of this godforsaken place. She doesn’t belong here anyway.”

  I snap back to reality. I can’t let that happen. I can’t let her use this as an excuse. But Mr. K springs into action, directing my mom to a seat, apologizing, saying that they’re doing everything possible to cooperate with the authorities on this. “It is,” he says, his voice taking on that same annoying holier-than-thou quality, “after all, a matter of life and death.”

  Anything I want to say is drowned out by the chaos. It’s then that it really hits me. Gigi is really hurt this time. Gigi could actually die.

  To my surprise, the first thing in my head isn’t sadness or anger or fear. It’s something else: This means I’m going to be dancing Giselle.

  48

  Bette

  “BETTE?” MR. K SAYS, AND IT feels like we’re both underwater, and he’s trying to talk to me.

  “Yes?” I say, trying to stand up from a lobby chair. He catches my arm.

  “It’s your turn.” He walks toward the office. “And your mother is here. We called all parents, and she insisted on being here for your statement.”

  I can’t move out of first position. Mr. K waves his fingers like I am a dog meant to follow him, but I’m frozen with my back to the lobby window and my face, unfortunately, exposed to every other person in class. It feels like it’s been days, but the accident was only an hour ago.

  SNAP OUT OF IT! A voice in my head screams, and it’s enough to get my arms at my side and my feet parallel and ready to walk. I do everything I can to keep my head held high.

  Mr. K takes long, rushed strides and I nearly have to run to keep up with him.

  “Can I stop in the bathroom?” I finally say, right before we reach the door that leads into his office.

  He just sighs in response. Stops walking but doesn’t turn around. He’s giving his permission, but just barely.

  I. Am. So. Screwed.

  I splash water on my face because right now my brain is swimming with blurry, half-formed thoughts. I need to be on my feet if I’m going to survive whatever is behind that door. Mainly, my mother. And accusations that I pushed Gigi in front of that cab.

  Mr. K holds the door to his office open for me. My mother’s eyes are red, but otherwise she looks beautiful. Still dressed in her gala gown. Her lips wine stained, which means she fell asleep in it. The police officer has a horrible yellow legal pad.

  I take a seat next to my mother and her eyes start to water. Which is especially strange, because my mother does not cry. Not ever. Not when my father left her, not when Adele got offered a spot at the American Ballet Company. Never.

  “Tell the police officer what happened tonight, Bette,” Mr. K says. He doesn’t look at me. He talks to the wall in front of him. His focus on that blank
white wall is so intense you’d think it was my face.

  “Yes, Bette. I’m Officer Jason Hamilton,” he says, rubbing the dark mustache stretched over his lip. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Gigi had had a lot to drink. We’d been dancing all night. I think . . . I think she tripped.”

  “Have you had anything to drink?” he asks.

  “Yeah, we all did. But she had had a lot, you know?”

  “Your classmates have told me you haven’t been the biggest fan of Giselle Stewart,” Officer Hamilton says.

  “My god,” my mother says, like she’s just hearing about what happened. Her voice is choked up. I look at her face—I don’t want to miss it. I’m not glad that she’s crying, but I’m fascinated that I could cause those tears. That Gigi could make her feel something so deeply.

  “Which classmates?”

  He flips through his notes. “I am not at liberty to say. But many of them said you always seemed to have it out for her. And a few of the other girls corroborated this story.”

  Shame rushes to my face, and I know I have turned a hot, terrible pink that won’t vanish until I am long gone from this room. I try not to ball my fists. I try not to let my face show anger that might get me in trouble. He tried to set me up. He tried to make me take the fall for this.

  “I didn’t push her,” I blurt out. I’m so hot I think I could faint.

  No one moves.

  “No one said anything about her being pushed, Bette,” Officer Hamilton says. “But if you did push her, you’d better tell me now before it gets worse for you.”

  “Gigi could die. You do realize that, Bette?” Mr. K says, his eyes lasers.

  I open my mouth to defend myself.

  “Do you know what harassment is?” Officer Hamilton asks. Mr. K pulls a book from his shelf and puts it in my lap. I’m too afraid to look down.

  “Look it up,” Mr. K says.