Shiny Broken Pieces

by Sona Charaipotra

  “What are you going to do?” He drums his navy-blue-painted fingernails on the sink.

  I smile at him and unzip Sei-Jin’s bag. It’s a jumble of pointe shoes, seaweed packs, makeup, leotards, and tights. I fish out three pairs of pointe shoes—one brand-new and the other two worn in. “Pull the stopper up to close the sink drain.”

  Will does it. His smile fills up the small bathroom. I place Sei-Jin’s shoes in the sink. I uncap the bottle of vinegar and pour the sour-smelling liquid all over them. The pale pink darkens as the vinegar seeps in, like a withering rose. The pungent scent mingles with the sweaty, stale odor of the older pointe shoes and erases the clean, promise-filled smell of the brand-new pair.

  Will covers his nose and I try not to vomit. I toss the empty bottle in the trash bin, covering it with paper towels and bits of toilet paper.

  “She’s going to be so mad.” Will examines the shoes. “Those were perfectly broken in. She’ll have nothing for class.”

  “I hope she’s pissed. This isn’t nearly as bad as what she did to me.”

  “And she’ll never see it coming!”

  I smile to myself, ignoring the tiny pinch of guilt that rushes through me. A tiny voice inside me whispers: You’re not a mean girl.

  “Yes, I am,” I say.

  “Yes, what?” Will asks.

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “I should do something like this, too,” Will says as we wait for the vinegar to completely soak into the satin so it doesn’t drip.

  “To who?”

  He flushes pink. “Remember, I told you, last year that I had a sort of boyfriend?”

  “What’s a sort of boyfriend?” I want to ask who, but can sense that would be the wrong question right now.

  “I dunno.” He shrugs. “I thought I was with someone, and then it all disappeared. He won’t return my texts. Won’t talk to me here at school.”

  “Well, did you all have the talk?”

  “The talk?”

  “Yeah, where you decide if you’re together or not.”

  “It didn’t really work that way. It was more casual than that.” He fusses with his hair, avoiding eye contact.

  “Then what was it like?” I lift one pointe shoe up and shake it a little.

  “We’d hang out. He’d flirt with me hard-core. Find ways to touch me playfully. We’d stretch together.”

  I don’t want to tell him that this doesn’t sound like a relationship.

  He continues: “We did stuff for each other. A lot of stuff. Like I’d write his English papers for him ’cause he was bad at it. And I—I’m so mad he just dropped me.”

  I put the vinegar-soaked pointe shoes back into Sei-Jin’s bag, and I can already see the wetness seeping into everything else. “Well, I’ll help you think of something. Let’s go. Almost time for class.”

  Will eases out of the bathroom first. I count to twenty and follow. No one notices as I zip through the lobby and back to the studio. I drop Sei-Jin’s bag right where it was before. As I watch the others shuffle in—Sei-Jin among them—I fill with satisfaction.

  Of course Alec’s house has a cherry-red door. I stand marveling at it and running my fingers over the smooth surface. The Lucas home looks like something out of a movie, with little candles in each window and wrought-iron bars arched into beautiful shapes. We’re here for his kid sister Sophie’s birthday, and I’m nervous. It’s my first time visiting, even though Alec and I have been together almost a year now.

  “C’mon,” he says, pulling me inside.

  It’s probably the most expensive home I’ve ever been in. The entire block feels so different from the one I live on in San Francisco. Mama used to tell me that our house was made of blue-frosted gingerbread, with its pale yellow panes and sky-colored trim and little red staircase.

  “Welcome to our home, Gigi.” Mr. Lucas greets us in the foyer. A sparkling chandelier casts shadows on the hardwood floors and there’s a huge flower arrangement on a table. Tasteful black-and-white family portraits line the wallpapered hall, and shelves hold trinkets and knickknacks that remind me of a museum. I cross my arms over my chest so I don’t accidentally knock anything over.

  Alec unwraps my arms and slips his hand in mine. He gives me a quick tour of the main floor—the living room, den, his father’s home office, and the kitchen. Mama would say just breathing would track dirt into this house. She’d hate it.

  His room is on the third floor. It’s clean and lavender scented, with white sheets and white walls and even a white wood desk. It doesn’t feel like Alec—at least not like the Alec I know. I feel completely out of place here.

  “I have something for you.” He presses me into the wall and kisses me. His dad could walk in the room at any second. But I kiss him even longer, just to feel the tiny beat of excitement. He pulls away, reaching for a wrapped box on his desk. “A little welcome-back gift I’ve been saving.”

  “Origami?”

  “Look and see.”

  I unwrap it slowly, instead of tearing into it like I want to. The wrapping paper is the expensive kind, glossy and thick with cutting lines and instructions on its underside. Mama doesn’t believe in spending money on such things, so she always wrapped everything in newspaper, then painted her own patterns over stories about wars and broken traffic lights. I always saved the wrapping, decorating the inside of my closet with her newspaper Picassos.

  Under the paper is a cardboard box poked with holes. It holds a glass orb filled with soil, rocks, sand, and strange bright plants in purples and greens. Some are freckled, with thick, fleshy stems. Others are spiky and ridged. There’s even a cute little three-fingered cactus. The terrarium fits in my hands like a cantaloupe.

  “They’re suc-succulents.” He stumbles over the term, and I fill it in for him. “I don’t really know what that means, but I bought them at the farmers’ market near the Museum of Natural History. I built it for you. I thought, you know, these could replace—” I put my finger to his mouth. I don’t want to talk about my butterflies. I don’t ever want to think about what happened to them again.

  “It’s beautiful. Thank you.” The words fall out lopsided and tangled with one another, like I’ve never received a gift before. I try to keep my voice steady.

  “I know it all must be hard.” He plays with my hair, tucking and untucking that section near my ear. “Coming back to the conservatory to dance.”

  “I just like being here with you.” I kiss him again until someone calls his name from the hall.

  We go back down another set of stairs. “Your home is beautiful,” I say to him.

  “It never used to look this way,” he whispers close to my ear. “My stepmother changed everything. Renovated it for two years, and it feels more like a hotel than a real home.” He opens the doors to the dining room, and there she is with an unamused expression on her face, like she heard what he said.

  “Hello, Giselle.” She takes my hands and kisses both of my cheeks. “So happy you could join us tonight.” Her lips are cold.

  The table is decked out with candles, flowers, and ribbons. Sophie wears a crown of flowers, and she’s laughing with three other girls I’ve seen at the conservatory. They swallow their laughter after seeing me. I wonder if I should print out a sign that says Did Not Break and tape it to my chest and back, like an audition number. Then all the questions people are thinking when I’m not around might go away.

  I’ve only said a handful of words to Sophie. She watched our Level 7 classes last year, and if our eyes met, she would smile and I would smile back, but it’s never been more than just that.

  “Happy birthday, Soph,” Alec shouts out and rushes over to kiss her cheek. She squirms away from him.

  “Lay off,” she says, but she’s smiling.

  “You know Gigi, right?”

  “Of course, everybody does.” Her friends parrot her and nod their heads. Their eyes volley around the room from me to each other and back again.

  “Happy birthda
y,” I say.

  When Sophie looks at me, I see Alec’s blue eyes and how the corners of hers crinkle up just like his when she smiles.

  “Please sit.” His stepmother motions at two empty seats at the table. Her nails are painted cream and a diamond bracelet rings her thin wrist. She’s so put together she looks more like a portrait than a person. I know she isn’t Alec’s mother, who went back to England after the divorce, but she has the same blond hair, bright blue eyes, and pale white skin. Like Mr. Lucas buys them from the same factory every time. Mr. Lucas kisses Sophie on the top of the head before he takes his seat at the head of the table.

  “I can’t believe Alec’s never brought you over for dinner before,” Mrs. Lucas says.

  “Yes, why is that?” I tease him.

  “We’ve always been too busy.” He reaches for a roll that seems to have appeared out of nowhere. I look around and catch the back of a woman dressed in a maid’s uniform. It reminds me of a Halloween costume from one of those tacky stores, except unsexy. I try to imagine Mama and Daddy at this birthday party. Mama likes messy food, she calls it—family-style dishes that litter even her nicest tablecloths with remnants of her cooking—and lots of laughter and singing until the neighbors call and tell them the music on her old record player is too loud.

  The dining room door swings open. “Sorry I’m late.” Cassie’s voice rings through the room like a bell.

  Mr. Lucas stands up to hug her, and he kisses both her cheeks. Cassie makes her rounds—tickles Sophie’s neck, acknowledges each of Sophie’s little petit rat friends, thumps Alec’s ear, and kisses her stepaunt on the cheek. She winks at me and takes her place to the left of Sophie. I’m actually happy to see her.

  The server returns with a porcelain bowl. No one says thank you as she ladles the thick, rich potato leek soup into our bowls, but I whisper it.

  Her smile is faint and brief as she moves on to Alec’s bowl.

  “How’s Level 6 with Armeiskaya?” I ask Sophie.

  “She’s always pushing— ‘Swing, swing! Your legs are too heavy. Lift from the top of the head! Turn faster!’” one of the girls mimics.

  The soup disappears before I can finish. It’s replaced with a perfect portion of salmon and green beans.

  Mrs. Lucas waves her hand in the air. “No ballet talk please. It sets you all on a rampage. I need one ballet-free night.”

  A deep blush settles on my cheeks and I chew several green beans in succession. I stab my fork too hard on the plate and the sound it makes brings everyone’s eyes back on me.

  “Everything okay, Giselle?” Mrs. Lucas asks, her perfectly plucked eyebrow lifting with concern.

  “Yes. Great. Everything is delicious.”

  “I see that you enjoy green beans. I’ll have Marietta serve you more.” Mrs. Lucas motions at the woman who stands off to the side awaiting anyone’s wants or needs.

  “Oh, I really shouldn’t have any more,” I say.

  “I insist. You barely touched the salmon.”

  “I have a slight fish allergy,” I say.

  “Oh, my apologies,” she says. “I called Alec several times to go over the menu with him.”

  Alec’s jaw clenches.

  “I could never quite get him on the phone.” She waves at the servant. “Please serve Giselle something else. That’s so funny. Bette was allergic to fish, too.”

  The woman approaches with green beans, piling them on my plate. The room freezes. Alec lets his fork hit the table and sighs. Bette’s name feels like a pinch.

  “What would you like? I can have something else made for you.”

  “No, it’s fine, Mrs. Lucas. I’m pretty full from the soup, the green beans, and salad.”

  “Name it. Marietta, here, is a fine cook. What about some steak? We have a few nice fillets in the fridge. Or farfalle carbonara? That only takes a second.”

  “Mrs. Lucas, it’s okay.”

  “Don’t be silly. What would your parents think? You must—”

  “Back off, Colette,” Alec says.

  “Aunt Colette, I think she’s fine,” Cassie adds.

  “Honey, it’s okay.” Mr. Lucas pats her hand.

  “Yes, Mrs. Lucas, everything has been delicious. Wonderful. I am full. I promise.”

  Her forehead creases. “I was just—”

  Alec gets up from the table and cuts her off. “Let’s go.”

  “Now just wait a minute.” Mr. Lucas stands, but Alec is already halfway to the door.

  “No, we have to get back to the dorms.” Alec storms out of the room.

  Cassie motions at me, and she gets up to exit, too. She kisses her uncle, then Sophie again. Alec’s stepmother is biting back tears now, her eyes all bloodshot and red. She bites down on her lip to, no doubt, keep it from quivering.

  “Thank you so much for dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Lucas,” I say. “It was great. Really.”

  Alec’s stepmother doesn’t say anything. It’s like she can’t get a word out.

  “You are most welcome,” Mr. Lucas says, walking me out. “Anytime. I’m sorry we didn’t know about your fish allergy.”

  “It’s fine, really,” I say. “And happy birthday, Sophie.” She doesn’t look up from picking at the pink, fleshy bits of salmon on her plate. The dining room is completely silent now. All the air sucked out of it, the little girls focusing on pushing the food around on their plates. I scoot to the front door.

  Mr. Lucas closes the door behind me. Alec already has a cab waiting. He’s staring out the window when I slide in. Cassie sandwiches me in the middle.

  I put my hand in Alec’s. He resists at first, then loosens his hand to let mine in.

  “It was okay, you know?” I whisper.

  “No, it wasn’t,” he says without looking at me. “You don’t force food on people. She’s always trying to control everyone and everything around me. I refuse to let her do that to me or anyone I bring over.”

  “It was just food. Not a big deal. She was trying to be nice. A little pushy, but nice.”

  “My mother would’ve never done that. ‘Those who are hungry—’”

  “‘Will eat.’” Cassie finishes Alec’s sentence. “I miss Aunt Gemma, too.”

  Alec puts my hand to his mouth and kisses it. “She would’ve loved you.”

  He slumps in his seat, settling in for the ride, his head resting on my shoulder, his hand still tightly wrapped around mine.

  Somehow, I had it in my head that today’s visit to Alec’s would bring him and me even closer. But instead, I feel like I really don’t know him well at all. I can’t help but think that maybe it was Bette who belonged there, at that long, carved mahogany table, not me. She’d know exactly what to do, what to say, right now. That thought, it kills me, just a little.

  9.

  June

  IN THE LAST WEEK, I’VE gained a second shadow. One that’s threatening to eclipse me completely, despite her small stature. Mr. K wasn’t joking about this whole mentor thing. I was assigned a new kid, and of course she’s Asian. Riho Nakamura. She’s Japanese, which is a totally different country, but Mr. K doesn’t think about things like that. She’s a Level 6, so she has morning ballet. But she’s taking afternoon classes with us, too, which means Mr. K thinks she’s really good. So I guess it makes sense to keep an eye on her anyway.

  I’ve taken her to lunch in the café once, and tried to tell her things I’d thought would be useful—like how Morkie likes quiet feet on the dance floor and big, bold arms or how Pavlovich will nitpick your fingers—but she didn’t say a word the whole time. She just bowed her head a little in a Japanese way and followed me silently through the halls without making a peep.

  “Did you study the Vaganova style of ballet in Japan?” We’re waiting outside Studio B for afternoon ballet class to start.

  She stares up at me with blinking eyes and I wonder if she understands at all. I could probably tell her anything: That I have never been to Korea, and that fact embarrasses me. That I stole Jayhe
to get back at Sei-Jin, but now I might really love him. That I murdered Gigi’s butterflies. She wouldn’t understand a word of it.

  She’s been hanging with Sei-Jin and her group, which means they’ve probably already filled her head with all kinds of crap about me. I wonder what they call me now: boyfriend stealer, bitch, pathetic.

  “Sei-Jin isn’t a nice person, you know.”

  She nods her head in that fake way, when someone is agreeing with you but they don’t know exactly what you’re saying. She doesn’t say anything.

  “She’s evil. Really.” You’ll see.

  I scramble to my feet as girls enter the studio and ballet class starts. Morkie calls the class to attention in her megaphone voice. Morkie’s in a mood, so we work extra time at the barre. We start with a series of deep pliés to open up our hips and rapid tendus to warm up our feet. Then it’s forty-five-degree ronds de jambe en l’air. My legs burn and sweat already soaks my leotard. Gigi stands tall in front of me, and little Riho is behind me. As we work, Riho echoes my movements, her arms lifting in tandem with mine, her legs swishing in the same exact manner, but better. I can’t stop watching her in the mirror. She’s precise, controlled, but still fluid.

  “Higher, June,” Morkie snaps, catching my leg and lifting it as I sweep it behind me. “Focus. You need to be here. You’re drifting. I do not like it.”

  The reprimand stings. I center my mind and try to make every motion flawless, the most outstanding in the bunch. When we’re warmed up, Morkie calls us to the center. “The adagio will be tough today. No one is working hard enough,” she says. The positions she rattles off in French hit me one after another. She quickly shows us the combination with a half flourish of her arms, legs, and hands.

  The door opens. Damien Leger walks in, and his presence drowns the whole space. He nods toward Morkie before taking a seat near the mirrors.

  “All together first, then trios,” Morkie says. We stretch out into rows and try the combination twice. Morkie complains and shows us again. “Now, clear out of center. Three at a time. Two in the front and one in the back. Riho and June up front first.”