Shiny Broken Pieces

by Sona Charaipotra

  I swear Riho flashes me a grin as we head to the center. Level 6 dancer Isabela is placed behind us.

  “Clean adagio, girls,” Morkie reminds. The point of the adagio is to show your strength, your fluidity without the barre as an anchor. It’s what people think of when they think ballet. We’ve been perfecting our strength in the center since we were petit rats in Level 1.

  The combination that Morkie has us doing today is challenging. Viktor presses the piano keys, and the chords ring out long, smooth, and heavy. I feel wobbly and rushed. I needed to see others go before me, so I could have a little time to think through the movements.

  I thought no one could make me stress like Mr. K, but my muscles spasm under the pressure of having to perform in front of Damien. He is a clean slate—for me, for all of us. He’s the man who decides if I have a future in his company.

  As we start the movements, we are mirrors—I see myself reflected in Riho’s dark eyes, in her somber expression. Delicate arms gliding overhead—fifth position down to first and out to second. Our legs sweep high in arabesque, toes extended, strong. I can feel my body reaching, working, and hitting every step, catching every note.

  I have this. I worked hard for it.

  But in the mirror, my shadow, Riho, reflects the same. While you can see the work, the thought, I’ve put into the variation, Riho has given herself over to it completely, her eyes soft, her face serene, her smile effortless. I’m perfect, but she’s magic. Angelic. Effortless.

  I put all my focus back into the dance, back into myself, and then, just as we’re wrapping up, Morkie shouts again: “Add three piqué turns to finish.”

  I spin and spin and spin across the floor in a diagonal, and Riho bursts out in the other direction—her turns a tiny bit crisper and quicker. In opposite corners, we each take our bow.

  “Brava,” Morkie shouts cheerfully, nodding her appreciation. “Riho, flawless.”

  Damien’s face betrays no emotion, no pleasure or critique. He’s stone, unyielding.

  Morkie steps right in front of me. She pats my cheek. “June, your technique is very nice.” I bask in the praise. “Relax a little, like Riho. Look like you’re enjoying it. I need to see passion. The danseur russe.” She stamps her foot and bells out her arms in a signature danseur russe movement. “We have to want to watch you.”

  I deflate. Energy shoots out of my arms, legs, feet, and heart. I turn to face the wall so no one can see my face or the tears welling in my eyes. I’m fine. I can do this. I do have passion.

  We scurry back to the corner, where the rest of the girls wait, as Gigi and Cassie and Eleanor take the center. Riho immediately is enveloped by Sei-Jin’s group, and I can already hear them giggling and twittering in Korean. How does Riho even begin to understand what they’re saying? Maybe she just doesn’t care.

  “Oh, too bad,” comes Sei-Jin’s voice, a low whisper so Morkie won’t hear—but loud enough so I do. “Poor June, never quite good enough, huh? So sad.”

  I try my best to ignore her, focusing on Gigi and Cassie, and the contrast between them, but Sei-Jin gets right up in my space, not two inches away, her warm breath on my neck as she continues. “Maybe it’s time to give it up,” she says in my ear. “Why not quit? Bow out gracefully.”

  I can feel my cheeks burn. I can’t let her get to me. Not now. Not anymore. I grab my dance bag and take out my phone. I type up a text to Jayhe right where she can see it.

  I can’t wait to see you this weekend!

  “You’re such a bitch,” Sei-Jin says—a little too loud. “He’s using you. Just wait.”

  I turn around to face her, nearly knocking her over. “Oh, Jayhe loves me—he told me so himself. Maybe he used you.”

  That’s when I notice that the music has stopped, and Gigi, Cassie, and Eleanor are paused—Gigi angry, Cassie amused, Eleanor confused—as Morkie storms over to us. Damien stands near the piano, looking irritated.

  “Girls!” Morkie shouts, her eyes flashing to Damien and then back to us. “Have you lost it? This is not how we behave in ballet class. Go to your rooms. I will talk to Mr. K.”

  Sei-Jin and I don’t speak as we make our way to the elevators, and ride in silence up to the twelfth floor. When the doors open, she gets off, but I let them shut again in front of me.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she shouts. I like seeing the doors close and erase her face and voice. I press the button for the first floor and ride down again, the anger slowly building up inside me, threatening to burst. How can Morkie treat me like that? Would they if they only knew who I really am? Or maybe they all know Mr. Lucas is my dad, and they don’t care, because after all, he doesn’t claim me.

  I storm through the hall, past Studio B where my ballet class is still going, past Mr. K’s office, until I finally get to where I want to be. I don’t knock. I just barge in.

  There he is, the man I’ve always known as Mr. Lucas, cold and distant. He’s startled out of reading some stupid report by my bold entrance, distress spreading across his face, widening his pale blue eyes, eyes just like Alec’s. Not like mine.

  “Shut the door behind you,” is all he has to say to me. “Take a seat.”

  He puts down the papers, an indication that I have his full attention. It’s laughable. “What can I help you with?”

  I don’t sit. I lean forward on his desk, looking him straight in the eyes. “What can you help me with?” I say, in a low, guttural voice that even I don’t recognize. “You can tell everyone here that you are my dad. That I’m a legacy, just as valid as Alec or Sophie or Cassie. That I belong here. That I was born to dance. That they can’t treat me badly. That I am important.”

  He looks shocked. He opens his mouth to speak, but I collapse into the chair, the tears overcoming me. They rush down my cheeks, hot and furious. He stands and walks over to me. But instead of embracing me, comforting me, he puts a cold hand on my shoulder and whispers, “June, pull it together, for your sake and mine. This simply cannot be. No one’s to blame here—it’s just the way things are. The way things have to be.”

  “But why?” A sob breaks my voice. “I don’t understand. Why weren’t you there?” I lay my head down on his desk, let its polished solidness share my burden. I wonder what it’s like to have a real father. The dads that pick up their petit rats, hug them, and ask them how their ballet classes went. I wish that just once, he’d ask me about my life and I could know what it feels like.

  He doesn’t say a word. He hovers awkwardly, like he really is just a school administrator and not the man whose thin nose sits on my face, whose long slim fingers are mine, too.

  He removes his hand from my shoulder, and walks back around to the other side of the desk, settling back into his chair. “Listen, June, and understand.” His tone is serious, as if he was simply talking to a student in trouble. Which, in his eyes, I guess he is. “Before you were even born, your mother and I signed a contract. She told me you’ve read the document. You know what it says. Your education—both here and at the college level—is completely paid for. Your mother was able to start a very successful business. And with her wise investments, you could never work and you’d be okay. She made the decision before you were born. We have no choice but to honor it.”

  I sit openmouthed across from him, trying not to let his words sink in. “No choice?”

  He stands and opens the door. “You should get back to class.” He looks at his watch. “Quickly, before it ends.”

  He returns to his seat as I slowly rise. It takes every ounce of my energy to get out of the chair, to walk back down the hall and to the elevator, which, thankfully, is still empty.

  I make my way down the Level 8 dorm hall, open the door to my room, and throw myself onto my bed. But instead of the soft embrace of the comforter, I feel the distinct crunch of paper—a lot of paper. I pick up a piece and realize it’s a photo from today’s ballet class—about a hundred copies of the same one: Riho, graceful and elegant in a turn, while I look
awkward and rigid beside her. On each one, the same distinct taunt, no doubt from Sei-Jin: “Stiff competition!”

  My phone starts to buzz. Alerts race down the screen for the same pictures. They are tagged with both Riho and me.

  For a second, I wish I had really hurt Sei-Jin when I pushed her down those stairs last year. But I think about how differently I wanted this year to go. I have to be bigger than this. My mom was a dancer. My nonfather was a dancer. I am meant to be one.

  I just have to prove it, again. To all of them. To myself.

  I skip dinner, even though I know Nurse Connie will harass me about it. I can’t even deal with the charade of eating tonight. And I don’t want to see Sei-Jin and the others. I thought I’d have the room to myself, but Cassie has been in here doing homework the whole time.

  I’m in bed, the boring book I have to read for Lit class on my lap, the blankets piled high on my legs to keep my feet cozy. Jayhe’s texting drawings for his art class—the ballerina series he’s doing based on me—and joy flushes through me like too much sugar, leaving me giddy and off-balance. I almost turn to show it to Cassie, who’s at her desk, listening to the Odile sequence on repeat. But then I remember it’s her, and not Gigi, and I feel that familiar pang again, missing Gigi despite myself.

  Cassie’s hunched over her laptop, her back to me as she plucks pieces of dried apricot from a bowl by her side. The chewing is incessant—the swish, swish, swish of it. I kind of want to throw something at her. Or throw up. But I can’t, not with her here. So I just glare until she says, “You know, you could take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

  The blush takes over before I can even respond. “Those aren’t allowed.” I stand up, suppressing the urge to grab the bowl and dump it. “The sugar attracts bugs. You’re supposed to leave that stuff in the kitchen area.”

  “Oh, poor me. I’m so scared of little E-Jun ratting me out.” Her voice is so frigid that it makes me shiver.

  I can feel her coldness deep inside. Most people just see those bright blue eyes and straight white teeth when she flashes that pageant grin. Most people remember how well she danced. Most people remember what all of us did to her when she was here before. They don’t realize that maybe she deserved it. So I just grit my teeth and try to focus. But that’s hard to do, given the commotion in the hall. I hear knocks on the doors in quick succession.

  An RA check. What perfect timing! I watch her face, the panic quickly spreading over it.

  “What’s that?” Cassie scrambles up, knocking the bowl over on her desk. She should be scooping up the apricots, getting them out of sight, but instead she opens the drawer and grabs something from it—a small white box—and shoves it into the pocket of her robe.

  I calmly answer the knock at our door, making sure to flash Cassie a smile. It’s one of the RAs. “Room check,” she announces in that bad cop voice she always uses. “Up and out!”

  She barges in and starts rummaging through the room, running her hand over our beds, combing through drawers, looking in the closet, checking the cleanliness of the bathroom. She spies Cassie’s fruit on the table and dumps it in the trash bag she’s carrying. Cassie opens her mouth to object, but the RA cuts her off. “These are not allowed in your room. Give me an attitude, and I’ll write you up.”

  I offer up a demure nod and smile. As the RA turns to leave, I reach out. “Wait—” And I swear, in that moment, Cassie’s pale skin goes translucent, the blue veins on her face a map that could lead someone right to the truths she’s hiding. Instead, I pick up a fallen fruit from the hardwood and hand it to the RA. “You missed a piece.” I flash my sweetest smile.

  Cassie glares, but I refuse to cower. This time, I win.

  As the RA disappears around the corner, I let my eyes drop, following Cassie’s pale arm down. Her fist is clenched tight around the pillbox she’s put in her pocket. I can’t stop the smug smile that pops on my face.

  10.

  Bette

  IT’S HALLOWEEN, A NIGHT OF costumes and secret identities, and I let myself sink into a role as I sneak into the ABC lobby. The school’s all decked out—cobwebs stretch over the benches in the plaza named after my great-grandmother, glowing pumpkins sit on every step leading up to the front door, and spooky cutouts plaster the studio’s glass walls. Ghosts, ghouls, and tombstones freckle the glass. Costumed bodies move in and out of the various studios. The conservatory’s cheesy Halloween party is in full swing.

  I’m a court jester, with a sparkling green-and-purple mini-romper, my hair tucked under a green velvet cap, green stilettos sky-high, and most important, a clever Venetian-style mask that covers the top half of my face. Three years ago, Eleanor and I went to this lame party together as Peter Pan and Tinker Bell. Back then we actually thought it was fun to be around everyone, drinking warm pumpkin cider and bobbing for apples and playing all the games the RAs set up for us. Everyone had told us how cute our outfits were. I’d dressed up Eleanor in feathery wings and a silver leotard and enough makeup to put a room full of glamorous drag queens to shame. We’d laughed the whole time about secrets and boys and ballet class as we played dress-up, danced, got a little crazy, and pranced around the Halloween party like we owned the place. The desire to be back in that space and time is so strong it’s drowning me.

  But I need to focus. I’ve got a plan tonight.

  I slip right into the costumed pack of ballerinas. The front desk guard doesn’t look at me twice or ask me for my ID. I belong here. It’s imprinted on me.

  The whole school is spread out among the four studios on the ground floor. Every muscle in my body squeezes as I step into Studio B, where the upper students are. I spot Alec easily costumed as a pirate. Gigi is at his side, dressed as a damsel. Couple’s costumes, how cute. And boring.

  I hear Gigi say, “Arrgghh, shiver me timbers.” Then she lifts a long, lean leg, all sexy. It doesn’t even sound like her. It sounds like something flirtatious and perfect. Something that I might say.

  The room vibrates a little, a deep bass line thumping through from the records the DJ’s spinning in the far corner. My heart flutters when Alec walks close by me—and I catch a whiff of that warm, soapy scent, so familiar and comforting—as he heads toward a table boasting orange-tinted treats. I feel his eyes drift over me, but he doesn’t stop. I wonder if he can smell me, too. If he remembers my scent like I do his.

  The room is streamered with black and orange decorations. Old wooden trees from the Giselle set were taken out and positioned in the studio corners and draped with more cobwebs. The mirror is caked with fake dust, probably makeup. Lightbulbs swing overhead, making a shifting menagerie of shadows dance on the walls. And then there is an intangible thing, a terrible energy from all that’s happened in the school in the past year, the strange echo of the things I’ve done. Things I’ve started.

  I will my hands to stop shaking, taking care to stay away from the mirror where I wrote Gigi that message. There are too many terrible memories packed into such a tiny space, now also brimming with underdressed, underfed bodies. Everyone is taking Halloween too seriously. Or maybe I’ve just forgotten what it’s like to have fun and be around people who know and love ballet as much as I do. That was the best part of this whole place.

  I scan the crowd for Eleanor, but she’s nowhere to be found. Or maybe she’s costumed beyond recognition.

  A girl I don’t know waves at me. She’s obviously a cat, with a leotard and ears and very little else on. She’s tiny, or maybe my eyes are used to real-world bodies now that I don’t live here anymore. Her kneecaps are strange and bulbous on her twiggy legs, and even the tiniest suede skirt threatens to fall from her hips. Whatever butt she might’ve had is nonexistent, her thighs meet her hip bones in what looks like a painful arrow. I can practically hear the bones grinding against each other as she walks toward me.

  “Don’t talk to me, don’t talk to me,” I mumble under my breath. But I’m not that lucky.

  “Is that you, Megan?”
<
br />   “No, I’m a new commuter student.” I don’t know who Megan is, and I don’t care. I need this girl away from me as soon as possible. “Susie.” I pick a name I hate.

  “Level 6 with Ivanov? I’ve never seen you in class.”

  “Level 5.” I try to soften my voice and act like I’m fourteen and in ninth grade. She pets my shoulder like I’m a charity case and starts telling me the ins and outs of the conservatory. Her name’s Piper. Figures. Another stupid name. She’s one of those people who talks too much and tells too much of their personal business because she never learned the rule that no one really cares.

  I step away from Piper midsentence, tired of playing nice.

  I hear her laugh before I can see her.

  Cassie.

  I look to the left. An unlit cigarette hangs from Henri’s lip and he drapes an arm around her shoulder. She’s Ariel from The Little Mermaid, complete with the coconut bra. She shouts out for Gigi, and then Gigi drags Alec over. Alec has an arm wrapped around Gigi, and for a strange instant, they seem like they’re all on a double date. Alec leans forward and yanks the cigarette out of Henri’s mouth and I wonder when they became friends. If Cassie forced them to get along now that she’s back. The very sight of Henri sends shivers through me, and I remember the cold, merciless look in his eyes that night Gigi nearly died. Now, here she is, laughing at his jokes. If I didn’t hate her so much in this instant, I would warn her. She should know. Alec should know, too. I wonder what he’d think of his new friend if he knew the way Henri touched me last year, the things he manipulated me into doing.

  But instead Alec’s hanging on his words, laughing as they mock fight, basking as he watches Gigi share a knowing look with Cassie. Sweet Cassie. Of course they’re friends. They’re meant to be BFFs, both sappy idiots who ooze charisma, who steal the show without even trying, who were “victims.” They deserve each other. As good as Cassie looks, Gigi’s the standout in that little foursome, with her skin aglow—from the lights, from inside, whatever—and the tinkle of that head-thrown-back laugh. From the way she leans, casual, comfortable, against Alec, from the way she kicks up those endless legs, you’d never know anything happened to her at all. She’s flawless. It’s infuriating.