Shiny Broken Pieces

by Sona Charaipotra

  “I’m Fred. Dance major. A junior at Tisch and your tour guide. Welcome to NYU.” Fred looks from me to Jayhe, noticing his hand on my arm. “You guys both dancers?”

  Jayhe shakes his head. “I draw. I already applied, early admission, and I got in. But June’s deciding whether to apply.” He smiles at me, and then at Fred, and then at me again. “And I guess the fact we’re here—”

  “I thought we could check it out.” My cheeks are blazing. “Just to see.”

  This isn’t how I planned this at all. But Jayhe’s grinning and holding my hand, and the hope in his eyes tells me that maybe, just maybe, I’ve made the right decision.

  Fred starts walking, and we follow him. “Well, you’re both gonna love it here. NYU is known for being a renowned center for the arts. We live and breathe it here. And our alumni are everywhere.”

  He opens the door and we walk into the building, riding the elevator up. “We’ve got classrooms and practice rooms and rehearsal studios on this floor,” he says, pointing things out as we pass.

  It’s all modern, bright, state-of-the-art. There’s a student lounge, an orchestra room, and an alumni meeting room. He shows me the dance department offices. They all look lovely, sprawling and endless. He walks us back to Broadway, where the main school of the arts offices are, showing us big auditoriums and a café and finally the admissions office. But I can’t bring myself to pick up an application. I grip Jayhe’s hand the whole time, letting him lead as we follow Fred, trying to picture myself in these halls, in this life. I want to love it here, to be excited and enthusiastic and ready to embrace it all. But I can’t. Not quite.

  “How many hours a day do you dance?” I ask Fred.

  “It’s different for everyone—some are in the studio for like four hours a day. Others, it might just be an hour or two. We start broad and then specialize. Plus, you round out your schedule with academics and electives.”

  I try to stop the frown from taking over my face. I don’t want to take random electives, like Shakespeare or pottery. I want to focus, to dance, to be the best ballerina I can be. Maybe this isn’t the place for me.

  “That sounds great, doesn’t it, June?” Jayhe says. “Maybe we can take a class or two together.”

  His voice gets me out of my head. He’s right. That’s why I’m here in the first place, right? This is the only place where maybe I can have both—Jayhe and dance. I have to keep reminding myself that.

  When we get onto the elevator again, Jayhe pushes the button for a different floor. “I’m going to go check out the drawing studio and art offices for a second.”

  Before I can stop him, he steps off the elevator and disappears. Fred waits for me to say something. But I just stand there silently, trying to look bright and interested and happy.

  As we get off the elevator, he grins. “You’re a ballerina, right?” His question is on the edge of a chuckle. Like he’d be laughing at me, if he could get away with it.

  “How do you know?” I ask.

  “So composed, so serious. So above it all. You’re all like that,” he says. “And you walk turned out.”

  I look down and laugh at my feet. Permanent V.

  Just outside the building, Fred sits, patting the spot next to him. I take a seat, looking down at my feet again, covered in cozy boots. Do they look out of place here? Do I?

  “I do some jazz, some modern, I’ve even taken some Odissi, which is like an old-school Indian regional thing.”

  “What about ballet?”

  “Yeah, that, too. But it’s a bit too stiff for me.” He looks at me again, sizing me up, and I grin. “You dance uptown, right?”

  “American Ballet Conservatory,” I tell him.

  “Tough spot. We get a couple every year, and it’s like they’re resigning themselves. But let me tell you something: if you land here, that’s definitely not the silver medal. That’s you going places.”

  I try to believe his words, trust his judgment, but I know that in the ballet world, there are only a few places that count. College dance is just not one of them. “I don’t know if I’m cut out for college,” I say. “I don’t know if I can give up ballet.”

  “Well, that’s why you’re here, right? At NYU, you won’t have to.”

  “But it’s not the same.”

  “I’m just saying it’s not a bad problem to have, NYU.” He rises. “Come on, I have one last thing to show you.”

  We walk west a few blocks until we end up on Sixth Avenue. We’re standing in the heart of the city. A big, majestic castlelike building towers on one side of the street, a more mundane cityscape sits on the other. He points up to an endless wall of windows on the top right corner of the street, so I look, shading my eyes from the glare of the sun. “The Joffrey. Right here downtown. For when you really miss it.”

  I grin at him. He may not be a ballet dancer, but it seems like Fred might really get it. “So should we go get an application?”

  I nod. Ten minutes later, I’m standing in front of the admissions office with paperwork in my hands.

  “I hope you give it a thought, June,” Fred says.

  He hands me a Post-it. “Call me if you need help,” he says, then walks away. Maybe NYU could be a place for me, I find myself thinking. Maybe it could be just what I need.

  I sit on the bench, waiting for what seems like eternity. Broadway bustles around me, students, tourists, and cabs with horns blaring. Artsy types, all tattoos and pink hair, come out of the building, nodding in my direction like maybe I’m that girl from their art appreciation class, that small glimmer of recognition that doesn’t really exist at all. There are endless waves of people coming in and out of those doors, just in the span of a few minutes. The ballet world is so small, so intimate. Just this one building here is teeming with dancers.

  When Jayhe finally shows up, he’s grinning from ear to ear. “I met one of my professors and showed him the drawings I did—the ones of you that I put up on my website. He said they were an excellent start, that they should definitely become part of my freshman portfolio. Isn’t that great?” He beams, then remembers to ask. “What did you think of the dance school? It looks pretty badass, right?”

  “It was awesome.” Then I blurt out what’s been stressing me. “But maybe it’s too much—I mean, there are so many people. How would I fit in?” More important, how would I stand out?

  “June, don’t you know by now?” He’s leaning down, looking at my face in that way that sends my heart spiraling with joy every time. “You’re not meant to fit in. You’re one of a kind.”

  He bends lower to kiss me, taking my face in his hands, letting his fingers run through my hair. He leans back a bit, looking at me again. “And this was an amazing surprise.”

  “Don’t get too excited. I’m still thinking about things. I’m looking at my options.” I can’t make any promises. “I do know one thing, though.”

  He raises an eyebrow.

  “It’s lunchtime.”

  He smiles, and we head east. But even as we walk away, hand in hand, one thought repeats in my head: all we really have is now.

  That night, I spend hours poring over the NYU catalog online. I’ve filled out the application already, but I still can’t decide if I want to hit the official submit button. They’ve got all different styles of dance—ballet, tap, jazz, modern, and different regional stuff like Fred said. They’ve got acting and musical theater and music. They’ve even got dance studies, where you can spend endless days analyzing the way other people move. It seems so broad, so overwhelming, like I’d never figure out how to make a decision about anything there. Like by the time I figured things out, I’d be too old to really do any of them well.

  I have to dance. I need to dance. If it can’t be at ABC, it has to be somewhere else that takes ballet seriously. I open up the websites for other major ballet companies. I look up Miami, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City. Some have auditions right here in New York, but others are only in the company�
��s city, which means I’ve got to get moving if I want to audition. I spend the rest of the night filling out applications. I even book a ticket to San Francisco using the emergency credit card my mother gave me.

  See, I tell myself. That casting wasn’t the end of the world.

  In fact, it might be just the beginning.

  “Sorry, there was traffic,” Jayhe says as I climb into his van. We’re heading to his little cousin’s first birthday at the main restaurant in Queens, and I know he’s nervous. Or maybe I’m nervous. I buckle my seat belt, settling in, so his lips land on my cheek. “Gimme a kiss.”

  “Drive,” I say.

  “Kiss!”

  As he pulls to a stop at the next red, I lean over and give him a small peck, a teaser. I pull away as his hands reach for me. “The light,” I say, as horns blare behind us. I lift up the little red-wrapped box that sits in my lap. “I got her earrings. Are her ears pierced?”

  He shrugs and leans heavily on the gas. We’re late, and the van smells like the pork and chive dumplings he probably had to deliver to the new restaurant branch in Brooklyn, which means we will, too. “So you applied?”

  “Filled it out yesterday,” I say.

  “You excited?”

  I nod. I don’t tell him that I think it might be a mistake, that maybe it won’t work out after all.

  “Oh, c’mon, June, you’re going to love it there. We’re gonna love it.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I know so.” Pausing at the next light, he takes my chin in his hand. “All right, say it. Boe heh joo seh yoh.”

  “I don’t love you today.” My voice is playful, my mouth a pout. “Because you’re late.”

  “Yes, you do. So say it.”

  “Will that get you to just drive?”

  He grins. I say the Korean phrase. It actually sounds the way it’s supposed to. I’m grinning as he kisses me, and he takes my hand, his other resting on the steering wheel.

  “That’s better.” He starts to drive.

  “I’m excited to see everyone. It’s been so long,” I say.

  “Are you nervous? Don’t worry. You’ve met most of my family already.”

  “I was little.”

  “You’re still little.”

  The restaurant is the first two floors of a three-story red brick building in Elmhurst—the oldest branch, the one his grandma still runs. The moment I step in, the nerves disappear. Even though I’ve only been here once or twice before, this feels like the place I belong, as if I’m just heading home. The celebration room is decked out in a deep burgundy and gold, sparkling streamers cascading from wall to wall, balloons floating up toward the high ceilings.

  Baby Mi-Hee sits in a swing that’s been decorated like a throne, gurgling and giggling in a maroon hanbok dress. I remember seeing pictures of a tiny version of myself dressed up like that, in a little blue and gold hanbok.

  Jayhe hands me a plate of dumplings as the ceremony starts, watching to make sure I’m eating. Has he talked to my mom?

  Jayhe’s uncle makes a few announcements in rapid-fire Korean, then picks the baby up, holding her forward for all to see. I recognize the words: congratulations, family, fortune, and blessed.

  “Introducing Mi-Hee.” The room erupts in cheers. “Time for her to pick her fortune.” It’s an old tradition, letting the baby choose her own fate. A bunch of objects—a pen, gold coins, a sewing kit, a thermometer—sit on the table, each predicting a different future for the lucky one. Everyone leans in to watch. Whispers and laughs burst through the room.

  Jayhe’s uncle lets the baby hover over the table, her chubby hands landing on this object and that, until she reaches down and finally picks up the coins. “A banker, a banker,” the cheers go up.

  I watch the baby playing with her goodies, trying to eat the coins, and I wonder what I picked. I smile at the thought that maybe, just maybe, my mother would have put a ballet slipper out for me to choose.

  “Hey!” Jayhe pops up behind me. He pulls me close to him, whispering close to my ear. “What’re you grinning about?” He spins me around to face him.

  “Do you know what you picked at your fortune ceremony?” I ask. Light glitters in his dark eyes, washing out any reflection of me.

  He frowns. “Ma always says it was the coins, but I think it was probably a pencil.”

  I take his rough hands in mine, and I feel like a child, they’re so big and calloused. “I wonder what I picked,” I say. A dark thought settles over me. I wonder if my mother had a fortune ceremony for me at all. My mom was a single mother, and her family was all in Korea.

  “What’s the matter?” He squeezes my hand tighter. “You used to be one of the happiest people I knew. And now, it just seems that place makes you sad.”

  “I am happy,” I say, shrugging. Why is he bringing this up now?

  “You don’t seem like it.” He tries to pull me closer, but I can feel eyes on us again.

  “Stop.”

  He realizes people are watching, and lets me go. “Why are you being like this?”

  I bite my lip, thinking about what he’s said. I’m trying to figure out what to say when he speaks again.

  “Okay, then. Maybe this will make you happy. I talked to my dad, and between the scholarship and what he would have paid for Queens, I can make NYU work. Probably.” He waits for me to say something. “So it can all work out.”

  “Congratulations.”

  He seems angry. “That’s it, that’s all you have to say? Not ‘we’re on our way’? Not ‘I can’t wait till we’re together’? None of that?”

  I nod my head, but I can’t force the words.

  “Okay, then, I guess that’s that. I guess asking you to have Valentine’s dinner is useless, too. You have to rehearse. I know.”

  Actually, that’s the weekend I have to fly to California to audition for the San Francisco Ballet. “I’ll be out of town. Auditions.” I ease the words out slowly, waiting for him to erupt. “We could do the weekend after? Or before. Or maybe you can come with me?” I let myself imagine that for a minute—the two of us on the trolleys and in Chinatown. But I can’t quite picture it because I know that’s impossible. He’s got school, he’s got art class, he’s got endless hours at the restaurants.

  “Auditions?” He takes a deep breath. “For what? I thought you said you were applying to NYU. I thought you said—”

  His grandmother ambles over, and Jayhe goes silent. When we were little, I spent hours with her and Jayhe at their house down the street, playing, watching Korean dramas, and eating mandu. Her whole face lifts when she smiles at me. “Yeppeo gangaji,” she says, touching my cheek. Pretty little thing.

  I wrap my arms around her and kiss her soft, wrinkly cheek. The skin is papery, like it will tear if I push too hard. She feels and smells like home to me. She puts a warm palm to my face. She says a bunch of stuff in Korean, but the only thing I understand is the word eat. Then, she tries in English. “Eat more. Too small.”

  “Yes, yes.” I kiss her again. She takes a dumpling from her plate and pushes it toward my mouth. I take a bite and then a second. When it’s gone, she starts on another, but I excuse myself. “Hwajangshil.” Bathroom. I hope she understands.

  Am I really that bad? I wonder as I look at myself in the mirror. There are hollows under my eyes, and my arms are string beans. The dress makes a line straight down, no curves anymore. In real clothes, ones you wear outside ballet, I look sick, underfed, not like a normal girl. In leotards and tights, with my hair slicked back and my face powdered, I look like what I am: a ballerina.

  I can feel the dumplings and other junk floating in my stomach, the thick, salty soy sauce coating my insides. I can’t even walk into the bathroom anymore without wanting to purge. My body does it on command, the smell of the disinfectant and the coolness of the tiles an instant trigger.

  I run into the stall and let it all out. The dumplings, the drama, the tension that’s been weighing me down for days. But the
guilt doesn’t leave me like it usually does. It sits heavy and solid in the pit of my stomach, a reminder that, despite this one little bit of control I may have, everything’s far from okay. Maybe it’ll never be okay. I can’t just sit here on the cold hard floor, so I paste on a smile, ready to head back into the party. When I open the bathroom door, Jayhe’s standing there. His face is stone, his lips pressed together tight, unyielding. His eyes are confused, crinkling with pain or revulsion.

  The party still spins around us, but it feels like we’re in a bubble. “What?” is the only thing I can get out. But I know that’s not nearly enough.

  “How—were you—” He swallows the rest of his thought. “We don’t talk about this stuff, so—”

  “And we aren’t going to talk about it right now either,” I snap.

  “I just thought you were working on it. That you were doing better.”

  “Are you kidding me? Do you know how much pressure I’m under? You don’t get it, do you? This is it. These next few months are all I really have to make something of myself. I’ll do whatever it takes—give up whatever I have to—to make it happen. Even if I have to do this.”

  He pulls me in close, a hug I can’t escape, and I’m clawing at him, at everything, trying to get out. I can’t. I can just hear his heart pounding against my ear, the thud, thud, thud of it fast and exhausting and soothing all at once, making me realize something for the first time. “I know you want this, June, but this isn’t worth the struggle,” he whispers into my too-short hair. “This isn’t worth it. June, you don’t have to—”

  I shove him away. “No! You have to understand. I can’t eat dumplings and noodles and pizza and hang out and watch movies and hook up. If you want that girl, go back to Sei-Jin. She’s who you wanted in the first place.”

  His face is bright red now, and everyone in the room has paused. “June, keep your voice down.” His hands are on my shoulders. He’s looking me straight in the eyes, trying to calm me down, saying soothing, hushed things in both Korean and English.

  “I can’t—I can’t do this anymore, Jayhe. I’ll do whatever it takes to dance. And you’ll never understand. I’m not giving this up. Not even for you.”