Shiny Broken Pieces

by Sona Charaipotra

  I know from all the pamphlets Taylor gave me at our first meeting that my eating problems are to blame—the throwing up, the lack of bone-building nutrients, the fact that my period came and went and never came back. I picture the box full of dead toe shoes I’ve compiled over my time at the conservatory, each pair taking its toll. The thought of them makes me shiver, like the butterflies that stared out at me that night, cold, menacing.

  When it’s finally over, Dr. Neha talks briefly to my mother in her office, as I sit quietly and wait for her to tell us what she knows. What I already know.

  “It’s bad,” she says, and my mom flinches. “But it could be worse. We won’t have the full analysis for a few weeks, but I think we know what we’re looking at here. That gives us someplace to start.”

  My mom breathes then finally, and I watch her hands tremble as she places them on Dr. Neha’s desk. “So what’s next?”

  “Well”—Dr. Neha turns to look at me sternly—“the eating issues are the biggest culprit here—and I know you’re working on that, but that is the key. We need to get you healthy, June. You’re seventeen, in the prime of your life, and you’re falling apart. There’s no reason for that—even if you continue to dance. I’ve worked with dozens of dancers, and strong bones and musculature are so, so critical. You’re doing yourself a disservice here—as a dancer and a human.”

  I nod.

  But she’s not satisfied. “No, speak. I want to hear you say it.”

  So for the first time, I say it.

  “I’ll do what I have to do,” I say. “I’ll stop.” I don’t say throwing up, but I know they know what I mean. This time, I know it’s true. “I want to dance,” I tell them—and myself. “I want to be healthy.”

  The next week, things shift, slowly at first, but then all at once. I visited my therapist, Taylor, for the first few days, but my mom decided instead of me going to her—and possibly skipping appointments—that as of today, Taylor would come to me.

  When I get to the café, she’s already there at the entrance, waiting with her ever-present clipboard and that menacing red pen, already making notes of my crimes to report back to my mother.

  “Right on time.” She smiles and gives me a quick once-over, looking for signs that I’m up to no good, I guess. She heads toward an empty table, and we sit. “Tell me what you had today.”

  “I managed to down a full bowl of congee at breakfast,” I say. I can still feel the rice porridge sitting heavy in my stomach, leaving no room for everything she’ll make me eat now.

  “Junebug, that’s a strong start.” I cringe as she scribbles some more notes. Junebug? Gross. No one’s ever called me that. “I think lunchtime should be protein focused, since you’ll be dancing again in the afternoon. And maybe some carbs.”

  Her voice rings out even over the din of the café, which means everyone can hear her. It’s so loud, so obvious, I wonder if I should start planning meals for odd hours, so no one else is here. I don’t want them to see how strict Taylor is with me, how she monitors everything I put on my tray, every bite I put in my mouth. I feel like a petulant four-year-old who doesn’t want to eat her peas.

  “Did you have your snacks today, Junebug?” Ugh, there it goes again. It kind of makes me want to vomit. Which isn’t good if that’s what she’s supposed to be trying to help me not do. “Do you need more?”

  I shake my head. She’s taken to portioning out little baggies of nuts or trail mix—I’m supposed to eat two packets a day. Taylor says it’s perfect postclass food: full of vitamins, minerals, and the good kind of fat, the kind your brain and your muscles need after a harsh workout. I want to get better, I do. But it’s just too much for me. So I’ve been eating one bag, and leaving the other in the rec room, where I’ve seen the boys downing it during movie night. But that’s not what I tell Taylor. “Yes, one bag of trail mix after academic classes,” I say, pulling out an empty packet from my backpack. “Saving the other one for afternoon ballet class. I’m always starving then,” I lie.

  “Excellent,” she says. “Let’s go check out your options.” She stands, heading toward the lunch line. I get up and follow. She carefully observes the day’s offerings, as if there will be something new and delightful to eat. “So what will you have for lunch today?” It seems like an innocent enough question, but it’s a test. I’m supposed to be learning the art of composing healthy, carefully balanced meals—lean protein, lots of veggies, some carbs, and limited fats, of course.

  I know she wants me to pick the fish—all protein and good fats. But it’s salmon, the worst kind. It’s pale pink and gooey looking in the center, but crispy at the edges. My stomach lurches at the sight of it. I shake my head, maybe a little too violently. “I’ll stick to the chicken.” I pile my plate high with greens, then toss a few pieces of grilled meat on top, hoping that will satisfy her. I add peppers—pretty much zero calories—and tomatoes and cucumbers.

  She’s frowning. “Maybe a little hard-boiled egg, too?” she suggests, putting two whole chopped eggs onto my salad and ruining it. “And you can have some balsamic, if you’d like.”

  I opt for a sprinkle of dressing instead—no oil—and she frowns some more. She adds a roll, butter, and a carton of milk to my tray. I don’t protest, although I want to scream. She’s going too fast, I’m going too slow. I guess we just have to meet somewhere in the middle. Recovery is a long process, I hear her say in my head. One day at a time.

  Tray loaded, we head back to the table. She says a little prayer over her own tray—which is laden down with the salmon, a few roasted baby potatoes, and some greens. She opens my milk carton, butters my bread, all without asking. I should be used to it by now, but it still burns me up every time.

  “So, Junebug,” she says, and I seethe. “Tell me about morning classes. You had a history paper due, right?” She’s chatting away, as if this is perfectly normal, as if she’s not secretly counting the number of bites I take.

  I force food down. I’ve discovered that twelve is the magic number. If I can take twelve solid bites, she’s happy. She’ll sigh that little sigh and make her notes. Then she’ll nod, satisfied, as if she’s full, as if she’s eaten them herself. It’s enough to make me want to sob.

  But I get it. I know why my mom is doing this, why I’m committed to following through. My body already feels stronger, more in control, more confident. It’s as if the food has made me fuller in every respect, and it actually helps. Every time I’ve wanted to throw up, I write it down instead—all the thoughts, the anxieties. That curbs the desire. But I’m just waiting for it all to fall apart again. This is harder than ballet.

  I’m thinking about that when Bette appears in the café. I duck behind a notebook as she passes, but she sees me.

  “Hey,” she says, walking over to the table. She’s got two sandwiches tucked in their little plastic boxes, along with chips and salsa.

  “This is Taylor”—I gesture over to her—“my therapist.”

  Bette smiles. “Nice to meet you. June says great things.”

  Taylor smiles, too, and I wonder if she thinks that’s not true.

  “Just getting lunch for me and Adele.” Bette looks at Taylor. “My sister, she had an accident, so she’s not very mobile.” Her expression is pained, and I know what she’s thinking: that it’s her fault. It is, in a way, because surely that trap was meant for her.

  Bette’s eyebrows are perched high, and I know she’s wondering if I’ve overheard Cassie and Henri talking in my bedroom, if I know anything that might help her figure out who hurt Adele.

  “You find out anything new?” I ask before she can.

  Bette shakes her head. “I was hoping you might have—”

  “Nothing,” I say, and Taylor looks confused, so she focuses on her salmon. But I know Bette gets what I mean. “Let it go.”

  “I can’t. They—it’s personal now. I have to—”

  “Focus on what you can control. Isn’t that what you told me once? Isn’t tha
t what Adele would want?”

  Bette nods, still looking defeated. She steals a carrot stick from my plate and charges out of the café, full speed ahead.

  “It’s good advice,” Taylor says after a minute of silence. “You have to take it, too. Focus. Focus on getting healthy. The rest will follow.” I nod. When I take another bite, she beams.

  “I’m trying.”

  “That’s really what it’s all about, June. You’ll never be cured, and there will always be triggers.” She waves her arms around, excited. “Especially in this world. But you’re working hard, you’re figuring it out, and look at you. You’re already so much stronger.”

  It’s only been a few days, but I can already see a real difference in my dancing. I’ve been working with Bette on one of the Swan Lake variations from Act Three, the ballroom scene, and it’s quick and loud, just like she is, with fast footwork and lots of in-character acting. With Bette’s—and Taylor’s—help, I think I might really have a chance at dancing professionally, stress fractures and all.

  34.

  Gigi

  “HOW’S ALEC?” AUNT LEAH ASKS. She’s got a smirk on her face, that I-know-what-you’ve-been-up-to look.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” It’s been weeks since I’ve talked to her or Mama, and they’re severely out-of-date on my life these days, which I guess is my own fault. But I can’t tell them about Alec. Not yet. I think back to our fight, to all the origami cranes and hearts and the terrarium he’s given me. I can’t bring myself to take them down.

  It’s our first family dinner out in months. I shouldn’t be in such a bad mood. “I did do well on that history paper though,” I say.

  Mama nods, pleased, and Aunt Leah babbles a bit about her new museum job.

  “Oh, Dad’s got the summer off,” Mama says, grinning from ear to ear. She takes another bite of halibut and sprinkles some pepper on her salad. “I thought we could all go on a big trip, rent that old house in Maui for a couple of months. I could paint, you could swim, maybe Leah could come, too.”

  Aunt Leah nods, her smile matching Mama’s. “Maybe not the whole summer, but a few weeks for sure,” she says. “I was thinking Gigi and I could learn to scuba dive—I’ve heard the water can be very healing.”

  I focus on my plate, taking a small bite, pushing food around like I have been for the past twenty minutes. I let them chatter about this possible, hypothetical trip, even though, if all goes as planned, I won’t have time for anything this summer. I’ll have intensives, and then my apprenticeship will start.

  “Your steak not good?” Of course Mama notices my lack of appetite. These days, she notices everything when she’s around. Like she’s watching every breath I take or move I make. Like she’s treating me as if I’m sick again. She reaches over and pokes at the meat. “It is a little red.”

  She’s motioning toward the waiter when I shake my head. “It’s fine, Mama. I’m just not that hungry.”

  “Let the girl be,” Aunt Leah interjects. “She’ll eat if she wants to eat.”

  Mama puts her arm down and focuses on her own plate for a minute. “Maybe Ella could come down, too,” Mama says. “She’s headed to UCLA—did you know that, Gigi? Microbiology, just like she wanted. I bet she’d love Hawaii. Does she have plans?”

  It’s a simple question, one I’d easily have known the answer to a year ago. But my old best friend, Ella, and I haven’t talked in months, and I feel like I can’t definitively say anything about her anymore. The whole idea of California feels foreign and fuzzy, like some vague dreamscape, long forgotten. New York is where I want to be. Ballet is my everything. I need to earn this apprenticeship because I’ve put all my eggs in one basket. I need to focus on the role of Odette and impressing Damien.

  “I don’t think I’ll make it.” It slips out like a butterfly from a cage, quick and unstoppable, filling up the little Italian café with its sudden enormity.

  “What do you mean?” Mama’s dropped her fork now, her face fierce, concerned. She’s not oblivious to my ambitions, but for months she’s been in denial about how close I am to making them real. She never asks me about ballet anymore, just calls Mr. K every other week to rant and complain.

  “You know what I mean.” I don’t mean for it to come off as rude, but the bite is there. “I’ll probably be needed here. I’ll probably be dancing.”

  Aunt Leah looks worried now. I know she’s been calling Mama every week, reporting in on how I’m doing, trying to convince her that I’m fine, that she can stay put in California. Mama’s got a mind of her own, and there’s no changing it. But maybe I take after her after all. “Gigi, I—”

  Mama shushes her with a wave of her hand.

  I expect Mama to yell, to fight, but instead her face softens. “Gigi, baby, I know you want this. And I know how hard you’ve been working. But I think it’s time we let it go.” It feels like a slap, unexpected and mean. “It’s time to come home to California, to regroup and figure out next steps. Work for a little while, maybe. Dad could use a summer intern. Or you can take some summer classes and figure out what you want to do for the fall.” Satisfied, she takes another bite, as if the discussion is over, finished.

  “I can’t let it go, Mama.” My voice is shaky, heavy with the weight of tears. “I won’t.”

  Mama sighs, putting her fork down again. “Gigi, I understand your ambitions. I mean, I get it. I’m an artist, too. But this dream, it’s become a nightmare. You’ve barely made it out alive this year, you’re clearly depressed, and Dr. Khanna says your heart is holding steady at best. I can’t support you anymore if you choose to keep chasing this.”

  As if on cue, my monitor goes off, betraying my heart. I look down at my plate. My steak sits, cold and congealed, a pool of bloodied grease collecting below it.

  “Yeah, bug,” Aunt Leah adds. “Maybe it’s time for a break.”

  “There’s no such thing as a break in ballet. Drop it. I’m staying here.”

  I race back to the dorms after dinner with Mama and Aunt Leah. I get to the twelfth floor and run past my room, heading straight to Cassie’s. I need to talk to someone who’ll understand. When I push the door open, Cassie’s not there, but the room is lit and the shower’s running.

  “Hey,” I hear as I’m about to pull the door shut. It’s Henri, tucked under the covers on Cassie’s bed, his hair sleep rumpled, his eyes heavy. I instantly think of Will and his accusation about Henri making him push me. But one look gives me away. “Gigi. You okay?”

  I shake my head, and crumple into a mess on June’s perfectly made bed, not caring if she flips about her mussed sheets. “My mom—I can’t—she wants—” I’m crying so hard now, I’m hiccupping through, making no sense whatsoever. I don’t know if it’s sadness or fear or rage. He rises from the bed and crosses the room, pulling on a T-shirt as he makes his way. I can’t help but notice how different his body is from Alec’s—fuller, more muscular, with small patches of dark hair scattered across his chest. I look away, frantic, trying to figure out how to escape.

  He sits next to me on the bed, putting a heavy arm around my shoulders. “Shhh, breathe, Gigi, breathe.”

  I swallow tears and try to slow myself down—my heart, my mind, my breathing. His arm has dropped, and he’s rubbing my back in long, low strokes. My first instinct is to panic, to pull away. I keep thinking back to Will’s words. “Henri made me . . .” But he moves his hands as soon as he sees the expression on my face, and I realize too late that there was nothing really sexual about it. “Sorry,” he says with a sheepish grin. “I just—What happened?”

  “My family wants me to give up dance and move back home to California.” A tearful tremor shoots through me, and Henri pats my arm, brotherly. “I can’t. I’ve worked so hard, so long—”

  “So you don’t have to,” he says. I can’t even get the but out before he continues. “You Americans are so funny. Gigi, you’re almost eighteen, a grown-up. And you’ve been on your own for almost two years
now. You’ve gone through hell. You’re one of the strongest girls—one of the strongest people—I know. Do what you want. You don’t need anyone’s permission.”

  I’m dumbstruck. As much as the magazines have gushed and called me a rising phoenix and this and that, no one’s ever pointed out my own power to me before. Not when it counts. Not when they really believe it. But Henri, I can tell he does.

  I think about asking him about Will, but Cassie steps out of the bathroom, wearing pajamas, her cheeks rosy from the heat. “Hey!” She looks at me and is instantly worried. “You okay?”

  I nod, realizing how much better I feel. All because of Henri. “Yes, I am. Or I will be.”

  I think back to last year, those moments when I thought he was too intense, too invasive. I think about how easily I misinterpreted all that concern as something more—and how Will might have done just that, too. How Will might have gotten it all wrong. Just like me.

  Looking at Henri now, as he leaps up to give Cassie a kiss, quietly filling her in on my drama, I realize that maybe he was just trying to look out for me. That maybe he was right to.

  I open the door, ready to step out of the room. “I’ve got to go, though, so we’ll talk later, okay?” I tell Cassie. She looks from me to Henri and back, but I can’t stay and explain.

  Right now, I have to go dance. I have to remind myself of why this is so important.

  35.

  Bette

  MORKIE HAS ME IN STUDIO B to watch Gigi and Alec’s pas rehearsal before I have to go work with Cassie. Alec and I warm up at the barre, even though I’m only supposed to be here to watch. I’m supposed to observe what type of white swan Gigi will turn into so I can be the opposite—dark, sinister, dynamic. That’s what Morkie said. Eleanor sits quietly on the left side of the studio.