Shiny Broken Pieces

by Sona Charaipotra

  “We will begin from the love duet in Act Three,” Morkie says. Gigi still hasn’t come to the front. I look at Alec, ready to purse my lips and roll my eyes to communicate how utterly irritated I am with her. But he looks away. For the first time since returning, I realize that we haven’t fallen back into our old relationship. I guess it will never be quite the same again.

  “Gigi,” Morkie calls out.

  She tiptoes to the front. She won’t even look at me, no matter how hard I stare. In the mirror, we’re a mismatched trio. Alec stands in the middle, with Gigi and me at his sides. We’re cast as opposites. I look like the classical version of the White Swan, and she should be the black one.

  She’s sullen, quiet, probably dying to ask Morkie why I’m here. I bet it bothers her. It would bother me.

  “Last time, remember, I told you that there wasn’t enough of the story in your dancing,” Morkie says. “Tell me what the scene is.”

  Alec doesn’t wait for either Gigi or me to answer. “It’s the ballroom scene with the princesses, the one where Siegfried comes in, along with Rothbart in disguise with his daughter, Odile, Odette’s evil double.”

  “Yes, Alec. Very nice,” Morkie says. “What else?”

  Gigi chimes in. “Siegfried welcomes the disguised Odile to the ball and they dance. He chooses her as his bride and swears the oath.”

  “Gigi, where are you during this scene?” Morkie asks.

  “She’s off to the side watching from a window,” I interject. “She’s a mess and shattered.”

  Gigi rolls her eyes while I speak, so I continue without being asked. “The masked Rothbart reveals his true identity—and Odile’s—and they disappear. Siegfried rushes off to search for the real Odette. It’s about love and deception and perception.”

  Morkie nods in approval with my addition. “Great—there is so much feeling, so much emotion. I must see all of that in your movements. Tell this tragedy.”

  Alec and Gigi take their positions.

  “Let us try.” Morkie moves to the front to take a seat. “Bette, watch how light and graceful she is. Because you must do opposite for your pas with Alec.” She waves me out of the center and I stand back.

  Gigi flits over to the far corner, awaiting her entrance. The music starts. Alec trots through the studio as if he’s searching for Odette. The chords speed up and Gigi enters. Her arms flap and pulsate in beautiful waves like they are wings.

  “Beautiful arms,” Morkie shouts. “Articulate the feet, Gigi. Alec, strengthen your lines.”

  Gigi takes tiny steps in his direction, then folds herself down onto the floor. He lingers over her and takes her by the arms, lifting her like she’s nothing more than a feather. He turns her as she stretches her arms and legs out in arabesque. A little voice inside me whispers: She’s gotten better.

  “Gigi, descend through the toes,” Morkie commands. “Yes, perfect, perfect. Show me you love her, Alec. Gigi, you, too. I need to feel the love.”

  Morkie stands and motions with her arms, demonstrating what she expects from Alec. A knot coils in my throat as he slides his hands along Gigi’s arms and turns her around like a beloved object. It’s the way he used to touch me, to look at me. I want to step between them, dousing the fire before it flares again. Instead, I’m frozen, transfixed, unable to move or breathe.

  I’m not the only one. Morkie stops shouting corrections and we all just watch them float and glide and fall into the most well-known classical variation from the most beautiful ballet in the world. Level 6 and 7 dancers crowd outside the glass walls like moths to light, everyone drawn to their movements and the flame between them.

  They anticipate each other’s movements, just like he used to know mine. She trusts him. There’s no clenching of her stomach when he lifts her or tightened mouth when he holds her waist. In that moment, I feel like I’ve lost. Like there’s something real and maybe lasting between them.

  An hour later, we’ve shifted studios. I’m with Morkie, Cassie, and Riho in Studio E to work on the thirty-two fouettés in the coda.

  “Did you hear the news?” Cassie leans over me while I tie on new pointe shoes. Riho is facedown in a deep stretch and meditation. She doesn’t even look up.

  I ignore Cassie. I pretend that she’s some version of an imaginary friend that will just disappear if I think about something else. Morkie lingers up front, talking to Viktor, so I have at least ten more minutes to get my muscles warm and my feet ready to do what she needs them to.

  “I would think you’d want to hear it from me.” Her grin is so wide I can feel it.

  “All I want to hear is the date you plan to jump off a bridge. Or that you’re going to leave me alone. I didn’t tell. Your little pill stunt could’ve injured me, seriously.”

  Her smile doesn’t disappear. “You might not have gotten hurt this time, but there’s always another opportunity.”

  “Get over it.” I shoot up and bounce on my toes to make sure these shoes feel good. I go to the barre and sink into a stretch. She follows; she’s desperate for me to look at her.

  “I’ll never ‘get over it,’ as you say. I lost a year of my life. My hip still isn’t the same. I’ll never forget that, and I’ll never let you forget it either.” She’s not smiling anymore. I’m pinned close to the barre. The wood digs into my back.

  “Move,” I say.

  “No.” She steps closer. My back curves over the barre. The pain of it shoots through me. I push her. She doesn’t budge.

  “Oh, my Cassandra.” Morkie turns around, and claps her hands together. “Congratulations. You will be beautiful. This is your start.”

  Cassie makes a kissy noise at me, then pivots around, and rushes over. Morkie rubs Cassie’s cheek, then pats her back like there’s a bruise there. “The company corps will be stronger with you in it.”

  It takes a minute for it to sink in. But then it hits me all at once.

  She got the apprenticeship. She’s in the company.

  There’s only one spot left.

  I hold the barre so tight my knuckles go white, then my fingers turn red.

  Cassie squeals with delight and thanks Morkie over and over again for all her help.

  Riho finally looks up from her phone. “What’s going on?”

  Cassie doesn’t answer her. Morkie wraps Cassie up in another hug. “I’m so thrilled,” Cassie’s babbling as Morkie embraces her. “I’m glad Damien’s letting me do both performances, though. I’m proud to be able to finish off my final year with you and all my friends here at the conservatory.” Her eyes flash with victory, her mouth a smug smile.

  Riho turns to me. “Cassie got into the company,” I say as if I’m reporting that she’s suffering from a case of hemorrhoids. Her face twitches with anxiety.

  As Morkie walks off to consult with Viktor about today’s rehearsal, Cassie turns to grin at me again, expectant.

  “No one cares, Cassie,” I say. Even though I care. A lot.

  “Oh, but of course you do,” she says.

  “Center, girls.” Morkie waves us forward. “Odile’s fouettés are what people who love Swan Lake wait for.”

  Viktor plays the music, and she has us listen to it three times. Rehearsing on my own and with Adele, I’ve managed twenty- five or maybe even thirty, but I’ve never gotten the full thirty-two fouettés—and that’s a feat expected of any future principal dancer, especially at ABC.

  “Cassie, I know you have company corps rehearsal after this, so you give a try first. I think Bette and Riho will need more time.” She flutters her arms out left and right like she’s shooing me to the sidelines.

  I step back and turn away, so I don’t have to watch Cassie. I see Damien standing in the studio doorway, observing. He winks at me, then joins Morkie at the front.

  The piano chords grow louder. Cassie moves her shoulders and arms back and forth like the perfect imitation of a stretching swan. Then she steps into her fouettés. One after another she hits them, perfect lines and perfect
turns and perfect pointed feet. You would never know she had a fracture in her hip, that she’s been through rehab. She makes the turns look effortless.

  Damien starts to clap before she’s even finished. She beams and spins a few more times. I lose count after she hits number thirty-two.

  A few minutes later it’s my turn. This is what I’ve always dreamed of. This is what every ballerina dreams to dance. But today it feels like a nightmare, with all those eyes on me, and Cassie smug with her flawless turns and company news.

  I think of Adele, of all the time she spent with me and what happened to her, because of me. I have to make her proud. I have to be a true reflection of her, of the Abney name.

  I spin and stretch and curve, taking my body to lengths it’s never been before. I prepare to do the fouettés, all thirty-two of them.

  I step into the first one, up on my standing leg, strong through the hip. I’m spinning and spinning and spinning, almost perfect, counting them out in my head—twenty-nine and thirty and thirty-one. And then, just as I nearly have it, my leg drops and I miss the last one.

  Everything comes to a screeching halt as Damien calls out, “Stop! The understudy gets it, but the Odile does not.” He’s not glaring at me, but I can tell he wants to. He motions at Morkie, as if it’s somehow her fault that I missed one. “Bette, you must get the fouettés. It’s part and parcel of this performance. You have to let the foot go completely flat in order to maintain your strength.” His hands land on my calf, adjusting my turnout.

  I can practically feel Cassie smirking from the sidelines. I want to turn to her and scream, ask her if she’s happy now that she’s better than me. Now that she’s won.

  Damien leaves us with Morkie. We practice the thirty-two fouettés for two hours straight—Cassie can get it without stopping, without thinking. But I have to work through it. Riho struggles, too, but lands more of them than me. “You’re thinking too much, Bette,” Morkie says for the hundredth time. “Relax into it. Let go. Or you’ll lose it.”

  She sends me spinning again, but all I can think about is beating Cassie. About all the things I did to her. Maybe this is some kind of cosmic punishment for being a bitch. Again, at maybe number twenty-three, I crash.

  “Bette,” I hear Adele’s voice drilling into my head, “if you’re going to join me at this level, you have to give it your all.” So I try again without Morkie saying a word.

  I only get twenty-six this time.

  Frustrated, Morkie ends rehearsal early. Riho rushes out. It’s just Cassie and me left in the studio gathering our things.

  “So you’re not even going to congratulate me?” Cassie’s already out of her toe shoes, her bag on her shoulder. “Still sour?” She laughs like she’s just said the funniest thing in the world. But my face is stony. “Oh, Bette. Don’t worry about the fouettés. You’ll get them eventually. I mean, you nearly got them that day, when you were working at Lincoln Center with Adele.”

  I freeze. My hands stop untying my pointe shoe ribbons. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.”

  “No one else was there that day.”

  “When are you going to learn, Bette? I’ve made sure to know exactly what you’re doing. Always.” She applies lip gloss. “You terrorized me, so it’s your turn.”

  “Adele could’ve died.”

  “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Bette.” She makes popping sounds with her mouth as she rubs in the lip gloss. “She’ll be fine, eventually. She’s such a wonderful dancer. Or she was.”

  “Don’t ever talk about my sister.”

  “I’ll do whatever I want.” She picks up her dance bag. “Tell her I hope she gets better soon. Swan Lake won’t be the same without her.”

  My heart beats itself all the way up my throat. “Did you hurt my sister on purpose?”

  “Now, why would I ever do that?” She blinks her eyes at me like a doll. A creepy, evil doll. “I just wanted to hurt you. And I will.” With that, she walks away, and I’m left there, stricken, unraveling every detail but unable to do a thing.

  I reach into my dance bag, planning to text Eleanor, but my phone is gone. Maybe I left it in my room or the other studio? I start combing through my bag, looking around where we were sitting. Nothing.

  I look back up. Cassie presses her lips to the glass and leaves the imprint of a kiss behind.

  I go down to the student lounge. Henri’s right where I thought he’d be—playing pool with a few of the Level 7 guys. I lean into one of the new kids, Lucio. He’s Brazilian, with golden skin that sets off deeply brown eyes. I pout at him. “Mind if I borrow your stick?” He blushes, handing it over immediately.

  Henri raises an eyebrow, annoyed. “We’re in the middle of a game.”

  My voice is ice when I say it. “So are we. And you know what, Henri? I’m winning.”

  That gets his attention. He misses his shot, sending the cue ball right into the corner pocket. The other guys laugh, but Henri’s eyes don’t even have a sliver of a smile, not even that signature smirk. He comes around the table, grabs my arm, and says, “Come with me.”

  He pretty much drags me into the ice and vending room, playing right into my hands. What I want to say to him doesn’t require an audience. Not yet, anyway.

  Once we’re in there, he pushes me up against the wall, blocking me in, making it so I can’t move. I shiver when his hands land on my waist, cringing at his rough, familiar touch. “What the hell do you want, Bette?”

  “I want you to tell your girlfriend to back the hell off. Or I’ll give her something real to worry about.” I touch his neck. He jerks back a little.

  He’s glaring down at me now, his breath hitting my forehead, and I resist the urge to squirm, to show fear. I have to make him think I’m not scared, that I’ll actually go through with it and tell Cassie everything—the kisses, the touches, the manipulations. Because I will. But that sick glimmer is creeping back into his eyes, and I know how much he enjoys a good power trip. “She won’t believe a word you have to say.”

  “Oh yeah.” I let a smirk play on my lips. “Well, I’ll just have to reveal some of the things we shared last year. You know, Henri. Those sweet, stolen moments? Or were they all a part of her master plan? Especially when you got into the ice bath with me.”

  He looks caught, the glimmer gone, anger taking over fast and furious. “You better keep your mouth shut, Bette, or I’ll—”

  “Or you’ll what? Tell her you just did what you had to do? Or what you wanted to do? What did you tell poor Will, anyway? What did you do to that boy to get him to do exactly what you wanted, even if it meant nearly killing a girl?” His hands are traveling now, vindictive, a graze here, a pinch there. “Was it that old friends-with-benefits line? Because he sure believed it. Enough to let go of a ten-year crush on Alec, even. Enough to risk going to jail.”

  I lean in close so he can smell the shampoo in my hair and the lotion on my skin. “Did you kiss him? Did you let him touch you? What will Cassie think about that? Are you into girls or boys? Maybe both?”

  “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” One arm grabs mine, holding it against my back, and for a moment I’m truly scared. He could do anything right now. Maybe this wasn’t the smartest idea.

  But I steel myself. I lean in and rise up on my toes, planting a kiss near his neck, right near the fuzzy collar of the cream-colored shawl sweater he’s been wearing all winter. Cashmere, I know. My lips leave a hot-pink Chanel signature, one I know he’ll have a hard time explaining away.

  He lets go abruptly.

  Even though I think he gets it, I say it, just to be sure. “Get that girl to back off. Or suffer the consequences.”

  As I push past him and pull the heavy metal door open, making my escape, I can’t help but smile.

  36.

  June

  THE CAFÉ BUZZES WITH CHATTER and laughter. It’s pouring outside, and they’ve set up a hot cocoa station today, complete with marshmallows and chocolate shavings. No one’s
had any though.

  My mouth is dry, my palms sweating. I’m here alone for breakfast, right at eight a.m., after weeks of late lunches or early dinners, trying to avoid the others while Taylor supervised my meals. And I was right to do so. Gigi and Cassie sit near the windows, their plates piled high with fruit salad and boiled eggs. They’re leaning in close, whispering to each other, and I know Gigi’s seen me. Eleanor sits at a table by herself at the other end of the room, her headphones on, her nose in her history book, oblivious to the noise around her. She’s nibbling on dry toast, and there’s an apple waiting on her tray.

  I scope out the rest of the room, feeling out of place. It’s been more than a month since I started working with Taylor, and this week, finally, she’s letting me try meals solo again. “I trust you,” she said at our meeting yesterday, poring over my food journals. She was pleased that my weight was up to 106. She was positively gleeful that I hadn’t thrown up in nearly two weeks, despite all the stressors of the spring gala. “Just keep track, like you always do. Make smart choices.”

  I grab a tray and lay my tablet right on it as I pick out a balanced meal from the buffet. I examine the food, trying not to count the calories in my head. As Nurse Connie repeatedly reminds me, the café staff has been “made aware of the situation,” and will continue to “suggest” healthy options.

  I skip the whole wheat waffles, the congee, even the fruit salad, which I know is doused in a honey-based dressing. Instead, I pick two eggs, scrambled with low-fat margarine and chives; a whole wheat English muffin; and plain, reduced-fat yogurt with strawberries. In the food diary on my tablet, I record everything set on my plate, along with how much of it I’ve eaten and my thoughts—before, during, and after. Tonight, I’ll email the daily record to Taylor.

  I sit away from everyone, in the other corner that faces the glass wall. April rain streaks down the glass, and I watch all different kinds of umbrellas bob along the street. I try to eat at least some of everything. It’s excruciating, the roughness of the bread, the way the margarine coats my throat, the goopy syrupiness of the yogurt.