Shiny Broken Pieces

by Sona Charaipotra

  I’m in my room, boxing up the last of my stuff. Jayhe’s been taking it down to the van in shifts, but it’s double-parked and he’s worried about a ticket. With NYU looming, he can’t afford one. I think back to the night after the gala last week, when Damien Leger told me that while I was a beautiful dancer with flawless technique, my time at the American Ballet was over. With so much talent in the pool this year, E-Jun, he’d said, I’m afraid we can’t offer you a spot.

  That was it. My final rejection. My dance career finished in the span of a few small moments, with a whimper, not a bang. I cried that night. I did. But I won’t now. I refuse to.

  I put the teakettle and my box full of teas into the last cardboard box, and think back to the first day of this year—to finding Cassie here in my room and how I let that moment define my year. I’m disappointed in myself, I am. I know things could have gone differently if I had taken the reins then and redirected. But I’m in a good place, I remind myself. I’m with Jayhe, I’m going to one of the best universities in the country, my mom and I are finally getting along. And I’m getting healthier every day.

  I seal up the last box with tape, and take one last glance around the room, making sure I haven’t forgotten anything. Cassie’s side has been bare for days—she moved into the company apartments last week. Good riddance. It let me live my last few days here in peace, at least. Even if it was a little too quiet. I take one last glimpse, pick up the box, and head to the elevator to go down to the third floor to return my keys. It’s hard to say good-bye to the American Ballet Conservatory. But it’s time to move on, to move forward.

  I’m in the elevator when my phone starts buzzing. It’s an 801 number I don’t recognize, so I send it to voice mail. I return my keys at the front office, and as I’m walking out, it rings again. The same number. Annoyed, I answer it, ready to yell.

  “E-Jun Kim?” The voice is smooth and male. I don’t quite recognize it.

  “Yes.” I set the box down and pause by the front door. I can see Jayhe in the van, sketching in his pad.

  “Glad I caught you.” Maybe it’s about my NYU dorm situation. I asked for a single, which is unusual for a freshman. “Alan Willis. Salt Lake City Ballet. You auditioned for us in New York back in February.”

  “Yes, of course. It was lovely to meet you all.”

  “Lovely to meet you, too, E-Jun. In fact, I know we may be a little late in reaching out—and that you may have already accepted another offer—but we’ve been delayed in our casting confirmations for the upcoming year. We’re hoping that you might consider joining us here in the corps de ballet at Salt Lake City.”

  I’m so stunned, I can’t speak.

  “Your audition performance of Odile was spectacular—fiery yet understated. It really stuck with me, and I certainly meant to connect with you sooner. Anyway, I wanted to extend the offer, but I do understand if you’re already committed. In any case, I thank you for taking the time to audition. Good luck—”

  “Wait, Mr. Willis, hold on.” The words come out in a rush, frantic, and I hope not desperate. “I’d love to consider your offer. I’ve got some things to think about, though. Is it okay if I get back to you?”

  “Oh, by all means. I’ll email you all the details. Take as much time as you need. I’m hopeful here, E-Jun. I’d be so pleased to hear you’ll join us. But definitely think about it and get back to me.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Willis.”

  He hangs up, and I’m left standing there in the hall, not quite sure what my next step should be.

  Just as I’m about to walk out, I hear my name. “E-Jun. E-Jun. I’m glad I caught you.”

  Mr. Lucas. My father. “I thought I was too late.”

  Always too late, I want to say. Or not there at all.

  “I know you had high hopes. But I’ve heard you’re on your way to NYU, and I’m so pleased.”

  I nod and pick up my box, ready to walk away for good.

  “Listen, E-Jun. I heard about the dorm situation. I want you to know that’s taken care of. Your mother—” He pauses, as if he’s lost his train of thought. He pulls a set of keys out of his pocket. “She said you’re waiting for a spot. But I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  He holds up a set of keys, waiting for something. A smile, a hug? But it’s too late for that. “It’s just a studio, like four hundred and fifty square feet. But it’s right there on Waverly, in a safe, doorman building, and it’s newly renovated. I saw it and I thought of you.”

  “Oh,” I say. “You thought of me? For the first time maybe ever?”

  He looks startled for a second—that definitely wasn’t the reaction he was expecting. “I’ve thought of you a lot, E-Jun. Even if I haven’t been able to show it.” He puts the keys into my empty hand, closes my fingers around them. It feels awkward, the intimacy. Foreign and formal. “I know you won’t be able to begin to understand that until you’re much older. The apartment is yours if you want it—and it’s paid for, all of it. So you don’t have to worry about that, and neither will your mother. You don’t have to say yes today. Or at all. I won’t hold it against you. I know it doesn’t begin to undo all those years—” He looks at my face, intently. “NYU is a great school. And you can maybe learn some Korean—I wish I had, back in the day. I wish I’d done a lot of things.”

  I nod again. He nods, too. He leans close for just a second, as if he’s about to hug me, but stops just short. He heads off toward his office. I walk in a stupor out the building’s main door. Alec is standing in front of it. He’s been watching this whole time. He’s seen everything. But he doesn’t look surprised, just relieved.

  “You knew, didn’t you?” I say. He doesn’t have to nod or say yes. “You let me think I was alone this whole time.”

  “I couldn’t—” His ears are red already. “I was just so mad at you. Even though none of it is really your fault. It’s been him all along. It took me a long time to figure that out.”

  He doesn’t hug me or offer a hand. Nothing’s changed. He won’t suddenly turn into a real brother just because the truth is out there. But it’s a relief, just to know that he knows, that someone else besides me bears this burden. “I have to say, it took you a lot less time to figure out that our dad’s an asshole than it did me.”

  I grin back at him. “I got in to the Salt Lake City Ballet.” I don’t know why I blurt it out. I guess that I just had to share.

  “June, that’s amazing!” This time he does hug me. It’s awkward and stiff, but the intent is there. “Are you going to go? What about NYU? You have to dance.”

  He’s taken my thoughts and laid them bare. I do. I have to dance. Right?

  “Whatever you decide, good luck with it.” He grins at me again and heads inside the building.

  For ten minutes or ten hours, I’m not sure exactly, I stand steps away from the van, watching Jayhe sitting in the driver’s seat. His sketchbook leans on the steering wheel in front of him, the cityscape of the Lincoln Center area scrawled in pen and ink. Commemorating the moment, he’s drawn a small figure in the front, wistful and hopeful and happy. It really reflects what my life has been for the last decade—the American Ballet Conservatory and its insular little world. A world I’m about to leave behind.

  In a moment, I’ll go over there, and he’ll smile at me and call me beautiful and we’ll drive away. I’ll start the rest of my life.

  Two versions of my life play out in front of me. In one, I’m in Salt Lake with new people, doing exactly what I’ve always wanted to do—what I know I’m meant to do. Dancing is in my veins, in my pores, in my soul. I can’t imagine a life without it. I imagine telling him the news, his face falling, for our amazing future to turn to dust and distrust. I hear the false words of hope he’ll say then. We’ll make it work.

  But I could stay here. I could go to NYU and be with Jayhe. After all, for a month now, I’ve been plotting what it will be like: new classes and new people with him by my side. Late-night study sessions that turn i
nto make-out sessions. Maybe even finding a whole new passion. And, yes, ballet, but not the same way. It’ll be a hobby, a faded dream, one that I’ll someday share as a story. I used to dance, I’ll say, wistful. It was amazing.

  I know now what I have to do. I just have to find the strength to do it.

  43.

  Gigi

  ALL MY THINGS FIT NEATLY into the three new suitcases Mama sent me. They stare up at me. Tights, leotards, ballet slippers, ribbons, hairnets, pins. The pieces of my life at the conservatory headed back to California with no real purpose anymore. I fold the rest of my tights and bag up pointe shoes that still have life in them, thinking I’ll take a class or two in San Francisco. I squeeze the last few things inside.

  I gaze around the room. It’s naked, unfamiliar. The linens are stripped from the beds. The walls are bare. The closet is full of lonely wire hangers. No terrarium sits on the windowsill. There’s no trace that I ever lived here.

  Mama never said I told you so. She never looked pleased or even mentioned being happy that I’m headed home. I think she gets it now, finally, what I’ve lost. What I’m mourning.

  What’s next? I flush with worries and unanswered questions.

  Mr. K’s question replays in my head: Do you still love ballet?

  The answer booms straight through me: Yes!

  Disappointment sets in again. I didn’t audition anywhere else. I fixated on the American Ballet Company. Now I have no place to go but home, jobless. My truce with Mama will only last so long before she starts in with the college talk.

  A knock interrupts my pity party. “Come in.”

  The door creaks open. I see a white hand and in it a tiny origami airplane. Alec’s buzzed blond head peeks in.

  I slip the origami plane from his hands. The edges are perfectly creased and the plane’s wings so light when I bounce it, they flap up and down.

  “You ready?” he says.

  “No.”

  He tucks my hair behind my ear. We haven’t talked about what’s going to happen to us, or if there’s even an us left. He’s moving into the company apartments. He’s got an apprentice spot at ABC, along with Henri. He’s starting his life as a professional dancer. A life we were supposed to have together.

  “You think this whole thing is karma?”

  “For what? You’re a good person.” His blue eyes flicker with confusion.

  “I wasn’t myself this year.”

  “I don’t think any of us were, really.”

  “I let all of it turn me into someone I wasn’t.” I think about soaking Sei-Jin’s shoes in vinegar, about sending Bette magazines, about cutting June’s hair, about giving Eleanor peanuts, about trying to put those pictures of June up. I think about how good I felt doing it. I think about Cassie, about all the times we sat and plotted and said horrible things about people. I think about how different I was last year. “I feel like—maybe—if I had just forgiven Bette, and even Will, things might’ve turned out differently.”

  “I can’t ever forgive Will.” His eyes narrow and his jaw clenches. “I still can’t believe he did that. There’s nothing that can explain it.”

  “I’m just tired of being so angry. I feel like it defined me this year. I feel like I let it distract me. That’s why they didn’t pick me.”

  He shakes his head, taking my hands. “You can start over now.”

  I want to tell him that I don’t want to start over. I want to be right here with him. He lifts me up into his arms. I tuck my face into the nook between his shoulder and his neck. I take in a breath and try to hold the smell of him inside me. I don’t know when I’ll see him again. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him.

  “I wish we didn’t have that fight.” The words land against his skin. “I wish we hadn’t wasted that time, now that I’m leaving.”

  “Me, too.” He kisses my neck, then finds my mouth. His tongue parts my teeth. I taste the slice of pineapple he must’ve just had. His hands hold me just like we’re beginning a pas de deux. Their warmth find its way through my clothes and into my skin. I wonder what life would’ve been like if I had gotten chosen as one of the apprentices. Would we be back together?

  He traces his fingers along the curves of my face. He counts the freckles.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Memorizing your face.”

  A smile bubbles up inside me.

  “I don’t want you to leave.” His fingers find my mouth and chin.

  “I don’t want to leave New York. I don’t want to leave you.”

  An RA yells from the hall that the airport shuttle is out front. My stomach does a flip. Alec squeezes me one more time.

  “You can always come back. There are other companies here. The American Ballet Theatre. The Dance Theatre of Harlem.”

  “I just thought I’d be—”

  “I know. I did, too.”

  He moves my suitcases into the hall. The RAs load them onto a cart to bring downstairs for the shuttle to the airport.

  “Gigi, let’s go,” the RA calls out.

  I linger in the room and take it in one last time. I slip my phone from my pocket and group text Mama, Dad, and Aunt Leah that I’m leaving the school for the airport. My finger scrolls past Will’s name in my contact list.

  “Gigi!” Alec calls from the hall. “We gotta go.”

  I type three words to Will: I forgive you.

  I hit Send, then delete and block the contact.

  I close the door, and walk away from the American Ballet Conservatory for the very last time.

  44.

  Bette

  ELEANOR IS TUCKED INTO HER childhood canopy bed, her cheeks rosy, and I feel like we’re six again. Her room still has the buttercup yellow wallpaper, a dollhouse, and a collection of plastic horses peeking out from her bookshelf. It’s so weird to see her here. This room doesn’t feel like she belongs in it anymore after all our years at the conservatory.

  I thought she wouldn’t want to see me after everything that happened. But when I called her mother, she invited me right over, said Eleanor had been waiting for me to call.

  “How are you?” I’m lying on the pillow beside her, and we’re face-to-face. I try to sink into the bed, not let the anxiety of everything that happened this year linger between us.

  “Better.”

  I don’t know if I believe her. Bandages cover her wrists, and her eyes are rimmed with purple and black half-moons. Her skin is translucent and little tremors make her hands shake a little.

  “I’m sorry about everything getting out,” I say to just rip the Band-Aid off. “The pictures, all of it.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Someone took my phone.”

  “I know.” She smiles at me for the first time in what feels like forever, and in this moment I feel like nothing has changed, even though everything has shifted into unrecognizable shapes. “I’m glad you got the spot,” she says. “You worked really hard.”

  “So did you.”

  “I just don’t have it in me. Not like you do.” She sighs. “Not the talent, not the stamina, not the charisma. That’s why I felt like I had to—” She stops there, afraid to say too much.

  “You’re stronger than you think, El.”

  “Just not strong enough.” She lies flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling. It feels like I’m losing her again, like she’ll shut me out for good this time. But then I feel the tremor move through her and right into me, and I know what she’s thinking. About him. About them. About things I might never understand. I always felt like the grown-up, worldly one of us, but she’s so far out of my reach now, I’ll never catch up.

  “It’s not your fault, Eleanor. No one blames you.”

  “But they should. I knew what I was doing. It started out as a tease, just to see what would happen. But I got caught up in the glamour of it. The attention, the adoration. The way he looked at me. It was all about the power. It had nothing to do with dancing at all.”

&
nbsp; I inch closer to her. “This wasn’t your fault.” I say it again, because she needs to hear it. “Everything got all messed up. You didn’t do this all on your own.”

  “Bette, I can’t blame him.”

  “Why not? I do.” I force her to turn over and face me. Her eyes brim with tears, which cause mine to do the same. “He’s the grown-up here, Eleanor, and what they say is true. He’s power mad, a predator. You weren’t the first, and you likely won’t be the last. But not if I get my way, Eleanor. Because I’m going to make him pay.”

  “Don’t you dare, Bette Abney. I made my choices.” She blinks away falling tears and takes a deep breath. “I decided that I would allow that whole thing to happen. I touched him first.”

  “But—”

  “I want to let it all go. Ballet hasn’t made me really happy in a long time. It’s sort of messed me up.”

  “I hope you know, you’re a beautiful dancer. Even if I didn’t tell you enough.” The truth is I should’ve told her all the time. I should’ve made sure she knew I thought she was great. I should’ve been a better friend. A best friend, like she was always to me. Maybe she wouldn’t have done this. Maybe she would’ve relied on me and the strength of her feet and the beauty of her movements to get what she wanted. Maybe this thing with Mr. K would’ve never happened.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do without ballet, but I’m excited to find out. I’m excited to learn what will actually make me happy.”

  I slip my hand in hers. “You’ll find something. I’ll help you.”

  “And you’ll dance for the both of us,” she says.

  “Always.”

  I walk into the American Ballet Company building for the first time as a company apprentice, as a professional ballerina. It’s my first ballet class after graduation. I stand in the lobby and look straight up. Pictures of the great ballet dancers seem to float down from the ceiling, held by string I can’t see.

  “You’re a little Adele,” someone says.

  I whip around.