Five Poisoned Apples

by Skye Hoffert et al.

  Chapter Four

  One pair of Snowbird’s new pointe shoes were almost worn-out a week later, when they began to practice in costume.

  These costumes were not the newly designed ones that would be worn on stage, but stained old half-tutus, mismatching tiaras with most of the jewels missing and the metal tarnished by years of sweaty hair, and the long, hooped skirts and tailed coats of the opening party scene.

  She came in early that day, wanting to practice the steps one more time before the distraction of heavy skirts and faux corset bodices. Humming to herself as she entered the studio, Snowbird’s hands swept the air in truncated versions of the steps and port de bras.

  She was already well into her stretches, a soft piano adagio keeping her movements slow and smoothly flowing from one to another, when a sudden clatter drew her attention with a start. Moira Speare knelt on the floor beside the box of lost property and unclaimed props. She moved without her usual grace, the uncharacteristic, jerky gestures giving her an air of distress and apprehension. She riffled through the box, shoulders hunched, until abruptly she upended it, odd shoes, legwarmers, a tambourine, and several fans tumbling out.

  It was impossible that she could hear Snowbird’s approach over the sound of her sorting and quick breathing. Yet she must have, for Moira leapt to her feet and spun about, lips drawn back from her teeth and eyes wide, just as Snowbird drew near. Wisps of fine copper hair hung untidily around her face and the nape of her neck.

  Before Snowbird could speak, Moira drew back into herself, spine lengthening, a polite stage smile unfurling into place. “I thought I might have forgotten something here before the weekend break. You didn’t happen to see anything when you left?” Her voice was calm and steady, but her skin was pale enough to appear almost translucent, with the faintest beginnings of blue smudges under her hazel eyes. “It’s something personal.” Moira dipped her chin in a gesture that in anyone else would have indicated embarrassment. “A . . . good luck charm, if you will.”

  Snowbird shook her head. This was the most Moira had spoken to her since the program began. “I haven’t seen anything strange. What should I look for?”

  Moira sniffed in a near-laugh. “Oh, you’ll most definitely recognise them as unusual. And you’ll give them to me straight away, won’t you, Snow?”

  Snowbird nodded, glad for the interruption of their classmates as they banged open the door and came in talking. Moira turned away, stooping gracefully to refill the box.

  Initially Snowbird missed her mother’s leotards, their perfect fit, which gave her the sensation of being continually wrapped in Jeong Mi-young’s hope and love. But she soon fell in love with the Waltz of the Snowflakes, the quick flurries of steps and white romantic-length tutus. They practiced that dance often, and Eli regularly switched their positions and the little variations they were each doing.

  “This is the one you’re definitely going to end up in,” he reminded them, after sending Ken and Josiah down to the gym suite to practice the leaps of the Russian and Arabian variations on the trampolines. “Slippery paper snow, and not everyone lands well. Usually we end up using the senior students, and still being dancers down.” Seeing the furtive glances they threw each other, he grimaced. “Yes, probably at least one of you lot. So be careful, stretch well, and see the medics if you get any niggles.”

  For the past week, Snowbird had stood on the far side of Ken for their morning barre work, his height and bulk a comforting shield against the icy stares Moira continued to send her way. She missed his comforting presence now as she leaned toward the mirror, adjusting the tiara that had threatened to slide sideways and off her head during their last repetition.

  “Here.”

  Snowbird jumped at Moira’s voice in her ear. She had missed the girl’s approach, belatedly realising that there was a flaw in the mirror behind her barre that had hidden her completely. Frozen wide-eyed, she made no protest as the other girl lifted the tiara from her head.

  Then Moira pushed it down. Hard.

  Red-hot pain spilled from the teeth biting into Snowbird’s scalp rather than gripping her hair. Snowbird attempted to raise her hands to dislodge it, but found her wrists held tightly.

  Moira’s face in the mirror was serene.

  “And let’s go again.” Eli motioned them into the middle of the studio.

  Snowbird staggered to position, trying to find the rhythm of the familiar music. She did not do well. Hot, sticky liquid trickled down beside her ear; tears stung her eyes. She had known worse pain; she’d had blisters that hurt more than this. But the surprise attack had thrown her off balance, and she flailed her way through the choreography, catching sight of Eli’s frown on each turn.

  “What was that?” he demanded before they relaxed from their final pose. “Snowbird, you were more like a lame duck!”

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, dropping her head and reaching a hand up to wipe away the sweat. She fought with the tiara, but it would not budge.

  “At least Moira had her head on properly. Good work, Red; top of the class!”

  Moira smiled catlike, and despite Snowbird’s best attempts to evade her, slipped behind her again. “Here. Let me take that out for you.”

  A sudden yank, more hot damp pain, and Snowbird held the tiara in her hands. The teeth were bent in different directions, holding a clump of hair, and perhaps . . . no. She wasn’t going to look. She thought she could smell blood, thought she could feel it trickle down her neck to pool in the hollow of her collarbone. She mumbled at Eli for permission to go clean up.

  In the austere bathroom she avoided the mirror, not interested in seeing her face puffy with restrained tears. Her neck was merely sticky with sweat, nothing more. She told herself firmly that she wasn’t afraid to look in the mirror because she might see Moira smiling back over her shoulder.

  Snowbird dabbed at the water droplets on her skirt with a paper towel. They came away, leaving damp stains on the snowdrifts of tulle.

  “Once upon a time,” she whispered, longing in the pit of her stomach to be home, curled in her mother’s lap, listening to the story, and pretending she was sleepy for the millionth time. “Once upon a time there was a woman who desperately wanted a little daughter. She was a seamstress, and she sat most days by the window to catch the most natural light. On this day, she pricked her finger, and with the pain threw her hand up, and a drop of blood flew to land on the snow-covered window sill. ‘Oh!’ she cried, admiring the balance of colors. ‘Oh, I wish that I would have a daughter with hair as dark as the stone sill, that I could dress in clothes as white as snow.’ The seamstress dared to make one more wish, as she gazed out the window. ‘And that she might have a heart as passionate and warm as that bright blood.’

  “And her wish came true,” her mother had always finished, squeezing Snowbird tightly. “‘And she had a little girl named Jeong Hayan.’”

  Chapter Five

  Snowbird felt restless that evening, unable to settle with her usual stretches, or the few Korean dramas she could find online. Debra was irritable after a painful session of physical therapy and further delays to her return to the NY Central Company. The studio apartment felt cramped, the two girls continually in each other’s way.

  It had snowed again, and Snowbird found herself walking down the street near the apartment . . . until the cold drove her into a noodle shop. She sat in the window nook, looking across the road at another dance studio—The Barczak School, according to the sign painted on the window glass. Occasionally she caught glimpses of shadows and silhouettes of the dancers moving inside.

  She had almost finished her soup when a cluster of figures bounded out of the studio doorway and across the road toward her. Most had their hair in high buns and carried duffle bags over their shoulders. Their conversation—barely pausing long enough for them to pass single file through the door, hampered by their bulky bags and heavy coats—was about an allegro exercise they had clearly just endured. They talked against and o
ver each other, reminiscing and praising. It was familiar, comforting, and, if not for their age—they were all at least a decade older than Snowbird—it might have been her class at home.

  “Another new pair of pointes, Doc?” One of the oldest in the group teased a girl clearly young enough to be her daughter, and Snowbird recognised her as the girl she had seen being fitted almost two weeks ago.

  “I know . . .” Doc blushed deeply. “I think each time this will be the pair that is perfect for me, that it’s not just that first wear. This time I’ll keep being good at it.”

  “You’re not that terrible.” Another woman grinned.

  “I know, but for the time I put into it, I’d love to be better. I guess that part of me hasn’t grown out of fairy tales. I keep believing that if I just find the right shoes, I’ll be Cinderella, the perfect dancer.” She dropped into a chair, pulling her shoes from her bag and staring at them disconsolately.

  The drooping ribbons drifted away from her hand on an invisible breeze, and Snowbird had to agree they were most definitely not the correct shoes.

  The group continued to talk, sharing several bowls of steaming noodles. Snowbird finally, reluctantly dragged herself away from her basking in their radiant camaraderie and love of dance. Until this meal she had almost forgotten how satisfying class and rehearsal could be, the teasing and team spirit that kept her going despite the aching legs and tired mind.

  Finally, they had learned enough of the choreography and prepared enough costumes to begin technical and stage rehearsals. Josiah and Ken were sent to join the men of the corps to practice the few but crucial male roles in the Nutcracker.

  Snowbird missed Ken’s presence . . . a sensation which struck her with surprise at the first lunch break without him. She had managed to find a Korean supermarket and used one of their rare free evenings to make brightly colored dasik sweet rice cakes—all the while looking forward to showing them to him at their next meeting. Her heart felt strangely heavy when she realized that he would not be around to enjoy them with her.

  For the first few practices, the girls mainly learned where the wings blocked the view of the stage and where props and entries and exits were located. Eli had them practice from every possible position, confusing them and causing pileups as each in turn collided with her classmates, all thinking they should be moving toward different marks.

  But in time it became less chaotic as the patterns became clear. To her surprise, Snowbird was the first to master it, collecting scowls from several of the other girls as she glided past them while they were arguing over who went to which corner. It was a relief to be surrounded not by mirrors but by the heavy black fabric of the wings and the deep red of the curtains.

  If she concentrated hard enough, she could ignore Moira’s eyes boring into her back.

  And then it happened.

  They were practicing quick costume changes in the wings, from their party-scene dresses into the romantic tutus for the Snowflakes. Snowbird had her hands full, helping Geena with the simple lacing that held her bodice together, when she again felt a malevolent presence behind her. Hands tugged at her lacing, tightening it until it pinched. She held her breath, ribs creaking under the assault. There was a hard shove to her back as the music started.

  Moments later, she stumbled out onto the stage, assuming her starting pose.

  Dancing was even more difficult now than it had been when she wore the painful tiara. She started panting almost immediately, her head buzzing and her legs growing leaden. Her shoes tried hard to keep her upright, ribbons tightening, the platforms stiffening around her toes. She felt their alarm at her distress, felt them trying to reassure her and maintain her movement and poise. The dance grew faster, and she tried to keep up, throwing herself as best she could into it.

  Snowbird woke on the floor. Eli squatted beside her, scowling. Her next breath filled her lungs entirely. She reached behind her and found the lacing tied correctly, her skin hot in patches where the boning had dug in, icy cold in others with the memory of cruel fingers first tightening and then loosening her stays.

  “Seriously, Snowbird?” Eli demanded, standing and pacing. “You’re distracted and distant, you’re suddenly messing up the choreography, and now you’re fainting?”

  There was no explanation she could give, nothing that wouldn’t make her sound paranoid. She licked dry lips.

  “Okay.” Eli stopped, looking her square in the face. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re done for today. Check in with medical tomorrow. I want them to clear you before you’re back in class.” He waved in dismissal, turning back to the others.

  She changed. It took longer than usual to unlace her bodice and climb back into the jeans and layers of warm sweaters she had worn to walk to the school. Her hands shook, though she couldn’t tell whether from anger or from fear.

  Walking down to the wardrobe to return her costume brought back some of her tattered courage and calm. Snowbird lingered to admire as a wardrobe apprentice hand-sewed the intricate crystal design onto the Sugar Plum Fairy’s bodice. The girl took obvious pride in her work, doubly and triply sewing the larger gems so they would have no opportunity to come loose, sweeping the back of her hand down each panel to see if any sharp edges existed that might catch on the delicate skin of a dancer’s inner arm. The garment responded in kind, accepting each stitch without pucker or pull, the rows of crystals ruler-straight.

  Snowbird reached out, holding her breath as she tentatively touched a single gemstone. She felt her heart rate slow, her shoulders grow firm, and her chin lift as though she wore a crown.

  On her way through the lobby, she literally ran into Ken. He caught her, simultaneously juggling a cardboard carton. It had her name on it, she noted with a keenly focused distraction.

  “Oh hey!” Ken grinned down at her. “I’ve been looking for you. Seems like Josiah and I never have class with you guys anymore.”

  “It’s been odd,” she admitted, her cheeks warming as she met his smile. “Especially at breaks.”

  “Or is it that you miss my halmeoni‘s cooking?” He handed her the cardboard box. “These are for you. Thought I’d save you the trip. It can be pretty tricky to find the shoe room when you’re new.”

  Shoes. She opened the box to find several pairs of pointe shoes, her name scrawled on the plastic wrappers.

  She felt her heart sink.

  Surely he knew. He had to know. He’d often brought Korean food for lunch and talked about his grandmother’s beliefs. They’d argued about their favourite Korean dramas. He had to know what it meant.

  Give a special person shoes, and they’ll run away from you in them.

  “Heard you were taking some time off,” he added. “Guess we’ll see you when we do.”

  Snowbird’s throat closed tight on words she couldn’t articulate in either of their shared languages. She hoped this was just what his tone and expression suggested, a friendly gesture, kindness, an indication of his feelings for her.

  But the fear would not leave her. Fear that he did know, that he had done it deliberately, confident she would read the cultural shorthand— You are not welcome here. I am not interested in you. Go away.

  “Thank you,” Snowbird managed, her voice thin and tight. She took the box and walked out onto the street, back straight and eyes stinging.

  Chapter Six

  Debra had gone away for the weekend, and the apartment felt oppressive and unwelcoming in its emptiness. So Snowbird walked, her feet finding their way back to the Barczak dance school. Its door was open, the lights on and music spilling out from the closed door of one studio.

  She found the restrooms and sank down on one of the benches in the girls’ changing room, not caring that it was bare, cold wood. She lay down on the narrow bench, telling herself it was just for a moment, until she could summon back her courage and her wits and figure out what she needed to do.

  What she craved was space. Space to understand Ken’s motives. Space to s
tudy him from a safe distance, to consider what had happened between them. Space to put her reeling mind back in order.

  Space free of Moira’s watching gaze . . .

  Music and chatter woke her with a start. She blinked hard. Had she truly fallen asleep in this cold place? Still lying on the bench, too startled to move, she watched the same women she had seen at the noodle bar crash in through the doorway, the first two intently watching a video on someone’s phone.

  They didn’t notice her until they were practically nose-to-nose. One made a squawking noise of surprise and the other fell back against her classmates.

  “What’re you doing here?” a middle-aged dancer demanded. Like the others she wore tights and a leotard, but had short hair tucked behind a hairband rather than in a bun.

  Snowbird sat up, feeling more tired and disoriented. “I, uh, saw the lights. Came up to learn about your school. I guess I fell asleep?”

  The first speaker grunted, and another woman with hair that curled tightly around her head and sprayed wildly out from her ponytail clucked her tongue. “Poor little thing.” She tilted her head, her deep brown eyes bright, giving her a bird-like appearance. “We saw you across the road at Niu Noodle’s the other night, didn’t we?”

  “Robin, she’s in New York Central Company’s winter trainee program!” A phone appeared under Robin’s nose. She took it, scanning the article, her eyes darting up to Snowbird’s face. “Snowbird Jeong, right? The scholarship girl? We were going to come see you—they’re already talking about how amazing you’re going to be.”

  “An honour to meet you!” Doc squeezed between another two. “Funny place for a soloist to take a nap. What do you need? We’re going for noodles if you want to come.”

  Snowbird found herself carried across the road on a wave of friendly questions and collegial interest. Head spinning, she discovered a bowl of noodles had been ordered for her and placed in front of her.