Shiny Broken Pieces

by Sona Charaipotra

  I’m so focused on my food and thoughts that I don’t even realize the shadow over my tray is a human one. I look up to see Sei-Jin.

  “Hey.” The word is garbled up with the bread in my mouth. We haven’t really spoken since San Francisco, and I’ve been completely happy with that situation. But now she’s standing next to my table, her mouth neither a smile nor a frown. I wait for the taunts, the comments about being like the white girls, avoiding the Korean rice porridge the chef set out.

  Instead she sits down. “Glad you’re—”

  “Yeah.” I cut off the word eating.

  “You look better.” It isn’t mean or bitter or vicious, like it usually is. It sounds sincere. Like someone who actually cares. She smiles. “I mean, you look stronger. Like you’re doing well.”

  I sigh. “I’m feeling better.” I look down at my plate, at all the food still on it. “It’s not fixed. But—”

  She nods, and I think she’s going to get up and walk away, but then she stays. I must look startled, because she grins. “I—I wanted to say I’m sorry. I mean, I know I started it. But—”

  She leaves it dangling, like a loose ribbon on a slipper, and I wonder what she might have said then—that she was too scared? That she thought I’d give her secrets away? That she couldn’t trust me, or anyone? That it was better to protect herself, even if it meant giving me up, hurting me?

  “I get it,” I say. Not that it’s okay or that I forgive her. I do understand, in a way. We all do what we have to in order to get by here. Even if we have to hurt others in the process.

  “Gigi told me you didn’t ruin my shoes. She did it.”

  “She did?” I can’t quite believe it. I look across the room to where she was sitting, but she’s gone now. It adds up, the way she’d been hanging with Henri and Cassie. I can see it.

  “Yeah, I didn’t think she had it in her. But I guess she was getting back at me for the glass in her slipper.”

  I nearly choke on my yogurt. “You did that?” I thought that was Bette for sure.

  “Yeah, that was me.” She’s looking down at her fingernails, the same familiar mauve as her lipstick.

  “Why?” I ask. I can see her messing with me, but not Gigi.

  “She just came in and took everything, all at once. When the rest of us were here all this time, working so hard, trying to—I don’t know. It just made me so mad. Like, how is that fair?”

  “I was mad, too.” We all were. “And we all did things we aren’t proud of.” I think about the butterflies, and my hands fly to my hair with a will of their own.

  “I didn’t cut your hair.” Even as she says it, Sei-Jin looks worried, apologetic. “I wouldn’t do that. Not to you.”

  I’m surprised, but I try not to look it. When did I start expecting the worst in her, in myself, in everybody?

  “But I am sorry about Jayhe.” She picks at her nails, a nervous habit I remember all too well. “I didn’t mean for anything to happen. I was lonely. I was scared.” She swallows hard. “You know him, so funny, so sweet. He was just there for me when I was having a hard time. He brought me little presents, and we’d go off in the van.”

  I wonder how many times they made out in his van, the way he and I used to. The jealousy stabs me hard. And it’s like she can tell, because she looks me straight in the eyes for a moment, completely serious.

  “I know it was different for you guys. More real. You should call him. I know he misses you.”

  She’s really going at her cuticles now, and they’re frayed around the edges. I want to ask her how she knows. But I know I can’t.

  When she looks up again, she’s wearing a bright smile. “I’m going to college in New Jersey. I decided last week. They offered some scholarship money, and it’s near my sister Ji-yoon. She’s pregnant.” She’s beaming now. “So I’ll have a little niece or nephew.”

  I smile back. I make one last note in my food diary, pick up my tray. “I have to go,” I say, but take her hand before I do. “Thank you, though.”

  My heart pounds when I finally make it out of the café. I feel like a heavy, lumbering weight has been lifted off my shoulders—one that I’ve been carrying now for nearly three years. Maybe Sei-Jin and I won’t be friends again. But at least we don’t have to be enemies anymore.

  I walk down the hall to the mail room, finding myself hopeful for a second. Maybe, if Sei-Jin’s managed to figure things out, I can, too. I’ve been waiting for notices from the dance companies I auditioned for—the New York auditions for Salt Lake, Miami, DC, and the Los Angeles Ballet. Inside my mailbox are a couple of envelopes, all skinny.

  I tear them open, one by one. DC says my dancing is promising, but there’s lots of competition, so please try again next year. Miami tells me I’m not quite ready yet, but I’m welcome to pay them five thousand dollars for their intensives with their artistic director, Rafaelo Diego. No thanks.

  The defeat washes over me like waves crashing, and suddenly I feel like I’m drowning. I’ve worked so hard now for nearly a decade. It makes me want to cry. Or worse, go and throw up all the yogurt and eggs and anxiety.

  I find myself staring in the direction of the first-floor bathroom. I can see the shiny plaque on its door, swinging open and shut with moms waiting for their petit rats in morning ballet class.

  I take a deep breath and pull out my tablet, recording my thoughts. I’m locking the mailbox, balancing my tablet, when I drop the letters. But before I can pick them up, another hand is reaching for them. It’s Riho’s.

  “Hi.” Her voice is low, muted, like it hurts her to say hello.

  I take the mail from her hands, say “thanks,” and start to walk away. I don’t want to be near her. Not when I’m facing rejection and she’s probably never been rejected a day in her life. But as I shove the envelopes of doom into my bag, I realize that Riho is still standing there.

  “What?” The anger drips from the word like acid. She comes in here, steals roles, then stands around to gloat about it? I want to smack her for a second.

  “I just—I wanted to say thank you. You know, for being so kind to me here in my first weeks.” I try to hide my surprise as her face lights up with a smile. I instantly regret all the rude things I said to her under my breath, thinking she was just one of Sei-Jin’s minions. “I know that you’re graduating soon, and I know we haven’t talked much, but I thought I’d make you something to show my appreciation.” She pulls a small box from her bag.

  I open the box. Inside, there’s a pair of pale lavender leg warmers, with sequins sewn on by hand. I’ve seen Riho in a similar pair in pink, and wondered where she might have gotten them—even mentioned them to my mom, who said she’d look into it.

  “I made them. My grandmother taught me how to knit.” She smiles again, and it’s sweet, the kind of little lift that makes you want to protect someone. “I thought you had an eye on mine. So maybe you’d like a pair?”

  “Thank you.” I’m surprised at how quiet, how grateful my voice is. Ever since Gigi and the butterflies, I’ve felt even more alone here than ever. It never occurred to me that others might be having the same experience. In that moment, I’m glad—for Mr. K and his stupid mentor program, for Riho and her gift, for Sei-Jin taking the first step toward repairing what we had, even if it won’t ever be the same.

  The tears come. But for the first time in a long time, they’re happy ones, not sad.

  Riho hands me a tissue, and I snivel into it, thanking her again and telling her I’ll see her later. She nods and smiles. She turns, rushing off to academic classes.

  That feeling that had come over me just a few minutes ago—the anxiety, the stress, the sadness—has lifted. I don’t even want to throw up anymore.

  37.

  Gigi

  STUDIO B IS SET UP today with backdrops and lights for the official Swan Lake costume shoot. The pictures we take today will be used for press materials, programs, and the gala brochures, so we have to look perfect. Ballet moms run ar
ound helping Madame Matvienko check costumes and headpieces and help us do our makeup. Mr. K inspects each one of us before we head over to be photographed.

  I stand in front of him. He circles me, fluffing my tutu and adjusting my headpiece just slightly. “You look luminous.”

  The word sweeps me back to last year, when everything was new and untainted and magical.

  I join the group waiting to be photographed. I gaze at all of us in the mirrors. This is what I love about ballet—the twirl of the tulle; the long, lean lines of the fitted white bodice; the mirror effect we create when we’re all standing together, tutus and jewels and headpieces catching the light.

  The photographer shoots me after June and the quartet of the little swans. They look beautiful standing all in a row, arms interlocked. It’s lovely, the corseted top giving way to a waterfall of white tulle that flies when they move in sync.

  “You look beautiful, Gigi,” one of the petit rats says in passing. I smile and wave at her.

  I feel classic: the white tutu and bodice, shimmering with silver, and a stone-encrusted tiara and plumage on the headpiece. All of it is a stark contrast to Bette’s Odile. She waits to the left, enveloped in a black, feathery costume that connotes darkness and despair. It’s striking.

  I step in front of the camera.

  “Relax.” The photographer takes his camera away from his eye. “Good. Show me the first movement they asked for.”

  I lift up in arabesque for the first picture. The flicker of the camera shutter echoes. Morkie gives corrections from the side for the second pose. I lift my leg higher, make my turns a little slower, and push my legs to their maximum. I try to keep my feet from spasming and a smile on my face. I do a few pirouettes, spinning like a top.

  “Too much, too much,” he says. “It’s a still camera. I need you to be deliberate in your posing.”

  I stop and pause, lifting and swishing the skirt.

  “Hold still.” He looks down at his screen. “Elongate that leg!”

  The comment stiffens me up further. He takes a couple more shots. I decide to ignore that he’s there and leap into a split jump, pretending it’s just me onstage.

  “Great! Beautiful!”

  I do another, just to hear those words. I think about my head shot in the program. I think about future articles in Dance or Ballet magazines, this time talking about how well I danced the role of Odette, the accident a distant memory.

  He points to Bette. “Now, the white swan and the black swan together.”

  Morkie pushes Bette forward. My stomach twists. When Bette’s in front of the camera, she’s twirling and posing and looking every bit a principal ABC dancer. She’s a little echo of Adele, and clearly the camera—and the photographer—loves it. “Heads up.” You can practically see the drool sliding down his chin. “Can you do another pirouette? And hold it, one second. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Stunning darkness.”

  He places us side by side. We don’t speak to each other. I hear her deep, heavy breaths. She smells like lipstick and that perfume she always wears. I suck it up and smile, because this is my moment. I’m not going to let her ruin it. I’m not going to let my anger with her affect what I’m doing.

  The photographer sets up to shoot Bette solo. I start to walk away.

  “Hey.” She plants herself in my path. “Can you wait a second?”

  I don’t want to, but the look on her face is deliberate, determined. “I just—” She’s at a loss for a second, but then she finds herself. “I wanted to apologize. For the mirror and the photos. I didn’t realize until it happened to me—I mean, well, not really to me, but to the people I loved—just what it feels like to be on the other side of all this. It’s terrible. Devastating, really. I’m sorry, really sorry, that I put you through all that.”

  The old Gigi would accept her apology, try to make amends, let her fix things. Just how I did at the end of last year, right before the accident. I’ll never get back that innocent Gigi. I take three deep breaths. I can hear my mama’s voice drumming in my chest. “Bitterness feeds on the host.” I need to let some of this go, the stress that’s been sitting on my shoulders all this time.

  “Bygones,” I say with a shrug. “Moving on.” It’s not forgiveness, not exactly. But it’s all I have to give right now.

  Alec brings popcorn into the basement rec room, where I’m working on a history paper. I’m typing up my bibliography and trying to figure out why anyone would want to spend their life or careers writing papers about the past. Some students watch TV in the far corner and others play pool. The attached computer lab overflows with bodies.

  He plops down in the next beanbag and starts eating the popcorn and talking to me about the basketball game on TV. I shush him like Morkie would if he was making noise outside the studio. It’s enough to get him to come over and stand behind my beanbag chair.

  I pretend he’s not there. Two white fingers appear in front of my face, then a muscular arm. In the middle of those fingers is an origami rose. A smile overtakes my face and whole body, like it’s stretched all the way down to my toes.

  He tries to squeeze himself onto my beanbag. “Is there still room for me?”

  “No.” I can’t hide my smile. Since our breakup, we’ve danced together for weeks without exchanging words. It’s been excruciating, feeling him against me but not being able to laugh or kiss or relax.

  “Miss me?” He tries not to grin, holding his mouth shut.

  “I miss nights when we didn’t have so much homework.” I’m sick of comparing the governments of England and France, and can’t possibly understand why Mr. Martinez would want to read all these papers on the same exact topic.

  “Well, I’ve missed you,” he says.

  I let him squeeze in next to me. I inhale his familiar woodsy scent, so clean and boyish. The warmth of his skin pushes through my ballet sweater. I reach for the origami rose, but he pulls it back toward his chest and grins. I try again, and he teases me with it, lifting it over his head. I lean forward to sniff the rose, even though it just smells like a mix of paper and his skin, and I let his finger graze my bottom lip.

  I move closer to his side and secretly find his hand. I trace my fingers inside his palm and sway a little, leaning closer to him so I can smell him. It sends a warm zip down my spine. I’ve missed our conversations and texts and him in my room and our stretching together.

  “You still mad at me?” he asks.

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too.”

  He nuzzles my neck, and tells me again that he’s missed me. I fall into a little daze. Henri comes up to us and tells us to check social media. I’m having trouble focusing on the words coming out of Henri’s mouth: photos, ballerina, kissing. Alec’s kisses and touches make me lose focus on the people in this room and what I should be doing. My heart monitor buzzes, and even though it’s supposed to be silent and discreet as the package claims, everyone seems to hear it.

  Henri flashes his phone at us. There are three zoomed-in photos of a figure—clearly Mr. K—bent over someone in a hospital bed.

  I put a little space between Alec and me. “What is that?”

  “Everyone’s sharing it. Caption says it’s a Level 8 ABC student and one of the teachers.”

  I look at my own phone. All the feeds fill up with the same pictures.

  Eleanor and Mr. K.

  It has to be. The dancer is in a hospital bed. And after spending two years in a classroom with Mr. K, I’d recognize him anywhere.

  Statuses speculate. People are tagged. I scan through the pictures and read some of the comments. They say that Mr. K has gone too far. That he’s done this before. That this is the end of the American Ballet Conservatory.

  “You can’t even tell who it is.” Alec zooms in. “Could be a fake.”

  “Hey, guys!” the RA calls out into the room. “Need you all to come upstairs.”

  “We still have three hours until curfew,” someone co
mplains.

  “Mandatory meeting in Studio D,” she says. “Let’s go. Now.”

  Alec and I exchange glances, knowing that this is about those photos, wondering what they’re going to do now. Others whisper about it as we all pile into the elevator to go up to the main floor. Half the school is moving toward Studio D in slippered feet and with bleary eyes, many in pajamas. Others are yanked right out of extra rehearsals in the studio. I see Cassie in the crowd of people, and walk over to her.

  “What’s going on? They knocked on everybody’s door in the dorms. I was in the shower.” Her wet curls smell like mint conditioner. She’s been spending most of her time lately with the company dancers, but staying in the dorms. I hardly ever see her anymore.

  “It’s always bad news.” I bite my bottom lip. “Always.”

  We crowd into Studio D. Alec, Henri, Cassie, and I find a spot to sit. Whispers crash into one another. Some of the students wonder aloud about the photos.

  “Of course it’s her.”

  “And Mr. K?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  I think back to last year, the night my butterflies were killed, and how Mr. Lucas asked if I’d done anything inappropriate with Mr. K. The thought makes me shiver. I don’t want my name in whatever this mess is.

  My legs are jittery and tired from the complicated footwork in Swan Lake. I didn’t stretch properly after rehearsal because I wanted to get that paper done. Alec’s fingers stroke the small of my back. The rhythm calms me. I think maybe we’re stepping in a direction back to where we used to be. June sighs a few paces away from us. We haven’t spoken, even though I need to apologize to her, and sometimes I feel her staring, hoping for just a flicker of something back. I just can’t bring myself to forgive her yet.

  I try to curb my impulse to look around for Bette. But I can’t. With all this nervous talking, I don’t know what to do with myself. I take attendance and the only dancers missing are Eleanor and Bette.