Shiny Broken Pieces

by Sona Charaipotra

  I can hear the sizzle of meat from the Indian restaurant across the street, and the pizza guy is tossing pies in the window behind me. I don’t see Jayhe’s dad’s place. But there’s something familiar about the street names, the shops around here. I don’t think I’m far. The light changes and I go to cross the street and suddenly there’s a whole lot of honking and I leap back.

  The walk signal is still flashing and I should be okay. As I start again, there’s more honking, and I finally look to where it’s coming from.

  But it’s Jayhe, leaning hard on the horn in that junky old black van, the one we made out in countless times. He looks completely confused, but he’s waving me over. I run back to the other side, and open the passenger door and climb in.

  He pulls over, and just stares at me for a second. “Took you long enough” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth. He’s not smiling or frowning or doing much of anything. I guess this is all on me.

  “I didn’t realize you were waiting.” I have the envelope in my lap, and it’s taking everything in my power not to shove it at him, to let it do the talking. “I thought that you didn’t want to see me again. But I decided not to give you a choice.”

  He doesn’t say anything. Anger simmers below the surface, hot to the touch, even in the silence between us.

  I hand him the envelope. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I disappeared. I’m sorry I kept pushing you away. I’m sorry you had to see me—like you did.” I know he’s seen it now, sized up the familiar emblem in the corner, the shape and thickness of the packet, the fact that I’m here at all. But he doesn’t say a word. I wonder if it might be too late for us. But I have to say what I came to say. “I’m working on it. I’m trying. Really.”

  I pull my tablet out of my bag. I push it toward him. “Look. It’s part of my treatment, a food diary, therapy sessions, scheduled workouts, and PT. I’m busier than ever. I mean, you’d think I’d barely have a minute to miss you.” He’s looking at me now, waiting. “But I did.”

  He’s quiet then, focused on the little tablet, pushing keys. I realize then that he’s looking at the menus and my notes. He sees when I felt good and when I was miserable, and when I wanted to throw up and didn’t. And when I wanted to throw up and did. I want to snatch them away, all my secrets.

  I know I have to let him in, trust him, if this is going to work. “I’m trying. I’m not perfect. I’ll never be perfect, or fixed. It will always be an effort, maybe not like it is now, but—”

  “Do. Or do not,” he says. “There is no try.”

  “You sound like your dad.”

  He laughs. “It’s a Star Wars reference.”

  We both laugh, but then he’s looking at me, all serious and intense. He pulls me in, closing the small space between us. The gearshift sits in the middle of the front seat, and it’s the only thing keeping us apart right now. “It’s too painful to watch you do that to yourself. And you can’t promise me—”

  I don’t know quite what to say to that. I applied to NYU because he wanted me to. I came all the way here. I tried to fix things. And he can’t give me an inch.

  “There are no promises, Jayhe. Because those are always broken. But I mean this when I say it: I’m working on it.” I pick up my bag, reach for the door, and leap out of the van. He doesn’t stop me.

  But when I climb down and hit the street, he’s standing there, waiting. His strong arms surround me, and I can smell that familiar scent—dusty and rich, like charcoal pencils. He looks at me and smiles, waiting for the words. “Kiss-jwo!” I say, and he laughs and leans down.

  We kiss for what feels like forever, as the cars honk down Union Street, and people climb on and off lumbering buses. We kiss until the words become unnecessary. We kiss until Jayhe’s uncle shouts from inside the restaurant. “Joka! You gonna make those deliveries or what?” Then he sees me, tucked under a blushing Jayhe’s arm. “Oh, hey, E-Jun. Didn’t see you there.”

  Jayhe grins and heads around the other side of the van to get back in. I climb into the passenger seat, and I just look at him as we drive away. It feels like I will smile for the rest of the night. Even for the rest of my life, maybe.

  40.

  Gigi

  I HOVER IN THE STAGE wings. It’s the night of our performance, and the energy at Lincoln Center is electric—I keep wanting to sneak to the stage and stare out into the audience, to see each face lit with delight and expectation, but it would be too distracting to the other dancers, who are already out there making magic.

  Still, I can sort of feel the audience there, even though they’re all shadows and the lights are blinding and the big curtain hides the stage from their view. The noise of their movements, the squeak of the seats, and their energy pushes back to us.

  “Curtain in fifteen,” the stage manager calls out backstage.

  I slip back to the dressing room. One of the stage moms waves me over to her chair. I wonder which petit rat belongs to her.

  “Your forehead is all sweaty. Let me add more powder.”

  “Thank you.”

  She smiles down at me. “You look beautiful.”

  The tiny word fills me up. Tonight I have to dance beautifully. I have to make sure Damien sees that.

  “Curtain in ten,” someone shouts.

  I take one last look at myself in the mirror. White swan feathers frame my face, strings of jewels interlock over my head and into a crown, and a diamond sits in the center of my forehead. I inhale, calming my too-quick heart. Stagehands with microphones move in and out, giving people directions.

  Riho, Isabela, and the other new girls are hovering by the door, itching to go out toward the stage, to watch from the wings until it’s their turn. I wonder if it’s their first time here on the Lincoln Center stage, and try to remember what that was like when I danced here for the first time last year in The Nutcracker. I remember the power and the hugeness of it—both in real life, and in your head. Next year I’ll call this stage home. I have to.

  June dresses in the corner, putting on her first costume of the night—the Baroness—and looking at herself in the mirror. She takes a wig and slips it on. The tumble of dark curls transforms her into eighteenth-century royalty. Our eyes catch in the mirror. She gives me a little nod.

  “You look great,” I say.

  “And so do you.”

  “Five minutes!” the stage manager tells me as the others go on.

  I turn back to the vanity and I practice my stage grin in the mirror, flashing teeth and then closing my mouth into a soft smile.

  I step out into the hall and warm up my feet again. I listen for the crunch of the pointe shoe shanks and know they’re broken in perfectly to support my movements tonight. I point, flex, and bounce until my feet feel warm and ready to be used.

  Arms circle around my waist, strong and familiar.

  Alec.

  His hands linger in all those secret places. “You ready for this?” he whispers, his breath hot on my ear, sending shivers up my spine.

  I turn around in his arms, letting him press his body up against mine, the heat seeping right through the glitter, tulle, and gossamer of my costume. I can’t wait to be onstage with him again. I can’t wait to see if this means we’re back together. I can’t wait for this part of my life to settle back into place. I answer him with a kiss, long and lingering. Even though it takes off some of my lipstick.

  “Act two!” the stage manager shouts in our direction. “You’re on!”

  Alec takes my hand. “Come on.” He pulls me toward the stage.

  This is it.

  I take a deep breath and follow.

  It feels like the first time. The lights, the rose of my cheeks, the scratchy tights and tulle—the magic. It’s all there, it’s all back. The warmth of the stage lights at Lincoln Center hit my shoulders.

  Thirty seconds till my solo in the coda. Two lines of swans edge both sides of the stage. It’s just me in the middle. I lift my legs and stretch them into long, sharp
lines. I present soft delicate hands. I fold into the slow melodies.

  I finish. The audience claps, and I bask in every second of it, knowing how fleeting this joy might be. I bow and slip to the wings to catch my breath before my next entrance. I drink a little water. A stage mom helps towel me off and blot my face. I’m so out of breath I can’t thank them.

  The scene backdrop changes to the ballroom. Henri, as Rothbart, presents Bette. The music shifts, and the light turns to dark as Bette takes the stage. She smiles all teeth. Each lift of her leg and every piqué turn is perfect. The audience applause is thunderous.

  All this time they’ve been calling me the comeback kid, but in that moment, I know that title should really belong to her. She was gone half the year, but it doesn’t show.

  Alec dances his solo. He leaps high in the air. I hear gasping from the crowd. His motions and his smile all show his love for Odile. Alec finishes his turns, and Bette spins forward, beginning those thirty-two fouettés en tournant.

  I hold my breath, not realizing I’m counting until she hits the very last one and the audience bursts. From the wings, I spot some people in the front row up on their feet—a standing ovation. One that’s well deserved. She’s perfect, flawless, the black swan with an edge.

  The one, in the end, who makes the story worth reading, the ballet worth watching.

  It’s inching toward midnight, but the evening is far from over. Tonight, fresh off the Lincoln Center stage, one more female American Ballet Conservatory dancer will become the company’s newest apprentice, alongside the two male picks. I stand before the panel in the upstairs studio, holding my breath, praying she might be me.

  I knit my fingers and nibble at my bottom lip as I wait for Damien Leger to give me his decision. I feel transported back to the very first cast list at the conservatory when we were all huddled together in the lobby and waiting for Mr. K to dole out our fates. I feel like I should be back in that space and with him in front of me. I can’t process the words coming out of the mouths of Morkie, Mr. Leger, and Mr. K. I catch bits and pieces of them in the fuzzy haze over my brain.

  “Flawless.”

  “Strong technique.”

  “Nearly back to your old self.”

  “You have a flame.”

  But. But. But.

  “Do you still love it?” Madame Dorokhova asks. Her deep Russian voice cuts through the cloud in my head, booming like thunder.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do you love ballet?” she says.

  I think back to that argument with my mother, of telling her I’ll be dancing, with or without her support. “I don’t know how to do anything else,” I say, not sure if that answers her question. “I don’t want to do anything else. This is my dream.”

  “You’ve come back from a very dark place,” Mr. K says. “You’ve almost got it all back, but you’re missing something.” He pauses for effect. “The thing I loved about seeing you dance the most in that very first audition.”

  I’m speechless. The thing he saw in me—the thing he said set me apart. Probably the only thing that’s really keeping me here.

  “Gigi, while we think you are a talented and charismatic young woman, the talent pool this year was so stellar—beyond all our expectations,” Madame Dorokhova says. “We do see something in you, but you’ve suffered a rough patch. Maybe with some time—” She must see my shattered expression and her face softens. “You remind me so much of myself when I was dancing at the Bolshoi. Yes, that’s it. You dance like the old me used to.”

  Damien speaks then, and his face is pained. “Gigi, we see something grand in you. But I feel that you need more time to focus on your recovery—physically and mentally.” He scribbles something on a paper. “That said, I’d love to follow your progress—and for you to check in with us before you accept any other offers.”

  His words don’t quite register. I don’t have any other offers. I didn’t audition anywhere else. All I’m hearing is that I failed.

  “Can you do that for me?” he’s saying, quiet, concerned.

  “So does this mean I didn’t make it?”

  “Not at this time, I’m afraid.” Damien adds a sad smile.

  I nod, and walk out, without looking at any of them again.

  I failed. They don’t want me. The weight of it is crushing, and I nearly stagger as I slip through the door. I press my back against the wall and slide down it. My head finds my knees. My heart races to the sound of Damien’s words: Not at this time, I’m afraid.

  41.

  Bette

  I STAND OUTSIDE THE LINCOLN Center studio where Damien, Madame Dorokhova, and Mr. K are having their meetings. Everyone else has gone through, the boys celebrating, the girls weeping. First there was June, Sei-Jin, and then the rest of that crew. They’re long gone, all pink faces and lots of tears. But Gigi hasn’t returned yet.

  I whisper to one of the crying girls. “Is Gigi still in there?” She’s sprawled out on the floor, her head tucked into her knees, and she looks up at me. Tears run like rivers through the powder on her cheeks, hot and fresh and humiliating. Her mascara is spiderwebbing in intricate patterns, making her look edgy.

  “No, she left already.” She sniffles out the words. I want to ask her if Gigi was happy or crying. But she transforms into another puddle, gets up, and darts out.

  I press my hands against the door. A mix of English and Russian voices slip from behind it. I can’t make out anything. I start to pace and think through my performance. The whole time I was up there, I heard Adele’s voice in my head. I spun for every wrong thing I did, every accusation used against me. I spun for every snub—from Will, from Alec, from Mr. K even. I spun for every triumph missed, for Adele, for Eleanor, for Gigi, for June—and for myself.

  Whatever else happens tonight, I’ll have that. A moment of perfection I can go back to over and over again, a memory that will stay with me. That I was more than good enough. That I was perfect.

  The door opens. The sound makes me jump. Damien’s assistant steps outside. “Bette Abney,” she says, her voice sweet. “They’re ready to see you now.”

  All in a row, behind a table, sit Damien, Mr. K, Morkie, and Dorokhova. It feels just like when I was six and first auditioning for the conservatory, a petit rat in scratchy pink tights and a leotard. Back then, it didn’t matter. I already had a spot before walking into the studio. I was an Abney. But now, that might not be enough.

  It feels like there are a thousand steps to take before I reach them. As I walk behind Mr. K’s assistant, I watch her movements, flowery, elegant. I wonder if she’s a failed dancer. Someone who had high hopes and big dreams, just like me, and didn’t quite make the cut.

  I wonder if that will be me, a year or two from now, desperately clinging to this world, whatever part of it I can hold on to. It all makes me think of Eleanor and our little girl dream. The one we used to stay up at night discussing. I’d like to see her happy, dancing somewhere, somehow. I imagine Eleanor, maybe five years from now, somewhere not too far from New York. She’ll have a little dance school full of handpicked petit rats, she’ll be the old Eleanor again. She’ll swing around with the children and teach them all the good things she took from this place—the magic of performance and the grace of applause, the swish and the sparkle of the tulle and the makeup and the powdery scent of resin. All the things I’ve forgotten in the heat of the competition to be the best. All the things that I’ll have to keep reminding myself about if I have a chance to continue this journey.

  The assistant ushers me into the lone empty chair, facing the panel. I sit, ready to meet my fate.

  Every fiber in my being wants to call out to Mr. K, to tell him I know exactly what he did and that I won’t let him get away with it. But this is not the time or the place. First I need to know my fate.

  Mr. K opens his mouth to speak, but Damien beats him to it. “Bette Abney, your performance in the American Ballet Conservatory’s rendition of Swan Lake tonight was the best I
’ve seen you dance,” he says. “But we’re hoping it’s not all you can do.”

  His words thunder inside me.

  “I told you once, Bette,” he continues, “that you have something in you that echoes Adele. And just that would be useless to me. I already have an Adele.”

  A flush climbs up from my stomach to my chest and face. I gulp and wait for him to say, No, Bette, you didn’t earn an apprenticeship at ABC.

  “But you also bring something very different.” He rubs his chin and pauses.

  I count my heartbeats in the silence.

  “That edge, Bette, that’s what makes you stand out. At American Ballet Company, we are only looking for the standouts.” He presses a finger to his mouth, and turns to Madame Dorokhova.

  Her stern mouth breaks into what could be considered her form of a smile. “Bette Abney, we’d like to offer you a spot as an apprentice at American Ballet Company.”

  She waits for me to say something, anything. The words are caught in my throat. I look from Mr. K to Madame Dorokhova and back to Damien.

  Damien clears his throat. “We’re presuming you’d like the spot, Bette?”

  I nod, finally finding my voice. “More than anything in the world, Mr. Leger.”

  “Great. We’ll see you in company classes after graduation,” Madame Dorokhova says.

  I curtsy and bow my head, then blast through the door.

  I know that Adele and my mother will be waiting outside, expecting the worst, for Bette to disappoint them once more. Not this time. This time, I’m the one who’ll get the final word.

  42.

  June

  IT’S MY LAST DAY AS student at the American Ballet Conservatory. After more than ten years, I’m saying good-bye to the only place I’ve really called home.