It’s Alina Rozanova, one of the soloists. She doesn’t stop to chat, just smiles at me as she heads to the elevator. I want to tell her that I’m Bette, that I’m my own person, but she’s already long gone.
“Hey.”
I turn, and see Alec. He’s already dressed for rehearsal, in tights and a slim-fitting white T-shirt. It’s only been a few weeks since I’ve seen him, but he looks different somehow. Bigger, more grown-up. Like the shift from student to apprentice has changed him already.
“Hey.” I kind of want to run up and jump him, to snuggle in close and inhale the clean, woodsy scent that’s always Alec. But he’s keeping a safe distance, his eyes on me but wary, his ears pinkening as I watch him. He rubs the back of his neck with a palm, as if he’s exhausted or uncomfortable.
I take a step closer, wishing I could ease it all away, close the distance between us. But he moves back, nearly ending up against the wall, and it tells me all I need to know. We’re not the same, Alec and me. We’re not a we at all anymore.
He smirks, sheepish. “You excited to get started?” I nod. “So weird, isn’t it? The same, but not. Like we’re tiny guppies.”
“Yeah, among the sharks. When we used to be them.” Well, me anyway. I almost have to grin at my silly joke. And it gets a smile from Alec finally. But he doesn’t come closer, doesn’t offer the hug I realize I’ve been hoping for.
“I should get moving,” he says. “I need to warm up.”
I almost ask him if he wants to stretch together. It feels so natural, so us. But he’s already headed off toward Studio 3, where male soloists congregate. They shake his hand and jab at him, welcoming him to the fold like he belongs there. He’s Alec Lucas, legacy, conservatory star.
So do I, I remind myself.
I go to the ABC finance office and fill out paperwork, which I should have done last week. But as excited as I was, I didn’t want to come here before it was official. I fill out a tax form and an emergency card—I put down Adele and my mom. I get paperwork about my salary and health insurance. Signing my name makes me feel like an adult. I’ll be paid. This is a job now, not just my passion. After I finish filling out the paperwork, they tell me to go ahead and get ready.
I take the elevator into the empty locker room near Studio 10. I slip out of the clothes that make me just a regular girl, and into my brand-new leotard, tights, leg warmers, and a ballet sweater for this big day. I make the most perfect and important bun in my hair, and dust my face with makeup. I open a brand-new tube of Chanel pink lipstick and glide it across my mouth. I look in the mirror. I definitely look the part of the music box ballerina.
There’s humming in the hall outside the locker room. I peek out. Mr. K walks toward the elevators. The back of his head bobs up and down, and there’s a smug rhythm to his steps. My breath catches in my chest. Heat rushes just beneath my skin. I might fall over from the weight of it.
I step forward. “Mr. K.”
He turns around. A smile overtakes his face. “Great to see you here at the company. I always knew that you’d make it far, Bette. You have what it takes.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“Willingness to devote your life to this. To do whatever you have to.” He pats my shoulder like I’m a poodle in need of reaffirmation.
“Eleanor had the same passion.”
Her name makes him recoil. He shifts his weight back and forth, and looks like he wants to scurry off somewhere. A company member walks down the hall. He bows to Mr. K, then slips into a nearby studio.
“Have a good rehearsal, Bette. I wish you well. Make us all proud.”
I step in front of him. He tries to move left, then right. I block his path.
“You ruined her life,” I whisper.
“Ballet can ruin many people—if you’re not tough. But you don’t have to worry about that.” He looks me straight in the eyes. “You will be fine here. You will make yourself important because that is what this world is about. Those who aren’t important don’t stay. Those that are can stay no matter what they do. You will learn this. As I have.”
He slips past me and into the elevator. I think about his words for a second, feeling defeated. Is what he said true? Is it all about legacies and bloodlines and paying for spots? Or can talent raise you up, as we’ve always been led to believe? Would I be here if my last name wasn’t Abney? If that’s true, then I have nothing to lose. But he definitely does. And eventually, he’s going to have to pay. I’ll make sure of that.
I’m the first one in the studio. It already feels like home. I sink into a stretch on the floor. I focus on making sure this is the best first ballet class I’ve ever had, better than my very first ballet class with Morkie. I hear feet and sit up, thinking company dancers will come in soon.
But it’s Cassie, staring down at me. “Don’t get too comfortable, Bette,” Cassie says. “You won’t be here for long.”
I choose to ignore her, bending back down into a deep V.
“It should’ve been Gigi.”
I don’t get up, focusing on the floor and my breathing. “Well, you know what they say about karma.” I pause. “Which means you’ll be gone soon enough.”
“I think it’s you they’ll be replacing.”
I rise, nearly knocking her over in the process, and start to walk away. “I’m not going anywhere, so you can drop those fantasies.”
She smiles, following right on my heels. “Did you find your phone?”
“How did you know I lost my phone?” My heart thumps. My fists ball up. I turn to face her, and she’s grinning like a cat on a mouse.
“I told you that I’d never forget or forgive you for what you did to me.” Her eyes flash with rage. “That I was willing to do whatever it took.”
“You posted those pictures of Eleanor.” I step close to her. “You’re the reason my best friend tried to kill herself. You.” I want to hit her in the mouth, to tear that smug grin off her face. I’m shaking.
“It’s nothing worse than what you did to me.” She shoves me back. “You weren’t supposed to come back. You weren’t supposed to still be here.” Her face is bright red from the tip of her nose to the lobes on her ears. Like Alec’s. “You should be banned from ballet and every company. I’ll make sure of it.”
“There you go again, ranting and raving like a crazy person. Someone should take care of that. Lock you up again.” I look around innocently. “Where’s your keeper, anyway? Did you finally scare Henri off?”
“You leave Henri out of this. He told me everything you did while I was away. How you tortured Gigi and the others. You’re evil, Bette, truly.”
“I’m evil? Why don’t you worry about your boyfriend? He nearly got that poor girl killed, and he messed with Will’s head. He’s disgusting, you know? And while you were gone, he was all over me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I told him to get close to you.” She laughs.
“Did you tell him to kiss me?” Her face falls, her eyes wild. “Because, let me tell you, he really enjoyed his mission. Couldn’t keep his hands off me. Wonder if he was up to the same antics with Will. Maybe I’ll call and—”
“You’re lying.”
“You and I both know I’m not.” We’re face-to-face now, so close I know she can smell my Chanel perfume and almost taste the lipstick I’m wearing. “Ask him about the mole on my rib. He’ll know exactly where it is. Now, if you’re done, I need to finish warming up.”
She grabs my arm. “You didn’t win! Adele and Eleanor suffered because of you—everything that happened to them is your fault. You took those pictures. I did Eleanor a favor by posting them. And you were supposed to fall through the trapdoor. Not Adele. It was all for you. How can you live with yourself?” She’s scratching so hard, bloody red welts have come up on my arm. “If you think I’m anywhere near done, well, you’re even stupider than—”
“Cassandra, hands off Bette this instant.”
Cassie’s eyes dart to the studio door
way.
Madame Dorokhova stands there, her hand to her throat, worried but composed. She’s got a phone in her hand, and she dials a number quickly. “Damien. We need you in the girls’ studio now.”
45.
Gigi
“WHAT’S NEXT?” AUNT LEAH ASKS. We’re sprawled out on Mama’s couch, legs intertwined, watching a bunch of old movies. Mama’s in the kitchen. I smell the smoky scent of barbecue wafting in from the patio. I spot my dad’s shoulders through the window, leaning over the grill.
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll wait for audition season for the San Francisco Ballet, or go up to Portland.” I pull the blanket over my legs. “I don’t want to think about it.”
“Your mom wanted me to try to talk to you about it. Talk you into putting in some applications. Maybe community college, then apply in the fall for a university.”
“I don’t want to go to college yet.”
“What is it about ballet?” She pushes her foot against mine.
I love to dance now more than ever, but there are moments when, if I’m honest with myself, I regretted going to the American Ballet Conservatory, and all that’s happened. There are days since graduation where I still feel broken, and the whole thing feels pointless, not having earned an apprenticeship.
But then I think of the accident and what I went through to get it all back. It makes me want it that much more.
“You never danced,” I say.
“Yes, but I do understand art.” She goes off on a tangent about the art world.
I don’t tell her that I feel like ballet is like a drug. A rush that always goes to my head—the zip of excitement and thrill that comes with every casting, every performance. I always want to bask in it, and when the rehearsal period is over or the performance curtain comes down for the last time, I want it all back again.
But ballet hurts sometimes. I wonder if the high is worth all the lows—all the criticisms, the chewed-up feet, the bloody blisters, the aches that never seem to go away. All the time wasted in front of the mirror, watching every bite that goes into your mouth and wondering where it might end up on your body, the thoughts that you aren’t good enough.
I cut into Aunt Leah’s story about museum curation. “I know you all don’t understand it. I just need you—and especially Mama—to trust me. Can you tell her that for me? Work on her? I’ve only been home a week.”
“Okay,” she says, smiling.
I play on my phone to avoid talking about this anymore. A picture of June appears in my feed. She’s at the barre at Salt Lake City Ballet. There are a string of congratulations. I take a large breath and type in a bunch of smiley faces. I’m happy for her. I am.
Mama comes in from the patio with trays of food. She hands both of us bowls of fresh summer corn, cut from the cob and cooked with tomatoes and okra. I smile up at her. The phone rings, and she scurries to answer it.
Aunt Leah and I turn back to the movie.
“Gigi,” Mama calls from the kitchen. “It’s for you.”
“Tell Ella I’ll call her later.” She’s been trying to get me to come out with her new friends, plotting another bonfire. But I haven’t been up to it. Not just yet.
“It’s not Ella,” Mama says, waving the phone at me.
I grab the receiver. “Hello?”
“Gigi, it’s Damien Leger from the American Ballet Company.”
I hold my breath and pray that my heart slows, beats out a rhythm I know is safe. But it’s not listening, thumping hard and fast in my chest. I’m instantly flushed and sweating.
“Gigi? You there?” he says.
“Yes, I’m here,” I manage to squeak out.
“Well, I’m calling because we have another opening at the company. We lost an apprentice. We’d love to have you. You still interested?”
An excited panic rushes through me. My heart goes into overdrive, triggering my monitor, and I can already feel Mama panicking. I want to scream.
“Yes,” I shout.
Mama rushes out of the kitchen. Aunt Leah pauses the movie. I feel frozen as Damien explains the process for me moving into the apprentice apartments and the paperwork I need to send to him. “Everything clear?” he asks.
“Yes. Yes.” It’s the only word I can seem to form. After he hangs up, I still stand there gripping the phone and waiting for my heart to slow down, waiting till I can breathe again, to tell them the good news.
A week later, I’m back in New York, back at Lincoln Center, back home. At the company building, the skylight windows let so much light into the locker rooms, I sit and bask in it for a minute, letting the sun warm my shoulders. I’m early for my first ballet class at the company. I run my fingers across principal and soloist members’ lockers and trace over those important names: Becca Thomas, Samantha Haan, Svetlana Barkova, Angela Liao, Michelle Feldman. The space is three times larger than the one at the conservatory. Vanities are well stocked with bobby pins and hair spray.
The doors open. One of the corps de ballet members enters. I think her name is Maria. She smiles at me as she heads to the back to the showers. Other girls start to pour in. Ballet class will start in two hours. I pretend to keep getting dressed just to linger here and see who comes in. I don’t know what to do with myself. The excitement bubbles up in me.
“Gigi!” Bette is right behind me.
“What are you doing here?” Her words echo around us, getting tangled in the warm lights and the hanging practice tutus and the clouds of hair spray of the dressing room. Her beautiful blue eyes flash with shock.
I smile. “I’m back.”
“It’s good to see you,” she says, as other company members watch.
“I’m sure it is, Bette. I’m sure it is.”
Acknowledgments
WE’VE LEARNED FROM OUR TIME in the trenches that publishing is all about family—the family you’re born into, which helps you get to The End in the first place, and the family you make. We’re so grateful to be surrounded by both kinds. To keep it short and sweet, we want to thank our own families, for all their love and support along the way, always.
To our pint-size powerhouse of an agent, Victoria Marini. Thank you for always taking the risk and making the leap with us. We couldn’t do it without you.
We want to thank our HarperTeen family: our editors, publicist, the library and marketing team, and all the people behind the scenes who make this magic happen.
We can’t forget the lovely early readers who helped us vet the manuscript through edits: Alla Plotkin, Ellen Oh, Kathryn Holmes, and Renee Ahdieh. Thank you so much for giving us your time to make sure we got things right.
We’re also forever grateful for our publishing tribe: the We Need Diverse Books team, our cheerleaders, our confidantes, our safety net, and our shoulders to cry on. We’re so proud to be a part of this very important mission.
And finally, last but certainly not least, our readers, who stuck around despite the cliffhangers and crazy antics. Thank you so much for reading.
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About the Authors
Photo by Navdeep Singh Dhillon
SONA CHARAIPOTRA & DHONIELLE CLAYTON met while attending the New School’s acclaimed Writing for Children MFA program. Sona is a journalist who has written for the New York Times, People, Parade, Cosmopolitan, and other major media. Dhonielle is a librarian at a middle school in Harlem, and taught English at a cutthroat ballet academy. Together, the pair cofounded CAKE Literary, a boutique book packaging company with a decidedly diverse bent. Find them online at www.cakeliterary.com.
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Books by Sona Charaipotra and Dhonielle Clayton
Tiny Pretty Things
Shiny Broken Pieces: A Tiny Pretty Things Novel
Credits
Cover art © 2016 Sean Freeman
Cover design by Michelle Taormina
Copyright
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
SHINY BROKEN PIECES. Copyright © 2016 by Sona Charaipotra and Dhonielle Clayton. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2015955159
ISBN 978-0-06-234242-3 (trade bdg.)
EPub Edition © June 2016 ISBN 9780062342447
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