Shiny Broken Pieces (11 page)

We all nod and curtsy, and hold our breaths. The shock settles into us.

“
Swan Lake
is the ballet that makes or breaks you. It reveals the stars, casting the rest to shadows. This classical ballet shows the beauty of the Russian technique. It is the best platform for the Vaganova training.” She touches a nearby girl's shoulder. “In this ballet, you must be able to be both light and dark, good and evil. That is why only the best get to dance the role of Odette or Odile.” She waves to Viktor and he takes a seat. “You all know pieces of these variations, but now I must teach you how to put it all together. We are depending on you to make it beautiful.”

No one takes their eyes off her. Her presence reminds us that this is it—every move we make now can affect our chances forever.

“This ballet is beloved. Each of the four acts are anticipated by the audience: from Siegfried's birthday party in Act One to the most famous White Act at the lakeside to Act Three and the party where Odile dances her famous
pas de deux
to the very last second. Your stamina must be perfect. Your feet must last.” She circles us. “We will start from the White Act and work our way backward.”

Morkie joins her, and I want to breathe a sigh of relief, but instead I hold it in, trying to channel the tension into my movements. “We will start with four swans in the front to work on
la danse des petits cygnes
, dance of the little swans. Most famous.” She motions at Viktor. He plays the melody and I can feel my feet move the steps automatically. Four ballerinas, arms interlocked, will glide across the stage in perfect synchronization with sharp and expert timing.

“Let me have little Riho,” Morkie says.

Riho leaps up like a tiny firecracker, then makes her way to the front. She's much smaller than all of us and could blend into a pack of
petit rats
with ease. I hear a groan, but don't know where it came from.

“Cassandra,” Madame Dorokhova says.

I see Cassie blow the Madame a kiss—a bold move—as she makes her way to stand beside Riho. Her long limbs make Riho look like a tree stump beside her. Both teachers pause before selecting the other two dancers to start off rehearsal with. There are twists in my stomach, like it's a spool of ribbon that's come undone and knotted itself into a mess. I don't want to dance this part. I want to dance the role of Odette or Odile. But to do that,
I need them to see me. I need them to call me forward, want to use my limbs, feet, and arms as demonstration tools. I need them to see that I'm okay now.

“June, come.”

Madame Dorokhova looks around the room, trying to decide on her final victim.

June walks to the front with her head down, showing respect, but I can see the tiny smile in the corner of her mouth. Her hair is all spiky. The headband she's wearing pushes it up awkwardly, and it's barely enough to gather into any semblance of a bun. I flush with satisfaction.

“Gigi,” Madame Dorokhova says, and my heart monitor buzzes on my wrist because I can't stop its fluttering.

Morkie uses her hands to remind us of the footwork that goes into the dance of the little swans. Tap, tap, tap. Our feet move in a successive shuffle. Point the toe. Bring up the leg. I tune her out after a while. I know this variation. We did it at my old studio for a winter performance when I was eleven.

We crisscross our arms. I hold one of June's hands and one of Cassie's. Viktor starts the famous plinking melody on the piano. Up, down, up, down, up, down. We work together to move across the middle of the floor, all of us gazing toward the window. We stretch our legs out like a fan of swords, all together, then pull them back into a straight-line formation as we head back in the direction we've come from.

Madame Dorokhova and Morkie point to where we should be. June's hand sweats. It's strange to hold it again. Cassie tightens her grip on mine.

“No elephants on the stage,” Madame Dorokhova yells. “You are
petit cygnes
not
petit éléphants.
”

“Look to the left. To the right. Now forward,” Morkie says, demonstrating as we struggle to stay in sync. “Watch the
echappés
. Cleaner.”

Madame Dorokhova is right in front of us now. “And a down, up. And a down, up. And a down, up. Faster.”

The corrections blend all together and we're a few seconds off from one another. Riho breaks the chain. “We're moving too slow,” she complains. I think it's the first time I've heard her speak.

June's eyes are daggers pointed at her.

“It's only the start,” Morkie says. “You don't break formation until I tell you.” She cups a hand under Riho's very pink face, and I feel like she'll slap her. Instead, Morkie excuses us from the center, ending rehearsal altogether. She seems embarrassed by us. We weren't ready to be seen by Madame Dorokhova. I should be ashamed, but I feel relieved.

Eleanor plops down next to me as she unties her pointe shoes. I feel Cassie's eyes on us. I look up and she lifts her eyebrows in a question. It's time.

“That rehearsal killed me.” I pack my shoes away and slip my feet into mukluks. The soft fur helps stop the aches. I try to be nicer to her this time.

“I know.” She shoves her shoes into her bag and reaches down to stretch.

“Want to go get a bite? I feel like we should talk.”

She looks caught. “I, uh, have an appointment.” Her face is
bright pink, and she won't look me in the eye. “But maybe we can hang tomorrow?” Her eyes are desperate and flashing with eagerness.

“Okay, in the morning? We can have a snack, then stretch, and maybe work on these variations?” Cassie overhears me, and smiles.

“Sure.”

“Great,” I say. “I have just the thing.”

THE ROOM IS STILL DARK
when my alarm blares, and I rush to turn it off before Cassie wakes. I can't take another argument. Not today. But she doesn't stir at all, her light snore echoing in the small space, piles of pink blankets muffling the sound. I tuck my cold feet into slippers, then head into the bathroom to start the shower, turning it all the way up to screaming hot. I need the scalding right now. I need to not feel Morkie's pinch.

I wipe the steam away from the mirror and take a good look at myself completely naked. I touch my too-short hair and force down a swell of emotions. I run my fingers over my collarbone and chest to my ribs. The bones used to stick out more. I used to be able to count them. My hands find their way down my stomach to my hips. I push a finger against my skin and feel the squish around my thighs. I flush red—not from the growing steam and heat in the bathroom, but from the unwanted weight there. I find the spot, the extra flesh, pinching it tight like
Morkie did. I hold that extra inch between my fingers until the skin burns, a cry of pain working its way through me.

I'm not quite as bad as the beginning of the year—some of the definition is back. But there's still that unwanted curve to my hip, and a little extra padding in the chest. It has to go.

The last weigh-in I had was a week ago in Nurse Connie's office, and she sighed as the numbers stopped on 104. “You're on a slippery slope, E-Jun,” she'd said, that condescending tone settling into me. “You must get back on track and get your weight up.”

I step gingerly onto the silver scale Cassie keeps in the corner of the bathroom, leaning down to reset it into pounds rather than kilos. Everything she owns is British, and she'll definitely know it was me if I don't remember to reset after I step off. The numbers jump, up, down, frantic, then slowly stop—103, 105, 104, 107—before landing at 105.

Morkie's words repeat endlessly in my head:
This will not do. This will not do. This will not do.

I step off, but the number flashes in my head.

A voice inside asks:
What would be small enough?

100. 99. 98. 97.

I go back to the mirror, wipe away the new layer of steam, and stare at it. “You can do this!” I need that rush, that powerful feeling of control, like when I'm at the barre telling my muscles how to move and bend. I stand and look at the toilet. I touch my stomach again. I crouch down over the sparkling porcelain bowl, the familiar gargling of the water welcoming me as I lean in close. My breathing goes shallow and heavy all at once, and
the familiar lurch moves my whole body.

But nothing comes. I lean in some more, my head hovering over the water below, and wait. Still nothing. Impatient, I stick two fingers in my mouth, and gagging triggers immediate results—even though it's mostly water and bile. The coughing brings tears to my eyes. A pink tinge stares up at me. Worry zips through me for just a second, but I can't stop myself. My fingers have a mind of their own.

I give one more smooth stroke with my finger and the rest erupts, coming fast and furious. I'm empty and full all at once, the relief settling over me, slick and satisfying.

I shower quickly, letting the rush of the water drown out all the thoughts that won't quiet in my head—about my hair and Cassie and college and our upcoming auditions. It washes away all the stress about Morkie's pinch and Riho's perfection and Gigi's butterflies. By the time I'm done, I've let it all go, sliding down the drain with soapy water.

When I step outside the steaming bathroom, Cassie's awake and standing at the door in her pink bathrobe, her face matching it.

“What is it now?”

“You think I don't know?” She's pointing a finger at the door. “I'm not stupid. You spray that hideous air freshener, and oh, Cassie's oblivious. But I can still smell it, June! It's
disgusting.
You're disgusting. And you have a problem.”

“I don't know—”

“Oh, you know exactly what I mean. You better figure out how to take care of yourself, or I'll tell them all—Connie, Mr. K.”

Would she really rat out another dancer? She wouldn't. But
Cassie's so angry, her usually pale face is turning a livid red, from her roots to her ears, just like Alec's. I know then that she would do it in a second, and be glad to see me go. I wonder if she'd treat me like this—like a gross, foreign thing—if she knew we were cousins. Somehow, I believe she'd react exactly the same. The whole thought of being related to her strikes me as funny, and when I laugh, she's stamping her feet like a petulant poodle, her blond curls frizzing around her face. “What do you think you're laughing at?” She grabs her things. “You think I can use that bathroom now? Between the steam and the smell—”

Part of me wants to just say “you're my cousin” out loud, let the words slide between us, watch how they change the shape of her face.

My ringing phone cuts her off. I don't recognize the number, but I answer it anyway, just to get her to stop talking and leave.

“June?” a voice says. “I need to see you. Now. Can you come over?”

“Who is this?”

The voice laughs. I recognize the sound immediately. Bette.

“Whatever,” I tell Cassie, leaving her in her pink bathrobe and slippers and fit of rage. “I've got to go.”

Fifteen minutes later, Bette sends a car for me. Because she's
Bette
. The Lincoln Town Car has heated leather seats and bottled water in the back just for me. I don't take taxis in New York, let alone hired luxury cars with suit-wearing drivers who open the door for me.

Manhattan changes as we leave school and go where Bette lives. We pass expensive shops, the Fifth Avenue windows full of well-dressed mannequins and overpriced purses. The car rolls to a stop in front of a white-brick town house. Even the outside looks like Bette.

The driver gets out and opens the door for me with a stupid little smile. I grumble out a thank-you and reach in my pocket for a few dollars to tip him.

“Already included, miss.” After he's gone, I kind of wish I was back in the cozy seat of the car and that I took it all the way to Jayhe's house in Queens instead of here. She didn't say what she wanted, and I was too curious to turn down her invitation. Anything was better than staying in that room with Cassie. I open the little wrought-iron gate that leads to Bette's front door, imagining what it must be like to call one of the most expensive blocks in Manhattan home. I ring the bell. The chime is delicate, like a sequence from our performance music.

Of course, she doesn't answer. A maid ushers me down the stairs and into the basement, which is a well-lit, mirrored dance studio, complete with smooth floors and a long barre.
Swan Lake
music tinkles in from various built-in speakers, and Bette's in the center of the floor, practicing
fouettés
en tournant
. She's still aiming for the lead despite her exile. Even though she hasn't been at school in almost six months, she's maintained her skill—the turns are sharp and flowing. She's still got it.

“Would you like something to drink?” the maid asks. “Tea, lemonade?” I shake my head, and she disappears. Bette continues to dance, ignoring my presence. She spins and stops, spins
and stops, spins and stops, never quite hitting the complete thirty-two, but getting close.

The last time she does it, I clap, more to get her attention than to show my support. But she takes it as a compliment, giving me a deep bow and rising, then running to turn off the music.

“Thanks for coming.” The flush that starts in her cheeks and runs down her bare arms makes her look like an undercooked sausage, especially in the leotard and tights. She walks toward me, her toe shoes clomping against the hardwood. She sits on a bench that lines one wall, and gestures for me to do the same. She's breathless. She presses a buzzer on the intercom. Her maid comes running in again, with tea, even though I said no, and Bette waves the tray away. “Justina, I need lemonade,” Bette informs her. “The one infused with electrolytes.”

The maid just nods and leaves, taking the tray with her.

Bette inspects me, her eyes flitting from my head down to my feet. She reaches for my hair. Immediately, my hands fly to my head—my once-long dark hair is now cropped in a short bob. “Cute?” she offers. It's not a statement, but a question, as if she's not quite sure what to make of it. All I know is, it's too short to pull back into the standard, mandatory ballet bun, and too long to just let it be. It's useless. The RAs still haven't figured out who did it. But I know it was Sei-Jin.

Everyone keeps reminding me that it's just hair, that it will grow back. I know one thing for sure: Mr. K will not let me onstage looking like this. Just thinking about it makes the tears sting my eyes again, and I find myself wondering where the bathroom might be. But I can't do that here.

“It's good to see you,” I tell Bette, even though it's really not. “Things aren't the same without you at school.” Which is true.

She nods. “I heard about all the changes.” She grabs the lemonade off the tray as soon as Justina returns with it. She guzzles half the glass, and the maid refills it immediately from the pitcher. Bette nods to her to fill up the second glass for me, but I shake my head.

She waits for Justina to leave to continue. “I need to clear my name. You do know I didn't do it, right? That I wouldn't do that.”

“I know.” Bette may be a lot of things, but she's not a killer. “But someone sure wanted to make it look like it was you.”

She grins, which I wasn't expecting. “Right, and I know exactly who. That's why I need your help.” She stomps across the floor, then she hands me her laptop. She sits down, unlaces her ribbons, and removes her pointe shoes. Her feet are so bright red and bruised, they're distracting me from whatever I'm supposed to be watching on the screen. Despite the horrible shape her feet are in, her toenails are perfectly painted a deep purple. Naturally.

“Click the video.”

I watch us pour out of the club that night. I see myself with Jayhe, holding hands, beaming. I watch Gigi, Alec, and Will stumble forward, drunk and laughing, and Bette and Eleanor not far behind them. Then comes Henri, smirking as usual. Just as they take their first steps toward the cobblestones, it cuts off.

“Where's the rest? What happened?”

She takes a deep breath. “I don't know. I'm waiting for the guy who took the video to get back to me. But in the meantime,
I need help from inside the conservatory. Finding a way to get Henri to show that he's guilty.” She takes another quick breath, convincing me, convincing herself. “Isn't Cassie your roommate? That's what I've heard.”

“Unfortunately. Everything's pink, I have to stay out of her space, but she's always in mine. And she's mean.” It feels good to share it. “She's so cold. Like she's the queen and I'm a fly buzzing in her territory. And Henri is always there and they're all over each other. It's gross.”

“But sort of perfect.”

“How?”

“The video will prove that Henri pushed Gigi, once I get the rest of it. But I need something else, more proof, in case I can't get it. You have twenty-four seven access to Cassie and her stuff. And Henri, by association.” She looks down at her foot and retapes a Band-Aid in place.

“He's definitely twisted, but trying to hurt Gigi? I don't know.” I tell her how strange they are together, him and Cassie, probably doing disgusting things on my bed just for kicks when I'm out.

“He blackmailed me last year. I'm not proud of the stuff he made me do.”

“What?”

“Yeah.” She sighs. “That's why I really need to make him pay.” She goes over to a file box near the mirror. She returns with a tiny camera, like the kind you'd attach to a computer. “I need you to put this in your room, facing Cassie's side.”

I thumb the camera between my fingers. “The thing is,
everyone thinks you did it. I heard you even settled with Gigi's family.” What I don't say:
What's in it for me?

“We did pay her for the bullying stuff. But I didn't hurt her. That's not what it was all about. Listen—”

“If I help you—and I'm not saying I will—then I want something in return. Morkie's been on me, lately. She says my technique is good, but I'm not giving in to the music and the story. You know how to do that.”

“Deal.” She smiles. “I'll give you the password to the video app, so you can watch it, too.” She takes my cell from my bag and asks for the passcode, typing it in. Two minutes later, the app is downloaded.

She's handing my phone back to me when it starts buzzing, a string of notifications. At first I think they must be from Jayhe, but they're pictures some of the girls at school posted to social media—ambulances pulled up in front of the conservatory building. I scroll through, trying to figure out what happened.

There's a post on that new girl Isabela's feed—
“Oh shit! Eleanor's headed to the hospital. Allergic reaction.”
A string of comments and sad smiley faces follow. The picture pops up on a dozen more feeds.

Nuts. Allergies. Eleanor. Hospital.

“Oh my god.” Bette just keeps repeating those three words.

Bette texts Alec. She's pacing while she waits the few minutes for him to text back. “This can't be happening,” she keeps saying. “Eleanor's super careful about her allergy.”

The thought sends shivers down my spine. Everyone knows
Eleanor is allergic to nuts—we've known since we were kids. She's never had an incident at school—until now. Which means one thing. The pranks are definitely getting worse. This time, it's definitely not Bette.

When Alec texts that it's Mount Sinai West, Bette's already halfway out the door—throwing a coat and scarf over her leotard. She puts me in a cab, pays for it, and grabs another one, heading straight to the hospital.