Shiny Broken Pieces (14 page)

“But—”

She doesn't let him finish. “What you're doing doesn't work. This will.”

When he opens his mouth again, my mom adds: “Also, Mr. K, June has invested lot of time and money into this conservatory. It doesn't make sense for her to finish elsewhere, whether she chooses to dance or decides to go to college. You see trustee board approvals, correct?” She doesn't say my father's name, but we all know it's there. “Then we should be all set.”

With that, she rises, motioning for me to get up, too. “June,
yobo
, come now. I'm sure you have class.”

We walk in silence back to the elevators, and she buttons up her coat, ready to leave. But as she turns away, I grab her arm. “Thank you.” I'm trying my best not to cry. I know my dance class will let out any second, and I can't let the others see me like
this. “For everything. I'll get better, I promise you that. I'll work with a counselor, I'll do whatever she asks, I'll be strong and sturdy and do you proud.”

She nods, silent for a minute. “I want to tell you something, E-Jun.” She's standing so close to me, we could embrace. But we don't. “What happened today is not your fault. It's mine. When you were a small girl, you saw a ballerina for the first time, and your face lit up. And—” She chokes a bit on her words, wipes at her face with her gloves. “And I thought, she's like me. A dancer. It made me so, so happy. I admit, it meant you were like him, too. We could prove to
him
that we were good enough—that you were good enough. So I push you. Hard. And realized my mistake too late. You love to dance. You live to dance. But dying to dance? No, E-Jun. This I will not allow.” My mom looks square at me. “So prove you can be healthy. I will not support ballet if you're not healthy.”

I nod, and for a moment we just stand there, staring at each other. Then she pats my shoulder, and pushes the button for the elevator. When it dings, she watches me as I get into the elevator, pushing the button for the twelfth floor. My eyes stay on her as the doors start to close, and for the first time in months, I feel like I can do this. I stick my hand between the elevator doors just as they're about to lock shut, and they retract.

But when I step back outside, she's already gone.

DAD SITS AT OUR TABLE
for the first time in years. The Christmas tree behind him washes his cream-colored sweater in reds and greens. Even though it's Thanksgiving, the tree has to be up. It's an Abney tradition. Justina brings him a fresh glass of Scotch and pours my mother another glass of wine. I guess they're going toe-to-toe tonight. The stress of having to deal with each other is too much for both of them. The puzzle pieces might be too warped to fit.

“It's nice to have us all here,” my mother says, and I can't fight the feeling that I agree with her. I almost reach for her, to pat her hand, but she's still my mother. She's still untouchable and unpredictable. A server appears in the room, and I realize my mother has pulled out all the stops for tonight. My father looks pleased when Adele finally settles in at the table, across from him and next to me. “Auditions soon. How are things going?”

“Fine.”

“How are your roommates?”

“Great.”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“No,” she says. She's here, she's committed, but if he thinks she'll make things easy on him, well, he's in for it.

The server places butternut squash soup in front of us. I watch my dad eat. He spoons soup into his mouth and holds it there for a few seconds longer than everyone else at the table, as if he's savoring it. I wonder if he likes the Thanksgiving menu my mother settled on. She and Adele fussed over it in the kitchen for days. I wonder if he misses this, misses us.

“How's Howard?” my mother asks about my father's business partner. I wouldn't recognize him if I walked past him on the street.

“Howard is great. Their oldest, Benji, just got engaged. Eugenia is busy helping her future daughter-in-law plan the wedding and driving him crazy. Eugenia asks about the girls, and you, all the time.”

“Does she now?” My mother downs the rest of the red wine in her glass. “Well, she stopped calling after you divorced me.”

Adele drops her soup spoon. The clatter rings out but isn't loud enough to cover up what my mother has just said.

“That's a most unfortunate thing.” Dad paves right over it, like she's just commented that the soup is too cold. “Adele, my secretary called ABC today to purchase a block of tickets for the anniversary performance. Should we invest in one of the sponsor packages as well?”

Adele doesn't look up from her bowl. She shrugs her shoulders. I guess she's done talking for tonight. If you could call what she's managed to say so far actual talking.

“It can't hurt.” I try to fill the silence. “Every little bit helps.”

“It's nice for us to show our support for Adele, too,” he says, totally missing the point.

“Yeah, I mean, that's obvious.” Although you could support me, too, I want to add. But I don't. “I've almost figured out who really pushed Gigi and—”

My father slams down his spoon then, and looks at me. He really looks at me, for the first time in months, maybe even years. I think he's going to say “Great” or “You'll be cleared in no time.” Instead, he sighs. “Bette,” he says, like he's talking about some petulant, six-year-old version of me, “the settlement is done.”

I want to pout. Honestly, that's my gut reaction. But I can't. It'll just make him continue to think it's okay to talk to me that way, like I'm not nearly an adult who's been living on her own for almost a decade. We sit in silence as soup bowls are replaced with salads and slices of turkey. No sweet potatoes for me this year, I guess. Then the plates are cleared, and dessert is presented to us.

“So now you're giving me the silent treatment?” My father laughs. It's painful.

“What else should we say?” I scrape the plate, just to piss them all off.

He finishes his drink. “Well, I thought it would be nice for you guys to spend some more time with me, so I arranged a brunch for tomorrow. Your mother”—he looks pointedly in her
direction, as if she should confirm—“said that it would be fine, and that both of your schedules are clear. There's this woman I've been seeing, Sara Beth. She's lovely. It's getting serious, so I'd like you girls to meet her.”

My mother pushes away from the table, startling everyone.

“I'd rather not—” I start to say, but she interrupts.

“You didn't tell me that.” She turns to my father, her voice cold as the November air. “Not happening. Not anytime soon.”

“Rebecca, you can't be serious about this.”

“Oh, I'm dead serious. You are welcome to take your daughters to brunch. Alone.”

“You know I've been seeing Sara Beth—”

“Way more than you see your daughters? Yes, we're all well aware of that fact. Especially given that Bette has been suffering enormously the past few months, and you've barely been around. And frankly”—she waves away the staff—“maybe it's better that way. This whole ‘family Thanksgiving' was an error in judgment on my part, girls.” Her words feel directed at Adele, who has been silent this whole time. “Robert, I think it's best if you leave.”

My dad looks floored, but he doesn't wear humiliation well. “Girls, you know, honestly, that I'm just a phone call away, right?”

Adele chooses that moment to speak. “That's just it, Dad, isn't it? You're just a phone call. That's all.”

My father looks devastated as he walks out. So why am I the one who feels like I've been socked in the stomach?

Adele starts on her pie, and aside from the clanging of the
fine china, we eat in silence. All in all, it feels very much like your typical Abney holiday celebration.

The next day, I sit at the desk in my bedroom in front of the lawyers' boxes, poring over files again, when Justina comes in with a large box. The postmark features the conservatory's zip code, and my heart leaps. I tear into the heavy cardboard box. Inside is a stack of
People
magazines, probably about a hundred copies, all identical. I don't get it. There's some random country star on the cover. I flip through the pages, trying to figure it out, and there is Gigi, beaming up at me.

I always wanted to see my name in this magazine. Now, I finally do. But in this heartwarming story about this phoenix's rise from the ashes at the American Ballet Conservatory, Bette Abney has been cast as the villain. Not by Gigi herself. Oh no, she's too “nice” to point a finger like that. The article mentions the settlement, though, implying that it was in the seven figures. Implying my guilt.

I expect tears, rage, fury. But all I can manage is exhaustion. Maybe the battle is really over. Maybe she's really won. I run my fingers over an image of her as the Sugar Plum Fairy, and she really is luminous.

That's when I see the pictures of her and Alec, a cutesy, lovey-dovey photo booth strip running down the side of the third page of the story. They look smitten. Seeing those photos of her cuddling up to Alec, my heart sinks all the way down to my toes, and I realize, maybe for the first time, just how much I really miss him. How much I really miss us. Especially
on a thankless day like today. I shiver and pull my wrap sweater tighter around me. I want to curl up in my bed and not wake up until after New Year's.

I know Will sent these to me. Or worse, maybe Gigi. They pulled that trick right out of my playbook.

I open up my phone. I click on the camera app even though I know Gigi went to California and Cassie is probably home with the Lucas clan for the Thanksgiving holiday. The dorm rooms are empty. My father's words echo in my head like they've been said through a megaphone:
The settlement is done
.

I throw my phone across the room. It crashes into a stack of CDs on the shelf, then rings. I've probably messed up my phone, but it still blares out. I scramble for it and answer.

“Hello?”

“Hello?” the voice replies. “Who is this?”

“How'd you get this number?” I ask.

“You left it for me. On YouTube.”

I suck in a breath and hold it in my chest. I don't know what to say. Maybe:
Hi, my name is Bette Abney and I think you have footage of the night when a girl was shoved into a car, and it got blamed on me, and I need to see whatever that is.

“You there?”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Here.” I put on my mother's most professional tone. “My name is Bette Abney, and I'm a dancer with the American Ballet Conservatory. You might have—”

“You're one of those girls from that night at the club. The accident. Right?”

This guy doesn't mess around. “Yes. I don't know if you've
been following the situation but Gigi—Giselle Stewart—the girl who was hit, she's doing much better. She's one of my friends.” I slip in the tiny lie.

“Oh, that's good. She was beautiful—you all were. I was worried about her.”

“We're trying to figure out who pushed her. Did you have the rest of the footage?”

“I saw it all go down.” There's a gross smirk in his voice.

“So who did you see? Can you clarify for me?” I use words like the lawyers did. I squeeze my phone so tightly I can feel it start to bend under the weight of my grip. All the bits of my life lay shattered, a mess that I'm painstakingly trying to put together, on the top of my desk.

“I have the rest of the footage, but it got flagged on YouTube for being too violent.”

“Can I share it with her?” This could be it. This could be exactly what I need to clear my name. I work hard not to sound overeager, not to scare this guy off. “It could be super helpful in resolving this matter.”

“Yeah, I don't need it. I'm emailing it to you right now. Same address as the one in the message, right?”

“Yes.” I try not to sound breathless and desperate. I flip open my laptop and click on my email. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.” I try to stay calm. I wait for him to ask for money or something in return. I don't believe in Good Samaritans.

But a few seconds later, the email pops up from Jeff Waters.

“Enjoy.” He hangs up.

I click on the attachment. I watch us stumble out of the club.
My heart thuds as I fast-forward to the place where it cut off online. I hear Gigi's laugh. I see Alec, Will, and Eleanor and me, not far behind them. June holds hands and steals kisses with Jayhe.

The camera wobbles. My cheeks flush and I grind my teeth. The taxi lurches down the street. Gigi flies forward. In the next moment, she's sprawled out in the street, in front of the taxi. It was that fast. I rewind it and try to catch who did it. But I can't quite make it out. I rewind it again. It's still too quick. I open a new tab and search for a slow-motion app. I download it and open the video file through that. Then I watch it all happen again, slowly unfolding on my screen. I see the hands on her back.

I fight the upward pull of a smile across my mouth.

I know exactly who did it. And for once, on this otherwise desperate holiday, I have something to be thankful for.

TODAY I GET A LITTLE
peek at my future. The one I've been dreaming of since I was just a little girl. The
Swan Lake
auditions are held in the new American Ballet Company building, which is across the plaza from the conservatory. Sunlight washes the marble in rich golden yellows, and for a moment the space looks less intimidating than it is. The place I want to be cast as a lead in
Swan Lake
. The place I want to be called a rising star. The place I want to spend my career.

In my head, my life as a professional ballerina plays over and over. Shows at night. Traveling all over the world with the company. Working my way from the corps to soloist, and then to principal. I haven't made room for any other life. I wouldn't know what to do.

I'm a whole three hours early. I needed to be able to come over here alone, to get away from stretching dancers and girls running around the hall trying to figure the best black leotard
for the auditions and all the chatter about Damien Leger and his preferences. Old worries creep back into me, but I don't have Alec to talk to now. We haven't talked since our argument.

The doors slide open to the company lobby. It even smells different in here than in the conservatory. A rush of heat warms me up from the cold December wind outside. Floor-to-ceiling portraits of company stars line the walls. Elevators ping open and shut. Dancers move in and out of them, many wearing company logoed sweats. Glass-walled studios reveal dancers in various stages of movement. There's modern dance in one. Folk dancing in another. Hip hop in a third. When I look up, I can see four more studios full of ballerinas working through classical choreography. Skylights let in so much sun I'm almost blinded.

There's a man sitting at an info desk. “Excuse me, can I help you?” I don't realize he's talking to me until he repeats himself. “Hey you, miss. Can I help you?” He isn't angry, but annoyed.

“I dance at the conservatory. I'm here for the
Swan Lake
audition.”

“Do you have your ID?” He's walking back to his desk now, and I guess I'm supposed to follow.

“I don't have it. It's back in my dorm room.”

“So how am I supposed to believe you?”

I can't tell if he's joking or not, so I sort of laugh and motion to my clothes. I'm dressed like a ballerina—hair in a bun, mukluks on my feet to keep them comfy, sweats, dance bag, and even a little audition makeup. I take off my winter coat to show him my conservatory hoodie.

“People just show up here, you know? Crazies obsessed with ballet.” He starts to trail off on a tangent about the ballet weirdos.

“Gigi?” Someone behind me says my name. I turn around. Bette's face stares back at me. Except it isn't really her, it's her sister, Adele, who's just walked into the building. They look so much alike that my heart accelerates and my monitor buzzes.

“Don't you look lovely today, Adele Abney,” the guard says.

“And you're lovelier than ever,” she coos back. Even her voice has the same melodic lilt that Bette's does. “Are you giving one of the conservatory's finest a hard time?”

“Little thing doesn't have her ID,” he says. “Policy. Can't let her in.”

“Well, she'll be coming with me. She's here for the auditions, I'm sure of it. And there will be many more flooding in. They start at six p.m.”

Adele leans over his desk and they whisper about something I can't hear. As annoying as he is, I'm actually glad he doesn't recognize me from the articles or the TV segment that ran earlier in the week about the school and the accident.

“Gigi, let me show you where you all will be.” Her hand finds my shoulder and she ushers me away from the desk, farther into the lobby of the American Ballet Company. “Don't mind him. He's overzealous and takes his job way too seriously. He's been here a million years.” She turns down a hall.

“Oh.” That's all I can seem to get out. Walking this close to Bette's sister, Mr. K's favorite dancer, the star of the American Ballet Company, feels weird. She even smells like Bette—a
powdery, sweet, and light perfume mixed with the scent of expensive clothes.

“Auditions will be in here.” She points into a studio that's being set up with extra barres through the center and chairs along the mirror. “And the dressing room is around the corner for you to change.”

“Thanks.” I'm not sure how to make any sort of meaningful conversation. This is the woman we all want to be. “Also, I appreciate you helping me out back there with that guy. I just wanted to be here early to get ready.”

She strokes my shoulder. “Oh, I get it. And—” she pauses, “I just wanted to apologize for anything my little sister did to make you feel uncomfortable. All this”—she motions around with her hands—“can really get to a person.” She waits for me to say something. “I mean, that's not an excuse for whatever she may have done. Just saying.”

I nod. Do I say thank you for apologizing for Bette, or tell her I hate her sister? Do I remind her that those little pranks turned into me getting seriously hurt? That Bette shoved me in front of a moving car?

She changes the subject before I can even get anything out. “Our cast lists go up tonight after your audition is done. So we'll be watching you.”

“You will?”

“Yeah, don't worry. It won't be a big deal.”

Several company members rush down the hall and start talking to Adele. Their eyes flit over me, brightening with recognition—probably from the newspapers rather than any
talent I might have—but they say nothing as if I'm not even standing there. They sweep her away.

“See you in there later, Gigi,” she calls out.

Just like that she's disappeared. Heading into one of the practice studios, I text Cassie about the run-in and Adele's apology. She texts back a WTF. I send Will a message, asking him to come over here early to warm up, but he doesn't answer. I head to the lockers to change, then find a place to stretch and think about the audition. I plot out in my head exactly how things will go.

Two hours later, all the girls are outside the studio, preparing to be invited in. Cassie sits beside me. We shake out our legs and bounce on our heels and smile at each other. Neither of us says a word. We both have to dance well tonight, and it's getting hard to concentrate as the room fills up with dozens of bodies.

The studio doors open.

“Good luck,” she whispers.
“Merde.”

“You, too.”

All the Level 8 girls line up, along with a few select lower levels, like Riho and Isabela. We are each given a place at the barre. A few company members stand outside the glass walls. There's waving behind the glass. I squint to see.

It's Mama and Aunt Leah. An embarrassed flush covers me. Mama smiles and blows me a kiss. Despite the hovering, I'm glad she's there. Better than any lucky charm, her presence makes me stand taller, feel stronger, more like my old self.

Damien marches into the studio, then Mr. K right behind him. There are two rows of chairs in the front of the studio, and
it feels like the most important audience I've ever danced for.

Damien gives us barre combinations in rapid-fire succession from
pliés
to
tendus
to
ronds de jambe
and turns at the barres. We do twenty minutes of exercises, then he comes around to inspect each one of us on the last combination. “
Tendu
front.
Demi-plié
. Then,
tendu
back. Turn away from the barre, arabesque.”

I can feel him getting closer, but I try to focus on pointing my toe and working through the positions fully. I try to center myself in the here and now, knowing every second counts. Damien gazes at me for a moment, but he doesn't say anything. He gives us twelve more barre combinations, and we work until our feet are warmed up and sweat drips down our backs. I try not to watch the company members in the mirror, but their faces are distracting. So I focus on my breathing, listening to the rhythm it makes. I tell my heart to be strong. I remind myself it has to be all effortless turns, soft fingers, and the cleanest positions.

Damien motions to the pianist to stop. “Please remove the barres. Put them in the far corners. Change into pointe shoes.”

I quickly change shoes, take a gulp of water, then warm up my feet.

Madame Dorokhova shows us the adagio routine she'd like to see. It's based on one of Odette's
Swan Lake
solos from Act Two. She goes through the complicated series of arm lifts, combinations, glissades, and turns. We mark it twice with the music. Then she splits us into small groups of three. I'm up first, with Eleanor and Cassie and a few others. I don't make eye contact with Eleanor. I haven't been able to apologize to her yet—and maybe after a month, it's too late. Guilt creeps up every time I
see her, and I have to work to push it down. June's among girls in the second group, left to wait in their pool of anxiety and panic. I can feel her eyes boring into me, nearly throwing me off-balance.

Focus
, I tell myself.
Relax
. I know I've got this. I position myself in front. I close my eyes until the third chord beat and I let myself forget that anyone else is in the room. I sink into the melodies. Madame Dorokhova's adagio is sad and slow and we have to hold poses for long stretches. I explode out of my stance with big leaps and sweeping arms, catching everyone by surprise. I dance long after the adagio has ended and the other girls have stopped. I build on to Madame Dorokhova's beautiful choreography, and the company pianist gives me another full chord to finish.

When I'm done, no one looks particularly pleased. I know I shouldn't have done that, but I smile, curtsy, move out of the center for the next group of dancers. I should go, but I need a minute to just revel in the flush of heat inside me and my labored breaths.

That was just for me, and for Mama.