Tiny Pretty Things (10 page)

“Okay,” I said.

“I don’t—I’m not—” Her voice broke. “I was just—”

“Of course not,” I said. Korean girls don’t kiss other Korean girls. They kiss boys. They marry boys. I wanted to ask more, wanted to know why she kissed me and what was really going on. To let her know that she’d be okay, no matter what. That I’d be there for her.

“It’s fine. All of it—” I started to say, but she put her hand up, and I had to go.

Before the end of that day, Sei-Jin asked the RAs to move me out of our room, and a week later a rumor surfaced. That I was a lesbian and she didn’t want to live with me anymore. My mother was called, and the guidance counselor lectured me about making other students feel uncomfortable.

Sei-Jin’s wearing that same shade of lipstick now, and I bet her mouth tastes like it did all those years ago. A mix of lipstick and grapefruit and tea. Probably a lot like mine does, actually.

“You’re always second favorite, aren’t you?” Sei-Jin says, taking a step closer to me.

Sei-Jin’s sweet perfume wraps around me. She bats her big eyes, lashes like spiders. “Understudy for Gigi. No one’s first choice. You think you’re so great, but no one else does, huh?” Her eyes narrow.

That hits. My momentary quick wit vanishes, and I fidget, trying to squirm out from under her gaze. It only hurts when it’s true, I guess. I feel the jewelry box shift in my duffle bag and hear the tinkle of its insides. I don’t know if she’s thinking of my father, too, but I can’t help myself. The only thing my mom ever said about him was that he started a new family, one he prefers more than us. What Sei-Jin says is true in more ways than one.

Of all the things she’s called me—a bitch, a poser, a wannabe-white girl—this is the worst. Understudy. I remember my mom’s words on the phone. And her threat. If I can’t do better, I’m getting pulled out.

“Nobody wants you,” Sei-Jin says.

I want to say that
she
wanted me. I want to bring up the kiss. Which I never have. Not all these years. But I don’t. I’ve kept her little secret.

Jayhe says something to her in Korean. She stops.

“You already won,” I say at last. Sei-Jin doesn’t know what to do with that. I want Jayhe to see her as the bad one. The other girls throw a few Korean insults my way, and even though I can translate some of it and know how rude they’re being, they can’t come close to hurting me the way Sei-Jin just did. Sei-Jin hushes them, waving her hand in their direction the way I’ve seen Bette do to Eleanor and Liz. She really is trying to model herself after Queen Bette, and she’s pulling it off. The girls quiet instantly.

I turn to retreat into the studio.

“I found this,” Sei-Jin says, and reaches into her own bag. Something glints in her hand, and I know immediately what it is. My missing compact. She knows how important it is to me. It’s always in my bag or on my desk. I imagine her riffling through my room. I grab for it, like a child, and am surprised when she lets me have it. Her mouth twitches, holding back a smile. I open the compact, but inside the mirror is broken, and the glass has cut the perfect little powder cake. It’s destroyed.

“Oops,” Sei-Jin says.

The hall is now full of dancers and they all must be watching, because the space is silent and I feel the heat of a dozen pairs of eyes on my face.

Jayhe says something else. Sei-Jin and he spar back and forth. I wonder if it’s about me. I click the compact closed, wondering if I can glue the tiny mirror back together again.

Morkie sweeps everyone into the studio for class. We warm up, complete our barre exercises, then Morkie makes us do
fouetté
turns in the center. I go to the front of the class, squeezing between some of the other girls. I spread out my arms to get them to move. Some grumble. Others mutter under their breaths. I don’t care. I want her to see me turn.

The music starts. The other girls around me finish their four turns. Just what Morkie asked for. But I can’t stop. I spin and spin and spin, stamping out the conversation I had with Sei-Jin. I do one revolution for every insult and mean word.

I feel eyes on me for the first time. Morkie walks in front of me. The other girls move away from me. I know they want me to stop. I know they’re thinking that I should’ve just done the four turns Morkie asked for. I am alone in the center. A spinning top.

I’ve lost count of how many I’ve done. I finally come down off my leg.

“Bravo!” Morkie says. She calls me dedicated in front of everyone. She says my
fouettés
are perfect. Usually, I’m a ghost to her and all the teachers. Not worth noticing. But not today. I took the risk. I pushed myself to show off a little.

Everyone claps for me, except for Sei-Jin. Some rub my back and give me compliments that don’t feel fake or ridiculously see-through. Gigi squeezes me so tight I feel like I can’t breathe. She grins like she’s proud she gets to live with me. I fight the warm feelings it gives me. I even see Mr. Lucas, Alec’s dad, watching from behind the glass wall—which he almost never does. He gives me a strange little smile and nod.

When I curtsy and return to the barre, I catch Jayhe’s eyes on me through the glass. He’s standing instead of sitting now. I hold his stare for what feels like an eternity, then turn my back, trying to
fight off a smirk, the weight of his gaze heavy on my slim shoulders. Not so invisible anymore.

I know what I’m going to do to Sei-Jin.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

I
’
VE BEEN VISITING THE MIRROR
in studio E every night, looking for the edges of the message Bette left me. The girls told me it was her, and probably Liz, and maybe Eleanor, too. It was cleaned off days ago. Everyone else seems to have forgotten the way it looked, but I hear the threat in my head like my performance music. Each time it repeats, I get more determined to be the best Sugar Plum Fairy, more determined not to give into the ugliness and pettiness of it all.

Light switches are turned off in the hallway. The RAs start shutting down the studios for the night, so I slip out and take the elevator to the first floor. I sneak down to my basement room.

It’s empty, aside from dust bunnies in the corners and the creaks and clacks of the old radiator and the buzzing of nearly dead lightbulbs. But I get lost in the mirror in this room, too. I can’t move, can’t close my eyes to meditate, just keep looking at my reflection. Mama always says it’s unnatural to spend a lot of time in front of the mirror, that it calls out the worst of us. But for a dancer, the mirror is home.

I try to focus and imagine myself filling with light, the way I did in yoga class with Ella back home. I want the beams to erase the message and all my worries about it. Then I lift one of my legs, first to the barre, and then toward my ear. I want to become one straight, impossible line, from my left toe on the ground all the way to my right toe in the air. But my body isn’t responding as it usually does. There’s a little ache in my heart. I can’t decide if I’d prefer it to be over Alec or something medical. I’m not sure which is more dangerous.

“I can help you with that,” a male voice cuts through the silence.

I pivot with my leg in the air, assuming it’s Alec. He’s the only one who knows I dance down here. I beam, and turn to face him with a look far too eager to be truly innocent.

“Happy to see you, too.” It’s Henri Dubois, the other new kid, and he’s staring me down. He has eyes like the people in Mama’s artwork, dark and dreamy and haunted. He runs his hand through his
dark, shaggy hair. He’s still in his dance belt and tights, and I can’t help looking between his legs. Those dance belts make everything look enormous. He catches my gaze and steps back, so I look at the floor.

“I’ve got it. I think,” I say, and sink even farther into a stretch.

He approaches me.

We haven’t said more than three sentences to each other. The only things I know about him come from articles I read in dance magazines. He was one of the rising stars at the Paris Opera School.
Was
being the operative word, at least according to the gossip. Rumor has it that he was kicked out.

“Oh, come on,” he says. “Ballet is a team sport.” He walks the rest of the way into the room, dodging broken barre poles.

“How’d you find me?” I say, bringing my leg down on my own. I’m not ready for his hands to be crawling up to support the place where my thigh meets my hipbone. I should be upset he’s found my hiding spot. I want only Alec to know about it.

I lower myself down to the floor, which seems safer for about one second.

“I was not looking for you.” He sits in front of me. His accent is attractive and flowing, and I can’t help liking the way his words blend together. For sixteen years I haven’t had a single spark of interest in ballet boys, in any boys, really, but suddenly I’m all butterflies and unexpected sweat. I don’t feel like myself. My head fills with new thoughts and feelings and ideas. Henri has probably always been cute in class and rehearsals, but I’ve never really
noticed.
In the strange, broken light of the notorious basement studio, though, he makes my throat go dry.

“You hide in here don’t you?” he says. “When I don’t see you in the rec room with everybody else, you’re in here.”

I don’t answer. A half smile creeps across his mouth, and I’m not sure what’s so funny, but he has the most perfect dimples. I’m tempted to rest my thumbs in them. See how deep they are.

“Shouldn’t you be cooling down from rehearsal?” I say, for lack of anything better.

“Shouldn’t you?” he spits back, then grins. “You ballerinas take things so seriously.” He mutters something in French, and I like the way it sounds and how his mouth curves as he speaks it. “Let’s stretch, Giselle.” He doesn’t call me Gigi, but says my name the way it’s supposed to be said—all long
l
s and soft
e
s. I want to tell him my parents met as twenty-something ex-pats in Paris. That they’d named me Giselle after the famous ballet.

“We need a little music,” he says. He pulls out his phone and the button clicks echo until tiny chords ping from the device. Suddenly,
The Nutcracker
pours out. He opens his legs in a
V
and reaches for me. With strong hands, he pulls my hips toward his and adjusts my leg placement, like a doll’s. Not once does he ask, just curls his fingers around my legs and spreads them. Part of me doesn’t mind the feel of his touch. Part of me doesn’t feel like myself. He touches me like we’ve been friends for a while. And strangely, I welcome it.

He removes his moccasins, and we touch our feet together, letting the soles kiss. The balls of his feet are calloused and his toe joints are thick and raised—he’s got the feet of a dancer. Our legs make
a diamond shape until he pulls me forward. I elongate my legs into a straight line. I haven’t stretched with a boy like this before. I never join in with the other students when they do it. There were no boys at my California studio, so the girls would stretch each other. Here, there don’t seem to be any boundaries. I’m not used to all this touching, but I move even closer though my mind says no, don’t stretch with him like this.

“Don’t hyperextend,” he warns.

I scoff and show off my flexibility. The space between my thighs inches closer to his dance belt. As he leans forward, I spot a tiny mole beneath his right eye. He’s so close he could kiss me if he wanted, and I wouldn’t be able to stop him. I’ve never been kissed before. A few close calls, a brush against my lips, a stage peck, but nothing real. Not a kiss with heat.

He rolls a white mint in his mouth. The tiny orb oscillates above and below his tongue—a white boat in a red ocean. Sweat dampens my brow and my hands get clammy. He doesn’t seem to notice, and just interlaces his fingers in mine. My heart jumps a little. I tell it to stop. I should get up and go to the dorms and get ready for bed. But I can’t. I feel glued in place.

“Come this way.” We change the stretch. He tugs me forward, lifting me off the floor, and I lie just above him, two inches from his chest, a deep tug in my hamstrings, pulling out the soreness caused by new rehearsal jumps. We hold the position and then switch. When he falls forward, I can feel his breath on my stomach. The hair on my body lifts and a faint pulse thrums between my legs, like a tiny drum.

I snap upright, knocking into him. “I’m all loose,” I babble, and close my legs, waiting for the new sensation to disappear.

The room feels too quiet. I hear the light buzz. It reverberates under my skin, half pleasant, half terrible. I hear his breathing. I hear the acceleration of my heartbeat.
Control your breathing.
He holds me in place, and his eyes study my expression. A chill rushes over me, like there are a thousand pairs of eyes on my face. Before I can dodge him, Henri leans forward and his lips brush my cheek and the side of my lips. Too close for comfort.

I snap backward. His face falls. “Giselle, I’m so sorry. I don’t . . . know . . . why I did that.”

I don’t know how to react.

“You just remind me of my ex, Cassie,” he says, dropping his head. “You’re both just really good. I miss her.”