Tiny Pretty Things (17 page)

“Oh” is all he says, shifting his weight back and forth from one foot to the other.

“I was down here lifting weights,” I lie.

He laughs. “Seriously? What can you bench?” he jokes, his voice husky and teasing. It sends an unexpected shiver up my spine. He’s being weirdly nice. “I bet you can’t even lift fifty pounds,” he says, a grin spreading across his face. “I bet you only weigh fifty pounds.”

His words hit, and for some reason I can’t control the tears that pour down my cheeks and the sob that escapes my mouth. I can’t remember the last time I cried, and the thought of that makes me cry even more. This is not part of the plan.

“I’m sorry, June. I didn’t— I was just—” He pulls me into a hug, his body warm and strong. For some reason, this catches me off guard. I bury my face in his hoodie, let the spicy scent of his cologne mellow the shakiness out of me.

He keeps apologizing and trying to get me to calm down, but I stay there. He asks me if he should
go get someone or call my mom. I don’t answer. So then he just stops talking, strokes my hair, and squeezes his arms tight around me, as if he’s done it a thousand times before. So tight I think I could disappear. He somehow takes the sharpness out of me.

I look up at him, even though I know my makeup’s a mess and I’m a mess. I want to ask him: “Why did you disappear? Why did you choose her over me? Weren’t we friends? Did you believe the things she told you about me?”

“My
halmeoni
asks about you all the time,” he says, mimicking her soft accent: “‘Where’s that little girl with the too light hair?’”

She would always say my hair was unusually light for a Korean. A pale, ashy brown. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that my dad was white. He doesn’t answer any of the questions swirling through my head, but he makes me smile.

We laugh, and I hiccup. He wipes a tear from my cheek. And I feel like I’m that little girl in his basement again.

“Ballet makes you all so sad. You never used to be like this.”

“How was I?” I ask. “How did I used to be?”

“Bright,” he says, which is a strange word. But it feels right. Before he can clarify, I lean up and kiss him. My first kiss with a boy. Quick and urgent, like he might disappear altogether, like he might fall out of my grasp again. But he doesn’t. His mouth is warm and tastes like a cinnamon stick. He doesn’t push me away or pull me close, but I feel his mouth press into mine a little, and I know he’s just kissed me back.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

SATURDAY MORNING LIGHT FLICKERS THROUGH
the window and, in response, my butterflies flap their wings, their tiny shadows bleating across the windowsill. I remember when my dad brought home my very first terrarium.

“They’re for good luck,” he said, placing the glass box in my bedroom window with his big brown hands. I was eight and on bed rest for exhaustion, spending days and nights in my nightgown gazing at the trolleys chugging past my window on the tracks.

“Why do I need luck?” I’d pressed my nose close to the terrarium, wondering if I could train them
to perch in my hair using my curls as twigs.

“Everybody needs a little.” He adjusted the container while I watched the monarchs flutter around inside. “Some people believe butterflies are the souls of the dead. Those who have come back to us.”

I gawked at those tiny creatures and their round eyes, wondering if one was Granny or my third grade teacher, Mrs. Charlotte. I wondered if that’s what people became after death.

Even now, I’m thinking of Cassie, who of course I never knew, and who isn’t dead, but maybe in a place that’s worse—being unable to dance. I thump the glass and greet the twelve little ones who came across the country with me. I pull two flowers from the good luck bouquet Mama and Dad sent me after I finally told them about landing the Sugar Plum Fairy role, and place them inside the cage. The monarchs tickle my arm and land on the petals, ready to sip their nectar.

“Okay, little ones,” I say to them, then realize June’s still in bed. Across the room, I hear her gentle breathing. I’m shocked she’s still asleep. Not like June at all. She’s usually up and in the studio before me. She doesn’t believe in sleeping on weekends. And I’ve gotten used to having weekend mornings to myself in the room.

I check my phone. A tiny hope floats up when I tap on the screen. Maybe there’ll be a text from Alec. I sigh. He’s broken up with Bette, but I don’t know what that means for us. We’ve texted a lot, and practiced our
pas
, but nothing else really.

There’s only one message from Aunt Leah:
Doctor’s Appt @ 9:30. Your mom scheduled it. Sorry! Coming @ 8:30.

I set the phone back, disappointed. On my desk there’s a baggie of tiny origami turkeys with funny facial expressions. I look up at the calendar on my wall. You can lose track of the days here, your focus singular and intense. Thanksgiving is next week.

Who left this?
I quietly rummage some more, searching for a note or message.

“It’s from Alec,” June whispers.

I flinch and don’t turn around. She hates being woken up.

“Sorry,” I whisper quickly, but she rolls over without a response. I clamp my hand over my mouth to hold back my smile. I touch the tiny turkeys, running my fingers along each crease and fold. I wish I could share this with her. When I first got here, I wanted to be her friend so bad, but she didn’t say more than two words to me. She opens and closes like a morning glory. And lately, she’s been closed up tight, not wanting to grab meals together or rehearse.

I leave the room. I shower, unable to stop thinking about Alec. I run my fingers over my lips, remembering our kiss in the Light closet. The thought of his kisses gets my heart pounding, but it feels good. I don’t try to calm it down. I don’t try to control my breathing. I close my eyes as water hits my shoulder blades and wonder what it would be like for his lips to find that same spot.

I have never wanted any boy before, not really, and definitely not someone as dangerous to want as Alec. The feeling is so strong this morning, I worry that I won’t be able to keep zipping it in. It has breath and life of its own. Besides, I don’t know that I want to stop it. At home, guys tried to hang out with me—redheaded Robert, who came to all my birthday parties despite being the only boy
there; skater-boy Noah, who asked me to the eighth grade dance; and Jamal, who left love notes in my locker all through tenth grade. But I never paid any attention to them, running off to my dance classes and private lessons. But Alec makes me pay attention to him. Even though I know I should fret about Bette’s reaction.

I go to the RA office on the fourth floor, where I’ll wait for Aunt Leah, though I’m sure she’ll be late, like always. Will is sprawled out on the far couch with an icepack on his knee.

“What happened to you?” I ask.

He doesn’t open his eyes at first. So I repeat my question. Then he turns his head and says, “Prevention.” He adjusts the ice. “I ice every day regardless of injury to keep inflammation down.” His voice is sharp and moody.

“Oh,” is all I can manage to say. No wonder he is such a flawless dancer.

“I’m surprised you’re up,” I say to fill the quiet.

“Why? I’m always up early,” Will mumbles. He’s Alec’s best friend, and that’s all I know about him. And despite the fact that he’s amazing in rehearsal, Mr. K never looks pleased with him. “Where you going, anyway?” he adds, sizing up my jeans, sweater, and coat.

I flush, and for a second ponder telling him the truth. But that would be stupid. “Brunch. With my aunt.” It’s not a lie, really. We actually will probably get brunch after my doctor’s appointment. “Do all the boys get up this early on a Saturday?” I try, in the hopes that he’ll mention something about Alec, and if he’s up, too. He smiles in that preparatory way that will surely lead to a juicy story or some information.

“You like him, don’t you?” he asks.

“Like who?” I say, knowing full well he means Alec. But Will is not exactly my friend, and I’m not exactly sure it’s safe to say anything at all to anyone.

“Don’t pretend now,” he says. “He tells me everything.”

I blush and look away.

“So, do you like him?”

“Maybe,” I finally say.

“You’re not like Bette, so I like you. I could get to like you and him together.” He shifts the icepack around on his knee, and plays with his hair. June calls him “Carrot Top” in private. “Yeah. Maybe the two of you won’t be so bad.”

“Okay,” I say, not sure how to respond to that.

“Bette’s a bitch, you know. She’s, like, empty. Seriously empty. And you know she’s the one who wrote that message on the mirror. I’d recognize that too-pink Chanel lipstick anywhere. She can’t get enough of it. She thinks it’s so cute.”

“Really?” I say, even though I know it was her.

“Be honest . . . come on. You can tell me. You know you think it was her. We all know.” Will is trying to look concerned, but he isn’t hiding his eager smile. “It’s her signature. Trust me. Any and all pranks lead back to her.”

The confirmation makes sense. And it gets me wondering: if she wrote the message on the mirror, then she must’ve left the picture of Henri and me, and my stolen medical report in the Light closet. I ponder confronting her. “Why does she act like that?”

“I can’t even say that it’s ’cause Bette’s so damaged. Or blame it on her messed-up family. The one thing about this place”—he looks all around, ready to share his secret—“is that it brings out the worst shit. The worst shit in all of us. Even I’ve done stuff I’m not proud of.” He moves the icepack to his other knee. “Maybe it’s ballet. I don’t know. There’s only room for one star. And everybody else doesn’t matter. They blend into the background, like stage ornaments. Bette has always been that star here. Set up by her sister. A legacy, a done deal. Well, until you came around. I like it. You’re different.”

There’s that word again. “Because I’m black?” I straight out ask, hating that being
different
can be a code word for being black, for something that isn’t white.

“No”—he shakes his head and adds a laugh—“because you’re not the type to take someone down just to be on top. Your dancing is, like, that good. You don’t need to. Not desperate. Not Bette.”

“Then why does everybody love her?” I ask. “Even Alec.”

He releases the longest sigh I’ve ever heard. “They’ve been together forever. Since we came here. I’ve been stuck with them as a
couple
since I was six.”

I imagine Bette and Alec as six-year-olds, blond and little and perfect for each other, and my stomach twists. I don’t want to compete with her in another arena; it’s already too much in the studio and onstage. I’m being so stupid. He and I don’t match. I should stop this crush. Stay focused.

Will talks more about them as kids. I picture Mama’s wall of photos of me: fuzzy curls, brown skin, sun-kissed cheeks, little hippie dresses caked with mud and sand, and Mama’s paint all over my hands. I’m not the girl who’s supposed to be with him. I don’t look like I fit perfectly by his side, like Bette. Alec and I are mismatched puzzle pieces.

“I know he . . . thinks the world of you, Gigi.” He’s working his face into gentle kindness, but he’s bitter and pleased right under the surface. His eyes are bright and the edges of his mouth keep twitching up. “What’s it all like?” he asks.

“What’s what like?” I look at him again, confused.

“Having him like you?” he says.

I don’t have an answer. I don’t understand the look on his face. I try to say something. Nothing but a weird mutter comes out.

The phone at the desk rings. An RA comes down the hall and grabs it from the desk. “Gigi, your aunt is coming up,” she says.

“Just be careful here. Careful with Alec. Careful with everybody,” he says, then leaves me sitting there, head buzzing with all his revelations and the echo of a warning, along with the trail of his too-flowery cologne. A chill settles in to my stomach.

Aunt Leah appears in an elevator. “You ready, kid?”

She hugs me, squeezing my arms, rocking back and forth—like always. Her hair smells like
Mama’s curls, full of shea butter and citrus. In this moment, I miss home and Sunday morning breakfasts, the smell of my dad’s coffee, and listening to him read the paper to my mother while she sketches.

Aunt Leah signs me out and we walk to the subway. She holds my hand, just the way she did when I was a little girl, and I let her. Her hand looks just like Mama’s—thin brown fingers and two freckles in one of her smooth, round nail beds.

I can smell the park and wish we could go there instead of to Mama’s doctor friend, who agreed to examine me on a Saturday. Mothers push strollers. Church bells chime. The smell of roasted chestnuts wafts from the vendors as we near the subway entrance. We enter the station. Aunt Leah squeezes my hand to get my attention. “Lost in a daydream? You’re quiet today. Too quiet. How’s school? Ballet? Boys?” She swipes me through the turnstile and we wait on the platform for the next train. “Are there even any straight boys?”