Tiny Pretty Things (19 page)

There’s no response. My heart turns into a brick and drops to the floor. Every other December dress rehearsal since we were little, Alec has shown up with a bouquet of paper roses and a kiss. Even when he was too little to know how good it made me feel, he’d put a hand on each of my
cheeks, and hold my face before going in for that first dress-rehearsal kiss. Even at twelve, the guy knew what he was doing.

The little snow flurries have escalated, and the wind has picked up, so there’s nothing outside now but a wash of white. It’s time to go backstage. It’s time to care about the performance. It’s time to prepare myself to dance with Henri.

The calm of the lobby is in complete contrast with the chaos of backstage. Stick figure girls move at fast-forward speed, twisting their hair into buns, layering on stage makeup, doing contained versions of their choreography, marking the steps with little hops and hand flutters and complicated feet movements that take up only a few square inches of space. The smell of rosin and hair spray and stage makeup wafts through the air—the scent of ballet.

I swallow and walk to one of the mirrors. I don’t ask for permission, don’t say
excuse me
, or even put a hand on any of the other dancers, asking them to move aside. I just keep my head high and my gaze focused on the spot at the mirror that I have deemed my own, and take slow steps with the confidence that they will all part and make room for me.

Which they do. It’s all I have left: the ability to make them move for me, the illusion of power.

Shaking hands apply lipstick, silver shadow, silver eyeliner, midnight black mascara. They are so out of my control, they can’t possibly be mine. I practically blind myself with the liner, an impossible feat, since I’ve been putting on my own eyeliner before dress rehearsals and performances since I was eight, when Adele taught me to keep my lips parted and my eyes pointed skyward.

“You look amazing,” one of the corps members says in a small voice, like she’s been planning out that sorry sentence for hours.

“We all need to look amazing,” I say. “Mr. K expects nothing less.”

I used to do this a lot last year: talk about Mr. K with authority, report back on little things he’d said or done. It was easy last year: Mr. K and I spent so much time together that I could always pull out some saying of his or remind the girls of his vision for the ballet. I knew about their costumes before they did. I had insider information and would pull back the curtain to show them just an edge of each little secret. Enough to keep them on their toes. Enough to keep them in awe.

I’m trying to do it again today, but the most personal interaction I’ve had with Mr. K lately was him telling me I needed to work harder.

Still, these girls don’t know the difference. They all nod their heads as if I’m the messiah, delivering a message from the ballet god. Like I really am the Snow Queen, emerging from the miniblizzard outside to deliver messages of their fates. I take a huge breath and my hand stills so I can get mascara all the way from the base of my lashes to the white-blond tips without a hitch. The shakiness is slipping away, finally.

Until I hear the music-box sound of Gigi’s giggles.

“Alec!” Her voice pokes out from the cloud of laughter. An airy sigh floats behind it, the hard edges of his name all smoothed out.

And I can’t stop myself from whipping around to find the source of the sound. Or from making a
strained, animal noise when I finally do see them. Gigi’s leaning against the wall directly outside the mirrored dressing room, and Alec is holding her foot like it’s something that could break. Something that’s fragile. Something that could give way to blood and weakness and pain at any minute. One hand cups that tiny, ready-to-break foot, and the other is on her thigh, pushing her whole leg so that it’s parallel with the rest of her body. His body comes in close to hers, and he’s got his patented Alec smile on his face. Doesn’t break eye contact, even as her eyes dart all over, even as her giggles come out in eager little bursts. He stays steady and strong. I know this side of him well.

My anxiety deepens. Gigi is in the costume that should have been mine: plum and gold and intricately beaded. The guy that should be mine is breathing on her neck, the prerehearsal moments that should have been mine, stolen and on display in front of me. In front of everyone. His Nutcracker Prince jacket is open and I see his bare chest. She touches it playfully, like she’s done it before a thousand times.

My muscles feel cold, my feet feel like they’re falling asleep, and I can feel the extra Thanksgiving weight on me as surely as I could feel the weight of soaking wet jeans. The only cure, the only thing I can think of to help me calm down and get back into my body enough to dance the Snow Queen and make them all fall in love with me again, is to have Alec hold me and whisper to me and treat me the way he used to. And it will happen. As far as I’m concerned, we’re getting back together.

One last look in the mirror reveals at least my costume is beautiful and my skin shimmering with pixie dust. I look regal, even if I don’t feel that way.

I can do this.

I walk away from the mirror and walk over to Alec. I stand close, making sure my bare skin is against his, our arms touching. He moves away, so there’s a breath of air between us, and I shift my weight immediately so that there isn’t.

“Hey there,” I say, trying to give some of that soft Gigi-like air in my voice, too, but it comes out flat and hoarse. I should stick to what I know.

“Hey,” he says, smiling enough so that his dimples show, but not so much that I believe him. He’s still holding her leg, even though I’m there. Like he doesn’t care that I’m standing here.

“Can we go for a quick walk?” I say. I mean: can we go to the lobby, can we steal a kiss, can you watch the snow fall with me and tell me I’ll be magical on that stage? “Would that be okay with you, Gigi? If I steal your . . . partner? It’s just that we have a ritual we’ve been doing forever.”

Gigi blushes and makes about a thousand different little gestures: a shrug, a hand wave, a tremble. It’s infuriatingly adorable.

“I can’t right now, okay?” Alec says, placing Gigi’s foot back on the floor. His hand lingers too long on her calf, and he doesn’t straighten up as quickly as I know he could. She gets all quiet.

“After?” I say. There are girls who would give up now. He just said he couldn’t, meaning he doesn’t want to be with me after all. He’s broken up with me and he’s drooling over the new girl, making sure some part of his body is in constant contact with some part of hers. I don’t care. She’s
nothing. A silly virgin. A passing fancy. I’m not letting us evaporate like some puddle, some accident.

We’re getting back together.

“Sure, maybe,” he mumbles. It is the first time I have ever heard Alec mumble. His mouth is practically closing in on the word, that’s how small the noise is. “I need to go focus,” he continues, a little louder, but still not his true voice. “Focus before we start. Okay?” I don’t know whose permission he’s asking, but I doubt it’s mine.

Gigi blushes. Anger stirs itself into my anxiety, and my whole body’s buzzing with way too many feelings. I will not be able to dance if I can’t get myself back under control. The Snow Queen would never have trembling legs or boiling blood. And when Alec slips away without another word, I feel the urge to cry moving from my rib cage to my throat and into my sinuses, like a foreign thing, attacking me

“Stage fright?” Gigi says, like she’s had it, too, which I cannot imagine. She is not the kind of girl who scares easily, if this semester at school is any indication. It doesn’t seem like anything that happened to her has had any effect.

“Not usually,” I say.

“Well, you look beautiful.”

That shuts me up. Not because no one has called me beautiful before, and not because I don’t feel beautiful. There are white feathers in my hair and white tulle haloing my waist, and so much makeup around my eyes that they have nearly doubled in size. But the way Gigi says it, so simple and bare . . . I have never heard anyone say something and know how much they believe it to be true. Gigi hasn’t put on her makeup yet, so her light brown face is still naked, too, like her voice, and for a horrible instant I think:
Yes, I can see why Alec is choosing her.

But he can’t. Not ever. Please, no. I can’t let him go. I won’t.

“They did a wonderful job with your costume, too,” I say. It is as close to a compliment as she’s going to get from me.

“Thank you!” she says, beaming. Her eyes are expectant, like our conversation could continue, when I want nothing more than for it to end. I don’t get her. Why doesn’t she bring up the lipstick on the mirror or the photo I left in the Light closet? She has to know it was me. Other girls have been whispering about it. If I were her, I’d bring it up. And I kind of want her to, just so I can be mean and make her look crazy and accusatory. But no one dares mess with me.

“Just so you know, Alec and I aren’t really over,” I say. If I’d thought it through more, I would have said something smaller, scarier, more threatening but less clear. Something like what my mother would’ve said. I scold myself in my head for being an amateur all of a sudden. “This is like our pattern, so don’t get too excited about being with him.”

Her pretty mouth curves into an O. She starts to say something, but I try making a cool, clean escape. Except when I step backward, I run right into another bony body.

Eleanor. But not just Eleanor. Not Eleanor outfitted as my understudy or going invisible in her
corps costume. No. This is Eleanor with a small, elegant gold headdress and a taut, golden bare belly. Long sheer harem pants. Small gold top. Eleanor has transformed into Arabian Coffee.

And she’s grinning. Girls and boys peek out of the dressing rooms and look up from their warm-ups. All eyes on Eleanor and her exposed rib cage and the prettiness none of us ever knew she possessed. They shout out congratulations. “Why are you in that costume?” I say.

“I’m taking over,” Eleanor says through her smile, so full of joy I think she is just as close to breaking as I am, just on the opposite side of things.

“They gave it to you?” I say, not meaning to sound so harsh. My words hang in the air for a moment over all of us, and there’s shock all around.

Her forehead wrinkles with hurt.

“Congrats,” Gigi says. “You so deserve this. I hope Liz gets better, though.” On her brown face is the perfect balance of concern for Liz and support for Eleanor. It’s impossible, how good she is. Too good.

She goes in to hug Eleanor, and I beat her to it, pulling Eleanor close and away from her. I am proud to feel a surge of actual happiness for Eleanor. I squeeze her arms tight. “Look at you,” I say into her ear, and I can feel her heart beating at a rapid pace through her skimpy costume. I hold on tight, the one person who loves me no matter what.

“When did this happen?” I whisper.

“A private audition with Mr. K.” She whispers so fast I can barely register it, and she doesn’t hug me back as tightly, quickly slipping from my arms and into Gigi’s arms. They jump and giggle and whisper something I can’t quite hear. It’s clear that this isn’t the first time they’ve laughed together like that. Like friends. And just like that, I’ve lost everything.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

THE NEWS DOESN
’
T FEEL REAL
. Just like the kiss with Jayhe didn’t feel real.

I have to ask Morkie to repeat herself, which is embarrassing. It’s nine a.m. and we’re in studio C. Most people are sleeping in, trying to get every last minute of rest before opening night.

“Do you want to dance?” she says. “Then show me you know it.”

Viktor plays the music for the Harlequin Doll. My feet whisper along the floor as I take my place
in the center of the room. I keep my head bowed. Eight hours before opening night and I’m at school in the studio with Morkie, Doubrava, and Mr. K. They’re standing along the mirrors, waiting for me to show them if I know the choreography. There are three other girls here. Two other Level 7 girls, and one Level 8.

I step into the dance. I will show them that I know all the steps. I spend hours studying every role in every major classical ballet. I’ve seen
The Nutcracker
performed live every Christmas since I was little enough to remember it. I’ve memorized every girl’s role, and could probably dance the boys’, too.

I try to be delicate and light, an embodiment of all that’s great in
The Nutcracker
’s Land of Sweets. I try to picture my mom right in front of me, watching and seeing me nail it. I try to hear the applause in my head. I try to remember how it felt when Morkie praised me weeks ago for my pirouettes.

I finish. I don’t dare move out of the bow.

Mr. K nods. “Well done, butterfly. I’ve never seen you move like that before. You’ve been working hard.”

“Yes,” I acknowledge.

“You dance like you really want it. Like you know,” he says, doing a circle around me. “In Russia, being a dancer gives you a place in history. A life more intense and special than the others. It sets you apart from the rest of the world. I feel that in you.”