Tiny Pretty Things (31 page)

Kneeling, he moves my feet, turning them out, then his fingers graze over my thighs and knees, firm, businesslike, strong. I look down, and his face is emotionless, expressionless, like he barely sees me. So I bow down, into a deep
plié
, catching him off guard as his hand shoots up my thigh and under my skirt.

“Bette,” he says, surprised, pulling his hands back. “Careful.”

But I deepen the
plié
further, until I’m on my knees, eye to eye with him, face-to-face. “I’m feeling a bit of a sprain, a pulled muscle, maybe,” I say, taking his hand and moving it to my upper thigh. “Right here.”

His breathing is shallow, shaky. He knows what I’m asking. “Adele said you knew exactly what to do when it happened to her.” I pause. “To work out the kinks.”

“Bette”—he stands abruptly, and steps away, creating space between us—“I don’t know what you’re implying, but—”

I stand, too, and step forward, closing the distance. “It’s all right, Mr. K,” I say, my voice a whisper. “I know you like to look at beautiful things.” I untie the ribbons on my skirt, letting it fall, letting him see the shape of me. I stretch in a way so that one of my leotard straps falls off my shoulder. I push my arms together a bit to show a little of the cleavage that I never actually wanted. “I won’t tell if you touch.”

He sits down at his desk, busying himself with a stack of papers and then the computer screen. “Bette,” he says, his voice stern, unyielding, “I thought you were getting back on the right track, but clearly things have escalated. Are you doing all right at home? Are things okay with Alec? Maybe it’s time we set up an appointment with the school psychologist. Of course,” he says, looking up at me pointedly, “that’s something I’ll have to discuss with your mother for approval. But”—he grimaces—“it seems like the next logical step.”

I hear the threat in his voice, and realize slowly that despite the fact that he’s known me since I was six, the man doesn’t know me at all. I don’t take well to threats. “That’s unfortunate, Mr. K,” I say, my voice soft and feathery, but he can’t mistake the bite behind my words. “I’ve mentioned to my mother all the extra time you’ve been lavishing on me—just as you did with Adele, you’ll remember—and I’m sure she’ll be displeased to know it hasn’t helped. I’ll just have to call her now and explain how things went here today.”

Mr. K, stands, his face taut, but not quite apologetic. “That’s okay, Bette. I’m sure your mother doesn’t need to know every detail of your time here. Perhaps we should both just forget this ever happened,” he says. Then he walks brusquely to the door and opens it. “Now, isn’t it time for your evening character dancing class?”

I smile at him as I exit. “That makes sense,” I say as I sashay out, wrapping my skirt around my waist as I exit. My fingers tremble, making me fumble with the tie. “We’ll just keep this between us.” For now.

He slams the door a little too hard when I leave. It echoes through the hall. I take deep breaths to get rid of the flush that’s probably turned me a brilliant shade of red, and get myself together. That was either incredibly smart or incredibly dumb. I can’t figure out which.

When I look up, Will is standing right in front of me with the biggest smile on his face. Next to him is Eleanor, who looks completely stricken—which is exactly how I feel. It takes her a minute to speak. “What—what were you doing?”

“Yeah, Bette,” Will says, his hideous red eyebrows climbing toward that unfortunate receding
hairline, his mouth twisting into that familiar know-it-all smirk. “What
are
you up to?”

“Nothing,” I say, fumbling for words, looking from Will to Eleanor and back. “Mr. K asked me to come see him. My mom’s working another fund-raiser. No biggie.” But I know Eleanor doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. I’m a stellar liar, I know. But after a decade of playing my sidekick, she can see right through me.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

WHILE ON MY WAY DOWN
to the lobby for my mom to pick me up, I see Bette sneak out of the Light, a satisfied smirk spoiling her usually pristine features. She startles when she sees me, but then grins, as if we’re sharing a secret. “See ya,” she says, then prances silently down the hall in her slippers, still dressed in her practice clothes.

As I watch her walk away, something vile bubbles inside me. She’s so nonchalantly mean, it’s almost like she doesn’t realize she’s doing it. When I’m mean, I do it on purpose and acknowledge it. And no one ever pays Bette back for all the stuff she does. Even though she does a good job of covering her tracks. Most of the time. People are too afraid to really accuse her. She’s got girls lined up to take the blame.

Today, Bette’s going to get hers. I’m feeling vengeful. Not that Bette’s been mean to me. But she hasn’t been nice either. The room is empty when I get back, so I head straight to Gigi’s desk and open the drawer where she hid those naked pictures. The ones of Bette and Alec, the ones Bette no doubt planted to cause Gigi pain.

I want to anonymously turn them in. They break every modesty school rule in the student handbook. They’ll land Bette (and Alec as collateral damage) in deep trouble. The Russians hate heavy dancers and American teenage customs and modern choreography, but above all else, they despise inappropriate sexual displays. Two kids were suspended last year for being caught making out in one of the stairwells.

I riffle through the drawer, but the pictures are gone. So I look through another and a third, but
they’re nowhere to be found. Like they never existed at all. Instead, there are half a dozen little red paper roses, each a different style. No doubt another token from Alec. And there, tucked away, is a little charm. One I’ve seen Gigi wearing hidden in the folds of her tutus on important rehearsal days. A good luck charm. Small and golden and irrepressibly sweet. It infuriates me. What does this girl need a lucky charm for? She’s got all the luck in the world.

We’ve been getting along lately, but minutes later, I’m standing in the Light closet, pinning the charm high up on the wall, the one that’s covered with photos of dancers floating, gliding, laughing, shining, living the life I want to live. The life in the spotlight that I’ll never have, the one that comes so easily to girls like Gigi and Bette. I can’t stop myself, it’s like my fingers have impulses of their own. I’m shaking, but I’m not quite sure if it’s anger or sadness.

I look at the little rose, dangling there, like it’s abandoned and will die, and wonder what I’m doing. I wonder how I got here, what propelled me to this point. I’m just tired of being second-best, of having to work so hard for everything. My mom is still on my case about my grades, I don’t have any leads on my father, and Jayhe seems to have slipped back into his old ways, keeping his head down and acting like I don’t exist when he comes to visit Sei-Jin. It seems like she’s got a stronger hold on him than ever, so maybe my plan wasn’t so smart after all.

I curl up on the bench and stare at the walls I’ve spent so much time absorbing, reading all the uplifting quotes and words of encouragement. Scattered throughout, of course, are biting little notes meant to be seen and to provoke pain. There are a few about Gigi, as expected, but a couple mention Bette and her fall from grace. I’m sure they just fall right off her, that she doesn’t feel them at all. I wish I could be that way, impenetrable. But despite my facade, every little thing gets to me.

I stare up at a batch of photos of Sei-Jin and her crew in a photo booth at Times Square, laughing their pretty little heads off. When was the last time I laughed like that?

Not since Sei-Jin abandoned me, I realize with a pang. Scrawled below the photo are a bunch of comments in Korean. The only thing I can really make out are a few names. Hye-ji, Sei-Jin, Jayhe—and then I see it. Mine. E-Jun and a long rant of text that I can’t really begin to understand. What might it say? Nothing good, that’s for sure. I look closely at the words, recognizing a character here and there, but nothing substantial. Maybe I should feel happy to be on the walls in here. That means someone thinks I’m good. Someone thinks I’m a threat. I snap a photo with my phone and head back to the room, determined to figure it out.

I wish I could just ask my mother what it says. But she can never know. Besides, it’s not like we’re speaking much at all. They sent me packing for the weekend, orders from Nurse Connie to get me back up to the correct weight. I’ve been very careful about things lately. The vomiting isn’t enough, so I’ve been doing the ellipticals, which is what Liz used to drop weight quickly. But it’s worked too well. I’ve fallen to 101 pounds again, and I’m lucky that Nurse Connie didn’t send me home permanently. I laid it on thick about how hard it was to gain those pounds she wanted. She was nice this time. But it’s made my mom watch me like I’m a glass figurine on the verge of falling off a table. Still, she doesn’t really bother to talk to me. Unless she’s ordering me to do something.

“The Kwons have invited us for church dinner, and we’re going,” my mom says, peeking into my bedroom.

I can feel her gaze on my face as she conveniently cleans the hall outside my bedroom, waiting to see me roll my eyes or purse my lips or respond in some way she finds unrefined, disrespectful, ugly. After our last dinner, she said she won’t tolerate any more disrespect, otherwise I’ll have to leave the conservatory before the spring performance. Which is only a few weeks away, at the end of May. April’s nearly over, and time has been slipping away so fast. Too fast if I want the cast list to change at all.

“Okay,” I say. I would put up a fight, because the last thing I want is to spend the evening being berated by Sei-Jin and seeing her clasp Jayhe’s hand. And I’m worried that talks of summer session registration will come up, and I’ll have to tell them—because Korean kids don’t lie to other Korean adults—that this is my last semester at the school because my mom is putting me in public school.

But I know she’ll force me to go to the dinner anyway, and I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of all of it. I have no energy. And I don’t want to give in and listen to the little voice inside me that says it’s because I haven’t been eating. Nurse Connie called my mother to check on my weight, but my mom squawked about “American fat issues” and the “Korean body” and how healthy I really am. How I eat as much as any other dancer. She defends me to the others, but she’s watching my every move. I can’t go to the bathroom without her hovering outside, ear pressed to the door.

I text Jayhe again, and he doesn’t respond. Again. My head (and heart) can’t handle it. But I’m getting stir-crazy. I stayed in my room all Saturday afternoon, then spent the three hours this morning googling Korean to see if I can decipher the message from the wall in the Light. If I tried a little harder on the internet, I probably could figure it out. But I thought Jayhe might be able to read it for me. Boys like to feel useful. He’s still under Sei-Jin’s lock and key. We’ve been texting for weeks, but there are long silences in between. Sometimes he responds—usually late at night, when I know Sei-Jin won’t have access to his phone—but mostly he doesn’t. I just don’t understand him. Is this how all boys are? Or is it just my luck?

Exhausted, I throw myself on the bed and pop an old ballet into the ancient VCR my mother never got rid of. After watching Eleanor perform in
The Nutcracker
, the successful understudy story that should have been mine, I don’t even want to think about what’s next for me: being another understudy, being behind Gigi again, being taken from the conservatory, being a regular girl.

My mom reminded me again over dinner last night. The two of us at the ugly plastic kitchen table, and all she could do was go on and on about our arrangement and how I failed to secure a role and “that pretty Eleanor girl” and how truly special dancers always move ahead.

Leaning in through the doorframe, she hovers, waiting for me to acknowledge her again. “We will leave in one hour,” she says finally, as I continue to sulk in silence. “I am going to run to the store for treats to bring. You get ready. Cover up please. There is a dress in my closet you will wear. Much nicer than what you have. Appropriate.”

Again, I don’t even consider fighting back. I’m sure it’s some ugly, itchy monstrosity, but
throwing a tantrum will only delay the inevitable. It almost feels better, to be so exhausted that I don’t have choices. I will do what I’m told. No guesswork. No grand plans. No battles. Just a nod of my head and the hollow feeling in my stomach keeping me calm.

When she’s gone, I walk like a zombie to her room and into her closet. We are the same size, my mom and I. Maybe I am a few pounds lighter, but it’s not by much. She has kept her ballerina body longer than her love of the ballet. As if what she really loved about her time at the conservatory was being able to control the size and shape of her frame. She liked the routine, the distinct weight of structure, the invisibility of a ballerina’s body in a sea of women with hips and breasts and loud clothing. She liked the matching leotards, the matching torsos, the matching movements.