Tiny Pretty Things (42 page)

My mind races and I inch to the edge of the chair.

“So rumors of any sort can be detrimental and damaging to the school. And I wanted to ask you about something.” He leans into the desk. “And it is imperative that you answer me truthfully. Words are powerful in our small community. And whatever you say to me won’t leave this room.” His eyes squint a little.

I don’t know what to say, so I shrug. The pressure makes my eyes fill with tears, and the look of concern on Mr. Lucas’s face grows more intense.

“Giselle, there’s a rumor circulating about you and Mr. K,” he says.

I feel my cheeks ignite. “What?”

“That there’s been an inappropriate relationship going on between you,” he says, not softening his words or making them feel less accusatory.

“No,” I say, almost shouting.

He waves his hand at me. “I want you to feel comfortable talking to me. I know it’s hard, but it’s best to be honest.”

“He’d never— I’d never,” I stutter, unable to defend myself. I would never think of doing something like that. I didn’t know girls even did that type of thing. Tears pour out of my eyes uncontrollably and I’m embarrassed that I can’t control it. He gets up and pats my shoulder.

“Are you sure there’s nothing you feel has crossed a line?” I can’t stand to look at his eyes. I know Alec will hear this rumor. That he might even think there’s something to it. He saw a bad side of me a few days ago, how I let it all get to me, and I’ve yelled and screamed. And by now, he’s heard how upset I was in the hall about my butterflies.

“You have to believe me, there’s absolutely nothing. I don’t know who would—why someone would—”

“Okay, all right,” Mr. Lucas says. His hand had still been at my shoulder, but he jerks it away, like he’s suddenly remembered that this, too, could be considered inappropriate. “That’s all I needed to know. Thank you, Giselle. I’m going to go speak with the RA about your butterflies, and how someone could’ve gotten into your room while everyone was in rehearsal.”

“June and I don’t lock our door,” I say, tears still falling. “None of the girls really do.”

“Well, we’re going to need to change that. It’s certainly a security issue. I’ll be speaking to the RAs about this.” He leaves me alone in his office, politely closing the door behind him to give me some privacy. I rush to get myself under control. Catching sight of myself in his wall mirror, I see just how broken I’m becoming. Red eyes. A rash from where Alec’s stubble rubbed my chin while
we kissed last night. A faint black line under my eyes, remnants from the makeup I’ve gotten used to wearing but never remember to scrub off. It’s not me at all. It’s like looking at a stranger.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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I DON
’
T KNOW THAT I
’
VE
ever seen anything worse than the monarchs pinned to Gigi’s wall. Their wings starting to tear, their terrarium markedly empty on the windowsill, the unsettling stillness that we are all lost in while we stare at the wall. Those butterflies are going to dry out, their orange will turn to black and soon they will crumble to dust. Nothing in the world should be that fragile.

And then the look June gave me in the aftermath: shaken, certain, accusing. While Eleanor wrapped her long arms around Gigi’s shaking, screeching body and June turned away from me to start cleaning up, I escaped. It isn’t something I planned, but I found myself flying over to the tenth floor—Alec’s hall—desperate to gain some control over what’s happening.

I’m still standing in the elevator, debating whether to step out.

Yes, go
.

The person who tells the story first gets to control it. My mother’s favorite thing to say whenever she finds herself in a lawsuit or dispute with someone she hates. Always be the first to tell your side.

I race down the drafty hallway, and I suddenly feel cold and wish I’d brought the down coat my mother bought me last winter.

I tremble, going straight for Alec’s room—third one on the right. It’s up to me to tell them what’s happened. To tell Alec. I’m starting to believe my mother’s words about the power of being the first to tell a story. And I can spin it how I want.

I have to. To protect myself from June’s accusing stare and Gigi’s manic accusations.

Will’s in the hall, a sniffly, snotty, runny-nosed mess. “What are you doing here?” He has a scarf on his head like he’s Rosie the Riveter from a 1940s ad, and his red hair is pinned up into some sort of monstrous look.

“To see Alec,” I snap.

“Are you going to finally tell him? Or should I? I’m so tired of carrying around your shit,” he says. “All it does is cause me issues. All it does is make me lose people I care about.”

Anything I say will sound defensive or delusional, and I’m not going to let him make me sound
that way. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Whatever happened in the past, stays there. You were always an eager and willing participant. So don’t give me that crap.” I need to shut him up right now. “You’re not a victim.” I don’t look directly at him anymore, though. My words are for him, but my attention is forward. I’m spotting, like we do when we pirouette, finding a place on the wall and holding on to it even as we spin out of control. I’m finding a crack in the distance to keep me anchored. To make sure I don’t take a spill. I have to do anything to stay in place right now.

“You made me drop her,” he screams so loud I jump back.

Doors creak open in succession.

“You used the whole thing with
me
coming out to my mom. You used how bad it was. You held it over my head. And I had no choice.” He’s hysterical now.

Alec enters the hall in his pajamas. He’s taking
Giselle
seriously, I guess, because it’s still early in the evening for him to be ready for bed. It shows in the glow of his skin, the perfect shape of his body, that he’s taking excellent care of himself. Meanwhile, with no one keeping a look out on me these days, I can feel the lack of sleep in my aching muscles and the need for more water in my dried-out mouth. Henri’s shirtless behind him, and with a cell phone to his ear.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Alec says, crossing his arms over his chest, and they seem wider and stronger. He’s still lean, of course, but more solid now. I notice it more, seeing him in pajamas, than I do seeing him in his tights every day at rehearsal. It strikes me that I’ve mostly seen Alec in his tights this semester. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him naked.

“It’s Gigi,” I say right away, afraid if I open with anything else, he’ll shut the door in my face. It hurts to feel that way.

“Is Gigi okay?” Alec’s sleepy eyes wake right up, his arms uncross, and he takes a step closer to me. I smell his familiar scent: woodsy deodorant, mint gum, my own flowery shampoo that he borrowed once and never gave back.

“Probably not, if Bette’s over here telling you anything about Gigi,” Will says.

Henri steps farther into the hall, his cell phone to his ear. He says something in French and hangs up, then settles his full attention on Alec and me, ever amused. Will seems suddenly paralyzed, looking back and forth between Alec, Henri, and me. He quickly removes the scarf from his hair and pats himself like he’s primping.

I trample over Will’s words, desperate not to let him tell Alec anything that Will and I did to Cassie. “Gigi’s not hurt. But she’s . . . I think something’s wrong with her. In her head. She’s falling apart. She . . . well, I think she killed her butterflies.” As the words come out, my back straightens. My eyes meet his. My shoulders roll back. I feel like myself again. Powerful. In control.

“What?” Alec reaches for a sweatshirt from behind his room door, and a few more doors open. I raise my voice; I want them all to hear it from me.

“Her butterflies are all pinned to the wall. I think she killed them all. It’s . . . well. It’s scary, you know? She’s kind of scaring me. Us. She’s scaring all of us, so I had to come over here.”

Alec’s face crumbles into concern. His eyes go warm and watery. He bites his bottom lip and
reaches for his pocket and cell phone, to call her I assume. And then I know. He loves her. My heart’s crack turns to a break as he nods his head and lets out a sigh. He is imposing and soft all at once, in flannel and a sweatshirt, and I have to be closer to him.

“She seems . . . unstable. Unsafe,” I conclude. I force a little tremble into my voice and a pool of tears into my eyes.

It doesn’t feel like a lie, then. I am scared of Gigi. I do feel a sense of impending danger. I am shaking, and then, all of a sudden, I’m crying, too, and I reach for Alec. My hands slide from his waist to his back, he is muscle all the way around, both familiar and exciting.

“I’m scared,” I say. And then I say it again, and a third time, and Alec’s rubbing my back like he used to, massaging the places he knows my muscles get the most tense. I soak his sweatshirt with my tears, and it doesn’t feel like I’m exaggerating anything or twisting the truth or doing anything remotely dishonest. I feel vulnerable and wonderful. Warm at last.

“It’s okay,” Alec says, and the words land on the top of my head, get caught in my hair. “Deep breaths, okay?” I hold him tighter. I wait for Will or Henri to break this up.

“It’s not safe with her around,” I say. “I haven’t felt safe in so long.”

I choke on the words, how true they are. How unsafe I’ve felt since Gigi came to New York. Alec rubs my shoulders and takes a deep breath.
This is it
, I think.
He cares about me. He’ll come back to me.
He’ll forget about her. They were just hooking up. They’re nothing serious. The tears start to dry up. I tilt my head up toward his and give a small smile, a private one that neither Will nor Henri nor all the peeping toms gathering in the hallway can see.

“This is ridiculous,” Will shouts. “Really, Bette?”

He waits until the best part to interrupt. Of course.

Alec pulls away. My hands drop from Alec’s body at the same moment he gives me an extra thank-you squeeze. It feels like being punched. It hurts more than the worst muscle pull or a sprain or a bleeding, lost toenail. I know pain, my body is more than familiar with hurting, but this is something else entirely. Like the moment after
The Nutcracker
cast list was posted, except I don’t think punching a mirror would help.

I don’t think my pills would help.

I don’t think talking to Eleanor would help.

I guess I don’t think anything would help.

Alec turns to Will. “What’s going on with you? With you and Bette, too?”

“Ask her,” Will says.

“Bette’s been a naughty girl,” Henri says.

“Why the hell are you out here anyway?” Alec barks at Henri, but Henri just smiles in response. “This is all stupid. Let’s go,” Alec says. He holds my hand like he’d hold his sister’s hand. It’s strange that I can tell the difference, that it’s so obvious how much has changed just from the temperature and grip of his hand. Our fingers aren’t entwined and there’s no hint of anticipatory sweat, no squeeze of affection. He’s practically dragging me to the elevator.

“You won’t get away with this again! I won’t let you!” I look back and, yes, Will’s following right behind us, shaking his head at me like he knows something. Like he knows everything. “Alec needs to know.”

“What do I need to know?” Alec says, pushing the elevator button, and in that moment I realize that I’ve been so good at hiding the dark parts of me from Alec. Will used to be there to see those parts.

My jaw drops.

“Just because you’re messed up doesn’t mean everyone else has to be. Gigi’s a good girl. I was a good guy. You’re just out to ruin us all, aren’t you?”

It takes my breath away, the certainty with which he pronounces it. I move faster. All I want to do is get away from Will and all the things he knows.

“She made me drop Cassie, Alec. Right before the spring ballet last year. Bette made me do it.” He’s all sobs now. “She broke her hip because of us.”

Alec drops my hand and stops. He steps away.

“Is he lying?” Alec says. He asks me a few more times in rapid succession. I can’t move my legs, arms, body, and least of all my mouth. His face twists with disgust. “It’s always been you, hasn’t it? You’re responsible for all of it. Sometimes I thought it had to be you. I heard the whispers. I even stuck up for you because I knew everything there was about Bette Abney. She was my girlfriend. One of the best ABC conservatory dancers. She worked hard. We worked hard. Who are you? What happened to you?” His eyes become cold, steely. “How was I ever with you?”

It’s all gone so, so wrong.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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