Tiny Pretty Things (47 page)

I STILL FEEL LIKE I
’
M
going to pass out. I walk in circles, trying to keep myself awake, not allowed to move from the spot where the policeman told me to stay. I’m biding my time before more police and Mr. K and Gigi’s parents approach me.

But I have not evaded Alec.

His hand is on my shoulder, and at last, the one thing I’ve been so desperate for actually happens. He pulls me into a hug, kisses my hair. Squeezes so hard, I could get lost in the feeling if I wanted. “You’re shaking.”

“I didn’t do it,” I say. “I swear I didn’t do anything.” I look up at him, my blue eyes meeting his in a silent agreement. We haven’t looked at each other like this in months.

“I know,” Alec says, his voice slow and careful, like he knows exactly what happened and who did it. “But someone did.”

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THE CROWD CLOSES IN ON
me. Gigi’s parents are approaching, and the questions from the cops are coming fast and furious. I drank all that champagne, I threw up both the alcohol and party food, and my roommate is gone. My mouth waters, and I see sparkles all around.

I faint.

It’s just one little moment, any other day it would be small enough a thing for them to ignore, maybe, or to earn another lecture from Nurse Connie. But tonight, with EMTs swarming and Gigi already carried away, they are all on top of me. I come to one half-second later and an EMT is in my face, chewing gum and asking questions. I shudder under his touch.

He checks my pulse, searching for it on my wrist, and then using a stethoscope on my heart.
Looking for the beat like they just did with Gigi.

“Stop it,” I snarl.

“You’re not well,” the EMT says. “Don’t get up.”

“I’m fine,” I say. I keep squirming away from him, but he won’t stop prodding.

“Your blood pressure is so low I’m surprised this hasn’t happened before. We need to tell your teachers. Talk to your school nurse.” The EMT goes on, but Mr. K interrupts and puts me in one of the cabs.

We return to school, but Mr. K doesn’t allow us to go up to our beds.

Instead, I sit in his office, surrounded by him and Mr. Lucas and Morkie and two suited detectives with grim expressions. They ask me the same questions over and over again. How it all happened. Who was next to Gigi? What were we all doing? Drinking? Drugs? Did she have any enemies? Did anyone have a motive? They ask me about the butterflies, the glass in the shoe, the message on the mirror, the dead cockroaches in the box. Piling up evidence to pin on someone. They keep throwing out the questions and I think I speak, I think I respond, but I’m sniffling and sobbing and I’m not sure anything I’m saying is making any sense.

Then the door flies open, and everyone is shocked out of our circular discussion. It’s my mom. And she’s angry. Her face is red and splotchy and she’s wearing her pajamas and a robe, like she rushed over here as soon as she heard. Underneath all my pain and frustration and sadness, I register that this pleases me, that she might actually care, that I was important enough that she shattered her illusion of perfection to get here as fast as she could. And that this is her first time inside this building in nearly a decade.

She stops like she’s been hit. Mr. Lucas and her stare at each other. The whole room waits for her to speak or blow up.

“Ma’am?” one of the detectives says.

“My daughter should be in bed. You can ask questions later,” she says to the room, but she’s looking right at Mr. Lucas, whose face has drained of all color, as if he’s seen a ghost.

“Dominic, did you hear me?” She wags a finger two inches from his face. “She fainted. Don’t you care at all?” She’s so aggressive, the other detective urges her to calm down.

All the while, their eyes watch each other. My mind and heart do flips as the magnitude of him being my father hits me. He’s the man my mom fell in love with. He was her
pas
partner. He’s the man who cruelly discarded her and abandoned me even before I was born. He’s the man who’s chosen to ignore his own flesh and blood for all these years, even as I stood there, close enough for him to cast a shadow.

My mom fires off a zillion questions: “Why is she being brought in? What does she have to do with Gigi? Why would she have any reason to want her dead?”

Mr. Lucas sits in glum silence as my mom rampages, and I keep trying to figure out what to say to placate her.

“I—uh—” My first instinct is to say
not dead, but gone
—but obviously that would really put the
bull’s-eye right on me. I can’t trust myself not to give anything away. So I decide to keep my mouth shut. I can’t focus on the conversation.

“How dare you bring my daughter into this,” Mom says, and she’s glaring right at Mr. Lucas. “I will take her right out of this godforsaken place. She doesn’t belong here anyway.”

I snap back to reality. I can’t let that happen. I can’t let her use this as an excuse. But Mr. K springs into action, directing my mom to a seat, apologizing, saying that they’re doing everything possible to cooperate with the authorities on this. “It is,” he says, his voice taking on that same annoying holier-than-thou quality, “after all, a matter of life and death.”

Anything I want to say is drowned out by the chaos. It’s then that it really hits me. Gigi is really hurt this time. Gigi could actually die.

To my surprise, the first thing in my head isn’t sadness or anger or fear. It’s something else:
This means I’m going to be dancing Giselle tomorrow.

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HarperCollins Publishers

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“
BETTE
?”
MR. K SAYS, AND IT
feels like we’re both underwater, and he’s trying to talk to me.

“Yes?” I say, trying to stand up from a lobby chair. He catches my arm.

“It’s your turn.” He walks toward the office. “And your mother is here. We called all parents, and she insisted on being here for your statement.”

I can’t move out of first position. Mr. K waves his fingers like I am a dog meant to follow him, but I’m frozen with my back to the lobby window and my face, unfortunately, exposed to every other person in class. It feels like it’s been days, but the accident was only an hour ago.

SNAP OUT OF IT!
A voice in my head screams, and it’s enough to get my arms at my side and my feet parallel and ready to walk. I do everything I can to keep my head held high.

Mr. K takes long, rushed strides and I nearly have to run to keep up with him.

“Can I stop in the bathroom?” I finally say, right before we reach the door that lead into his office.

He just sighs in response. Stops walking but doesn’t turn around. He’s giving his permission, but just barely.

I. Am. So. Screwed.

I splash water on my face because right now my brain is swimming with blurry, half-formed thoughts. I need to be on my feet if I’m going to survive whatever is behind that door. Mainly, my mother. And accusations that I pushed Gigi in front of that cab.

Mr. K holds the door to his office open for me. My mother’s eyes are red, but otherwise she looks beautiful. Still dressed in her gala gown. Her lips wine stained, which means she fell asleep in it. The police officer has a horrible yellow legal pad.

I take a seat next to my mother and her eyes start to water. Which is especially strange, because my mother does not cry. Not ever. Not when my father left her, not when Adele got offered a spot at American Ballet Company. Never.

“Tell the police officer what happened tonight, Bette,” Mr. K says. He doesn’t look at me. He talks to the wall in front of him. His focus on that blank white wall is so intense you’d think it was my face.

“Yes, Bette. I’m Officer Jason Hamilton,” he says, rubbing the dark mustache stretched over his lip. “Tell me what happened.”

“Gigi had had a lot to drink. We’d been dancing all night. I think . . . I think she tripped.”

“Have you had anything to drink?” he asks.

“Yeah, we all did. But she had had a
lot
, you know?”

“Your classmates have told me you haven’t been the biggest fan of Giselle Stewart,” Officer Hamilton says.

“My god,” my mother says, like she’s just hearing about what happened. Her voice is choked up. I look at her face—I don’t want to miss it. I’m not glad that she’s crying, but I’m fascinated that I could cause those tears. That Gigi could make her feel something so deeply.

“Which classmates?”

He flips through his notes. “I am not at liberty to say. But many of them said you always seemed to have it out for her. And a few of the other girls corroborated this story.”

Shame rushes to my face, and I know I have turned a hot, terrible pink that won’t vanish until I am long gone from this room. I try not to ball my fists. I try not to let my face show anger that might get me in trouble. He tried to set me up. He tried to make me take the fall for this.

“I didn’t push her,” I blurt out. I’m so hot I think I could faint.

No one moves.

“No one said anything about her being pushed, Bette,” Officer Hamilton says. “But if you did push her, you’d better tell me now before it gets worse for you.”

“Gigi could die. You do realize that, Bette?” Mr. K says, his eyes lasers.

I open my mouth to defend myself.

“Do you know what harassment is?” Officer Hamilton asks. Mr. K pulls a book from his shelf and puts it in my lap. I’m too afraid to look down.

“Look it up,” Mr. K says.

“But . . . but . . . ,” I start. My mother squirms beside me.

“Bette!” Mr. K says my name like he’s lost all patience with me. Like I’m some strange new fuckup kid. Like he hasn’t known me for forever. I flip open the English dictionary to the
H
section and run a finger down the page until I find the word. I let my finger sit there.

“Read it,” he says.

I choke on my words. “‘To harass means to subject to aggressive pressure or intimidation or to make repeated small-scale attacks on an enemy.’”

No one speaks for what feels like a thousand years.

“Bette, I think it’s time for us to go home now,” my mother says. “Not another word. Officer Hamilton, is it? If you’d like to speak to my daughter further, you can make an appointment with our family lawyer.” She produces a card from her purse like magic. “We’ve been very good to the American Ballet Conservatory, and Company. The new building is coming along, and the Rose Abney Plaza has never looked better. We will not be treated in this way.”

Mr. K is smirking at my mother. And I feel like she’s just sealed my fate. His eyes are back on the wall, and to anyone else it might look like his normal, neutral expression. But I know him, and he is hiding a laugh. At the ridiculousness that is my mother and her power trip. Because now she’s given everyone what they need to blame me for this. Whether I’m guilty or not.

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