Tiny Pretty Things (6 page)

AT
7:30
EVERY MORNING AND
8:30 every night, on the dot, my mom calls. Like clockwork. She wants to ensure that her good little girl remains exactly that, which means I have to be tucked away in my room, safe and sound, a half hour before curfew. To confirm that I’m actually in the dormitory and not just pretending to be, she doesn’t call my cell phone but rather the pay phone in the girls’ hallway. What she doesn’t realize is that I am always here—in the studios, the dorm, a classroom, or the student lounge. I do nothing but study and dance. I am her good little girl.

I watch the hall and wait to see if Gigi’s back. That nut got up at six a.m. to go to Central Park to feed the ducks. Last time she brought me a flower for my desk, which is kind of nice or whatever. She’s really into nature, but she should be stretching or seeing how Bette’s looking this morning, since she slept through all of last night’s theatrics. She’s the Sugar Plum Fairy, after all, and that means she is probably Bette’s next victim. Or everyone’s victim for that matter. We don’t handle change to our hierarchy very well. I’m still shocked by Mr. K’s decision. And I’m still on the fence about Gigi. Some days I like her, some days I don’t. It’s been so long since I’ve had a friend, I don’t know what to do, how to behave.

This morning I’m worn out from staying up late to watch Bette’s mom cut her down to size. I didn’t relish it the way the other girls did, but I like to know what I’m up against. I like to know
everything about everyone because it all matters at this school—what you eat, what you wear, where you came from, how much you weigh, your ballet training, who your friends are, how much money you have, if you have good feet, if you’ve won any competitions, what kind of connections you have, if your parents have season ballet tickets, if your mother or father was a dancer, if you know the history of ballet. And I plan to know it all. About every single dancer here. That’s the only way to be on top.

I thumb the pay phone’s receiver at 7:26 a.m., my stomach griping as I wait for it to ring. I feel like I ate too much for breakfast. My mom is always exactly on time, so, knowing I have exactly four minutes, I run into the hallway bathroom. I throw up a mix of water, tea, and grapefruit. Two fingers bring it out smooth and soundless. The third grade was the first time I ever did it. I caught my mom vomiting after a dinner party at the neighbor’s house. She’d swept me from the bathroom, her face clammy and hands shaky, telling me that American food can poison you, and you must always get rid of it. I asked her why she’d eaten it in the first place, and she said that one has to eat to be polite. Never be a bad guest or you won’t be invited again. And that would be shameful.

Now, I get rid of most things I eat. Even Korean food.

I bury those thoughts, though. It’s all for ballet, for my love of the dance. My head feels clearer now. My stomach is calm. Back in place, I glare at the phone, hoping to catch it on the first ring. I check my watch. One minute until half-past. Restless, I run through basic positions—first, second,
pli
é,
tendu,
and
pas de bourrée
—when she finally calls. 7:30. On the dot.

I grab it before the second full ring. She doesn’t waste time with greetings. Doesn’t waste time confirming that she’s actually talking to me, and not one of the other girls on the hall. Her voice fills my ear. “I got an e-mail from Mr. Stanitowsky. You have a D in math. A
D,
a sixty-two percent. I don’t understand what the problem is. You have it so easy. Kids in Korea are at school
after
school. They work hard. You dance all day, and still you get poor grade.”

I try to respond, but her tirade continues. “You know,
E-Jun
, colleges look at everything. You will not get into good school. You will not be successful.”

She’ll never call me June. Always my Korean name. She buzzes on and I move the phone a little away from my ear. Even now, after I’ve been at the conservatory for nearly a decade, it still doesn’t occur to her that this is my dream. That this is my reality. That I will be a dancer. That I won’t go to college. To her, it’s some silly, short-lived phase that I’ll eventually grow out of. It’s a résumé builder, perhaps, something to put on my college applications, but nothing more.

I attempt not to listen or to care or discount her mispronounced words, but each one finds its way into my ear. My cheeks are hot and sweat clumps up my foundation. I work desperately to look perfect. To have that doll-like ballerina face. Delicate and soft. The feel of the makeup on my skin and the scent of the powder remind me I’ve transformed into a ballerina, something better than being just a regular girl.

If I add another layer of powder I feel like I can erase this stress all together. My mom yells and I dig through my dance bag—half listening, half worrying, half obsessing—hoping my missing
compact is floating around in the mess of shoes and bandages and leg warmers jumbled inside. I order my little compacts special, and I’m useless without them. My newest one has been missing since yesterday. I had to use an old one earlier, and there’d barely been any makeup left in it.

“It’s time to give up dancing, E-Jun,” my mom says.

“No,” I say. It just slips out.

“What did you say?”

There’s silence. Korean kids aren’t supposed to talk back to their parents. Only white kids do that—and being half-white still doesn’t afford me that privilege. I hear her breathing accelerate. Whether she’s willing to admit it or not—and usually it’s not—dancing is in my blood. I may not have the white-blond hair or crystal blue eyes, but I belong here just as much as Bette or Eleanor or even Alec.

“You danced,” I whisper, slightly afraid she might reach through the phone and slap me.

She clears her throat and I know she’s smoothing the front of her ironed skirt and trying to remain composed. Sometimes I wish she’d tell me what it was like when she danced here, or share those tips only veteran ballerinas know. I wish she’d put on one of the old leotards she hides under her bed and dance with me in a studio.

I listen to her breathe for three more beats. She finally speaks: “What did you have for dinner last night? Stay away from that fatty American food. I’ll drop off
jap-chae
and
baechu gook
.” And there she goes, burying her secret, the thing my mother will deny until the day she dies. “Maybe Hye-Ji can tutor you in math again. I was speaking to her mother. Mrs. Yi says that Sei-Jin and the other girls always ask you to their parties, but you never go. Sei-Jin and Hye-Ji are nice, pretty girls.”

Sei-Jin is
not
a nice girl. Deep down, neither am I. Our moms think we’re sweet and obedient kids, behaving just how we would if we’d been born and raised in Korea. Sei-Jin and I used to be roommates and best friends. My heart squeezes a little, even though I don’t want it to. I glance at Sei-Jin’s room door, our old room door, and remember how close we used to be. I haven’t had a real friend since her.

I tell my mom a lie. “I went to one tea that Sei-Jin had. And they all spoke Korean the whole time. And really fast. I couldn’t keep up.”

“That’s your own fault,” she interrupts, not taking any of the blame for the way she raised me. I know little Korean phrases, all the foods, and just enough to eavesdrop during her Korean social events, but not enough for a full conversation, which is depressing when I think too long about it. “I raise your allowance, you take a language class. Will help on college applications. Oh, also, you sign up for the SAT? The academic counselor says one is in late October and . . .”

“I have rehearsals for three hours every night for the next two months,” I say, quietly seething. “I told you, I’m the understudy for the Sugar Plum Fairy.”

“Understudy,” she says with disdain. I want to give her the understudy speech Morkie gives after every casting: that I could be thrown in last minute, that I was picked because I’m a fast learner, that I can handle the pressure of dancing the role for the first time live, that it’s an enormous
responsibility.

“E-Jun, that’s all you’ll ever be. They’ll never cast an Asian in the lead. You accept that. The Russians never did, even when I was there. . . .” She pauses, tucking those secrets back in. “Better start working on getting into good college now.”

“They cast a black girl as the Sugar Plum Fairy. My roommate, Gigi,” I say, not really sure if that made things worse or better. Point is I didn’t get the role.

Silence follows again. She says the word
understudy
again. I can hear her disappointment turn to anger. “I’m serious now, E-Jun,” she says. “No more nonsense. Time to focus. This will be your last year if you can’t be any better than understudy. No more dancing. You’ll be going to the public school in our neighborhood.” Then she simply hangs up, not even waiting for me to argue or to say good-bye. Listening to her talk about dance, you’d never know she’d walked through these very halls, lived in one of these tiny dorm rooms, danced in the studios, was part of the company. But something happened, something bad, and she never told me why she’d stopped.

She’s since become a successful businesswoman, importing high-quality dancewear from Korea, and she wants me to follow in her footsteps and eventually take over. That is the Korean way. What little of it that I know. She raised me all alone—her parents disowned her for staying here and having me. I’m all she’s got. So part of me knows I should obey her. Be a good daughter. Go home on weekends, and shop with her at the Korean markets on Saturdays, attend church with her on Sundays, and return to the time when I used to curl up in her bed like a little spoon in front of her.

But the thought of going to a public school unnerves me, making me want to throw up again. Now, the bathroom is full of girls getting ready for ballet class, and my stomach is basically empty. So I head to the Light instead. It’s a little storage closet at the end of the eleventh-floor girls’ hall that’s become a confessional booth of sorts. No one knows who started it. But it’s been here forever. Wallpapered with a collage of pictures, kind of like a living, breathing picture feed—from famous ballerinas to gorgeous costumes to the perfect arched foot to anonymously posted inspirational quotes and messages. Even things from the ’80s. There’s a tiny TV and DVD player, and a cabinet filled with discs of the greatest ballets ever performed, if one needs some inspiration. And I could definitely use some.

I slip inside, still reeling from the conversation with my mom.

If I can just have one chance, I know I can do this. I am a prima ballerina. I just have to make them see. I have to make my mom see. I can’t leave the conservatory. I won’t. The Sugar Plum Fairy is my shot. Maybe my only one. The understudy is just one little step away from the lead. I’ve got to make it happen. No matter what. I fight off my thoughts about Gigi, how we sometimes stay up late watching old sitcoms and online videos of classic ballets, how she’s always leaving me little notes and flowers. This is too important. This is my career.

I riffle through my duffle bag for my compact, and my old jewelry box distracts me. A gift from a father I’ve never met. It fits perfectly in my palm. I carry it with me everywhere I go, a promise that I will someday find him. I run my fingers along the back, winding the tiny key and opening the lid to
watch the little ballerina twirl.
Muyongga,
dancer. The sweet melody reminds me of all the things I love about ballet: the control, the beauty, the music. In ballet, I can work on things over and over and over again until I achieve them, training my muscles until my body submits to what I want. It doesn’t matter who my family is or if I have friends or if guys like me—only what my body can do.

A copy of the cast list is up on the wall, alongside ones from previous years. I see Gigi’s name above mine. I stare until the typed letters blur, until I can see my name above hers. I can’t be invisible anymore. No matter how nice Gigi might be to me.

The staring contest with the wall helps me calm down, the conversation I just had with my mom drifting away. I won’t give up. I’ll push someone out of the way to get it. I pick up a marker from the floor. My hand shakes. Guilt creeps into me, but on the wall, in bold black ink, I write:
Gigi should watch her back
.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

A WEEK AND A HALF
after the cast list went up, we’ve settled into our rehearsal schedule. We pile into the second-floor studio E, where I won’t be able to see the rest of the sunset. I’ve been trying to follow Mama’s advice and watch it every day in order to stay positive. “Don’t carry worries around,” she always says. “They’re heavy.” It’s hard to hold on to her words here. Nerves erase them easily. But I have to, and it helps that I haven’t had another episode since the list was posted. So they have nothing to worry about.

Eleanor walks into the studio beside me and I make a joke about our ballet madam’s new haircut, just to get her to talk to me. It’s hard to have real connections or even conversations with the girls here. But she laughs, and so do I.