Tiny Pretty Things (8 page)

The Sugar Plum Fairy has farthest to fall.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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FRIDAY NIGHT REHEARSAL ENDS EARLY
after the message is discovered. I’m on a high with a rare chunk of free time, so I’m going to use it wisely. I took a pill after seeing the way Alec rushed to Gigi’s side after the message was revealed, and another after hearing snippets of Gigi’s conversation with Mr. K about the bullying incident and her delicate feelings.

Eleanor’s in the café, so I use our private bathroom to smooth a deep red 1940s Dior shade on my lips. But that won’t save me from the teachers’ suspicions about who did it. There will be the ones who recognized my loopy handwriting or the Chanel lipstick that is my signature color, and my sister’s signature, and originally my mother’s signature. A saturated pink that was way too obvious and will probably get me into serious trouble. But I couldn’t resist putting the message up there. It was sloppy. I didn’t even want her to see it yet. Will did that on purpose. He knows me too well. I used to be much more discreet. Undetectable.

I remember the secret pranks Liz, Eleanor, and I played on Cassie last year: putting purple hair dye in her conditioner so her blond curls got all stained, shredding up her leotards and tights just to see her get in trouble with the Russians for not having the right thing to wear for class, slashing all
her shoes or soaking them in vinegar, trashing her room. But nothing compared to the look on Gigi’s face today. She’s such an easy mark. And the message was so much more clever, and the thrill of it made me feel powerful, but I can’t make the same mistakes I made last year.

I check my cell phone for a message from Alec. Nothing, but three missed calls from my mother, and no plans to call her back. I am certain Gigi’s mother bakes cookies and sends care packages and tells her she’s perfect as she is. Gigi has the glow of someone who has lucked out. She’ll probably get a special delivery after she tells them about the message and her hurt little feelings.

Leaning hard on the edges of the bathroom sink, I imagine Alec’s hands around Gigi’s waist, lifting her in a tutu and spinning her around during their
pas
. I imagine her liking the feel of his touch. I imagine him kissing her. I imagine him liking how different she is, her curly black hair and light brown skin and cute freckles and California mellowness. Two pills aren’t enough to erase those images and feelings. I swallow the third one dry and can taste the bitterness as it goes down. I’ll have to get more soon if I keep up this pace. The same energy that had me raring to go now gives me a new, singular focus. Find Alec.

The hum of the Adderall in my bones and buzzing in my head obliterates any sort of potential pity party. My entire body and mind want only Alec, now. After the pills, there’s only ever room for one desire at a time.

My phone buzzes, and I bristle, thinking it’s my mother harassing me still, but it’s Liz. She’s at the coffee shop on Sixty-fifth street, and, she reports, so are Alec and Will. It’s not an invitation exactly, but rather a warning. I don’t want Alec and Will alone together.

I slip off my ballet slippers and into flats, but don’t bother getting actually dressed. Alec likes me in my leotard and dance skirt and leg warmers and slicked back hair. He likes to pull the blond mass out of its perfect little bun and snap the leotard off my shoulders. I shiver at the thought. I should not have had that last pill. I’m practically rabid thinking about him, and that’s no way to get his attention. Alec likes me icy and unreachable.

And Will hates when I get Alec’s attention.

The night guard has his boot heels on the front desk, his hands folded over his belly, and is in a deep sleep. I sign myself out. No one catches me—they never do. I slip out of the building and use the short walk to get myself under control. It’s chilly for late October. Usually New York City holds on to the summer heat a little longer. I’m shivering when I get to the coffee shop, fingernails blue. Snow Queen it is.

Alec’s at a table by the window, wrapped up in a striped scarf and a cashmere sweater. Freshmen and sophomore ballet girls watch him over calorie-filled cups. Even a study group of girls from the nearby Catholic school snatch glances at him. I hate being just one of the many girls drinking in Alec’s good looks. But here I am, standing just inside the little coffee shop and letting my gaze linger before I approach. I like seeing him when he can’t see me. No games. No pressure to look pouty and together. Just the pleasure of seeing someone beautiful and sure.

It doesn’t last.

From her corner, Liz smiles, flashing me a knowing look, as Alec waves me over. I’ll owe her one. I don’t go over to Liz’s table, not wanting Alec to know she texted me. That I have eyes everywhere. Will is behind him, partially hidden by a wooden beam. Too close to Alec. I grimace at how pathetic it makes Will look. I can never decide if I’m pissed at him or just feel bad for him.

“Here to see me?” Alec says, lighting up. I love that I have that effect on him, still.

“Of course she is,” Will says. His eyebrows reach toward each other. He used to be so fun. He used to be normal. He used to keep his feelings to himself.

“Aren’t you going to offer me a seat?” I say. I keep my lips pursed and let Alec look me over.

“I like you standing,” Alec says, trying to be edgier because I told him I liked it. Another girl could get shy in a moment like this. But I’ve been ass naked in front of costume designers and teachers and classmates. I’ve had them pinch my sides and weigh me in public and measure every last inch of me to see how far away from perfection I am. So I’m not shy. I put a hand on one of my hips. I let him take me in. He’s probably right. They’re probably all looking at me. I’m a prima ballerina, no matter what Mr. K has to say about it, and the rest of them can see it all over me.

“You look great,” Alec says at last. Which means I’ve won this round.

Will sighs loudly. I sit down hard on the chair, drowning it out. Finally, I wrap one of my feet around Alec’s ankle He responds by pulling me into him and kissing me on the mouth, hard. He smells like coffee and hard work: he got his extra practice in. Smelling his sweat, I feel a pinch of guilt at being in here snaking my foot up Alec’s calf instead of throwing myself into practice, doing pirouette after pirouette, and using the early rehearsal end to keep working on my variation. I kiss him again to make me forget.

“Okay, enough you two,” Will says. His voice is tense now, too. Just like his face. He’s saying the same words he always has, but they sound so, so different.

“Can’t you give us some alone time?” I snap. I can’t take any of his little jabs tonight. I press myself even harder against Alec, shrinking that centimeter of space between our bodies. Will looks like he’s about to say something else, but something in him must melt a little, because he nods and gathers up his stuff. The tiny surrender is enough to make me smile his way, but he misses the look and he’d probably misinterpret it anyway. The secret smiles and eyebrow raises we used to share don’t work anymore. He stopped being my surrogate little brother this summer, and now I just don’t know what we are.

“Alec, call me later?” he says. He lands hard on Alec’s name, and even pauses to accommodate the space where my name would have been. Just one more person who hates me. I know it won’t help matters, but I lean my head on Alec’s shoulder and put a territorial hand over his. Will leaves, taking long dancer strides across the coffee shop. I still like watching the way his limbs move, still admire his impenetrable grace. I’d love even half of his passion. I’d tell him so, if we were speaking in anything but clipped, one-syllable words.

“Get your own boyfriend!” I call out, when he is already half out the door. Will’s shoulders slump and everyone in the shop has heard me. He turns bright red, like his hair. He’s not quite out beyond
the conservatory walls. Boys from Kentucky aren’t supposed to like other boys. His eyes look sad when they meet mine. I hadn’t meant to hurt him. Not really.

“Harsh, B,” Alec says. “Can’t you guys get over your little spat?” He smirks and puts a huge hand on my thigh. The warmth of his hand travels through my thin tights.

“Not yet.” His hand feels good on me, so I don’t move it away. “So stay out of it,” I say back, so he knows I’m not some weak delicate flower scared to tell him what to do, like the other ballerinas who would love a chance to be with him. He loves me because I’m fiery, feisty, stronger than anyone else.

Neither Will nor I have told Alec the details about our fight. Because the fight is about Alec. Sometimes the words tickle my lips, and I want to tell Alec the secret Will told me, but the bigness of it keeps me quiet.

“You’re all wound up today. And I’m guessing that’s why you put that message up about Gigi,” Alec says. I put several inches of space between us, losing the warmth of his hands on my legs. I hate that he said her name. That he ever has to say it. Sounds too pretty coming from his mouth.

I think about lying to him. Saying I didn’t write the message. But he keeps talking.

“Look, just because Mr. K didn’t cast you as the Sugar Plum Fairy doesn’t mean what you think it does. Don’t be like those other girls who get all catty and start messing with each other. You’re better than that.”

I’m not better. I am that girl. I’ve just been good at hiding it from him.

“The Snow Queen is an opportunity to show Mr. K—”

“I’m fine,” I say, louder than I’d intended. “Stop looking at me like everyone else is. You know I’m fine. I’m great. Can’t I just come visit you?” I hear the edge in my voice and try to soften it into something sexy, kissing his neck and letting the last few words land on the stubble just below his chin. “We haven’t been able to hang out much.”

“Always happy to see you,” Alec says, but it takes him a moment to reach for my body again. He sounds sad, disappointed in me. It’s a familiar cadence to his voice these days. He grabs the menu from under his coffee mug. He starts making creases and folds in the paper. “You need your congratulatory flower then, if we’re celebrating,” he says. He’s been making me paper flowers since we were little kids. His Japanese nanny taught him origami and it’s a strange hobby that girls tease him about but clearly think is secretly sexy. Which it is. I love watching his hands manipulate the paper. Every crease is careful, gentle. Like him.

He finishes, and it’s a perfect rose, made even more beautiful by the menu’s text on the petals.

“For you,” he says. “And if you want to talk about it . . .” But his voice fades out because we both know that’s not going to happen. “Well, I’m sure you’ll enjoy working with Henri,” he finishes, the smirk firmly back on his face, like it never left. “He’s been asking about you. Tips for partnering you.” Henri and Alec are roommates. “Dancing with him might get you in one of those magazines.” For the first time ever, I hear a small pinch in his voice, and I know he doesn’t like Henri.

“Maybe it will.” I shrug, putting the paper flower behind my ear, where I secure it with a bobby
pin. We’ve never danced with other people before. Alec and Bette are always paired. Our names have been listed beside each other so often that it’s burned into my memory. I don’t want his name next to Gigi’s. I don’t want to dance with Henri.

“I guess at some point we’d have to get used to partnering with others. It’ll be weird at first. Gigi’s got a different—” I kiss him to erase her name. It feels good to let go and to have him here with me. Just us. For at least this moment, Giselle Stewart can’t take anything else from me.

I take Alec back to my room. Sneaking him in is as finely choreographed a dance as any we do on stage. We shuffle past the sleeping guard and into the elevator together. We push the fourth floor button first, to check that the RAs are all still there. Their office spans the entire floor. They continue to answer the phones and dole out meds to several puffy-faced freshman girls who’ve no doubt cried themselves headaches. Not one looks up at us as the doors ping open. Then Alec goes to his floor on the tenth, because the RAs watch the elevator video feed. I go to mine on the eleventh, and let him onto the floor through the staircase exit.

“Out,” I say to Eleanor, but smile to soften it after I open my room door. She’s stretched across the bed, I’m sure doing her “visualizations,” but if she were a real threat, she’d know she’d be better off actually still in the studio dancing instead of lying there thinking about dancing. One of Adele’s performance videos—the ballet
La Bayadère
from three years ago—is on my flat screen. I click it off and don’t comment. She’s been watching old films of my sister a lot lately. And I wonder what’s next. Will she show up at Adele’s apartment like a fan girl? Will she ask my sister for technique tips?

“We’re roommates, Bette,” she says, in a voice I’ve never heard come out of her before. “I’m not your little slave. And hi, Alec. Congratulations on your role.”

“I let you be my roommate,” I say. I don’t even have to lie. Eleanor couldn’t afford this room—Adele’s old room—the only one on the hall with a private bath. “Don’t make me remind you, okay? That’s embarrassing.”