Shiny Broken Pieces (12 page)

THE HOSPITAL WAITING ROOM IS
a nightmare of crying babies, cranky nurses, and teary-eyed adults. Eleanor's mother is at the nurses' counter. Her hair is streaked with gray. I hardly recognize her. The last time I saw her was during our ninth-grade
Nutcracker
performance, when we were in Level 4. All of Eleanor's four siblings were sitting in one long row, and my mother complained that their mom struggled to keep them quiet and contained.

Mrs. Alexander was never one of the mothers who helped Madame Matvienko with the costumes or peered through the glass windows of the studios to watch our classes. With all those kids, she just didn't have the time. I haven't gone up to Mrs. A. and she hasn't seen me yet. Her eyes are too red to see straight. I listen for snatches of conversation when the nurses come over to her. “Eleanor didn't have her EpiPen.” “Eleanor is still being stabilized.” “Eleanor's reaction was severe
.
”

I fuss with my phone to keep myself distracted. I click open the app that is connected to the video camera feed in Gigi's room. Still nothing.

Someone touches my shoulder. I look up; it's Eleanor's mother. “Bette,” she says. “I'm so glad you're here.”

She wraps me up in a hug. Her jacket smells like chicken soup and baby lotion, and what I imagine a real mother smells like. Her arms feel strong but soft. She kisses my head several times. She rubs my back, her strokes telling me everything will be all right. I let myself sink into it. Like she knows that these past few months have felt like a series of bad reactions and I need to be stabilized, just like Eleanor. But she needs me to be strong. No tears.

When she pulls away, she can barely hold back her sob. “She knows to check for peanuts. She's known her whole life. I don't know how this could happen.”

“Must be an accident, Mrs. Alexander,” I say. “Has to be. She's the most responsible person ever.”

She squeezes my shoulder and I hold her elbow because she feels light and wobbly, like she might just topple over. “She looked so small in there.”

“What happened?”

“Nurse Connie called. Said she'd accidentally eaten hummus with peanuts in it.”

Peanuts in hummus? She always buys the exact same fire-roasted peppers kind. There's no way any of those could have nuts in it.

“I'm going to tell them you're her sister, so they'll let you see her. I mean, you pretty much are, anyway. She needs someone
here. I have to run to Brooklyn and pick up the twins. There's no one to get them from their dance classes.”

She looks at her watch, worried. She's got a ways to go. Eleanor's family lives deep in the heart of Brooklyn, and it's a good hour on the subway. I want to offer to call my mother's car service for her, but I think she might be offended.

“Promise me you'll stay here until she wakes up?” Mrs. Alexander asks.

“Yes, yes,” I say. “I have nowhere to be.” Which is the most truthful thing I've said in the past few days.

“I'll be back as soon as I get a sitter for the twins.” She kisses me again and returns to the nurses' desk. I hear my name and they both glance over at me.

A few minutes later, I settle into the chair next to Eleanor's bed and gaze at her. She looks like one of the round-faced dolls my grandmother used to send me every Christmas. But her porcelain skin is covered with a deep red rash—forehead, nose, and chin. Her lips are cherry red and swollen two sizes larger than normal. Her eyelids are so puffy it looks like she got punched in them.

“Eleanor?” I whisper. “You okay? It's me.” I don't know why I expect her to open her eyes, sit up, and tell me what happened. “You're going to be fine.”

I babble on for a bit about my lessons with Yuli, about the new coffee shop I found down the street, about how much I miss her and Alec and school. I tell her about the video, how it could be what I need to clear my name.

I take her hand and rub it. “I'm sorry for everything. All those times when I wasn't good to you.”

Her chest lifts up and down with her shallow breathing.

“I'll get
Breakfast at Tiffany's
sent over so we can watch it.” I lean over and move her hair around so it looks nicer. “You're going to get better.”

One of the nurses bursts in, shooing me out for a few minutes while she changes Eleanor's IV bag.

I go back into the waiting room, where a few sad-faced grown-ups sit, and an old grandma snores in the corner. I take a seat near the vending machines, and wait until I can go back into Eleanor's room. I get impatient and return to the nurses' station. “Can I go back now?”

“There's another guest already in there. I know your mother said you could stay, but only one visitor in the room at a time.”

Another guest? “Okay, but I left my scarf. I'll just grab it.”

She waves a hand at me. “Be quick! Better see you back in this room in less than a minute.”

“Okay.” I head down the hall to Eleanor's room. I wonder who is in there. I didn't see anyone come in asking about her. I look through the slats of the blinds and see someone standing close to the bed, holding Eleanor's hand, touching her face. It's a man I recognize immediately by his build, by the close-cropped hair, by the curve of his back.

Mr. K.

I'm happy that he's checking up on her, and that he cares enough to make sure she's okay.

But then he leans down, too close, in a way that makes me sick to my stomach. He kisses her hand, and then, hovering over her, her forehead, and her lips. My breath catches in my throat. But before I turn around and walk away, I snap a quick picture with my phone. I've learned enough to know that no one will believe me otherwise.

THE WORDS LEAVING ALEC
'
S MOUTH
don't feel real. They bounce off the glass walls of Studio C and slap me in the face.

“Wait, what?” I push his hands off my body, and untangle from inside his arms, away from the barre he had me up against as we stretched.

“I went to see Bette, and I'm just letting you know about it.” He states it like he's just telling me he ate a quesadilla for lunch.

“Why? And when?”

He reaches for me again, but I swat his hands away. “Earlier this month. It wasn't a big deal.”

“It's been weeks.” I try to keep my voice from going shrill. My stress level is high after what happened with Eleanor. And now this. “When were you planning on telling me?” I search his face for the hidden answers to these questions, buried in the look in his eyes or the way his mouth curves.

“It's not a big deal,” he says. “I just went over to check on her. See how she's doing. We spent a lot of time together over the years, and you can't just turn caring about someone off. I'm telling you because I didn't want you to freak out.” He erases the distance I put between us and now I have nowhere to go. My back is pressed up against the studio wall, and I feel a bit like we're putting on a show. “I love you, Gigi. That hasn't changed.” He grabs for my face and kisses it. His touch is rough and forced.

“Her life sucks right now,” he says in defense of his visit.

“I
asked
you if you were still friends. You
lied
to me.”

“I didn't
lie
,” Alec says, his face angry now. “I just—”

“Did you forget—she tormented me last year? And others? That she's a bad person?” I shove him off. “I can't do this anymore, Alec.” The words leave my mouth half-formed and I don't realize their weight and magnitude until they're out, hanging there between us. “I asked you straight-out. You lied. If it wasn't a big deal, you would've told me beforehand, and if not then, right after. You carried this secret around for weeks.”

“It's not a secret. I've known Bette for like ten years. And, yes, we dated, but before that, we were just friends. Our families know each other.”

“And you don't think I know all that?” My voice rises and I feel my heartbeat start to pick up speed.

Alec's entire face is red now, even his hairline. Anger shows so easily on his pale skin.

“She hurt me, Alec. She shoved me in front of a taxi.” It's the first time I've said those words out loud. The first time I've really
believed them. I bite back tears. I won't cry. I'm too angry to cry. I push them down.

“Excuse me.” One of the Level 6 ballet teachers steps into the studio. “Your noise level is unacceptable.” She shakes her head, then presses her finger to her lips. We ignore her.

“I don't believe she did it,” he says in a low whisper.

“Really, Alec?” I say. “What more proof do you need? For them to do a documentary on it?”

I leap up, snatch my dance bag, and stomp away from him. A cry claws its way up my throat and I swallow it down three, four, five times. My bottom lip quivers and I bite down so hard I almost break the skin again.

“Gigi, wait!” Alec calls out.

I head for the guest bathroom near the front office. I lock myself in the bathroom and let out a scream.

I clench my hands. Bette's face pops up in my head, and for the first time ever I want to physically hurt someone, to take it all out on her face. Every angry thought, every tear, every upset. After all this time, after everything that Bette put me through, and he's still defending her. Well, he can have her. Maybe they deserve each other. Or maybe I deserve this. Maybe it's karma after what I did to Eleanor. Guilt and anger hit me in waves.

But I thought this was something that might last. Something in the way that we dance together. Something that would bring out the best in both of us. I guess not. I wipe my nose and take deep breaths.

“You're fine,” I say out loud. “You will be fine.”

I splash my face with water and fan my eyes. No one can
know I've been crying. I pull eyedrops out from my ballet bag, as well as a little makeup. I put myself together again, and reenter the hallway with a smile. It's time for rehearsal. I've got to keep it together.

I am fine.

“Gigi!” Will barrels into the studio. His grin is so wide it looks like it hurts. He waves around one of those celeb magazines he's always reading, and it takes me a minute to realize why he's so excited. “
People.
Page fifty-two! You are
gorgeous
!”

He squishes right up next to me and we pore over a four-page spread, with shots of me dancing with Will, hanging with Cassie, and even in class. Along the side of the third page sits a strip of photo booth pictures of me and Alec. He wouldn't talk to the reporter or be in the shoot, but I handed over these photos to work the “it couple” angle as part of the story. The headline shouts “American Ballet Conservatory's Phoenix Rising!” The Q&A talks about my struggle to recover. I didn't mention Bette's name, but the magazine speculates about her involvement and her dismissal from school. Right there, in black and white, it quotes Mr. K calling me “a real contender for the American Ballet Company apprenticeship.”

“It's amazing!” I take a few quick photos of the spread with my phone, and compose a group text to Mama, Aunt Leah, and a few friends. As I hit send, I have the perfect idea. “Will, do me a favor. Get me a hundred copies of this magazine. I'll give you the money. I need to send them to a very special someone.” We smile at each other.

In the studio, the Level 8 boys and girls are spread out, waiting for Mr. K and Damien, who enter with Morkie and Pavlovich, the male ballet teacher Doubrava, and others I've never seen before. They take their seats in chairs set up at the front of the studio. Mr. K claps his hands to call us all to attention. We're on our feet and huddle together like his flock.

“An update on Eleanor: she's home and doing better, and will return to school in a week. Tonight, I will meet with each of you individually in my office. Damien will observe the meetings. We will discuss where you're at and chart your progress. The
Swan Lake
audition is two weeks away. You must be ready.”

Mr. K takes Sei-Jin first, then Henri. The girl-boy pattern continues while the rest of us wait, and eventually they run out of boys. The teachers watch us, and some dancers are afraid to even talk. They stretch and take deep breaths. These surprise individual meetings have everyone rattled. I hear Alec's voice and I decide to sink into a face-down stretch to tune everything out. I can't rid my thoughts of Eleanor. I think about what Mama would think if she knew what I'd done. I think about whether I should tell Eleanor and apologize.

The secretary returns to the studio door and announces the next dancer. I try not to look at Alec when his name is called. I try to ignore the ache inside of me now that we're not talking, and sort of broken up. I decide to meditate while stretching. My body sinks into the floor and my breathing steadies. The deep pulls in my hamstrings and back relax me. The noises in the room disappear, and all I hear is the steady thrum of my relaxed heart.

Eleanor's name still echoes in the room. It sends a tremor through my body. I close my eyes and try to forget how red her face turned and how she gripped her throat and how her lips ballooned within seconds of dipping veggies into the hummus. I try to forget the sound of her losing air as her throat closed. I try to forget the way she looked at me. Helpless. Afraid.

“She's okay now,” I mutter to myself. “She's fine.”

Cassie laughs. I catch glimpses of her and think about how I'm going to confront her about the hummus she gave me and the lie she told me about Eleanor's allergy. I don't know what calling her out will feel like or how she'll react. I'm terrified of losing her as a friend.

I shake out my arms and legs, and try to focus on dancing instead.

I will be picked to dance Odette or Odile in
Swan Lake
.

I will be given a spot in the company at the end of the year.

I feel Cassie's hand on my arm. “Gigi, they've called you like four times.”

I sit up too quickly and all the blood rushes to my head. People laugh a little as I scramble toward the door.

“Sorry,” I say to the secretary. “I didn't hear you say my name.”

I feel terrible that I don't know her name, but she doesn't answer or acknowledge that I've even said anything. She takes long, rushed strides. I keep opening my mouth to ask her a question or two. I can't get any words out and she's not turning her head to give me a reassuring smile or to make sure I'm even there. We're down the hall and through the lobby in what feels like a
second, and then down the corridor.

She holds the door open to Mr. K's office.

“Have a seat, Gigi.” He doesn't look up from his desk to ensure that it's actually me. Damien sits in a nearby chair, taking notes and reviewing paperwork.

I slide into the chair and sit on my hands so they don't shake. Mr. K turns over several pieces of paper, then finally looks up at me.

“How are you feeling?” His brow furrows and deep wrinkles crease his forehead.

“I'm fine.”

“Hmm.” He takes the longest pause ever. I swear I can hear the tiny clicks of the clock that sits on his desk.

“Gigi, you aren't dancing like you're fine. I spoke to your physical therapist. She says you've healed nicely, and are getting the strength back in your left hip. But I can tell you aren't confident in your dancing right now.”

My head drops down. “I'm working on it every day. I'll be strong again.”

“You must fight for it if you want it back. It would be easy to just stay where you are right now—a decent recovery of your technique. But you, unlike many of these other girls, have the one thing ballerinas need to have a career. You have the
danseur russe
flame. It's why I picked you during auditions in San Francisco. I could see you more than the others.” His words force tears to drop down my cheeks. I try to wipe them away before he can see them, but I'm too late.

He gets up and puts a hand on my shoulder.

“I'm going to work harder. I promise. I'm going to be that dancer you saw in San Francisco.”

“I am confident you will be.”

I don't return to Studio C with the others like Mr. K has told me to. I take the elevator to my room instead. A headache punches its way up the back of my neck and settles into my temples. I open my room door and fling my dance bag forward. I don't bother to turn on the lights. My hands find all the origami Alec's ever made for me tacked on my board. With each rip of the paper, my heart thuds with anger and my monitor beeps faster. I curl up on the bed in the dark and wait for the throbbing to slowly drift away like sad, soft music.