Shiny Broken Pieces (18 page)

ON THURSDAY AFTERNOON
,
I WRAP
myself up in my warmest scarf, hat, and gloves, and take the 1 train downtown, switching to the N at Times Square. Even now, I'm startled by the grime and the crowds. I haven't ridden the subway in forever, even though we're in the heart of Manhattan. My life is set in a four-block radius around campus.

Not today though. I've asked Jayhe to meet me in the East Village—he thinks we're going to this Szechuan place called Xi'an that he's talking about nonstop. He's been craving their cumin lamb noodles for months now. But I have something else planned.

My stomach grumbles, swishy and empty, as the train lurches forward. It feels completely foreign to be riding in this overheated metal box with a million strangers. I feel eyes on me, and most of them probably think I'm a high school kid or maybe a tourist from Korea. The train screeches to a stop, and I'm pushed out
the door along with a throng of people.

I look down at my phone, checking the time and location. Then I walk east until I hit Second Avenue. The vibe down here is hipper, old but new, and there are a gazillion kids—most just a bit older than me—hanging out, eating, playing basketball on the court across the street even though it's freezing. When I finally get to the address I gave Jayhe, he's not there yet. Late, as usual.

I can't believe I'm here. It feels surreal, like walking into some kind of vision of the future. But college could be my reality in a few short months. Jayhe's already applied, early decision. He asked me months ago to think about it, but for the longest time, even looking at the website made me feel like a failure—a has-been, a would be, a never could.

Still, after seeing the cast list, I know I have to keep my options open. The dance program at NYU is very respected, but it's not where real ballerinas land. So I'm auditioning elsewhere, too. But maybe those companies are still long shots. Maybe this is my only option. If it is, I have to make it work for me, for us.

A tall, muscular guy in tight black jeans and a slim peacoat is standing in front of the building, texting on his phone. A sprinkle of freckles splatters across his nose. He's got on red warm-up booties, and a beret sits perched on his otherwise bald head. The effect screams dancer.

“You here for the tour?” he says with a broad smile, square white teeth gleaming. “You're my one thirty, right?”

I nod my head and look at my watch. Jayhe's still not here yet. Should I go without him? But that would ruin my surprise.
And really, defeat the whole purpose of today—showing him that we're in this together.

“I'm June. I think we're waiting for one more.”

I'm trying to figure out what to say, what to do, when Jayhe runs up, backpack slumped on his shoulder, out of breath. His cheeks are flushed from the effort, and he grabs my hand. “Here. Sorry I'm late.” He leans in and gives me a big, sloppy kiss, not noticing we have company. “What are we— Oh, hey.”

“I'm Fred. Dance major. A junior at Tisch and your tour guide. Welcome to NYU.” Fred looks from me to Jayhe, noticing his hand on my arm. “You guys both dancers?”

Jayhe shakes his head. “I draw. I already applied, early admission, and I got in. But June's deciding whether to apply.” He smiles at me, and then at Fred, and then at me again. “And I guess the fact we're here—”

“I thought we could check it out.” My cheeks are blazing. “Just to see.”

This isn't how I planned this at all. But Jayhe's grinning and holding my hand, and the hope in his eyes tells me that maybe, just maybe, I've made the right decision.

Fred starts walking, and we follow him. “Well, you're both gonna love it here. NYU is known for being a renowned center for the arts. We live and breathe it here. And our alumni are everywhere.”

He opens the door and we walk into the building, riding the elevator up. “We've got classrooms and practice rooms and rehearsal studios on this floor,” he says, pointing things out as we pass.

It's all modern, bright, state-of-the-art. There's a student lounge, an orchestra room, and an alumni meeting room. He shows me the dance department offices. They all look lovely, sprawling and endless. He walks us back to Broadway, where the main school of the arts offices are, showing us big auditoriums and a café and finally the admissions office. But I can't bring myself to pick up an application. I grip Jayhe's hand the whole time, letting him lead as we follow Fred, trying to picture myself in these halls, in this life. I want to love it here, to be excited and enthusiastic and ready to embrace it all. But I can't. Not quite.

“How many hours a day do you dance?” I ask Fred.

“It's different for everyone—some are in the studio for like four hours a day. Others, it might just be an hour or two. We start broad and then specialize. Plus, you round out your schedule with academics and electives.”

I try to stop the frown from taking over my face. I don't want to take random electives, like Shakespeare or pottery. I want to focus, to dance, to be the best ballerina I can be. Maybe this isn't the place for me.

“That sounds great, doesn't it, June?” Jayhe says. “Maybe we can take a class or two together.”

His voice gets me out of my head. He's right. That's why I'm here in the first place, right? This is the only place where maybe I can have both—Jayhe and dance. I have to keep reminding myself that.

When we get onto the elevator again, Jayhe pushes the button for a different floor. “I'm going to go check out the drawing studio and art offices for a second.”

Before I can stop him, he steps off the elevator and disappears. Fred waits for me to say something. But I just stand there silently, trying to look bright and interested and happy.

As we get off the elevator, he grins. “You're a ballerina, right?” His question is on the edge of a chuckle. Like he'd be laughing at me, if he could get away with it.

“How do you know?” I ask.

“So composed, so serious. So above it all. You're all like that,” he says. “And you walk turned out.”

I look down and laugh at my feet. Permanent V.

Just outside the building, Fred sits, patting the spot next to him. I take a seat, looking down at my feet again, covered in cozy boots. Do they look out of place here? Do I?

“I do some jazz, some modern, I've even taken some Odissi, which is like an old-school Indian regional thing.”

“What about ballet?”

“Yeah, that, too. But it's a bit too stiff for me.” He looks at me again, sizing me up, and I grin. “You dance uptown, right?”

“American Ballet Conservatory,” I tell him.

“Tough spot. We get a couple every year, and it's like they're resigning themselves. But let me tell you something: if you land here, that's definitely not the silver medal. That's you going places.”

I try to believe his words, trust his judgment, but I know that in the ballet world, there are only a few places that count. College dance is just not one of them. “I don't know if I'm cut out for college,” I say. “I don't know if I can give up ballet.”

“Well, that's why you're here, right? At NYU, you won't have to.”

“But it's not the same.”

“I'm just saying it's not a bad problem to have, NYU.” He rises. “Come on, I have one last thing to show you.”

We walk west a few blocks until we end up on Sixth Avenue. We're standing in the heart of the city. A big, majestic castlelike building towers on one side of the street, a more mundane cityscape sits on the other. He points up to an endless wall of windows on the top right corner of the street, so I look, shading my eyes from the glare of the sun. “The Joffrey. Right here downtown. For when you really miss it.”

I grin at him. He may not be a ballet dancer, but it seems like Fred might really get it. “So should we go get an application?”

I nod. Ten minutes later, I'm standing in front of the admissions office with paperwork in my hands.

“I hope you give it a thought, June,” Fred says.

He hands me a Post-it. “Call me if you need help,” he says, then walks away.
Maybe NYU could be a place for me
, I find myself thinking.
Maybe it could be just what I need
.

I sit on the bench, waiting for what seems like eternity. Broadway bustles around me, students, tourists, and cabs with horns blaring. Artsy types, all tattoos and pink hair, come out of the building, nodding in my direction like maybe I'm that girl from their art appreciation class, that small glimmer of recognition that doesn't really exist at all. There are endless waves of people coming in and out of those doors, just in the span of a few minutes. The ballet world is so small, so intimate. Just this one building here is teeming with dancers.

When Jayhe finally shows up, he's grinning from ear to ear. “I
met one of my professors and showed him the drawings I did—the ones of you that I put up on my website. He said they were an excellent start, that they should definitely become part of my freshman portfolio. Isn't that great?” He beams, then remembers to ask. “What did you think of the dance school? It looks pretty badass, right?”

“It was awesome.” Then I blurt out what's been stressing me. “But maybe it's too much—I mean, there are so many people. How would I fit in?” More important, how would I stand out?

“June, don't you know by now?” He's leaning down, looking at my face in that way that sends my heart spiraling with joy every time. “You're not meant to fit in. You're one of a kind.”

He bends lower to kiss me, taking my face in his hands, letting his fingers run through my hair. He leans back a bit, looking at me again. “And this was an amazing surprise.”

“Don't get too excited. I'm still thinking about things. I'm looking at my options.” I can't make any promises. “I do know one thing, though.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“It's lunchtime.”

He smiles, and we head east. But even as we walk away, hand in hand, one thought repeats in my head: all we really have is now.

That night, I spend hours poring over the NYU catalog online. I've filled out the application already, but I still can't decide if I want to hit the official submit button. They've got all different styles of dance—ballet, tap, jazz, modern, and different regional
stuff like Fred said. They've got acting and musical theater and music. They've even got dance studies, where you can spend endless days analyzing the way other people move. It seems so broad, so overwhelming, like I'd never figure out how to make a decision about anything there. Like by the time I figured things out, I'd be too old to really do any of them well.

I have to dance. I need to dance. If it can't be at ABC, it has to be somewhere else that takes ballet seriously. I open up the websites for other major ballet companies. I look up Miami, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City. Some have auditions right here in New York, but others are only in the company's city, which means I've got to get moving if I want to audition. I spend the rest of the night filling out applications. I even book a ticket to San Francisco using the emergency credit card my mother gave me.

See
, I tell myself.
That casting wasn't the end of the world.

In fact, it might be just the beginning.

“Sorry, there was traffic,” Jayhe says as I climb into his van. We're heading to his little cousin's first birthday at the main restaurant in Queens, and I know he's nervous. Or maybe I'm nervous. I buckle my seat belt, settling in, so his lips land on my cheek. “Gimme a kiss.”

“Drive,” I say.

“Kiss!”

As he pulls to a stop at the next red, I lean over and give him a small peck, a teaser. I pull away as his hands reach for me. “The light,” I say, as horns blare behind us. I lift up the little
red-wrapped box that sits in my lap. “I got her earrings. Are her ears pierced?”

He shrugs and leans heavily on the gas. We're late, and the van smells like the pork and chive dumplings he probably had to deliver to the new restaurant branch in Brooklyn, which means we will, too. “So you applied?”

“Filled it out yesterday,” I say.

“You excited?”

I nod. I don't tell him that I think it might be a mistake, that maybe it won't work out after all.

“Oh, c'mon, June, you're going to love it there. We're gonna love it.”

“I hope so.”

“I know so.” Pausing at the next light, he takes my chin in his hand. “All right, say it.
Boe heh joo seh yoh
.”

“I don't love you today.” My voice is playful, my mouth a pout. “Because you're late.”

“Yes, you do. So say it.”

“Will that get you to just drive?”

He grins. I say the Korean phrase. It actually sounds the way it's supposed to. I'm grinning as he kisses me, and he takes my hand, his other resting on the steering wheel.

“That's better.” He starts to drive.

“I'm excited to see everyone. It's been so long,” I say.

“Are you nervous? Don't worry. You've met most of my family already.”

“I was little.”

“You're still little.”

The restaurant is the first two floors of a three-story red brick building in Elmhurst—the oldest branch, the one his grandma still runs. The moment I step in, the nerves disappear. Even though I've only been here once or twice before, this feels like the place I belong, as if I'm just heading home. The celebration room is decked out in a deep burgundy and gold, sparkling streamers cascading from wall to wall, balloons floating up toward the high ceilings.

Baby Mi-Hee sits in a swing that's been decorated like a throne, gurgling and giggling in a maroon
hanbok
dress. I remember seeing pictures of a tiny version of myself dressed up like that, in a little blue and gold
hanbok
.