Shiny Broken Pieces (19 page)

Jayhe hands me a plate of dumplings as the ceremony starts, watching to make sure I'm eating. Has he talked to my mom?

Jayhe's uncle makes a few announcements in rapid-fire Korean, then picks the baby up, holding her forward for all to see. I recognize the words:
congratulations
,
family
,
fortune
, and
blessed
.

“Introducing Mi-Hee.” The room erupts in cheers. “Time for her to pick her fortune.” It's an old tradition, letting the baby choose her own fate. A bunch of objects—a pen, gold coins, a sewing kit, a thermometer—sit on the table, each predicting a different future for the lucky one. Everyone leans in to watch. Whispers and laughs burst through the room.

Jayhe's uncle lets the baby hover over the table, her chubby hands landing on this object and that, until she reaches down and finally picks up the coins. “A banker, a banker,” the cheers go up.

I watch the baby playing with her goodies, trying to eat the coins, and I wonder what I picked. I smile at the thought that maybe, just maybe, my mother would have put a ballet slipper out for me to choose.

“Hey!” Jayhe pops up behind me. He pulls me close to him, whispering close to my ear. “What're you grinning about?” He spins me around to face him.

“Do you know what you picked at your fortune ceremony?” I ask. Light glitters in his dark eyes, washing out any reflection of me.

He frowns. “Ma always says it was the coins, but I think it was probably a pencil.”

I take his rough hands in mine, and I feel like a child, they're so big and calloused. “I wonder what I picked,” I say. A dark thought settles over me. I wonder if my mother had a fortune ceremony for me at all. My mom was a single mother, and her family was all in Korea.

“What's the matter?” He squeezes my hand tighter. “You used to be one of the happiest people I knew. And now, it just seems that place makes you sad.”

“I am happy,” I say, shrugging. Why is he bringing this up now?

“You don't seem like it.” He tries to pull me closer, but I can feel eyes on us again.

“Stop.”

He realizes people are watching, and lets me go. “Why are you being like this?”

I bite my lip, thinking about what he's said. I'm trying to
figure out what to say when he speaks again.

“Okay, then. Maybe this will make you happy. I talked to my dad, and between the scholarship and what he would have paid for Queens, I can make NYU work. Probably.” He waits for me to say something. “So it can all work out.”

“Congratulations.”

He seems angry. “That's it, that's all you have to say? Not ‘we're on our way'? Not ‘I can't wait till we're together'? None of that?”

I nod my head, but I can't force the words.

“Okay, then, I guess that's that. I guess asking you to have Valentine's dinner is useless, too. You have to rehearse. I know.”

Actually, that's the weekend I have to fly to California to audition for the San Francisco Ballet. “I'll be out of town. Auditions.” I ease the words out slowly, waiting for him to erupt. “We could do the weekend after? Or before. Or maybe you can come with me?” I let myself imagine that for a minute—the two of us on the trolleys and in Chinatown. But I can't quite picture it because I know that's impossible. He's got school, he's got art class, he's got endless hours at the restaurants.

“Auditions?” He takes a deep breath. “For what? I thought you said you were applying to NYU. I thought you said—”

His grandmother ambles over, and Jayhe goes silent. When we were little, I spent hours with her and Jayhe at their house down the street, playing, watching Korean dramas, and eating mandu. Her whole face lifts when she smiles at me. “
Yeppeo gangaji,
” she says, touching my cheek. Pretty little thing.

I wrap my arms around her and kiss her soft, wrinkly cheek.
The skin is papery, like it will tear if I push too hard. She feels and smells like home to me. She puts a warm palm to my face. She says a bunch of stuff in Korean, but the only thing I understand is the word
eat
. Then, she tries in English. “Eat more. Too small.”

“Yes, yes.” I kiss her again. She takes a dumpling from her plate and pushes it toward my mouth. I take a bite and then a second. When it's gone, she starts on another, but I excuse myself. “
Hwajangshil.
” Bathroom. I hope she understands.

Am I really that bad?
I wonder as I look at myself in the mirror. There are hollows under my eyes, and my arms are string beans. The dress makes a line straight down, no curves anymore. In real clothes, ones you wear outside ballet, I look sick, underfed, not like a normal girl. In leotards and tights, with my hair slicked back and my face powdered, I look like what I am: a ballerina.

I can feel the dumplings and other junk floating in my stomach, the thick, salty soy sauce coating my insides. I can't even walk into the bathroom anymore without wanting to purge. My body does it on command, the smell of the disinfectant and the coolness of the tiles an instant trigger.

I run into the stall and let it all out. The dumplings, the drama, the tension that's been weighing me down for days. But the guilt doesn't leave me like it usually does. It sits heavy and solid in the pit of my stomach, a reminder that, despite this one little bit of control I may have, everything's far from okay. Maybe it'll never be okay. I can't just sit here on the cold hard floor, so I paste on a smile, ready to head back into the party. When I open
the bathroom door, Jayhe's standing there. His face is stone, his lips pressed together tight, unyielding. His eyes are confused, crinkling with pain or revulsion.

The party still spins around us, but it feels like we're in a bubble. “What?” is the only thing I can get out. But I know that's not nearly enough.

“How—were you—” He swallows the rest of his thought. “We don't talk about this stuff, so—”

“And we aren't going to talk about it right now either,” I snap.

“I just thought you were working on it. That you were doing better.”

“Are you kidding me? Do you know how much pressure I'm under? You don't get it, do you? This is it. These next few months are all I really have to make something of myself. I'll do whatever it takes—give up whatever I have to—to make it happen. Even if I have to do this.”

He pulls me in close, a hug I can't escape, and I'm clawing at him, at everything, trying to get out. I can't. I can just hear his heart pounding against my ear, the thud, thud, thud of it fast and exhausting and soothing all at once, making me realize something for the first time. “I know you want this, June, but this isn't worth the struggle,” he whispers into my too-short hair. “This isn't worth it. June, you don't have to—”

I shove him away. “No! You have to understand. I can't eat dumplings and noodles and pizza and hang out and watch movies and hook up. If you want that girl, go back to Sei-Jin. She's who you wanted in the first place.”

His face is bright red now, and everyone in the room has
paused. “June, keep your voice down.” His hands are on my shoulders. He's looking me straight in the eyes, trying to calm me down, saying soothing, hushed things in both Korean and English.

“I can't—I can't do this anymore, Jayhe. I'll do whatever it takes to dance. And you'll never understand. I'm not giving this up. Not even for you.”

I storm out of the restaurant, racing down the block. My heart is pounding as I run, the winter air whipping my hair back against my face, the chill seeping into my skin.

An hour later, I'm standing in front of my mother's apartment building. I can barely remember how I got here, and I'm hoping this is all a nightmare, a mistake. But I know somewhere deep inside that it's over with Jayhe.

I stand there for a moment that feels like hours, finding it hard to believe what I've done. I walk toward the building and let myself in. I climb slowly up the three flights of stairs, carrying the weight of a broken heart with me.

It's only nine p.m., but it feels like the dead of night. It's cold in the apartment, the single-paned windows letting every draft in. I put on a sweater and socks. I crank up the thermostat. I even turn on the oven. But that's not enough, and I bat away the thought that being cold is a symptom of low body weight. I go into my mom's room, where she's snoring slightly, that same familiar rhythm she's always had, and crawl in right next to her, cuddling close. Like I used to when I was little.

“
TAKE A LOOK AT THIS
patheticness.” Cassie passes me her phone. She's sprawled out on the extra bed in my room after curfew. I'm on a mat on the floor, doing my physical therapy exercises. I zoom in on the picture. It's June bent over their toilet, vomiting. Her face is twisted into the ugliest expression. Liquid spews from her mouth.

“Gross. How'd you get this?” I give her the phone back. I remember catching her throwing up last year. The embarrassment, the shame of it all, floods back to me.

“I set up a camera right above the toilet bowl. If she half paid attention, she would've seen it.” She clicks through a few others, flashing them at me. “She stinks up the bathroom, too. How did you deal?”

I shrug. Back then I liked June and didn't mind putting up with her quirks and habits, however damaging they might've been. But now, every time I see her, every time I hear her name, every
time I think of her, I see my butterflies pinned to the wall. The gleaming needles pierced straight through the space right under their heads and their eyes, where a human heart would be if it were that small and fragile. The wings pushed forward and brushed up against the walls. I feel my cheeks flush and the pressure build up.

“I need to ask you something.” I dredge up courage.

“Yeah, what's up?” She doesn't look up from her phone.

“Did you know that Eleanor would end up in the hospital?”

She looks up. Her eyebrow lifts. “No.”

She stares at me so hard, I can't ask another question. My stomach knots. The question has been burning inside me since the incident.

“You think I wanted to send her to hospital?”

“I'm not saying that. Just wanted to know if—”

“I thought she'd just look funny, okay?”

“Okay. Forget I asked.” I jump up, take her phone, and try to change the weird mood in the room. “I have something fun we can do.”

“Oooh, what?” She nibbles her bottom lip.

“Let's remind the girls not to throw up what they eat. Make sure they know how ugly it makes you look.” The mean words pour out of my mouth and erase a little of the anger inside me. I can't stop. The cruelness fills me up.

She breaks out in a smile, like she's just finished a particularly difficult variation and is basking in the applause. “This will get her to clean up after herself or, better yet, get sent home.”

I plug the phone into my computer and select those photos. I print about fifty of them. I hand her a bunch of the papers
and clear tape. “We're going to let everyone know her nasty little habit. Ballerinas love their secrets.”

We put tape on the photos, ready for posting, then open the door. The hallway is silent. It's just after midnight, and most girls are asleep or on their computers.

“I'll start on the eleventh floor—the Level 7 girls will find this hilarious.” She slips down the stairwell.

I start putting the photos up on every door and the wall space in between. I even plaster them over the Level 8 bulletin board, June's ugly, pained face covering up announcements about changes in dorm rules for the new year. I imagine what her face is going to look like in the morning: twisted, weepy, shocked. I imagine how loud the laughs will be. I imagine her racing through the hallway, trying to tear them all down, only to find a dozen more. I imagine how long it will take her to find all of these. I imagine how many tears will stream down her face.

The guilt doesn't bubble up this time. Maybe it's all gone now. Maybe I am completely different now.

I go to the kitchen area and climb on one of the chairs. The streetlamps leave shadowy beams of light across the floor. I open the cabinets and tape them on everyone's cereal boxes and food containers. This feels addictive. A rush goes to my head.

“What are you doing?” The lights startle on. “You know there's a camera in here.”

I almost fall out of the chair. The nighttime RA has her hand on her hip. She looks around at all the pictures, then starts tearing them down. My heart monitor buzzes on my wrist. Worry
floods into my stomach and I start to shake.

“Get down, right now.”

I ease down and put the rest of the pictures on the counter.

“What the heck are you doing?”

“I—I—just—”

“This is bullying and harassment.” Her mouth is a hard line. “What's happened to you?”

“I was messed with, Miriam!” I shout. The anger shoots out of my mouth. I want her to feel it. I want everyone to feel it.

She closes the gap between us and puts a hand on my shoulder. Her sleepy eyes brim over with concern.

“June killed my butterflies. Will pushed me in front of a car.”

She shakes her head, whispering “I know” a few times, and rubs my shoulder. She puts the rest of the photos in the trash. I can't move. My legs are frozen in place. I can't stop staring at the hall where I've put up all those pictures. I think about Cassie downstairs doing the same. I wonder how much trouble we'll be in.

“Help me take them down.”

We remove each photo in silence. No one comes out into the hall. No one discovers the pictures. They end up in a pile in her arms, ready to be deposited into her trash bin. I text Cassie to do the same and warn her about the RA.

She finally says something just as I'm about to go back to my room. “Gigi, I'm disappointed.”

I wait for the punishment—a meeting with Mr. K or a suspension or worse, possibly being banned from performing? The weight of it crashes in on me. Sweat drips down my back. My lips start to quiver.

“You've always been better than this.”

I bite my bottom lip to keep from crying.

“Don't let the worst thing that ever happened to you define your life. Don't let it eat you up. You're back. You're dancing better than ever. You will be successful here. You don't need to do all”—she waves her hands around—“of that petty little kid stuff. Be better than it. Just dance. Doing all this makes you no better than Bette.”

Her words hit me square in the chest. Bette's name slaps me. I think about Eleanor's face after she got sick eating the hummus, June's beautiful hair all over the PT room floor, Sei-Jin's pointe shoes, and mailing all those magazines to Bette. I've wasted so much time trying to show everyone that they shouldn't mess with me instead of pouring that energy into dancing, making sure my body is strong again and my technique is still there. I think about what Mama would say or do or think if she knew what I'd done.

“Fix it, and this will stay between the two of us. You do anything else, I'll make sure you're done at this school. Understand?”

“Yes,” I say.

I close my room door and slide down to the floor. I press my knees into my chest. I'm wracked with pain and tears and anger at myself now. I've become Bette. I've become the person I hate. And that's the thing that shifts it all, the thing that snaps it into place.

The next morning I'm sitting in Mr. K's office again. The scent of his tobacco, the buttons in the chair, and the noise of ballet
music pushing in through the door mix together and make me sick. Or maybe it's because Will's sitting in the nearby chair. His eyes glare down at his lap. His mother dabs her eyes with a handkerchief. She's got the same pale white skin and bright red hair, and wears almost as much makeup as her son.

Dad and Mama sit to my left. Mama's leg twitches to an angry beat, and it rubs against mine.

I stare at the side of Will's face. I close my eyes and think back to that night. How I laughed coming out of the club. How I felt happier than I ever had in my entire life at that moment. How I thought I'd finally found a place where I belonged, where people loved ballet as much as I do.

I try to remember how the hands on my back felt. I wonder if I should've recognized their size and shape and feel from all the times I'd danced with Will, letting him turn me and lift me and parade me around. All the emotions I'd buried rise to the surface.

How did I not know?

A voice inside says:
You didn't want to know.

“Please don't press charges. He's sorry. Right, Will?” Mrs. O'Reilly slaps his arm. The sound echoes.

Mama presses back in her chair.

“Say you're sorry.” I can see Mrs. O'Reilly's nails digging into Will's pale flesh, leaving red half-moons behind. He doesn't move a muscle. Her southern accent makes the words sound even harsher. “My idiot son's disgraced the family in more ways than one.”

“He deserves to be punished by the law.” Mama doesn't look
at her. Only straight ahead, like she's spotting for a pirouette. “He almost killed my child.”

“And he'll be forever punished by the good Lord himself.” Will's mother reaches out to touch my arm. I flinch and pull back.

“I don't know what else there is to discuss, Mr. K.” Mama rises from her seat and picks up her bag, ready to go.

Will breaks down in full sobs.

“Now wait.” My dad grabs Mama's hand and gets her to sit back down. “We should leave it to Gigi. All this happened to her.”

“Gigi doesn't have to do anything she doesn't feel comfortable with,” Mama says, but Mrs. O'Reilly interrupts.

“The good Christian thing is forgiveness. Will knows he faces judgment from the above. He doesn't need your—”

I finally look at Will. His skin is the color of his hair. He doesn't look up from his lap. I'm a terrible judge of character. I'm too trusting. I'm too naïve. “Enough,” I whisper at first, then yell it over and over again until it's the only word in the room. After last night, I want all this to go away. I want to start the year over. I want all the wounds to close and stop bleeding. I just want to dance and not have to deal with all this. I want to go back to being the old me.

“Why did you do it?” I say, turning in my seat to face Will head-on. My heart knocks against my rib cage, its erratic beats making me light-headed. “Why?”

Will looks up finally. Tears stream down his face, but he's not wearing mascara today. “You have to listen to me. Please. Let
me tell you what happened. I was trying to get Bette in trouble. I didn't know you'd actually get hurt. Henri promised me you'd just trip, twist your ankle. Not be able to dance
Giselle
. I didn't see the taxi. He made me believe that he liked me.” His words give me goose bumps. The boy he liked and had a strange relationship with was Henri. “I swear I didn't want to hurt you like that.” His cries turn to hiccups. “I didn't mean to hurt anyone.”

The last phrase reverberates between us.

“I don't care why you did it, but I don't want to talk about this anymore, or even hear about it.” I turn to Mama. “I don't want to press charges. I want to move on. I just want to dance.” I turn back to Will. The relief on his face is so sudden, so desperate. “And, Will, I don't want to talk to you ever again.”

I walk out, leaving Will to his own little version of hell.