Shiny Broken Pieces (25 page)

“
YOU NEED CASH?
”
MY MOTHER
asks me for the fortieth time. She hands me a couple of twenties. We're sitting in the back of her car. She tells the driver to pull over to the right. We sit in silence for a few minutes. The rain makes a lovely beat on the car's roof. The school's lit windows cast a glow on the hood of her car. “And how's the new phone? Found the old one?”

She's being nice tonight. She had only one glass of wine during our dinner.

“It'll turn up. And if it doesn't, it was probably stolen and wiped clean already.” I say the last part to myself, hopeful. It's been gone for weeks. It had important stuff on it, like those photos of El and Mr. K, and the camera app. I should've deleted them all ages ago.

“Don't worry about it. It's just a phone. And, Bette, you're doing great.” She catches me off guard with that. “Really rising to the occasion, considering the mess that this has all been
lately.” She pauses for a second, wondering if that came out right. But with my mother, it never really comes out right. “Thank you for taking such good care of Adele. I know she needs your support right now.”

“Of course.” I actually kiss her cheek, then get out of the car, open my umbrella, and walk across the expansive Lincoln Center campus toward the Rose Abney Plaza. I'm about to go inside when Eleanor comes barreling out of the doors.

“Eleanor!” I call out. But she doesn't hear me. Or she's ignoring me. Again. She races away from the building, half running across the courtyard, full speed ahead, frantic.

“Eleanor, wait!” I chase her.

“El!” I catch her before she passes the fountain, grabbing her by the jacket, worrying it might fall apart in my hands. “Where are you going?”

She's upset.

“What's wrong?”

“It's everywhere!” She's breaking down, and I can't quite understand what she's talking about. “The photo you took at the hospital.”

“What are you talking about?”

She flails her hands, the tears streaming now. “You were the only one from school who was there. How could you, Bette? How could you?” She's hiccupping through the words, her body shaking with anger or sadness or an ugly mix of both. “They think that's the reason that I got to dance at all.” She's sinking to the ground, her knees hitting the wet concrete hard. I sink down with her, trying to get her to focus, to look at me.

“Breathe, Eleanor. Please. Tell me what happened. I can't help you if—”

The rain soaks us both as I struggle with my umbrella and helping her. She lifts her phone then, and I see the pictures I took of Mr. K and Eleanor at the hospital. The photos that were on my missing phone.

“They're calling me a slut, Bette.”

“You're not—”

“Why am
I
the slut? He's done this a dozen times! Why am I the one to blame?” She's zipping through all the photos and the comments. They're on a bunch of different students' pages. “I'm not the first. I just wanted to—I thought, if I could just get his attention, I'd show him how good I was.”

“Let's go to my house,” I say. “We can hide out and figure out what to do.”

She's shaking her head in a manic, determined way. “I don't want to be anywhere near you right now. This happened because of
you
. Because of the pictures you took.”

I try to grab her hands, to lead her inside and out of the rain, but she takes off in the other direction. “Someone stole my phone!” I shout.

I chase after her, but lose track of her. The rain pours down in sheets. I can't even see the streetlamps in front of me. The plaza is so slick and the wind is so strong, I try not to fall, my umbrella nearly lifting me off the ground. I turn back to the school doors. I trip into the lobby, dripping with rain and guilt.

A male voice booms through the lobby, coming from one of the studios.

“What's going on?” I ask the front desk guard.

“Someone's in trouble, I guess.”

One of the RAs spots me. She runs up to me and grabs me by the shoulder. “You're late.” She's all pissy, as if it's going to reflect on her. “School-wide meeting. Studio D. Now.”

I have a sick feeling that it's about those pictures from my phone. She pulls me into the studio.

“Someone is turning Mr. K's concern for a student into something reprehensible.” Alec's dad stands in front of the crowd, as angry as I've ever seen him. “Something disgusting and inappropriate. They are posting the innuendos and lies all over social media. For something like this to come up at this turn—when we're finally about to set things right with the gala performance—well, it's simply unconscionable. There was nothing illicit about this picture.” His face expressionless, as his eyes comb over every student in the room, looking for the dead giveaways. The clamminess, the smirks, the flushing or fear. But everyone is silent.

A bearded black man I've never seen before steps forward. “I'm Kevin McCafferty, the deputy VP of the conservatory board. Most of you do not recognize me because my role is largely behind-the-scenes—and that distance allows me to remain objective in these matters. As you know, the board of the American Ballet Company and Conservatory takes these charges very seriously. We cannot let this go without looking into the authenticity of these pictures and the veracity of the claims made online. Your parents have been notified of this situation.” He looks around.

Whispers shoot through the room—the sound flinging itself up the studio's bare walls, bouncing off mirrors and from one student to the other, spreading like a brush fire raging out of control. I slip out and go looking for Eleanor.

I go back outside in the rain. No sign of her. I race to the coffee shop down the block. The barista says there haven't been any students here all day. I head back to the building.

“Any dancers come in late?” I ask the front desk man.

“Aside from you, there was one other.” He barely looks up from his paper. I want to slam it down on the desk and make him pay attention to me.

“Was it Eleanor?”

“I don't know any of your names, miss. She was brown haired, sopping wet, and crying.”

I race from the front desk to the elevators. I don't say thank you
,
even after he yells out “You're welcome” behind me. I fixate on the elevator numbers as it climbs from the first floor to the twelfth floor. I dart to my room and turn the doorknob. It's locked.

“Eleanor?” I knock again and say her name louder. I bang now and the door vibrates, but there's no answer. I dig my keys out of my bag, then push my way into the room.

The TV blasts a recording of one of Adele's old ballets. “Eleanor?”

Light pours out from under the bathroom door. I knock, but hear nothing. I turn the knob and it opens, just barely. There's a chair jammed against it. I slam into the door. The chair falls over. I push my way into the bathroom. My heart pounds.

Eleanor is passed out in the bathtub, arms dangling over the side, gashes across her wrists. Blood stains the water red, and my pills are scattered all over the fuzzy bath mat.

I scream for help and grab for Eleanor in the water. Her body feels too light, and sinks farther into the tub the more I pull. “Wake up, Eleanor. Open your eyes. C'mon.” I manage to get her halfway out of the bathtub and cover her naked body with towels and a robe. I scream until I can't hear myself anymore.

After what feels like a lifetime, an RA rushes into the bathroom. She yanks me away from Eleanor. My hands are slick with her blood and my tights are soaked with bloodstained water. I fall back onto the plush blue bath mat my mother ordered. I feel the RA trying to lift me, but I am a thousand pounds and can't get my limbs to work or my legs to stop giving out from under me as I try to stand.

Another RA rushes in and behind her are paramedics. I'm taken from the room and into the hall where a crowd has gathered. People ask me questions. I see lips moving. I feel hands on my arms and shoulders. But I can't hear anything other than my heartbeat and the memory of my screams. My head fills with images of Eleanor.

The oozing gashes on her wrists.

The paleness of her skin.

The blood in the water.

They tell everyone to go back to their rooms, but I can't move. As soon as Eleanor is on a gurney and headed down in the elevator, I shoot for the stairs. I leap down them two at a time. I burst through the stairwell door and into the lobby. Mr. K is
there with all the teachers. They hover near the school entrance. Mr. McCafferty is outside, shooing away cameras with the help of police officers.

Eleanor's gurney clicks loudly against the marble floors of the lobby. It's the only thing I can hear.
Thump. Thump. Thump.

She's strapped down, and an oxygen mask covers half her face. An EMT holds a bag of fluids over her and shouts something to his partner. Mr. K seems frozen as Eleanor passes, his eyes wet, his hand over his mouth, his pale skin white as paper. The night guard puts a hand on his shoulder, but he doesn't move.

Camera flashes pulse through the school windows and the red and blue lights of the ambulance mix with them until I can't see anything anymore.

All I can hear is a voice inside that says:
I just killed my best friend
.

AS THEY WHEEL ELEANOR OUT
the front doors of the American Ballet Conservatory on a gurney, the lobby is quieter than it's been in the six years I've lived in this building. So quiet, it almost feels like a funeral. It's not, I tell myself. I press my face to the glass, watching them load Eleanor's gurney into the ambulance. Others swarm around doing the same. A sheet covers most of her body, except for one leg that keeps slipping off the side, bare and bloody.

She's going to be fine, I keep telling myself. She has to be. I don't know Eleanor that well, despite being in school with her for a decade now. She's always been Bette's sidekick, but with roles like Arabian Coffee and the Swans, she was starting to come into her own finally. I'd heard the rumors, about a teacher and a student. But there have been rumors about Mr. K before, too. There have been rumors about Adele, rumors about Gigi, and others before them.
Mr. K takes liberties. He seduces students. Mr. K is a
predator. Mr. K prefers blondes.
I remember overhearing Sei-Jin and her friends talking about Mr. K and Adele, about what she did to get to the top—and what Bette would have to do to beat that. “Wonder if he's into sisters?” one of them had said at the time. Seems they had the wrong girl all along.

Just as the ambulance pulls away, a horrible sound breaks the quiet.

I walk away from the windows, where the crowd is still gathered, and over to Bette, who's got a hand on the glass door. They won't let her out, but she refuses to step away. She's crying, mascara running, snot dripping, and she doesn't even care. I put an arm around her shaking shoulders, and it feels strange and familiar all at once, like new toe shoes that will be perfect once they're broken in. She doesn't stop sobbing, and an RA comes and guides her into the administration office, probably hoping to prevent other breakdowns.

The other Level 8s swarm around the elevator bank, unsure of what to do with themselves.

Mr. Lucas appears, taking charge, his voice droning as he's shouting commands. “Upstairs now. There's no reason for you to be down here. You can get your evening meals, but we will be instituting an eight thirty curfew tonight. No sign-outs, unless a parent or guardian comes to get you.”

The old me would hope for a glance, a glimmer of warmth or recognition. But now I know not to have expectations, and I realize I don't care anymore. If anything, I feel disgusted by him and his presence.

As the next elevator opens, I follow the crowd into it. I head
straight for my room, which is empty, thankfully. My first instinct is to head toward the bathroom—but I stop myself, my hand resting on the doorknob. I turn around and press my back to the door. If I give in to that, how am I any different from Eleanor?

I'm killing myself, too, just at a slower pace.

I climb into bed and pull the covers over my head, blocking out everyone and everything. I've always loved this place, longed for it when I was away for the summers, considered it home. But today, I feel done with it, ready to move on. It's all too much. I've never been able to relax here, not really. The competition, the anxiety, the sheer meanness that sets in gets to even me. Exhausted, I let myself go, give myself over to sleep.

It's just past midnight when I wake, my phone buzzing incessantly. My mom. I answer, my voice heavy with sleep. “I'm okay,” I tell her.

“Thank God!” She sounds wide awake, frantic. “Want me to come get you?”

I shake my head, realizing she can't see me. “No, I'm okay. I'm in bed. I'll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay, E-Jun. Stay safe. Love you.”

She hangs up, and I look around the room by the light of the streetlamp. Cassie's not in her bed or the room. She's with her company friends, I guess. Or maybe with Henri.

Alone in the dark, I feel haunted. Butterflies, bloodstains, broken bones. They're all crashing in on me. I want to text Jayhe, to let him fold his arms around me or, better, take me away from this place. But I can't. Not after all that's happened. I look at the
phone, willing myself to do it. Knowing I won't.

The cold call of the bathroom beckons, like death with its skeletal fingers gesturing me forward. I climb out of bed and follow the call blindly, not even stopping to turn on the lights. The sound of the swirling water from the toilet rushes my ears, bringing up that familiar instinct. Crouching there, I almost give in. Almost let all that hurt take over. I feel the warmth that always comes before the releases.

But then, faintly, I hear chatter in the hall. First quiet, then louder, closer. I push myself away from the toilet, propel myself up and out of the bathroom. I nearly gave in, gave up. I take deep breaths until the contents of my stomach settle.

I rush to the door and pull it open, hoping for Gigi or Bette or even Riho. I practically spill out into the hallway, where Sei-Jin and her friends are gathered, standing in their pajamas, headed toward the common room, no doubt.

“June.” Sei-Jin looks surprised but not unhappy to see me. “We were just coming to get you.” She gestures to the others, and Riho grins at me. “We're going to watch some K-dramas on the big screen. The RAs said it was cool, you know, to get our mind off things. Want to come?” If she notices how shocked I am, she doesn't let on. “Oh, come on. It'll be fun.”

She offers her arm. For a moment, I look for an excuse. But she looks so hopeful, I just nod and take the hand she's extended. As the other girls walk ahead, she pauses for a second. “I'm glad you're coming.” Then more quietly, she adds, “and don't worry. We'll put on the subtitles.”

I smirk as she laughs, but I'm glowing with warmth inside.

It's a nice Saturday, so I sign myself out at the front desk. It takes me an hour and a half to get to Queens on the train. I have to switch from F to the E, and there's a big wait in between trains, and I should have brought a heavier coat, because it's still chilly for late April.

One week since Eleanor's incident, things have settled down in an eerie way—kind of like nothing has happened at all. Eleanor's recovering, but they don't know when—or if—she will be back. Mr. K has returned because the situation remains “under investigation.” And I finally, weirdly, have friends again. I've tried knocking on Bette's door a few times, but she never answers. She hasn't been in class all week.

Riding the train, I look at the NYU acceptance letter I received. I try to picture myself at NYU, imagining myself in purple polka dots and a plum lipstick, in acting class or maybe creative writing, on a stage or maybe behind the scenes. I imagine myself at parties and studying in the library. I try to picture Jayhe's face when I share my news. It warms me up, and I must look like an idiot, standing there in pink tights and my little spring jacket, beaming. But for once, I don't care what anyone else thinks.

I get off the train in Elmhurst and realize I'm not quite sure which direction to walk in, because we always drove over in Jayhe's van when we went to the restaurant. I don't even know if this is the branch Jayhe will be at, or if he's full-time now at the new place in Brooklyn.

There are so many things I don't know anymore, and it makes
me want to just turn around and get right back on the train. What was I thinking? I'm already missing afternoon ballet, and by the time I get back, I'll miss my pre-calc tutoring session, too. I look around. This New York is so different from mine: the bustle of the street, people of all different shapes and colors and sizes. English, Hindi, and Korean and who knows what else mingle into a pulsating backbeat. This place is a different New York, teeming with life. Not all glass and metal and sheltered like the conservatory. Not so easy to shatter.

I can hear the sizzle of meat from the Indian restaurant across the street, and the pizza guy is tossing pies in the window behind me. I don't see Jayhe's dad's place. But there's something familiar about the street names, the shops around here. I don't think I'm far. The light changes and I go to cross the street and suddenly there's a whole lot of honking and I leap back.

The walk signal is still flashing and I should be okay. As I start again, there's more honking, and I finally look to where it's coming from.

But it's Jayhe, leaning hard on the horn in that junky old black van, the one we made out in countless times. He looks completely confused, but he's waving me over. I run back to the other side, and open the passenger door and climb in.

He pulls over, and just stares at me for a second. “Took you long enough” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth. He's not smiling or frowning or doing much of anything. I guess this is all on me.

“I didn't realize you were waiting.” I have the envelope in my lap, and it's taking everything in my power not to shove it at him,
to let it do the talking. “I thought that you didn't want to see me again. But I decided not to give you a choice.”

He doesn't say anything. Anger simmers below the surface, hot to the touch, even in the silence between us.

I hand him the envelope. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry I disappeared. I'm sorry I kept pushing you away. I'm sorry you had to see me—like you did.” I know he's seen it now, sized up the familiar emblem in the corner, the shape and thickness of the packet, the fact that I'm here at all. But he doesn't say a word. I wonder if it might be too late for us. But I have to say what I came to say. “I'm working on it. I'm trying. Really.”

I pull my tablet out of my bag. I push it toward him. “Look. It's part of my treatment, a food diary, therapy sessions, scheduled workouts, and PT. I'm busier than ever. I mean, you'd think I'd barely have a minute to miss you.” He's looking at me now, waiting. “But I did.”

He's quiet then, focused on the little tablet, pushing keys. I realize then that he's looking at the menus and my notes. He sees when I felt good and when I was miserable, and when I wanted to throw up and didn't. And when I wanted to throw up and did. I want to snatch them away, all my secrets.

I know I have to let him in, trust him, if this is going to work. “I'm trying. I'm not perfect. I'll never be perfect, or fixed. It will always be an effort, maybe not like it is now, but—”

“Do. Or do not,” he says. “There is no try.”

“You sound like your dad.”

He laughs. “It's a
Star Wars
reference.”

We both laugh, but then he's looking at me, all serious and
intense. He pulls me in, closing the small space between us. The gearshift sits in the middle of the front seat, and it's the only thing keeping us apart right now. “It's too painful to watch you do that to yourself. And you can't promise me—”

I don't know quite what to say to that. I applied to NYU because he wanted me to. I came all the way here. I tried to fix things. And he can't give me an inch.

“There are no promises, Jayhe. Because those are always broken. But I mean this when I say it: I'm working on it.” I pick up my bag, reach for the door, and leap out of the van. He doesn't stop me.

But when I climb down and hit the street, he's standing there, waiting. His strong arms surround me, and I can smell that familiar scent—dusty and rich, like charcoal pencils. He looks at me and smiles, waiting for the words.
“Kiss-jwo!”
I say, and he laughs and leans down.

We kiss for what feels like forever, as the cars honk down Union Street, and people climb on and off lumbering buses. We kiss until the words become unnecessary. We kiss until Jayhe's uncle shouts from inside the restaurant. “
Joka
! You gonna make those deliveries or what?” Then he sees me, tucked under a blushing Jayhe's arm. “Oh, hey, E-Jun. Didn't see you there.”

Jayhe grins and heads around the other side of the van to get back in. I climb into the passenger seat, and I just look at him as we drive away. It feels like I will smile for the rest of the night. Even for the rest of my life, maybe.