Shiny Broken Pieces (26 page)

I HOVER IN THE STAGE
wings. It's the night of our performance, and the energy at Lincoln Center is electric—I keep wanting to sneak to the stage and stare out into the audience, to see each face lit with delight and expectation, but it would be too distracting to the other dancers, who are already out there making magic.

Still, I can sort of feel the audience there, even though they're all shadows and the lights are blinding and the big curtain hides the stage from their view. The noise of their movements, the squeak of the seats, and their energy pushes back to us.

“Curtain in fifteen,” the stage manager calls out backstage.

I slip back to the dressing room. One of the stage moms waves me over to her chair. I wonder which
petit rat
belongs to her.

“Your forehead is all sweaty. Let me add more powder.”

“Thank you.”

She smiles down at me. “You look beautiful.”

The tiny word fills me up. Tonight I have to dance beautifully. I have to make sure Damien sees that.

“Curtain in ten,” someone shouts.

I take one last look at myself in the mirror. White swan feathers frame my face, strings of jewels interlock over my head and into a crown, and a diamond sits in the center of my forehead. I inhale, calming my too-quick heart. Stagehands with microphones move in and out, giving people directions.

Riho, Isabela, and the other new girls are hovering by the door, itching to go out toward the stage, to watch from the wings until it's their turn. I wonder if it's their first time here on the Lincoln Center stage, and try to remember what that was like when I danced here for the first time last year in
The Nutcracker.
I remember the power and the hugeness of it—both in real life, and in your head. Next year I'll call this stage home. I have to.

June dresses in the corner, putting on her first costume of the night—the Baroness—and looking at herself in the mirror. She takes a wig and slips it on. The tumble of dark curls transforms her into eighteenth-century royalty. Our eyes catch in the mirror. She gives me a little nod.

“You look great,” I say.

“And so do you.”

“Five minutes!” the stage manager tells me as the others go on.

I turn back to the vanity and I practice my stage grin in the mirror, flashing teeth and then closing my mouth into a soft smile.

I step out into the hall and warm up my feet again. I listen for the crunch of the pointe shoe shanks and know they're broken
in perfectly to support my movements tonight. I point, flex, and bounce until my feet feel warm and ready to be used.

Arms circle around my waist, strong and familiar.

Alec.

His hands linger in all those secret places. “You ready for this?” he whispers, his breath hot on my ear, sending shivers up my spine.

I turn around in his arms, letting him press his body up against mine, the heat seeping right through the glitter, tulle, and gossamer of my costume. I can't wait to be onstage with him again. I can't wait to see if this means we're back together. I can't wait for this part of my life to settle back into place. I answer him with a kiss, long and lingering. Even though it takes off some of my lipstick.

“Act two!” the stage manager shouts in our direction. “You're on!”

Alec takes my hand. “Come on.” He pulls me toward the stage.

This is it.

I take a deep breath and follow.

It feels like the first time. The lights, the rose of my cheeks, the scratchy tights and tulle—the magic. It's all there, it's all back. The warmth of the stage lights at Lincoln Center hit my shoulders.

Thirty seconds till my solo in the coda. Two lines of swans edge both sides of the stage. It's just me in the middle. I lift my legs and stretch them into long, sharp lines. I present soft delicate
hands. I fold into the slow melodies.

I finish. The audience claps, and I bask in every second of it, knowing how fleeting this joy might be. I bow and slip to the wings to catch my breath before my next entrance. I drink a little water. A stage mom helps towel me off and blot my face. I'm so out of breath I can't thank them.

The scene backdrop changes to the ballroom. Henri, as Rothbart, presents Bette. The music shifts, and the light turns to dark as Bette takes the stage. She smiles all teeth. Each lift of her leg and every
piqué
turn is perfect. The audience applause is thunderous.

All this time they've been calling me the comeback kid, but in that moment, I know that title should really belong to her. She was gone half the year, but it doesn't show.

Alec dances his solo. He leaps high in the air. I hear gasping from the crowd. His motions and his smile all show his love for Odile. Alec finishes his turns, and Bette spins forward, beginning those thirty-two
fouettés en tournant
.

I hold my breath, not realizing I'm counting until she hits the very last one and the audience bursts. From the wings, I spot some people in the front row up on their feet—a standing ovation. One that's well deserved. She's perfect, flawless, the black swan with an edge.

The one, in the end, who makes the story worth reading, the ballet worth watching.

It's inching toward midnight, but the evening is far from over. Tonight, fresh off the Lincoln Center stage, one more female
American Ballet Conservatory dancer will become the company's newest apprentice, alongside the two male picks. I stand before the panel in the upstairs studio, holding my breath, praying she might be me.

I knit my fingers and nibble at my bottom lip as I wait for Damien Leger to give me his decision. I feel transported back to the very first cast list at the conservatory when we were all huddled together in the lobby and waiting for Mr. K to dole out our fates. I feel like I should be back in that space and with him in front of me. I can't process the words coming out of the mouths of Morkie, Mr. Leger, and Mr. K. I catch bits and pieces of them in the fuzzy haze over my brain.

“Flawless.”

“Strong technique.”

“Nearly back to your old self.”

“You have a flame.”

But. But. But.

“Do you still love it?” Madame Dorokhova asks. Her deep Russian voice cuts through the cloud in my head, booming like thunder.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you love ballet?” she says.

I think back to that argument with my mother, of telling her I'll be dancing, with or without her support. “I don't know how to do anything else,” I say, not sure if that answers her question. “I don't want to do anything else. This is my dream.”

“You've come back from a very dark place,” Mr. K says. “You've almost got it all back, but you're missing something.” He
pauses for effect. “The thing I loved about seeing you dance the most in that very first audition.”

I'm speechless. The thing he saw in me—the thing he said set me apart. Probably the only thing that's really keeping me here.

“Gigi, while we think you are a talented and charismatic young woman, the talent pool this year was so stellar—beyond all our expectations,” Madame Dorokhova says. “We do see something in you, but you've suffered a rough patch. Maybe with some time—” She must see my shattered expression and her face softens. “You remind me so much of myself when I was dancing at the Bolshoi. Yes, that's it. You dance like the old me used to.”

Damien speaks then, and his face is pained. “Gigi, we see something grand in you. But I feel that you need more time to focus on your recovery—physically and mentally.” He scribbles something on a paper. “That said, I'd love to follow your progress—and for you to check in with us before you accept any other offers.”

His words don't quite register. I don't have any other offers. I didn't audition anywhere else. All I'm hearing is that I failed.

“Can you do that for me?” he's saying, quiet, concerned.

“So does this mean I didn't make it?”

“Not at this time, I'm afraid.” Damien adds a sad smile.

I nod, and walk out, without looking at any of them again.

I failed. They don't want me. The weight of it is crushing, and I nearly stagger as I slip through the door. I press my back against the wall and slide down it. My head finds my knees. My heart races to the sound of Damien's words:
Not at this time, I'm afraid.

I STAND OUTSIDE THE LINCOLN
Center studio where Damien, Madame Dorokhova, and Mr. K are having their meetings. Everyone else has gone through, the boys celebrating, the girls weeping. First there was June, Sei-Jin, and then the rest of that crew. They're long gone, all pink faces and lots of tears. But Gigi hasn't returned yet.

I whisper to one of the crying girls. “Is Gigi still in there?” She's sprawled out on the floor, her head tucked into her knees, and she looks up at me. Tears run like rivers through the powder on her cheeks, hot and fresh and humiliating. Her mascara is spiderwebbing in intricate patterns, making her look edgy.

“No, she left already.” She sniffles out the words. I want to ask her if Gigi was happy or crying. But she transforms into another puddle, gets up, and darts out.

I press my hands against the door. A mix of English and Russian voices slip from behind it. I can't make out anything.
I start to pace and think through my performance. The whole time I was up there, I heard Adele's voice in my head. I spun for every wrong thing I did, every accusation used against me. I spun for every snub—from Will, from Alec, from Mr. K even. I spun for every triumph missed, for Adele, for Eleanor, for Gigi, for June—and for myself.

Whatever else happens tonight, I'll have that. A moment of perfection I can go back to over and over again, a memory that will stay with me. That I was more than good enough. That I was perfect.

The door opens. The sound makes me jump. Damien's assistant steps outside. “Bette Abney,” she says, her voice sweet. “They're ready to see you now.”

All in a row, behind a table, sit Damien, Mr. K, Morkie, and Dorokhova. It feels just like when I was six and first auditioning for the conservatory, a
petit rat
in scratchy pink tights and a leotard. Back then, it didn't matter. I already had a spot before walking into the studio. I was an Abney. But now, that might not be enough.

It feels like there are a thousand steps to take before I reach them. As I walk behind Mr. K's assistant, I watch her movements, flowery, elegant. I wonder if she's a failed dancer. Someone who had high hopes and big dreams, just like me, and didn't quite make the cut.

I wonder if that will be me, a year or two from now, desperately clinging to this world, whatever part of it I can hold on to. It all makes me think of Eleanor and our little girl dream. The one we used to stay up at night discussing. I'd like to see
her happy, dancing somewhere, somehow. I imagine Eleanor, maybe five years from now, somewhere not too far from New York. She'll have a little dance school full of handpicked
petit rats
, she'll be the old Eleanor again. She'll swing around with the children and teach them all the good things she took from this place—the magic of performance and the grace of applause, the swish and the sparkle of the tulle and the makeup and the powdery scent of resin. All the things I've forgotten in the heat of the competition to be the best. All the things that I'll have to keep reminding myself about if I have a chance to continue this journey.

The assistant ushers me into the lone empty chair, facing the panel. I sit, ready to meet my fate.

Every fiber in my being wants to call out to Mr. K, to tell him I know exactly what he did and that I won't let him get away with it. But this is not the time or the place. First I need to know my fate.

Mr. K opens his mouth to speak, but Damien beats him to it. “Bette Abney, your performance in the American Ballet Conservatory's rendition of
Swan Lake
tonight was the best I've seen you dance,” he says. “But we're hoping it's not all you can do.”

His words thunder inside me.

“I told you once, Bette,” he continues, “that you have something in you that echoes Adele. And just that would be useless to me. I already have an Adele.”

A flush climbs up from my stomach to my chest and face. I gulp and wait for him to say,
No, Bette, you didn't earn an apprenticeship at ABC
.

“But you also bring something very different.” He rubs his chin and pauses.

I count my heartbeats in the silence.

“That edge, Bette, that's what makes you stand out. At American Ballet Company, we are
only
looking for the standouts.” He presses a finger to his mouth, and turns to Madame Dorokhova.

Her stern mouth breaks into what could be considered her form of a smile. “Bette Abney, we'd like to offer you a spot as an apprentice at American Ballet Company.”

She waits for me to say something, anything. The words are caught in my throat. I look from Mr. K to Madame Dorokhova and back to Damien.

Damien clears his throat. “We're presuming you'd like the spot, Bette?”

I nod, finally finding my voice. “More than anything in the world, Mr. Leger.”

“Great. We'll see you in company classes after graduation,” Madame Dorokhova says.

I curtsy and bow my head, then blast through the door.

I know that Adele and my mother will be waiting outside, expecting the worst, for Bette to disappoint them once more. Not this time. This time, I'm the one who'll get the final word.

IT
'
S MY LAST DAY AS
student at the American Ballet Conservatory. After more than ten years, I'm saying good-bye to the only place I've really called home.

I'm in my room, boxing up the last of my stuff. Jayhe's been taking it down to the van in shifts, but it's double-parked and he's worried about a ticket. With NYU looming, he can't afford one. I think back to the night after the gala last week, when Damien Leger told me that while I was a beautiful dancer with flawless technique, my time at the American Ballet was over.
With so much talent in the pool this year, E-Jun
, he'd said,
I'm afraid we can't offer you a spot.

That was it. My final rejection. My dance career finished in the span of a few small moments, with a whimper, not a bang. I cried that night. I did. But I won't now. I refuse to.

I put the teakettle and my box full of teas into the last cardboard box, and think back to the first day of this year—to finding
Cassie here in my room and how I let that moment define my year. I'm disappointed in myself, I am. I know things could have gone differently if I had taken the reins then and redirected.
But I'm in a good place
, I remind myself. I'm with Jayhe, I'm going to one of the best universities in the country, my mom and I are finally getting along. And I'm getting healthier every day.

I seal up the last box with tape, and take one last glance around the room, making sure I haven't forgotten anything. Cassie's side has been bare for days—she moved into the company apartments last week. Good riddance. It let me live my last few days here in peace, at least. Even if it was a little too quiet. I take one last glimpse, pick up the box, and head to the elevator to go down to the third floor to return my keys. It's hard to say good-bye to the American Ballet Conservatory. But it's time to move on, to move forward.

I'm in the elevator when my phone starts buzzing. It's an 801 number I don't recognize, so I send it to voice mail. I return my keys at the front office, and as I'm walking out, it rings again. The same number. Annoyed, I answer it, ready to yell.

“E-Jun Kim?” The voice is smooth and male. I don't quite recognize it.

“Yes.” I set the box down and pause by the front door. I can see Jayhe in the van, sketching in his pad.

“Glad I caught you.” Maybe it's about my NYU dorm situation. I asked for a single, which is unusual for a freshman. “Alan Willis. Salt Lake City Ballet. You auditioned for us in New York back in February.”

“Yes, of course. It was lovely to meet you all.”

“Lovely to meet you, too, E-Jun. In fact, I know we may be a little late in reaching out—and that you may have already accepted another offer—but we've been delayed in our casting confirmations for the upcoming year. We're hoping that you might consider joining us here in the corps de ballet at Salt Lake City.”

I'm so stunned, I can't speak.

“Your audition performance of Odile was spectacular—fiery yet understated. It really stuck with me, and I certainly meant to connect with you sooner. Anyway, I wanted to extend the offer, but I do understand if you're already committed. In any case, I thank you for taking the time to audition. Good luck—”

“Wait, Mr. Willis, hold on.” The words come out in a rush, frantic, and I hope not desperate. “I'd love to consider your offer. I've got some things to think about, though. Is it okay if I get back to you?”

“Oh, by all means. I'll email you all the details. Take as much time as you need. I'm hopeful here, E-Jun. I'd be so pleased to hear you'll join us. But definitely think about it and get back to me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Willis.”

He hangs up, and I'm left standing there in the hall, not quite sure what my next step should be.

Just as I'm about to walk out, I hear my name. “E-Jun. E-Jun. I'm glad I caught you.”

Mr. Lucas. My father. “I thought I was too late.”

Always too late
, I want to say.
Or not there at all.

“I know you had high hopes. But I've heard you're on your
way to NYU, and I'm so pleased.”

I nod and pick up my box, ready to walk away for good.

“Listen, E-Jun. I heard about the dorm situation. I want you to know that's taken care of. Your mother—” He pauses, as if he's lost his train of thought. He pulls a set of keys out of his pocket. “She said you're waiting for a spot. But I don't think that's necessary.”

He holds up a set of keys, waiting for something. A smile, a hug? But it's too late for that. “It's just a studio, like four hundred and fifty square feet. But it's right there on Waverly, in a safe, doorman building, and it's newly renovated. I saw it and I thought of you.”

“Oh,” I say. “You thought of me? For the first time maybe ever?”

He looks startled for a second—that definitely wasn't the reaction he was expecting. “I've thought of you a lot, E-Jun. Even if I haven't been able to show it.” He puts the keys into my empty hand, closes my fingers around them. It feels awkward, the intimacy. Foreign and formal. “I know you won't be able to begin to understand that until you're much older. The apartment is yours if you want it—and it's paid for, all of it. So you don't have to worry about that, and neither will your mother. You don't have to say yes today. Or at all. I won't hold it against you. I know it doesn't begin to undo all those years—” He looks at my face, intently. “NYU is a great school. And you can maybe learn some Korean—I wish I had, back in the day. I wish I'd done a lot of things.”

I nod again. He nods, too. He leans close for just a second, as
if he's about to hug me, but stops just short. He heads off toward his office. I walk in a stupor out the building's main door. Alec is standing in front of it. He's been watching this whole time. He's seen everything. But he doesn't look surprised, just relieved.

“You knew, didn't you?” I say. He doesn't have to nod or say yes. “You let me think I was alone this whole time.”

“I couldn't—” His ears are red already. “I was just so mad at you. Even though none of it is really your fault. It's been him all along. It took me a long time to figure that out.”

He doesn't hug me or offer a hand. Nothing's changed. He won't suddenly turn into a real brother just because the truth is out there. But it's a relief, just to know that he knows, that someone else besides me bears this burden. “I have to say, it took you a lot less time to figure out that our dad's an asshole than it did me.”

I grin back at him. “I got in to the Salt Lake City Ballet.” I don't know why I blurt it out. I guess that I just had to share.

“June, that's amazing!” This time he does hug me. It's awkward and stiff, but the intent is there. “Are you going to go? What about NYU? You have to dance.”

He's taken my thoughts and laid them bare. I do. I have to dance. Right?

“Whatever you decide, good luck with it.” He grins at me again and heads inside the building.

For ten minutes or ten hours, I'm not sure exactly, I stand steps away from the van, watching Jayhe sitting in the driver's seat. His sketchbook leans on the steering wheel in front of him, the cityscape of the Lincoln Center area scrawled in pen and
ink. Commemorating the moment, he's drawn a small figure in the front, wistful and hopeful and happy. It really reflects what my life has been for the last decade—the American Ballet Conservatory and its insular little world. A world I'm about to leave behind.

In a moment, I'll go over there, and he'll smile at me and call me beautiful and we'll drive away. I'll start the rest of my life.

Two versions of my life play out in front of me. In one, I'm in Salt Lake with new people, doing exactly what I've always wanted to do—what I know I'm
meant
to do. Dancing is in my veins, in my pores, in my soul. I can't imagine a life without it. I imagine telling him the news, his face falling, for our amazing future to turn to dust and distrust. I hear the false words of hope he'll say then.
We'll make it work
.

But I could stay here. I could go to NYU and be with Jayhe. After all, for a month now, I've been plotting what it will be like: new classes and new people with him by my side. Late-night study sessions that turn into make-out sessions. Maybe even finding a whole new passion. And, yes, ballet, but not the same way. It'll be a hobby, a faded dream, one that I'll someday share as a story.
I used to dance
, I'll say, wistful.
It was amazing.

I know now what I have to do. I just have to find the strength to do it.