Shiny Broken Pieces (4 page)

All the evidence I really need is inside the dorms because everyone is there.

I have to find a way back.

A MAGIC SORT OF FEELING
zips through me as I change for ballet class. The sounds of slippered feet and laughter push through the thin walls of my room. Doors open and close. The ping of the elevator echoes. I can feel the excitement of the girls getting ready for afternoon ballet class.

I pull on tights and try to figure out if you can see my scar through the pink. Just a little. I pack my dance bag, which is now outfitted with one of Mama's ugly suitcase locks. I sew the key into the lining of my leotard so that it's close. It makes me wonder whatever happened to the little rose charm Alec gave me last year for luck. It's long gone.

I put on my heart monitor. Everyone knows about it now. I don't care anymore. I text Alec that I'll see him downstairs and receive a smiley face back. I filter through all my social media feeds. First-day-of-ballet-class posts fill the screen. Good luck messages and pictures of pointe shoes flash. I check various
students' feeds: Eleanor, June, Will, Alec, new girl Isabela, even Bette. I let my guard down last year, and it nearly killed me. This year, I plan to know exactly what everyone's up to.

I skip going to the café for lunch and head straight down to the first-floor studios instead. I can't eat anyway. My stomach is a tangle of nerves.

The lobby is thick with bodies. Moms and dads drop off their
petit rats
for afternoon ballet. Little dancers zip around in a chaos of white, red, yellow, and green leotards, looking for their ballet class locations. Parents position themselves outside the glass walls of the studios, hoping for a prime watching spot. For a small moment, I wish Mama was still here, fussing with my hair, slicking down the edges so they won't frizz. She used to love to watch me dance, and she'd bring me to the studio early and stretch alongside me. Then she'd peer through the glass, ignoring the other watching mothers who tried to chat with her, focusing on me. She'd always ask me how it felt to move like that. She used to like ballet then.

One of the moms stares at me. She nudges the woman beside her. They cup their hands over their mouths, exchange looks, and whisper. A few others have now spotted me. Some of their faces bear weak half smiles or pitying grimaces. I want to elongate my arm and break out into the deepest arabesque
penchée
they've ever seen. A full 180-degree standing split right above their heads. They'll know nothing's wrong with me after that.

The elevator opens. I just see the blondness—a familiar golden halo—and it feels like I'm seeing a ghost.

I step back. A knot twists in my stomach. My heart beats
faster. The little monitor on my wrist vibrates.

I tell myself,
You are not afraid of Bette. She should be afraid of you.

But it isn't Bette. It's Cassie.

“Hey,” she says.

Their resemblance is unnerving.

“Hey,” I finally manage. We've never spoken before.

“I'm Cassie. You must be Gigi.” She grins, and in that moment I can see the difference between her and Bette. “I've heard we have a lot in common. I mean,
besides
my awesome cousin Alec, of course.”

“We do.”

Her eyebrows lift in a telling way. Dancers stare at us from their stretching spots as we walk down the corridor toward Studio B. When we pass the front office, Madame Yelena Dorokhova—one of the company directors—steps out. She's dressed in dancewear and is tapping away at the tablet in her hands. Instantly, every girl in the hall sinks into a deep
révérence
, bowing her head in respect. The teachers command a presidential authority here. I'm in awe of her. After all, she is a former principal at ABC and danced fifteen years as one. I can't help but smile. She smiles back. She's beautiful—dark hair, dark eyes, pale white skin. She nods, and we all disperse, like we've been unpaused by a remote.

Cassie and I scurry toward Studio B. We drop our stuff in the hall and plop down. She fingers the suitcase lock on my bag. “Smart. I should do that, too.”

“Yeah.” I look at her profile as she sinks into a deep stretch
and realize that she's the only other person in this building, in this entire city, in the entire world, who knows the exact shape my life took last year. “I guess I was the new you.”

“You're not kidding.” She faces me. “Did you find out who did all those things to you?”

“Yes. And you?” A strange web of energy grows around us. We're complete opposites, and yet we're exactly the same—the hurt, the fear, the anger connects us.

“Yes.”

Neither of us says her name.

“I had my boyfriend, Henri, investigate a little. You know, to confirm everything. I was so naïve when I first got here. I didn't realize how far people would go just to dance.”

I nod and think of Henri, that weird intensity in his eyes and the surprising softness in his touch. It makes me shiver.

She helps me stretch forward. “We should keep each other
informed
.” The word lands in my bun. I nod, then inhale and exhale. I lift up and pull her forward toward me. Her hands are soft yet strong, and she smells like hair spray and baby powder and resin. Like Bette. But she's not, I remind myself. She's not.

“Henri told me you were always so nice,” Cassie says. We open our legs into a stretch, touching our feet together. I wonder if he told her that he kissed me. Just my cheek, but still. I wonder if that was part of his
investigating
. “How's your foot? He told me what happened with the toe shoes. Also, the whole ballet school online world.”

“Brand-new.” I flex my foot. Aside from a tiny scar, you'd never know shards of glass had pierced the skin and muscle.

“Henri told me that Sei-Jin's the one who did that.”

I drop her arms. She sits up. Her face is calm despite the hugeness of what she's just said to me. “What did you say?”

“That Henri overheard Sei-Jin bragging about the glass in your shoe.” She doesn't break eye contact with me.

“How could he just hear something like that?” I've never done anything to Sei-Jin. I've barely even spoken to her.

“He's good like that. People pretty much ignored him last year. Didn't realize he was even around, let alone listening.” She lets her arms glide over her head and down to her ankles. “I just thought you should know, in the interest of us, you know, being in the same situation.”

Girls shuffle down the hall as ballet classes begin. Cassie and I stand up and walk into Studio B. She rests a hand on my shoulder before we enter. “I know exactly how you feel.”

I follow her into the studio. The space is just as I remember it. Clear glass walls, smooth floor, sunshine streaking through, the scent of tights and ballet shoes and a little bit of morning sweat. Chairs hug the front mirror. Viktor sits at his piano, tinkling the keys to warm up. Next to him, perched on a chair, is Madame Dorokhova—already making notes about us. A little flutter bursts in my chest. Why is a company director here on the first day of class?

The other girls cluster along the walls, stretching their muscles, hydrating, and sewing ribbons and elastics onto new pointe shoes.

I scan the room. I make eye contact with Eleanor. She smiles but quickly drops her gaze. Her face looks the same—round, rosy, with impossibly bright and hopeful eyes. I don't smile back at anyone. I want them to know I'm not the same girl anymore.
I want them to be afraid of what I might do.

There are new girls: another brownish girl named Isabela from Brazil, and a new Japanese girl, Riho, who seems to have been adopted by the other Asian girls. Maybe if they had taken me in, I'd have a group. I look for June, but she's not with them, of course. She never was. I see Sei-Jin. She smiles. Cassie's words echo inside me. Anger simmers.

I turn away.

“Hey, Gigi. Welcome back,” a few voices say. I don't return their warmth. I ignore them. I find a spot to plop down and get a final stretch in. I feel eyes on me, but focus my attention on loosening my hamstrings and making sure my hips are open.

A foot touches my leg and I look up. It's June. She's smiling down at me. No, beaming. It catches me off guard—the smile is gracious and real, like it's coming from deep down inside. I get up and we just stand there, staring at each other for what feels like a long moment. Then she wraps her arms around me and the hug feels so out of place. I don't know what to do with my arms and head. I try to sink into it, to find a place to rest my worries, and finally she just pulls me closer and tucks me in, as if she knows. She feels softer than before. More comfortable.

“How are you?” Her words rub against the nook of my neck.

“Okay.”

She pulls back and opens her mouth several times, the words stuck in her throat.

“It's good to see you,” I say, so that she will stop wrestling with whatever she's trying to tell me and just be. “How was your summer?”

“Good. You look a lot better,” she says, tentative. “Stronger.”

“I'm great.” I can feel the others listening in. “Brand-new.”

“I'm—” she starts, but a round of claps cut her off. Mr. K strides into the studio. Our female teachers trail behind him, Morkie first, then Pavlovich. Madame Dorokhova hugs Mr. K briefly, then she settles into her seat again.

The rest of us stand, smoothing our buns, and shuffle into the middle of the studio, ready to listen, ready to dance. I remember why I love this so much—the routine, the discipline, the elegance.

“Welcome to the most important year of your life,” Mr. K says with a flourish of his hands. We all clap and bow. “You all are reaching the pinnacle of your career as students entering Level 8. And this year, some of you will transition into the realm of professional dancers.” He paces around the front of the studio, rubbing his goatee. “You must love it. That's the only way through the rigors you will face this coming year.
Love.
”

The group starts to part as he enters our flock. I feel his strong gaze on my face. He's towering over me again, and I flash back to the first casting last year, the moment that started me on this difficult path.

“And speaking of it, let's welcome back
moya korichnevaya
, Giselle,” he says.

Brown butterfly.

I think of my own fluttering butterflies, slaughtered and sacrificed and pinned to my room wall, and I can't stop the shudder that shoots through me. He kisses both my cheeks, takes my hand like we're preparing to do a
pas
onstage. I wonder if he notices that it's shaking. He leads me to the front of the studio.
He turns me. “You are resilient,” he almost shouts, then faces everyone. “That's what ballet is all about.”

I do a deep curtsy down to the floor before he reaches for me again. Morkie squeezes my hand and kisses me.

“You are better,” she says, shaking my hand. “You look good and strong.” I want her words to sink into my skin and down into my muscles and bones, which still feel so fragile and out of practice.

Mr. K goes back into the group and pulls out Cassie. “Another one has returned to us.” He presents her. She does a spin. “Cassandra Lucas. I'd thought I'd lost this butterfly long ago.” He lifts her by the waist and twirls her. She winks in my direction. Everyone claps again before he leaves to go next door to the boys' studio.

We start class at the barre with Morkie hovering around us. Right away I can feel the difference—my
tendus
are not as smooth, my
relevés
are not as high on my left foot. I've been working all summer, but I have a long way to go. As much as I tell myself that nothing's changed, my confidence plummets. I can feel Madame Dorokhova's eyes on me, curious, judging.

Morkie doesn't say a word. She notes every little fault in the other dancers, but she skips right over me, not mentioning even my stumble as we make
piqué
turns across the floor. She's trying to make me feel better about all this, but it's just making me feel worse.

After class I wait for June, thinking we can go to the café and fill each other in on our summers. But she rushes out without a word. In the hall, I see Jayhe. He kisses her, lacing his fingers through hers, and they head for the lobby. When did that
become official? Was I just not paying attention? I think back to the end of last year, and my head starts to hurt. I remember Jayhe's face at the club after the gala. I remember seeing them together and Sei-Jin being upset. I remember wondering if June actually liked him or if it was just a ploy to make Sei-Jin angry. I remember Alec walking in front of me, and trying to catch up.

I stop in the middle of the crowd of dancers. The noise of their feet and chattering voices, the pings of the elevators, piano chords escaping other studios, it all drains away and the faces blur around me. I can feel my feet slipping out from under me, feel myself plunging forward into the darkness, all of me shattering, just like on that night. The night when everything changed. I back into the nearest wall, desperate to cling on to something.

A hand on my shoulder pulls me back into this building, into this hallway, into this space. It's Cassie again.

“Just breathe, Gigi, breathe.” She's looking deep into my eyes, making me focus on hers. “Better, faster, stronger, payback,” she says with a smile.

“Yes.” That's what I have to be. That's what I have to do.

I lean in close, so the others can't overhear. “What you said about Sei-Jin—”

“Every word was true.”

I don't have to say the rest. My eyes tell her everything. Sei-Jin's going to pay. They all are.

“The new Gigi is going to be mean,” Cassie says, grinning.

I let myself sink into that tiny four-letter word.
Mean.
Yes. It's about time.