Shiny Broken Pieces (5 page)

THE SUN POURS IN ON
me from the studio's wall of glass windows, warming the back of my shoulders. I sip my
omija
tea from my thermos and wonder why Mr. K is calling us all together so early in the year for a meeting. It feels like fall casting, but it's not even October yet.

The room is filled with hushed chatter, all butterflies and anxious expressions. It's just Level 8s in the room, except for a few random students, like the Brazilian chick, Isabela, and the new girl hanging with Sei-Jin's crew. They are both from Level 6. They're giggling and gushing, admiring Sei-Jin's new pink leather dance bag—a Korean import, no doubt.

Surrounded by everyone, I've never felt lonelier.

I watch Gigi and feel that same strange pang in my stomach. She's sitting beside Cassie and powdering her face with makeup. When did she start wearing it? Maybe she's different now. Maybe everything's different now. She was my roommate and sort of my
friend. Part of me hopes that she'll never find out what I did last year. That I can still consider her someone who actually likes me.

She laughs with Cassie. Everyone turns to look. They're hysterical, falling all over each other. When did they become close friends? It's only been a few days since school started.

My heart sinks down to the depths of my empty stomach. I feel like I can't breathe in this place anymore—not even in my room now.

The boys trample in. Alec sits with Gigi, then Henri follows, tucking himself against the wall next to Cassie. Will lingers near the door. Cassie watches him for a second, and then her ice-blue eyes flitter in my direction, cutting right through me, her face serious and smug, her body confident. She leans close to Gigi and whispers something, and the movement sends a tremor through me. More whispers, and Gigi throws her head back with that old tinkling, hiccupping laugh, like she'll die if she stops, bringing all eyes back to her again. It's all coming together, the beginning of the end. Cassie is the new Bette, and Gigi is her Eleanor.

Gigi catches me staring at them, and she sort of waves for a second, but Cassie says something funny again, and they all erupt into laughter.

I look away.

As if echoing my loneliness, Eleanor walks in solo. She's carrying with her a gaping hole in the shape of Bette. She sits close to me, but we've never really talked, so the thought of starting now feels weird. I focus on the lint on my tights.

Snippets of conversation envelop me. The biggest worry:
Why are we having a morning meeting?
The second:
Why is Mr. K late?

Mr. K is a stickler for punctuality, in himself and his dancers—and his assistant is waiting with a frozen, panicked smile pasted on her face as she tries to keep us at bay.

Mr. Lucas walks into the room then. A deep heat rushes through me, like I've just touched a hot stove. He takes a seat in one of the chairs along the front mirror. I try not to stare, but I can't help but compare the planes of his face, his long fingers, the shape of his nose to my own and to Alec's. He must feel me staring. I let my eyes burn into him like a laser. But he doesn't even glance my way. He acts like he doesn't even see me.

“He's coming,” someone says. An instant hush falls over the room when Mr. K finally makes his way into the studio, his shoes clacking across the floor. But this time, the reverence isn't reserved just for him. With him is Damien Leger, the dark-haired former principal of the American Ballet Company, who was recently announced as the new director. If Mr. K is the moon or the sun in this world, then Damien is the sky—endless and all encompassing.

There's a silent shift in the energy of the crowd, a collective sway toward the front of the studio where Mr. K and Damien stand side by side. I try to stand taller, hoping my energy is brighter, willing a glance my way, willing them to notice me. Their faces are expressionless as their eyes scan the crowd, giving nothing away.

“I've called you all together because things will be different this fall,” Mr. K begins, waving his hands in his signature flourishes. “Usually, by next month, we would be doing auditions and casting for the yearly production of
The Nutcracker
. But this
year, the winter show will be danced by the underclassmen in Level 6 and below.”

I'm so shocked that I can't look away from his mouth, afraid I might miss something. He pauses and taps a pointed finger to his lips. “Last year's tragedy has left a stain on the American Ballet Conservatory and the company itself. What you all don't realize is that our beautiful ballet world is very small, and what happens here”—he motions all around him—“ripples out. That scandal has affected even other notable ballet schools and companies. We need to do something—something big—to rescue the school and the company.”

He pauses to let that sink in. “This means boosting enrollment numbers, increasing ticket sales, revitalizing the school and company's image—making ABC a force once again in the dance world. Revamping the way you all interact with one another—creating a real community here. What dancer wants to come to a place where she feels under attack?” He looks pointedly toward Gigi and then Cassie. “How will American Ballet Conservatory put a legion of talent into its own company, and those around the world, if people don't want to come here? If people are afraid?” He gestures toward his assistant and the papers she's holding. “To that end, we have started a new initiative—a mentorship program. Some of you will be paired with the newer students in order to guide them as they adjust to life at ABC. Make them feel welcome and integral.”

He holds out his arm. “I've also asked Gigi and Cassie to speak a few words about how the bullying affected them.”

Gigi stands first and walks over to Mr. K. He puts a hand on
her shoulder. She takes a deep breath. “Everyone basically knows what happened to me.” Her voice quavers.

My heart races. I grip my thermos tight, the heat of it almost burning my fingers.

“It all started as little things. Nasty looks, whispers, and messages. Glass in my shoes. Even—” Her voice breaks and I know what's next.

The word
butterflies
. It thuds in my chest and I can't help but remember the worst thing I did last year. The worst thing I've ever done.

Everybody says butterflies are beautiful. In Korean they're called
nabi
. My grandmother used to send me cards every spring back when she and my mom still spoke. She told me to look for pretty yellow butterflies out my window because they signaled good fortune.

Maybe some are lucky and pretty. Gigi's were not. They were a dull orange, with black stains streaking across their backs, and large, menacing dark eyes that stared at me when I reached into Gigi's window terrarium, that trusted my delicate and graceful hands coming toward them. Eyes that still haunt me now. But in that moment, it felt good to push needles into them and finally still that endless, frenetic flapping that bothered my sleep for months.

My
halmeoni
would say that I gave up all my good fortune that day.

The memory causes me to shake. I will myself to forget about it. I tell myself I'm not the same girl who did that. I can make it up to Gigi. Mr. K claps and I startle out of it. Cassie and Gigi
hold each other's hands before sitting down again.

Mr. K motions at Damien. He steps forward. “Thank you, Anton. I'm not going to sugarcoat anything. Honesty is part of what makes us all artists. I've heard much about you—some of it good, a lot of it not so good. The press calls you a morally flawed lot of dancers. Last year's Level 8s were a disappointment, too. Their talent and technique subpar, and not ready for the ballet world. You all have the talent, but your choices have had a tremendous effect on the company itself. Along with not dancing
The Nutcracker
, you also won't be choreographing senior workshop pieces at the end of the year.”

The gasp is an audible, deep, collected breath. The weight of it, of hearing this news aloud, is staggering. We knew this could be a possibility. All of us knew, deep down inside, that our actions could deem us unworthy—after all, we nearly killed a girl. But surely Gigi should get to dance? I'm staring at her—we all are, I realize—and her face has gone pale, the way it does when her heart gets out of control.

“This year, under a close collaboration between Mr. K and myself, we will be performing
Swan Lake
in the spring for the fiftieth anniversary of the company. The company will dance opening night, and you will dance the second. The principal positions—in particular Odette and Odile—will be danced by two different dancers. I will choose my apprentices from that performance.” He takes a moment to breathe, sipping lemon water from a glass. “However, the dancers cast in the principal roles are not guaranteed to be my apprentices.”

“Damien will choose two girls and two boys. And maybe
fewer, if you don't rise to this grand opportunity,” Mr. K adds. “He chose no one from last year's class.”

Shoulders slump a little. Some are already accepting defeat. I refuse. I know that I was born to do this, that I
will
do it. Mr. K rounds this out with his serious, signature three claps, refocusing our attention. “Mr. Leger and Madame Dorokhova will stop by frequently to observe you all, which means you must be your best in every ballet class, every rehearsal.”

The applause starts slowly but spreads through the room, and soon I find myself clapping, too. It's hard to not want to please these men, to show them you're ready for this challenge. But so many of us want this, and so few will get it.

I will be one of the few, I tell myself. And I'll do it the right way, by simply dancing my best. The best.

I will.

I WAIT UNTIL THE LIGHT
snores waft from my mother's bedroom before calling her car service. I hide outside near the holly bush my mother sets out in the little front patio every fall.

I spot the car lights as he turns on to Sixty-ninth Street. I'm on the curb before he can call up to the house to confirm a pickup.

“Sixty-fifth and Broadway,” I say, like I'm an adult and he shouldn't for one second question where my parents are. It's only 8:56 p.m, but at school, most of the students will be heading back to the dorm for curfew. At least those who are following the rules will be. But Eleanor posted a picture of a fresh latte five minutes ago. She's at the coffee shop a block away, probably with her head in some book, instead of being out on a Friday night like normal people. The way we would both be if we still lived together.

“Lincoln Center?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

The driver cuts through Central Park. It's pouring and the wind whips fat raindrops across the windows. Dark trees have already lost their leaves. Fall is coming too soon. As the weeks slip by, so, too, does any chance of my ever really coming back to school.

He zips down the winding street until we exit the park and we're on the West Side of Manhattan, where it's all bars and restaurants and late-evening chatter. Green subway lamps leave a glow along the sidewalks. The driver makes a left to head downtown toward the school, following the bustle of Broadway.

My heart bangs against my rib cage like I've just rushed offstage. “Get it together,” I tell myself. They're just kids, like me. They can't actually do anything to me. Besides, it's not like I'll really be on school property. I can't risk turning my suspension into an expulsion.

The driver makes the final turn and the great glass windows of the American Ballet Conservatory glitter in the streetlights. It's still just as beautiful as it was the first time my mother brought me here to watch Adele dance.

I get out of the car. I don't march up to the front doors and stomp past the guard like I wish I could. I casually walk past the building, heading south. The coffee shop windows glow with warmth.

I linger at the edge of the window and steal glances inside. I recognize a few girls from Level 7, but nobody I know too well, thankfully. I'd blend right in here. I'm dressed like a ballerina who has spent the day dancing. Big, cozy sweater thrown over
the lean lines of dancewear, leg warmers tucked into sheepskin boots.

In the far corner next to the coffee shop's small fireplace, Eleanor sits at a table by herself. I pull up my hood.

Before walking in, I listen, like I'm counting the beats of music before I have to go onstage. There's a flutter in my chest. The door opens and someone leaves. I catch it before the bell jingles and slip inside. I hear Eleanor's humming as I take the smallest steps in her direction. She sounds very pleased with herself. She has earbuds in and dips carrots into a tub of hummus. She gazes between her phone and a set of math problems, half-solved.

She hits a high note in whatever terrible song she's singing along to, and as much as I hate to admit it, I wouldn't even mind having to deal with her pitchy voice again every night. Because then my life would be back to normal.

I steel myself, drop my shoulders, and walk up to the table. She seems skinnier, happier. I tap her shoulder. She lifts her head and yanks the earbuds from her ears.

“You look good, El.” Quiet, direct, for the most dramatic effect.

She drops the earbuds on the table.

“What are you doing here?” Her eyes bulge so big that they're no longer bright and beautiful. She looks like a bug.

I wait for her to stand up and hug me. She doesn't move. I slip into the seat in front of her. “Happy to see me? I called you a million times.”

“Bette, you shouldn't be here.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“You—”

“I already know I'm not supposed to be here, but I don't care right now.”

She retreats to her chair. A long, cold moment stretches between us, one that the fire can't even begin to thaw.

I press on. “How are things?” The air is thick with the scent of coffee and pastries and things that need to be said, but that's all I can manage for now.

“Fine.” She puts her phone in her lap. “Bette—”

“Just be normal.”

“What is that?”

I shove the lump down in my throat. We spent so many nights here at this very coffee shop—dissecting all the crap that went down in ballet class, with Will, with Alec. She spent countless days with me in hell on family vacations to the Cape or in the Hamptons, witnessing my mother's drunken dramas firsthand. We danced every class and performance together, whispering
merde
to each other for good luck, ever since we were six. She's not getting off that easy. “I need us to be
us
. Just tell me what's going on at school, like we're in our old room again and about to go to bed.”

She sighs, not looking up. She picks up her phone, texting, like I'm not even there.

“Why can't you just talk to me?”

“So much has changed.” Her eyes finally meet mine. They aren't scared or begging for my approval like they used to. They're different now. Her pupils are dilated, drowning out the golden
sunflowers that usually rim them. They glitter with newfound confidence or self-assurance. Something she didn't have last year. Something she hasn't had in the whole time I've known her. I want to like her new strength, but it might mean she doesn't need me anymore.

I move my chair closer to her, so close to her I can smell the rose-scented shampoo she's using now. “Please, Eleanor. I miss you.” I drape my arms around her and don't let go until I feel her hands finally land on my shoulder, the stiffness slowly softening. I can feel her breathing, that old hiccupy rhythm. I wish I'd been nicer to her all these years, treated her better.

“I miss you, too,” she whispers.

“I'm going to fix everything. I didn't do it. I swear to you.”

She doesn't tell me she believes me. I just feel her hand stroke down my back.

“We'll be roommates again and everything will go back to normal.”

She pulls away a little. “The accident has caused problems here. Serious ones. The company has lost major sponsors and donors. Mr. K is being crazy. Enrollment is down. My scholarship could go. Families are pulling their kids out. Especially, the
petit rats
. There's been bad press about the school—”

“I've seen the papers.”

“Level 8 isn't even allowed to dance in
The Nutcracker
this year.”

“How is that—”

She railroads through my question. “Be quiet for a sec, so I can tell you.”

The words keep bubbling up and pushing out and I've lost all
sense of how you're supposed to talk to people in the real world. I used to be great with words. Mean ones.

“They're doing a performance of
Swan Lake
for the fiftieth anniversary. Opening night is the company, then the next night is us. The new director, Damien Leger, will be casting us along with Mr. K. He'll decide from there who gets spots at ABC. If any of us do.”

I try to absorb it all. Damien Leger? That means I actually may have a shot at the company. If I can prove myself innocent. If I can get back to school. I open my mouth to tell Eleanor all this, but she's packing up her things.

“It's late, Bette,” she says, sounding more tired than I've ever heard her. “I've got character class in the morning.”

I nod, zipping up my sweatshirt and pulling the hood up. “Will you help me?”

“With what?”

“I need everyone to know I didn't do it.”

“But didn't you settle? Everyone's saying—”

“My family settled with hers, but that doesn't mean that I pushed her. I didn't. We just wanted it to all go away.” I feel the desperation slip into my voice and try to erase it. “I need help finding out who did this. Nobody believes me. But you do, don't you? You will?”

“I don't know what you're asking me.” She stands.

Her phone lights up in her hand, and it's like she's gone already. I wonder if I made her feel that way—unwanted, unimportant—all those countless times. I wonder if this is how it felt.

“I've got to go.” Grabbing her bag, she pushes past me and
out the coffee shop door. The bell chimes.

Someone recognizes me and snickers. A table of younger ballerinas point in my direction. A year ago, they'd be cowering in my presence or hoping I'd join them. They'd be coveting what I had: the looks, the roles, Alec. All of it. And now I stand here, the tears stinging my eyes, wanting what they have: nothing more than a group of friends who secretly hate each other. This is what it's come to.

I slip back outside into the cold. The streetlamps glare down at me. I walk quickly toward Broadway, then pause, pondering calling the car service. Instead I decide to walk. Going through the park at night is a risk I wouldn't usually take, but right now, in this moment, I've got nothing to lose.