Shiny Broken Pieces (7 page)

Her smile is faint and brief as she moves on to Alec's bowl.

“How's Level 6 with Armeiskaya?” I ask Sophie.

“She's always pushing— ‘Swing, swing! Your legs are too heavy. Lift from the top of the head! Turn faster!'” one of the girls mimics.

The soup disappears before I can finish. It's replaced with a perfect portion of salmon and green beans.

Mrs. Lucas waves her hand in the air. “No ballet talk please. It sets you all on a rampage. I need one ballet-free night.”

A deep blush settles on my cheeks and I chew several green beans in succession. I stab my fork too hard on the plate and the
sound it makes brings everyone's eyes back on me.

“Everything okay, Giselle?” Mrs. Lucas asks, her perfectly plucked eyebrow lifting with concern.

“Yes. Great. Everything is delicious.”

“I see that you enjoy green beans. I'll have Marietta serve you more.” Mrs. Lucas motions at the woman who stands off to the side awaiting anyone's wants or needs.

“Oh, I really shouldn't have any more,” I say.

“I insist. You barely touched the salmon.”

“I have a slight fish allergy,” I say.

“Oh, my apologies,” she says. “I called Alec several times to go over the menu with him.”

Alec's jaw clenches.

“I could never quite get him on the phone.” She waves at the servant. “Please serve Giselle something else. That's so funny. Bette was allergic to fish, too.”

The woman approaches with green beans, piling them on my plate. The room freezes. Alec lets his fork hit the table and sighs. Bette's name feels like a pinch.

“What would you like? I can have something else made for you.”

“No, it's fine, Mrs. Lucas. I'm pretty full from the soup, the green beans, and salad.”

“Name it. Marietta, here, is a fine cook. What about some steak? We have a few nice fillets in the fridge. Or farfalle carbonara? That only takes a second.”

“Mrs. Lucas, it's okay.”

“Don't be silly. What would your parents think? You must—”

“Back off, Colette,” Alec says.

“Aunt Colette, I think she's fine,” Cassie adds.

“Honey, it's okay.” Mr. Lucas pats her hand.

“Yes, Mrs. Lucas, everything has been delicious. Wonderful. I am full. I promise.”

Her forehead creases. “I was just—”

Alec gets up from the table and cuts her off. “Let's go.”

“Now just wait a minute.” Mr. Lucas stands, but Alec is already halfway to the door.

“No, we have to get back to the dorms.” Alec storms out of the room.

Cassie motions at me, and she gets up to exit, too. She kisses her uncle, then Sophie again. Alec's stepmother is biting back tears now, her eyes all bloodshot and red. She bites down on her lip to, no doubt, keep it from quivering.

“Thank you so much for dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Lucas,” I say. “It was great. Really.”

Alec's stepmother doesn't say anything. It's like she can't get a word out.

“You are most welcome,” Mr. Lucas says, walking me out. “Anytime. I'm sorry we didn't know about your fish allergy.”

“It's fine, really,” I say. “And happy birthday, Sophie.” She doesn't look up from picking at the pink, fleshy bits of salmon on her plate. The dining room is completely silent now. All the air sucked out of it, the little girls focusing on pushing the food around on their plates. I scoot to the front door.

Mr. Lucas closes the door behind me. Alec already has a cab waiting. He's staring out the window when I slide in. Cassie
sandwiches me in the middle.

I put my hand in Alec's. He resists at first, then loosens his hand to let mine in.

“It was okay, you know?” I whisper.

“No, it wasn't,” he says without looking at me. “You don't force food on people. She's always trying to control everyone and everything around me. I refuse to let her do that to me or anyone I bring over.”

“It was just food. Not a big deal. She was trying to be nice. A little pushy, but nice.”

“My mother would've never done that. ‘Those who are hungry—'”

“‘Will eat.'” Cassie finishes Alec's sentence. “I miss Aunt Gemma, too.”

Alec puts my hand to his mouth and kisses it. “She would've loved you.”

He slumps in his seat, settling in for the ride, his head resting on my shoulder, his hand still tightly wrapped around mine.

Somehow, I had it in my head that today's visit to Alec's would bring him and me even closer. But instead, I feel like I really don't know him well at all. I can't help but think that maybe it was Bette who belonged there, at that long, carved mahogany table, not me. She'd know exactly what to do, what to say, right now. That thought, it kills me, just a little.

IN THE LAST WEEK
,
I
'
VE
gained a second shadow. One that's threatening to eclipse me completely, despite her small stature. Mr. K wasn't joking about this whole mentor thing. I was assigned a new kid, and of course she's Asian. Riho Nakamura. She's Japanese, which is a totally different country, but Mr. K doesn't think about things like that. She's a Level 6, so she has morning ballet. But she's taking afternoon classes with us, too, which means Mr. K thinks she's really good. So I guess it makes sense to keep an eye on her anyway.

I've taken her to lunch in the café once, and tried to tell her things I'd thought would be useful—like how Morkie likes quiet feet on the dance floor and big, bold arms or how Pavlovich will nitpick your fingers—but she didn't say a word the whole time. She just bowed her head a little in a Japanese way and followed me silently through the halls without making a peep.

“Did you study the Vaganova style of ballet in Japan?” We're
waiting outside Studio B for afternoon ballet class to start.

She stares up at me with blinking eyes and I wonder if she understands at all. I could probably tell her anything: That I have never been to Korea, and that fact embarrasses me. That I stole Jayhe to get back at Sei-Jin, but now I might really love him. That I murdered Gigi's butterflies. She wouldn't understand a word of it.

She's been hanging with Sei-Jin and her group, which means they've probably already filled her head with all kinds of crap about me. I wonder what they call me now: boyfriend stealer, bitch, pathetic.

“Sei-Jin isn't a nice person, you know.”

She nods her head in that fake way, when someone is agreeing with you but they don't know exactly what you're saying. She doesn't say anything.

“She's evil. Really.”
You'll see.

I scramble to my feet as girls enter the studio and ballet class starts. Morkie calls the class to attention in her megaphone voice. Morkie's in a mood, so we work extra time at the barre. We start with a series of deep
pliés
to open up our hips and rapid
tendus
to warm up our feet. Then it's forty-five-degree
ronds de jambe en l'air
. My legs burn and sweat already soaks my leotard. Gigi stands tall in front of me, and little Riho is behind me. As we work, Riho echoes my movements, her arms lifting in tandem with mine, her legs swishing in the same exact manner, but better. I can't stop watching her in the mirror. She's precise, controlled, but still fluid.

“Higher, June,” Morkie snaps, catching my leg and lifting
it as I sweep it behind me. “Focus. You need to be here. You're drifting. I do not like it.”

The reprimand stings. I center my mind and try to make every motion flawless, the most outstanding in the bunch. When we're warmed up, Morkie calls us to the center. “The adagio will be tough today. No one is working hard enough,” she says. The positions she rattles off in French hit me one after another. She quickly shows us the combination with a half flourish of her arms, legs, and hands.

The door opens. Damien Leger walks in, and his presence drowns the whole space. He nods toward Morkie before taking a seat near the mirrors.

“All together first, then trios,” Morkie says. We stretch out into rows and try the combination twice. Morkie complains and shows us again. “Now, clear out of center. Three at a time. Two in the front and one in the back. Riho and June up front first.”

I swear Riho flashes me a grin as we head to the center. Level 6 dancer Isabela is placed behind us.

“Clean adagio, girls,” Morkie reminds. The point of the adagio is to show your strength, your fluidity without the barre as an anchor. It's what people think of when they think ballet. We've been perfecting our strength in the center since we were
petit rats
in Level 1.

The combination that Morkie has us doing today is challenging. Viktor presses the piano keys, and the chords ring out long, smooth, and heavy. I feel wobbly and rushed. I needed to see others go before me, so I could have a little time to think through the movements.

I thought no one could make me stress like Mr. K, but my muscles spasm under the pressure of having to perform in front of Damien. He is a clean slate—for me, for all of us. He's the man who decides if I have a future in his company.

As we start the movements, we are mirrors—I see myself reflected in Riho's dark eyes, in her somber expression. Delicate arms gliding overhead—fifth position down to first and out to second. Our legs sweep high in arabesque, toes extended, strong. I can feel my body reaching, working, and hitting every step, catching every note.

I have this. I worked hard for it.

But in the mirror, my shadow, Riho, reflects the same. While you can see the work, the thought, I've put into the variation, Riho has given herself over to it completely, her eyes soft, her face serene, her smile effortless. I'm perfect, but she's magic. Angelic. Effortless.

I put all my focus back into the dance, back into myself, and then, just as we're wrapping up, Morkie shouts again: “Add three
piqué
turns to finish.”

I spin and spin and spin across the floor in a diagonal, and Riho bursts out in the other direction—her turns a tiny bit crisper and quicker. In opposite corners, we each take our bow.

“Brava,” Morkie shouts cheerfully, nodding her appreciation. “Riho, flawless.”

Damien's face betrays no emotion, no pleasure or critique. He's stone, unyielding.

Morkie steps right in front of me. She pats my cheek. “June, your technique is very nice.” I bask in the praise. “Relax a little,
like Riho. Look like you're enjoying it. I need to see passion. The
danseur russe
.” She stamps her foot and bells out her arms in a signature
danseur russe
movement. “We have to
want
to watch you.”

I deflate. Energy shoots out of my arms, legs, feet, and heart. I turn to face the wall so no one can see my face or the tears welling in my eyes.
I'm fine. I can do this. I do have passion.

We scurry back to the corner, where the rest of the girls wait, as Gigi and Cassie and Eleanor take the center. Riho immediately is enveloped by Sei-Jin's group, and I can already hear them giggling and twittering in Korean. How does Riho even begin to understand what they're saying? Maybe she just doesn't care.

“Oh, too bad,” comes Sei-Jin's voice, a low whisper so Morkie won't hear—but loud enough so I do. “Poor June, never quite good enough, huh? So sad.”

I try my best to ignore her, focusing on Gigi and Cassie, and the contrast between them, but Sei-Jin gets right up in my space, not two inches away, her warm breath on my neck as she continues. “Maybe it's time to give it up,” she says in my ear. “Why not quit? Bow out gracefully.”

I can feel my cheeks burn. I can't let her get to me. Not now. Not anymore. I grab my dance bag and take out my phone. I type up a text to Jayhe right where she can see it.

I can't wait to see you this weekend!

“You're such a bitch,” Sei-Jin says—a little too loud. “He's using you. Just wait.”

I turn around to face her, nearly knocking her over. “Oh,
Jayhe loves me—he told me so himself. Maybe he used you.”

That's when I notice that the music has stopped, and Gigi, Cassie, and Eleanor are paused—Gigi angry, Cassie amused, Eleanor confused—as Morkie storms over to us. Damien stands near the piano, looking irritated.

“Girls!” Morkie shouts, her eyes flashing to Damien and then back to us. “Have you lost it? This is
not
how we behave in ballet class. Go to your rooms. I will talk to Mr. K.”

Sei-Jin and I don't speak as we make our way to the elevators, and ride in silence up to the twelfth floor. When the doors open, she gets off, but I let them shut again in front of me.

“Where do you think you're going?” she shouts. I like seeing the doors close and erase her face and voice. I press the button for the first floor and ride down again, the anger slowly building up inside me, threatening to burst. How can Morkie treat me like that? Would they if they only knew who I really am? Or maybe they all know Mr. Lucas is my dad, and they don't care, because after all, he doesn't claim me.

I storm through the hall, past Studio B where my ballet class is still going, past Mr. K's office, until I finally get to where I want to be. I don't knock. I just barge in.

There he is, the man I've always known as Mr. Lucas, cold and distant. He's startled out of reading some stupid report by my bold entrance, distress spreading across his face, widening his pale blue eyes, eyes just like Alec's. Not like mine.

“Shut the door behind you,” is all he has to say to me. “Take a seat.”

He puts down the papers, an indication that I have his full
attention. It's laughable. “What can I help you with?”

I don't sit. I lean forward on his desk, looking him straight in the eyes. “What can you help me with?” I say, in a low, guttural voice that even I don't recognize. “You can tell everyone here that you are my dad. That I'm a legacy, just as valid as Alec or Sophie or Cassie. That I belong here. That I was born to dance. That they can't treat me badly. That I am important.”

He looks shocked. He opens his mouth to speak, but I collapse into the chair, the tears overcoming me. They rush down my cheeks, hot and furious. He stands and walks over to me. But instead of embracing me, comforting me, he puts a cold hand on my shoulder and whispers, “June, pull it together, for your sake and mine. This simply cannot be. No one's to blame here—it's just the way things are. The way things have to be.”

“But why?” A sob breaks my voice. “I don't understand. Why weren't you there?” I lay my head down on his desk, let its polished solidness share my burden. I wonder what it's like to have a real father. The dads that pick up their
petit rats
, hug them, and ask them how their ballet classes went. I wish that just once, he'd ask me about my life and I could know what it feels like.

He doesn't say a word. He hovers awkwardly, like he really is just a school administrator and not the man whose thin nose sits on my face, whose long slim fingers are mine, too.

He removes his hand from my shoulder, and walks back around to the other side of the desk, settling back into his chair. “Listen, June, and understand.” His tone is serious, as if he was simply talking to a student in trouble. Which, in his eyes, I guess he is. “Before you were even born, your mother and I signed a
contract. She told me you've read the document. You know what it says. Your education—both here and at the college level—is completely paid for. Your mother was able to start a very successful business. And with her wise investments, you could never work and you'd be okay. She made the decision before you were born. We have no choice but to honor it.”

I sit openmouthed across from him, trying not to let his words sink in. “No choice?”

He stands and opens the door. “You should get back to class.” He looks at his watch. “Quickly, before it ends.”

He returns to his seat as I slowly rise. It takes every ounce of my energy to get out of the chair, to walk back down the hall and to the elevator, which, thankfully, is still empty.

I make my way down the Level 8 dorm hall, open the door to my room, and throw myself onto my bed. But instead of the soft embrace of the comforter, I feel the distinct crunch of paper—a lot of paper. I pick up a piece and realize it's a photo from today's ballet class—about a hundred copies of the same one: Riho, graceful and elegant in a turn, while I look awkward and rigid beside her. On each one, the same distinct taunt, no doubt from Sei-Jin: “Stiff competition!”

My phone starts to buzz. Alerts race down the screen for the same pictures. They are tagged with both Riho and me.

For a second, I wish I had really hurt Sei-Jin when I pushed her down those stairs last year. But I think about how differently I wanted this year to go. I have to be bigger than this. My mom was a dancer. My nonfather was a dancer. I am meant to be one.

I just have to prove it, again. To all of them. To myself.

I skip dinner, even though I know Nurse Connie will harass me about it. I can't even deal with the charade of eating tonight. And I don't want to see Sei-Jin and the others. I thought I'd have the room to myself, but Cassie has been in here doing homework the whole time.

I'm in bed, the boring book I have to read for Lit class on my lap, the blankets piled high on my legs to keep my feet cozy. Jayhe's texting drawings for his art class—the ballerina series he's doing based on me—and joy flushes through me like too much sugar, leaving me giddy and off-balance. I almost turn to show it to Cassie, who's at her desk, listening to the Odile sequence on repeat. But then I remember it's her, and not Gigi, and I feel that familiar pang again, missing Gigi despite myself.

Cassie's hunched over her laptop, her back to me as she plucks pieces of dried apricot from a bowl by her side. The chewing is incessant—the swish, swish, swish of it. I kind of want to throw something at her. Or throw up. But I can't, not with her here. So I just glare until she says, “You know, you could take a picture. It'll last longer.”

The blush takes over before I can even respond. “Those aren't allowed.” I stand up, suppressing the urge to grab the bowl and dump it. “The sugar attracts bugs. You're supposed to leave that stuff in the kitchen area.”

“Oh, poor me. I'm so scared of little E-Jun ratting me out.” Her voice is so frigid that it makes me shiver.

I can feel her coldness deep inside. Most people just see those bright blue eyes and straight white teeth when she flashes that pageant grin. Most people remember how well she danced. Most
people remember what all of us did to her when she was here before. They don't realize that maybe she deserved it. So I just grit my teeth and try to focus. But that's hard to do, given the commotion in the hall. I hear knocks on the doors in quick succession.