Shiny Broken Pieces (9 page)

THE SOUNDS OF A FIGHT
drift through my bedroom walls from the stairwell. Angry shouts and the noise of clomping footsteps and slamming doors seep through. It's almost midnight. I slip out of bed, step over bits and pieces of my Halloween costume that should've made it to the hamper, and creak open the door. The hallway is dark now that the RAs have turned down the lights postcurfew.

It's Sei-Jin, dressed as a black cat, which makes her blend a bit too well into the darkness of the stairwell.

I freeze and press myself against the wall, so I can see Sei-Jin, but she can't see me.

“You tell so many lies, E-Jun, I don't know how anyone believes you.”

June.

“Someone went through my room,” Sei-Jin says. “My stuff was everywhere.”

“Well, it wasn't me,” June yells back. “I'm not the only one who hates you here.”

“You messed my pointe shoes up, too. All this feels just like something you'd do.”

“I didn't do anything to your shoes.” June's voice echoes out of the stairwell and into the hall. “And you left those pictures of Riho in my room.”

Shoes? The vinegar. She thinks June did it. That feels like such a long time ago. I remember Sei-Jin's embarrassed face, pink from crying and her sitting out of ballet class after discovering the ruined pointe shoes.

My heart accelerates and I don't need my wrist monitor to tell me it's beating too fast. A hot pinch of guilt twists in my stomach. I liked seeing Sei-Jin upset in ballet class, but part of me still felt terrible.

“I know you did,” Sei-Jin says. June's stuck in the stairwell—probably trying to sneak in past curfew. She looks panicked. Sei-Jin won't let June pass her and come out onto the floor. “You've always wanted what I had. And you've always been willing to do whatever it takes to get it. You're pathetic. You're disgusting.”

“You didn't always think I was that way. Or did you forget?” June lunges forward, in Sei-Jin's face. She's so close that Sei-Jin turns her head in the opposite direction, her arms flailing as she tries to shove her away. “You remember kissing me? You're the liar.”

I take a step back, unsure about what I've just heard. Sei-Jin and June kissing. I hold my breath and keep listening, even though I know I shouldn't.

I think about the things June told me about Sei-Jin. How they used to room together in ninth grade and spend all their time at Sei-Jin's aunt's house. How they used to share clothes and Sei-Jin tried to make her learn Korean by introducing her to K-pop. How Sei-Jin was dating Jayhe, a boy June had known since she was in diapers. I remember the wistfulness when she told me that, the pain underneath, like it was an old scar that still felt sore to the touch sometimes.

Sei-Jin's voice breaks. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Oh, yes you do.” June tries to shove past her again, but Sei-Jin blocks her. “Do you want to kiss me again? Just come out to your parents. Tell them you like girls
and
boys. I'm sure they'll be thrilled.”

“You shut up. Just shut your mouth,” Sei-Jin says through her teeth. “Stop with your lies and messing with my things.”

“I didn't touch your shoes, and I didn't tear up your room.”

“If you mess with me again, I'm going to tell everyone the truth about you.”

“Oh, that old lesbian rumor. Dating Jayhe has erased that.”

Sei-Jin smiles. “No, E-Jun. I know something so much worse. Something no one would ever forgive you for.”

“You don't know anything about me. I'm not afraid of you.”

“I'll tell them that you killed Gigi's butterflies.”

June's face looks terrified, like she's seen a ghost.

My breath catches in my throat. I feel like I've been punched in the chest. I press into my door. The knob jams into my back.

“You're sick, E-Jun,” Sei-Jin says, as June sways, like she's
been socked in the stomach. “Really messed up. Mental case.”

“I didn't—” June pushes forward. “Let me out of the stairwell.”

Sei-Jin puts a hand on her shoulder, and I can see her bare white teeth despite the dark. I can hear her angry growling. “I saw you sneak out of rehearsal early that day, when you thought no one was watching. Then, magically, you were back in rehearsal to collect tutus. I bet if someone checked the security cameras that day, they'd see you going up to your room.”

“I don't—”

“Your needles gave you away. You're the only one that coats the middle with nail polish to grip them.” Sei-Jin pokes a finger in June's chest. “I saw them. Clear-nail-polish-coated needles.”

Silence stretches between them. I hold my breath, waiting for June to say that Sei-Jin is lying again. I wait for her to deny it all. I wait for her to storm straight through Sei-Jin.

“Fine, I did it. Is that what you wanted to hear?” she snaps. “Is that going to get you to move? Or should I start screaming for the RAs?”

Tears roll down my cheeks, unstoppable. How could she do that to me?

Doors start to open. Girls step into the hallway. The RA comes out of her room. A chorus of confusion starts.

“What happened?”

“June, are you okay?”

June starts to cry now. Her sobs echo, wet, snotty, and hysterical.

“Sei-Jin, let her out of the stairwell,” the RA says. “Why is everybody still up?”

I walk backward one soft footstep at a time and slip back into my room. I stand in the middle and put a hand on the practice barre. I close my eyes. I remember my butterflies' dark, dead eyes and frail wings. I remember the needles piercing their bodies, pinning them in place. I remember how my heart beat like a drum in my chest, threatening to burst. I remember how I screamed so hard that my throat went raw.

A knot hardens inside me. I think of all the times I wanted to be June's friend, brought her little gifts and asked her to hang out with me, trying to forge some sort of friendship. I think about how I'd catch her admiring my butterflies on the windowsill sometimes, how we'd talked about how they are the ballerinas of the insect world. I think about all the times Alec said mean things about her cold personality or weird behavior. How much I stuck up for her.

My hands squeeze the wood barre. I bite down on my lip, trying to hold in the scream building in my chest. Anger flickers inside me like a live wire. The pain lingers right behind it.

I think of things I could do to June: tell the RAs about her eating disorder, tell Jayhe about the butterflies, tell everyone about the kiss between her and Sei-Jin. But no. I want it to be something that hurts, something that makes her feel like she's lost a thing that she needs, something that embarrasses her, something she will always remember.

More tears race down my cheeks as I sit at my desk. I pull a mirror in front of me. The scarf covering my head has slid down, and some of the pin curls I put in my hair before bed have escaped. I sniff and wipe my face, then wrap pieces of my hair around my finger and pin them to my scalp with bobby pins. I
retie my scarf and take a few soft breaths.

I stand before my barre and do the nightly physical therapy exercises to strengthen and lengthen the muscles in my left leg.

An idea creeps into my head like a whisper. A dark one. I know exactly what to do to June. I know how to really hurt her.

The only thing more beautiful about New York than California is the changing leaves. They are everywhere today, blowing past the glass windows and making me want to be outside in Central Park instead of in Studio C, doing my physical therapy exercises on a Sunday morning. I've done two hours of stretches and movements already, but I'm shaky today—my pirouettes a mess, my
grand jetés
not quite as grand as they once were. The anger, it's rippling through me, throwing everything off-balance.

Sore and exhausted, I sit myself in the center of the room, my reflection staring back at me from all the mirrors. I close my eyes, blocking it out, and I meditate, just like Mama and some of her holistic doctors have urged me to. I hate it usually, because each time I close my eyes I can feel the accident again. Now I'm only thinking about my butterflies, June, and how much I want her to hurt.

I turn my phone off. I've been obsessively looking at June's online feed. Sei-Jin has filled it with hundreds of pictures of butterflies. They're all tagged with her name. Even Bette has chimed in on how harsh that prank was.

I try breathing deeply, counting backward, hanging on to a single word or sound, like
om
, until everything fades away. But it never does, not really.

I let my hands rest on my knees. I find the biggest tree that
I can see through the windows. I don't know if it's technically “right,” but I let my eyes focus on the branches and watch the colors blur together and make my mind go still. Red, orange, and yellow crowd out all the other colors of the city, overwhelming the brownstones across the street and the silvery gray of the high-rises.

I'm about fifteen minutes into what should be a half-hour meditation session (if I'm going to be honest when I report back home to Mama tonight), when I feel someone standing over me. I don't know how many times she's had to say my name, because when I do hear her, there's a distinct edge.

“
Gigi
,” Eleanor says, the sound of my name cutting through the quiet of the studio and my own orange-and-red Zen moment.

“Oh! Hey!” I shake my head a little to reenter the world of the conservatory.

“How's it going?” she says.

“Fine.” There's a strange pause between us, a thing that can't be filled, so we just listen to the wind outside the window and the light scratching the leaves make when they brush against the glass. Seeing her makes me think of Bette. We've exchanged more words right now than we have since the school year started. I try not to remember the last real conversation we had—the one when she told me she sent that disgusting heart-shaped cookie to me covered in dead roaches.

She presses her hands against the glass and stares out at the trees. “I was going to go to Central Park today.”

“Good for you.”

Her eyes bulge. “Okay.”

“Why are you talking to me?”

“I just saw you in here and thought I'd say, you know, hi, or whatever.”

“Lonely now that Bette's not here?” Mean words won't stop pouring from my mouth. I flush with heat. I've never said anything like this in my entire life. It feels good to see her face twist, her mouth purse, her cheeks turn red. Her body tenses up, like it's ready for a fight.

“I'm not friends with Bette anymore. And I'm sorry for my part in all that stuff last year.”

“That
stuff
nearly killed me.”

“I know,” she whispers.

“I've got to focus.” I turn away from her and start to stretch.

“I can help you figure out who did it if you want.” She digs in her dance bag and takes out a tub of hummus and little baggies of sliced veggies and carrots. She waves them at me. “You want some?”

I grimace. “I hate hummus, and I don't need your help.”

“Well, I could just—” She hands me a packet of carrots. She smiles a little, but it doesn't hide her worries. “I mean, things just feel different this year, like a fresh start, right?” She dips another carrot, and a small dollop of hummus lands on my tights. I flinch, but she doesn't notice. Then I flick it off and onto the studio floor. “I'm excited about all these new opportunities. But it is lonely sometimes, you know?”

She looks up at me, eyes brimming a bit, waiting for me to agree, to sympathize. But I don't have that to give her. Not anymore. I shrug. “Not really. I'm busy all the time.” I wonder what
she does with all her time now that Bette is gone. “Like right now.”

The extra Sunday Preparatory 4 class lets out. Parents trickle through the hall with their
petit rats
. The little ones wave at us through the glass. They're a blur of hunter-green leotards and pink tights, wide grins, bright teeth, and innocent eyes. We wave back. I hear them say my name so loudly it sounds like a thwack against the glass. Parents grin at us.

“They really love you.” Eleanor looks wistful, disappointed, like she's just realized something big. “You've got something special. More than charisma. It's—”

Cassie walks in then, and Eleanor leaps up and away, like a kid caught stealing a cookie.

“You ready?” Cassie says to me as Eleanor gathers her stuff, that panicked expression still exaggerating her soft features. “I got us a table at ten.” She turns to Eleanor, her face stone cold. “Still snacking instead of squeezing in those morning workouts, huh, El? Guess you can't teach an old dog—”

I jump up. “Let's go,” I say, grabbing Cassie by the arm and leading her out. I don't need to look back to see that Eleanor's still standing there, frozen, devastated.

“I was just getting rid of her when you came in.”

“That's exactly what she deserves. I should've said even more.” She's walking so fast and furious, I race to keep up. “You've got to stop letting her fool you with those crybaby antics. She's not nearly as innocent as she looks.”

“Oh, I know.”

Cassie stops short. “No, after everything you've been through,
you still don't get it. She's always been a sidekick, a lapdog. With Bette gone, this is her big chance. You better believe she's going to take it.”

I fill in the blanks. “And she's learned from the best.”

Cassie nods solemnly. “Exactly. So no hanging with the enemy.” Then she adds with a smirk, “Unless, of course, you plan to set a trap.”

“
A PICNIC?
”
I ASK, LAUGHING
.
“In November?”

I feel shaky as I sit with Jayhe, and not just from the cold. A part of me panics, wondering if he can see the scars Sei-Jin's words left on me last night. After that fight, I had to see him, had to reassure myself that this is what's real, not those dead butterflies that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

“Chicken wings. Dumplings, too.” He gestures from one dish to the next, all spread out on a red-checked blanket in the park. He unwraps a pristine white box and sets it in the center of the blanket. “And coconut cake for dessert.”

“Ballerinas don't eat dessert.” I try to make it into a joke. He doesn't laugh.

“I'll eat it myself.” He's got a doofy grin on his face, like he's just realized his mistake. “You can enjoy the show.” He starts pulling out napkins and boxes of food and bottles of the calorie-free fizzy water we had on a beach day in Brooklyn last
summer. He holds one out to me, and I realize it's watermelon—which they no longer make. “Your favorite.”

I grin, taking the bottle from him and popping it open. I take a few sips, letting the fruity bubbles settle the anxiety that's filling me up. I pull my peacoat tighter around my shoulders, wishing I'd brought a heavier jacket.

“I know it's cold,” he says, wrapping me up in a bear hug. I try to let the warmth envelop me. It's only the beginning of November, but you can already tell that this winter will be brutal, the chill settling into you like an anchor. “I brought us layers.”

We both sink down onto the blanket, and pull another checked wool one on top of our laps. He starts piling food on to a plate, careful that each thing gets its own space, no touching, just the way I like it. Then he makes a plate for himself, everything smushed all together, and drizzles it all with chili sauce. He tucks himself in next to me and digs in.

I inhale the salty pork and chives of the dumplings, made by hand in his dad's restaurant. I can't bring myself to take a bite. My stomach churns with bile and anxiety. Instead, I lean into Jayhe and listen to him talk between bites—about his little cousin, whose first birthday is coming up, and how different she'll look a year from now. He lifts my plate up, noticing that it's still full. “Try the chicken,” he says. “It's delicious. My dad started adding a touch of honey to the sauce to make it less hot.” He holds up a piece. “The white people love it.”

I take the piece and chomp down, trying to drown my worries in grease and home cooking. “It's yummy,” I say, then reach for the chili sauce. “But I like it hot.” I don't eat all of it. Just
enough to get him to stop focusing on food.

I can feel him watching my mouth, and then our eyes lock like magnets. He smiles and there's a gleam in his eyes, and before I know it, we're both sprawled out on the blanket, food tossed aside. It's all play at first, a roll onto the grass, me giggling, a button flying off my peacoat as he tries to pull it open. I feel his hot, calloused hands climbing under my sweater and up my back, wandering in places we've left unexplored. His tongue goes farther into my mouth, and I push back, wanting to erase last night. The goose bumps spread wherever his touch goes, the cold and the hot conflicting, strange and familiar. It's like the odd pleasure and pain a new pair of toe shoes brings.

I don't know how long we lie there, frozen in time, letting the world fall away, but a shrill whistle knocks us out of our daydream and scrambling back into our coats. A group of kids zoom by, their teacher—blowing her orange plastic emergency whistle—trying to get them to line up and hold hands. “Everyone find your partners,” she keeps shouting, and I blush, thinking maybe I finally found mine.

He watches my face and then grins, reaching for the dumplings. He eats one and then a second, offering me some, too. They're cold and congealed now, and I can feel that familiar bile rising in my throat. I tell him I'm full. He frowns but lets it go.

“Just one more month until the new Brooklyn restaurant opens.” He dips another into that salty soy-chili-scallion sauce his dad is famous for. “I think my dad will want me to take over that one.” His voice is low, as if someone might overhear. But aside from the kids, the park is really quiet for a Sunday
afternoon, probably because of the chill. I'm so absorbed in my own worries that it takes me a minute to realize what he means.

“It's a lot,” I say, ever the supportive girlfriend. “Can you handle that along with your classes?”

He starts talking about the college-level figure drawing class he's been taking on Thursday nights. “We're two months in, and she still hasn't even approved my sketch.” He reaches into his backpack and pulls out one of those familiar black sketchbooks. He opens it up to the middle, and there's one of the first drawings he did of me as I pirouette in the center of the studio, with echoes of me reflected in the mirrors. He keeps talking about the color and the shading. To me it just looks beautiful, so I say so. But he sort of shrugs it off.

I guess that's the thing—it's not me he needs to hear it from. It's the same with me and ballet. To Jayhe, what I do is beautiful and perfect. He doesn't see the flaws in my pirouettes or that my leaps are not quite high enough.

“I asked Professor Tadeka for a recommendation for RISD. The Rhode Island School of Design. She went there, so she might have some pull.”

“That sounds great. Is it a good school?”

“One of the best. I don't know if I'll get in, but it's like you always say, I have to try.” He's lost in thought for a minute, then finally says it. “But I've been thinking. Rhode Island is five hours away, you know. We hardly see each other now, and we're forty-five minutes apart. So . . .”

“I'll miss you.” I reach across, putting a cold hand on his warm cheek. “I miss you now.”

He puts his hand on mine, then moves them both away from his face. In that moment, he's not the same, sleepy-eyed boy I've always known. His seriousness leaves lines across his forehead, down his cheeks. He looks older. Weary. “I was just thinking. You always seem so miserable there.” I know what he's about to say, and I'm already shaking my head. But he plows forward. “This summer, you were doing so well. The intensive was less stressful. You were eating a little more, you were going to that therapist, you were learning Korean, you were hanging with family—even your mom. And now, you're—”

“I'm what?” I can't listen to all this. Not now. Not when I've worked this hard and come this far. “You know I can't give up dancing. I've got a real shot—”

“Really?” He's completely pulled away now—there are only a few inches between us, but they might as well be miles already. “It just seems like you're unhappy whenever you go back there. So I thought maybe you could come with me. Or we could both go somewhere closer. Together.”

It feels like I misheard him for a minute.

“There are a lot of universities nearby. You could study almost anything. Can you imagine it? Taking classes together, hanging out.”

I think about the picture he's created for us: college, dancing, being with him on weekends. It would be so easy. Like a normal girl.

I could have everything I've ever dreamed of.

Except professional ballet. Sure, there's the Boston Ballet and the New England Ballet. But there's nothing like dancing in
New York at the American Ballet Company.

He waits for an answer. I try to calm myself down before I speak. I want this—I want him—more than I've wanted almost anything. But he makes it seem too easy.

“I can't do that.” I don't let my voice waver. “You don't get it. You don't have to. But if you love me, you'll accept the fact that I need to dance. To do that, I need to be in New York.”

He smiles. “Okay, I thought you'd say that, so I've looked into a few places in New York, too. Could you do the same?”

He reaches down into his backpack and pulls out pamphlets for schools in Boston and New York and everywhere in between. For a minute, just a minute, I can't be mad. He's really trying to make this work. It feels so strange because my life looks so different from the way it was last year, facing this type of decision, having someone who wants me to factor him in. Right now, it seems like I'll have to choose one or the other, Jayhe or ballet.

“Okay,” I say. “I'll think about it, I will.”

But I can't make any promises.

I'm standing at the barre between Gigi and one of the new girls, in perfect formation. My arms are up, my leg extended, my right foot swishing back and forth, in unison with the others. I'm invisible and yet perfectly in tune, exactly how it should be. But I'm not thinking about the music, or the perfect line my leg makes when I lift it straight up to my head. Jayhe's words absorb my thoughts, every moment. Knowing that it might have to be over, that I can't give up ballet or New York.

Morkie's shadow drapes over me, and I remember her lecture about focus from last week, so I straighten up even more.

“Legs in
grand battement
. Hold.” She stands beside me, waiting. I lift my leg to the side, trying to ensure a solid turnout. Her bony fingers stretch out and touch the inner part of my thigh. Her fingers pinch at the tights until they grab part of my skin, burning through the thin material, sharp and mean, with a firm grasp. Tears prick at my eyes, but I swallow hard, determined to hold them back.

“Too much,” she says.

I'm drowning in shame, the heat of it threatening to melt me as she continues to pinch that excess flesh.

“Now it's time to be long and lean. It's almost audition time.” Morkie pauses for effect. “Because this will not do.”

Everyone freezes. No one breathes at all. But in my ears, I can hear the snickers, the laughter they're saving for later. She moves on to Riho. “Extend, extend.” She's shouting now, and Riho kind of ducks, as if she's about to get hit. Morkie pulls her out of the line and lifts an arm, indicating that Riho should kick to the side, into
grand battement
. When Riho does, Morkie lifts her leg even higher, and the girl lets out a little yelp of pain. For a moment, I feel bad for Riho. She's too young, too small, for such harsh treatment. Then again, we all were once.

When class is over, I wait until the hallway outside the studio is clear. Then I head straight down to the physical therapy room, where the PT therapist will contort my body in a dozen directions, pulling me apart and putting me back together again.
Pretty much all of us go to PT, but some need it more than others.

I lie facedown on the therapy table, my head supported by the headrest, a towel covering me even though I'm wearing a tank top and shorts. The shooting pains I've been having in my shins could mean the beginnings of a stress fracture. I don't tell her that. She'll tell Nurse Connie and Morkie, and I'll be out of ballet class for at least a week.

I inhale the scent of her rubber gloves, melding with the nutty scent of almond oil as she rubs my scalp. She stretches out my limbs and massages the tension out of them.

“You're all set,” she says in her chirpy tone. “You can stay for another few minutes. Try to relax.” She always says that. She puts a hot, wet towel on my back, the warmth of it seeping into my sore muscles. I hear her rubber soles squeak as she leaves the room.

My brain is a tangle of stressors: Jayhe, Morkie, Cassie, ballet class, food, and Gigi. But eventually I drift off to sleep.

I wake up, pull the towel off my back, and slide off the PT table. My bare feet feel soft furlike piles beneath my toes. I fumble around in the dimly lit room. Clumps of black hair make a trail between the treatment table and the door. My heart thuds. My hands find their way to my head—the once long strands now end abruptly by my ears.

I start to scream, the rasping, gasping sounds scraping their way up and out of my throat. Tears stream down my face like fat raindrops, ominous and endless. I cry out of confusion, out of anger, out of pain. The hair is all over the floor and the PT table.

The therapist's sneakers make their signature squeak as she
skids back into the room. “June, June! What's wrong?” She turns the lights all the way up. “Oh, no. Your hair. How did this happen?”

I know exactly how it did. I watched it all happen to Gigi and didn't say a word. Now it's my turn.