Tiny Pretty Things (24 page)

These days, she says, it’s too cold. I kind of love it—the way the air puffs white when you breathe out, the fresh snow on the ground. But she’s always reminding me that it will be black in a day or two. And then she retreats back into herself. So it’s right about this time of night that the homesickness starts.

Dusk settles in, and it’s dinnertime here, but hardly anyone eats. It’s midafternoon in San Francisco, right around the time when I’d get home from school and my mama would make me a snack—her homemade blueberry granola and yogurt, or hard-boiled eggs and whole wheat toast—before I headed to rehearsal. She’d paint in the studio next to the kitchen, and my dad would come in from his office, ink-stained hands from reading at least ten different newspapers, a big grin on his face. He’d fire off a gazillion questions about my day, about the ballet we were rehearsing, about school, how I was feeling and if I had had any heart palpitations.

About boys.

I never had anything to tell him about boys back then. Before here, before Alec, there was no one. Much to my dad’s relief. That’s all different now. Alec makes me feel good, feel like I belong, like this whole thing isn’t just a fluke. He makes me miss home less. He makes me happy.

I move my butterfly terrarium to my desk, and I crack the window open. Snow collects on the sill, and some of it flutters inside. I watch it accumulate into little mounds and can’t focus on my math homework. I love how the little flakes pause on the window before melting into drops. Back home, the mist over San Francisco never transformed into anything this pretty. This is what February should look like. This is what Valentine’s day should be like.

My phone buzzes. I can feel June festering as I comb through my pile of blankets in search of it. Every little thing I do seems to bug her this week. She’s been all weird and moody, more so than usual June behavior. Makes me wonder if there’s a boy. Or if she’d even tell me if there was one. And any moment of temporary friendship we had seems long gone. It’s almost like the last conversation we had about her dad didn’t exist. My friend Ella, from back home, when I complained to her about it over text, said June’s attitude probably was about the cast list. She reminded me that I
don’t know what it feels like to be an understudy, that I don’t know what it’s like not to be picked first.

“Do you want to rehearse together tomorrow after Pilates?” I ask June.

She doesn’t answer for such a long time that I almost forget that I asked the question in the first place.

“No,” she finally says.

“Want to go down to Times Square after Pilates instead?” Before I moved into the dorms and to this school, I thought I’d have a close friend to do everything with, like many of the other girls have. No such luck here.

“Why would I ever want to go there?” she asks, a sour look marring her face. “Too dirty. Too loud. And tourists.”

I stop trying, and take out my phone. Alec’s name appears in the text box two seconds after I push in my passcode. My heart accelerates too fast. I get a little dizzy with excitement. While I was at home in California, he was in Switzerland with his family for most of winter break, and we messaged back and forth. But I don’t know exactly what it means to be someone’s girlfriend. We also haven’t kissed since that night onstage, swept up in classes and rehearsals since we got back from winter break.

The text reads:
Meet me outside of the building
:)

I let out a little squeal as I text him back yes.

“Now what?” June complains. “What’re you so excited about?”

I can’t hold it in. “Alec asked me to go to dinner.”

I wait for her excitement, but she sighs.

“For Valentine’s day!” I gush.

“Oh, wow,” she says in a monotone pitch. “Sounds thrilling.” She tries hard not to roll her eyes.

I put on the new dress my parents gave me for Christmas: a vintage 1940s tea dress my mom found at the thrift store a few blocks from our house. I pull on tights, and wet my hair a little, working a cream into it. I pull at the curls so that they billow around my face like a halo. I put on cute, dangly earrings and an armful of bangles. And then, for a minute, I ponder wearing my monitor. I open the drawer where it’s hidden and peer down at it. I can hear Dr. Khanna’s words again:
Even when you’re not exercising, you could still have a palpitation.

June pretends to have her nose in her history book, but I catch her watching me. So I leave it there, even though I know I should put it on. Even if it’s to prove to Mama, Daddy, Aunt Leah, and Nurse Connie that I don’t need it.

I put on my winter coat and hat, and head for the door. “See you later. Cover for me, will ya?”

I tiptoe into the hall. Bette’s door is wide open and music drifts out. As I ease past and toward the stairwell, I hear a whistle.

“Well, don’t you look beautiful,” Bette says, appearing in the doorway in little pajama shorts and mukluk slippers. Her legs are two long, pale beams of light: smooth and stark and flawless.

I don’t know what to say. Each time I see her, I think about calling her out about the mean things she did to me last semester, but it doesn’t seem worth it. After all, I did get the lead part. Again. And her boyfriend. Bette’s used to winning. If I can just keep the peace—but that’s seeming more and more unlikely as she stares me down, her eyes like ice and her mouth still impossibly red from that lipstick she’s always wearing now, even in pajamas.

“Uh, hi” is all I can manage, suddenly feeling frumpy and inadequate, even though I’m the one all dressed up. I wonder what she used to wear for special nights with Alec. I wonder what they used to do, if tonight feels different to him. A good different, I hope.

She plays with a lock of her silky blond hair. “Heading out for Valentine’s day?”

“Yeah . . .”

Bette eyes me—the perfect skin on her forehead scrunches. A pang of guilt hits me, knowing that she probably misses Alec, and this time last year she would have been the one going out with him.

“Did you guys get a room?” she asks, pointed, and all my guilt falls away, like an anchor dropping. “We used to do that. The Waldorf. It’s Alec’s favorite—”

I know she’s going to keep at it, so I turn away from her. “Bye. See you later.”

I wait for the elevator, feeling her eyes burn into my back.

“Hey, Solomon,” I greet the front desk guy, and he beams. I’m the only dancer who actually uses his name. I sign myself out, leaving the time blank, and he lets me go outside. I keep thinking about what Bette said, but I’m determined not to let her ruin this night, to ruin Alec for me. Snowflakes flutter down from a dark sky, their tiny shadows making perfect pictures on the sidewalk. I let them rest on my nose and melt into my skin. I think I’ll grow to love East Coast winters. As a California girl, I know I shouldn’t like the snow, but there’s something clean and fresh about it. I love how the ice crystals have the power to quiet the streets and force people inside.

The
petit rats
race out of the building from late classes, headed home. They giggle and point at me. Some ask me for my autograph, but I promise to give it to them tomorrow before morning ballet. I turn away from school and into the bustle of the city. I blow air from my mouth just to see it change into little clouds. I hear a whistle and turn to my right. Alec’s standing there.

He leans into a lamppost. He looks like he belongs in college, not in high school. He’s wearing a winter coat, a red knit hat, Chucks, and nice pants. I try to walk slowly so I don’t fall. I see his big white smile and I can’t help myself. I speed up, fighting the urge to run.

“Hey,” he says, when I’m close.

“Hi,” I say, surrendering to my feelings, jumping up into his arms. He kisses all over my face. I kiss him right back, all over his face. I like the little stubble he’s left on his cheeks.

“Someone’s just as excited to see me as I am to see her,” he says, and we just stand there for a minute, the snow dotting our jackets and hats. I let him kiss me again, on the mouth this time, and the warmth erases the cold. I let him push the peppermint candy from his mouth into mine. I let him rest his hand on the small of my back. I let him lean into me so he can feel my body.

I can’t resist a smile while his lips press mine, causing him to grin. If this is what it means to be
his girlfriend, I could be it forever. He releases me, leaving me to suck on the mint. He pulls me forward into the snowy night. “Let’s go! We’re going to be late.”

“For what?” I say.

“Our reservation.”

I love the way he says
our
and
we
and
us
—those words only ever referred to my parents or my friends from home. The new meaning wraps around me and I remember watching couples kiss on the trolley, wondering how they got “there,” to that place where touching and kissing is like talking. I remember never believing I could ever have anything like that. I remember never really wanting it. And now, all I want is to do those three things with Alec.

He leads me.

“Where are we going?” I ask, eagerly following.

“You’ll see.”

We walk past an entrance to Central Park, where the path is quiet and we walk through it from west to east. I love how each time I go to the park I see something new. We step into a fancy Italian restaurant called Maria’s on the Upper East Side, and Alec opens the door for me. The restaurant is warm, aglow with votive candles. We brush off, and Alec dusts snowflakes out of my curls. A waiter leads us to our table and I fight the permanent grin on my face. My cheeks hurt from all the smiling and cold air.

“Can we sit near the window?” I ask. “I want to watch the snow.”

The waiter looks at me like I’m ten years old, but obliges, leading us to one of the side tables. I look around at all the couples sharing wine and dipping their bread in oil. Is this what grown-ups do on Valentine’s day? I mean, this and fancy hotel rooms, maybe? I feel like such a kid compared to Bette, compared to Alec. I remember making cards with my mama’s paints and special paper and handing them out at school, and my dad bringing home two bouquets, one for her and one for me. That was the extent of my Valentine’s days for the past fifteen years, and now this year it’s different. I still feel like a kid playing dress-up in my mama’s heels.

Earlier my dad called, leaving his sweet message, and he even sent a dozen roses. I laugh out loud remembering his card.

“What’s so funny?” Alec asks, pulling me out of my memory.

“My dad,” I say, “and the Valentine’s day card he sent me.”

I laugh again. “He said that he was my only Valentine, despite the boy I kissed onstage. I think he’s still trying to figure out . . . like . . . what we’re doing. I haven’t really said anything to them.”

“Oh, yeah?” he says with a tease.

“I mean . . . like, yeah,” I admit. “They were on me about being on my phone all break texting you.”

“My dad, too. I ran the phone bill up while we were in Switzerland.” He takes my hand. “Well, I’d never want to compete with Mr. Stewart. But you know I like you.”

“Is that so?” I try to flirt, then feel my cheeks redden. The words are brand-new and sweet as
anything.

“Uh, well, I guess.” He rubs his head. “I sound like an idiot right now. I’m usually better with words. And you never really answered my question, when I asked you to be my girlfriend.”

My mind replays the night of the
Nutcracker
performance and us backstage. I remember him asking, and me being so surprised. I start to laugh. “I guess I didn’t officially say yes.” I quickly practice saying yes in my head like a whisper, so I don’t scream it in the restaurant. A deep heat rises in me from the pit of my stomach all the way to my cheeks.

“I guess I should ask again,” he says.

“That you should,” I say back.

He puts his hands to his chest, like he’s playing Romeo from ballet. “Giselle Elizabeth Stewart, will you be my girlfriend?” He reaches for my hand to make it even more exaggerated and cheesy. “Wait! Wait, before you answer.” He riffles through his pockets, pulling out a tissue-wrapped wad. He slides it across the table.

My legs shake under the table. I feel like I’m going to burst with emotion. I unwrap the bundle, and it’s a tiny bouquet of origami roses made of red paper. His signature.

I finger one and notice each has a different shape. “Alec . . .”

His mouth curls into his crooked smile. “So . . . ?”

“I already thought I was your girlfriend!”

He grins at me like he’s the happiest guy in the world. And I can’t help but grin back. When I thought of what this first year here in New York would be like, I never expected to earn principal roles so quickly. I never expected to love being in the city. And I never expected this. I never expected Alec.

Still blushing, I stumble with my pasta order when the waiter comes, because my mind is all over the place. What do people in relationships do? Every movie romance races through my head.

“So, girlfriend?” he says.

“Yes, boyfriend?” I answer, then feel silly, like we really are in some romantic comedy.

“Will Mr. Stewart be happy with the confirmation of this development in our relationship?” he jokes.

I think of my dad just shaking his head back and forth like he does when he’s trying to hide a laugh. Mama will frown, as she thinks boys are a distraction in youth, especially to an artist—she didn’t meet my dad until she was in her late thirties, which is why they only had me.

I parrot him. “Will Mrs. Lucas be excited about me?”

His face drops and all the excited energy between us swirls away, like water down a drain. His smile goes away and he leans back in his chair. I freak and fidget with the napkin in my lap. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” he says, looking down. “I just don’t really talk about her is all.”

I open my mouth to ask why, but he keeps talking. “She left when I was little,” he says.

“Who was the lady with your dad at opening night?” I whisper, feeling nosy and ridiculous, but
overwhelmed with the need to know.

“My stepmother,” he says, dipping his bread in the olive oil.