Tiny Pretty Things (25 page)

“Oh,” I say for lack of anything better. I’d assumed it was his mother because they all share the same perfect white-blond hair and bright blue eyes.

“She’s a real bitch,” he mutters. “My mother left because my dad had a problem with staying away from other women.”

My face must look puzzled, because he explains.

“He cheated on her a bunch, so she took off,” Alec says. “But didn’t take me with her. Or my little sister, Sophie. Haven’t seen my mother in almost six years.”

My heart sinks. How could someone not want Alec and leave him behind? I reach for his hand under the small table. He lets me hold it and I trace words like
sorry
and
like
and
love
and
amazing
into his palm.

“I’ve never really talked to anyone about this,” he whispers. “Not like seriously.”

I don’t say anything, and I fight away questions about if Bette knows—just let the silence settle between us and let my hands tell him everything I want to say. He lets go and rubs his warm palms along my leg, lightly pinching the softness of my inner thigh. It sends a shiver through me, and I wonder if his hands will wander farther under my dress. I wonder if he booked us a room tonight. I wonder if I’m ready for that. My hearts starts to thump heavily and a little wave of light-headedness hits me from all the dancing earlier and excitement of the date. It’s a reminder of what’s wrong with me. Should I tell him about my condition? A familiar emotion crops up. I don’t want anyone to know. I don’t want him to look at me differently.

Alec changes the subject away from his mother, and brightens, talking about dancing the part of Count Albrecht in our upcoming performance and how it could launch his career early, how dancing the role of Giselle could do the same for me. He explains how all the company ballet masters and madames will be there, and some from rival companies, hoping to steal us away. I try to listen but somehow can’t seem to quiet my questions and newfound insecurities about being afraid to tell him something so personal, even though he just shared with me.

“You want to start rehearsing for our
pas
early? Before Doubrava and Mr. K want to work with us? So we’re ready?”

“Huh?” I say, completely tuned out.

“Did you hear anything I just said?” he says. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say.

“What just happened?” He stares at me like he’s trying to find the answer on my face. “Just tell me. I can tell something’s up.”

“I can’t,” I whisper. “It’s nothing.”

“C’mon . . .”

“I can’t,” I say sharper than I intended. “I’m sorry. I just . . .”

He starts running his hands over his buzzed head and taking sips of water. Sip. Glass down. Glass
up. Sip. Glass down. Over and over. I don’t think he’s actually thirsty at all. And now I’ve ruined it.

“This has been so nice.” I try to smile and reach for his hand. He lets me rub his palm, but he doesn’t stroke my fingers, doesn’t try to hold my hand in his own.

I pick at the rest of my food while he pays.

“Thank you,” I say, “for dinner.”

“You’re welcome.” He stands and we get our coats. He still holds my hand on the way home, but it doesn’t feel the same as when we walked to dinner. He doesn’t squeeze it or hold me tight like he wants me close. My feet are heavy boulders as we tread back to school. The lights are out and it’s almost eleven. He stops me before we go inside.

“I really wish you wouldn’t keep things from me. That’s something Bette used to do.”

Her name hits me in my chest.

I open my mouth to protest and say
it’s complicated
, but he pulls me close abruptly, and kisses me hard. It’s not the same kind of kiss he gave me at the beginning of the night. It’s rough and pushy and aggressive—all the things Alec is onstage. When he releases me, I look around to see if anyone’s watching. Then he takes the elevator up to his floor without another word.

Restless, I decide not to go to my room. Instead, I head to the basement studio. I race through the lobby, the empty corridor, disappear down the staircase, go inside the room.
Nevezeniya.
Bad luck. The Russians are right, and tonight I feel it wrap all around me like long fingers as I step into the darkness. I don’t turn on the light. My feet know the path, and my body curves around every heap. I barely make it to my place in front of the mirror before the tears begin to fall.

Alec’s scent wraps around me and the night replays in my head. I hear myself refuse to tell him about my condition. I hear the insecurity in my voice. I hear the disappointment in his. I imagine him in bed, thinking he doesn’t really love me at all. How could he, when he doesn’t even really know me. When I won’t let him really know me?

I push the button on my cell phone, hoping and wishing that he texted me something, like “It’s okay that you didn’t tell me whatever it was” or “I understand, I’m not mad” or “You can tell me in your own time.” But the screen is empty.

I finger the little roses he gave me.

I flash the phone’s light on the cracked mirror, letting the beam reflect and illuminate a path to the corner. The beam breaks into thousands of tiny suns from the splintered reflection. But something’s different. Parts of the mirror are covered. I lift the cell phone screen and more tears come before I even really register what I’m seeing.

It’s pictures. Pictures of Bette and Alec. Naked Bette and partially naked Alec. Taped all over the mirror. Arranged in a big, terrible heart shape. I wipe the frantic tears from my eyes and see the final touches: a huge, fully-blossomed black rose taped to the mirror, in the middle of the heart. The rose terrifies me. The pictures are a reminder of my inadequacies. But the rose is a threat. There’s a tiny slip of paper attached to its thorny stem, and I prick myself prying it off.

It’s just messy handwriting and a message so simple it turns my insides cold. My heart’s beating
at a strange pace, reminding me again I should be wearing my monitor.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

I
’
M STANDING ON THE SCHOOL
’
S
front staircase, waiting for Eleanor and our cab. She’s late. She’s always late these days. It’s almost ten, and we’ve got rehearsal tomorrow, but I’m determined to not let Valentine’s day be a total wash. I shiver and pull on my coat. It’s not very heavy, but the fur collar warms my cheeks. A vintage rabbit fur bolero stolen from my mother’s closet. A classic. I push away thoughts of what Alec and I used to do on Valentine’s day. Our tradition of making snowmen in the park or going dancing, all dolled up, like we were tiny versions of our parents.

I stare at the door and think about going back inside to wait when I hear my name. It’s Adele. She’s wearing one of those Russian trooper hats, ice-white, like her hair and skin. Her eyes almost glow blue in the darkness. Her coat hugs her body, and even though she has on layers, you can’t tell. Those kinds of fabrics would make me look huge. Of course, Adele escaped the family curse of curves without any help, according to my mother and everyone else I’ve ever talked to. But we can’t all be as shiny and spindly and delicate as Adele.

The day before winter break was over, my mother asked if I was wearing a padded bra. When I said no, her eyebrows shot up to the sky and she gave me her pouty-lipped pity smile. “Well. At least the boys will love you,” she’d said. Adele, so kind it hurts, told my mother to stop harassing me. I think Adele being nice about it made it even worse.

“Did you get my texts?” she says, so annoyed that her face starts to resemble our mother’s.

“No.” I buried my phone at the bottom of my purse to avoid looking for texts from Alec that will never come.

Her cheeks are pink from the cold, and it makes me think back to when were little, running around in the winter beach in Montauk. Before our father left and took the beach house with him. “What are you doing out here?” she asks, frowning at my thin jacket, my gloveless hands. “Mom told
you I was coming over today, didn’t she?”

She looks up at the school emblem over the door lovingly. And for a moment I just want to sit next to her on my bed, her old one, let her sew ribbons on some of my new pointe shoes, bitch about our mother, hear all the company hookup gossip, and rehash what went wrong during my audition for the lead role in
Giselle
. But that would mean being me. Tonight, I want to be someone else. I want to be somewhere else, I want to forget all the things going on between these walls. Especially with Henri.

“Yeah, guess I forgot. Now I’m headed out. It’s Valentine’s day,” I say. “You don’t have plans?”

“I’m trying to be promoted to principal, Bette. There’s no time for plans outside of ballet,” she says. Her words are pointed: if I were more like Adele and less like myself, I’d be the elegant and ethereal Giselle. But I’m not like Adele. And being around her tonight would keep slapping that reality in my face.

Adele used to say: “So many ballets are about love, so we have to know a little about it, right?” Maybe Adele was in love at some point, but we aren’t the kind of sisters who share those sorts of details.

“Well, we should talk. I feel like you’re flailing. Mom said you never gave her the details about what happened at the
Giselle
audition.”

“Maybe because I don’t want to talk about it.” My eyes find an ice-covered railing to fixate on.

“How can I help? I’ll show you whatever little details of the variation you missed. At this point, you’ve got to be cast in better roles. You have only one level left at school.” She touches my arm, concerned, and I can feel my temper simmering.

Eleanor flounces out at last, and saves me from further conversations with Adele. “Where are we going?” Eleanor says before seeing Adele. Then her mouth drops open and she gets this stupid, starstruck look on her face. “Oh, hi, Adele,” she says in a weird, pitchy voice. “You coming with us? Please say you are.”

“Well, Bette didn’t say where you were going,” she says, showing all her teeth, like she’s onstage.

“Let’s go,” I say, examining the bottom part of Eleanor’s dress that peeks under her coat, trying to get her away from Adele as quickly as possible. I won’t lose another person who is in
my
life. Not even to my sister. “Red on Valentine’s day? Cliché much?”

“I got this out of the lost and found last year,” she whines, and I know I shouldn’t have said that. She’s trying hard to work on her looks.

“And you probably brought bedbugs with it to our room,” I say, not knowing why I can’t stop my mouth from saying hurtful things tonight. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s Valentine’s day, and I’ve never been dateless before.

“Bette,” Adele starts to scold me.

“We have reservations,” I say.

“We do?” Eleanor says.

“Yes.” I grab her arm, and pull her forward to reinforce the lie. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Adele.”

We leave her on the staircase and head down the block. I crane to look for the Town Car I called for, but can’t stop looking at her dress. It’s so familiar: a deep scarlet and fringed on the bottom. The kind of dress you don’t forget. I can’t place it.

“I think it was Cassie’s,” Eleanor says, her words slow and deliberate, like I might have trouble comprehending. She looks at me and I avoid her eyes. Avoid memories of Cassie. Avoid memories of what I did or didn’t do to her. Forget what I did with Henri to secure his silence. But of course that’s why I recognize the dress. Cassie wore it a year ago, last fall, to the back-to-school party I always throw in September. It’s in a hundred pictures. She spun around and around in it all night, saying she loved the way the fringe felt hitting her thighs. I swallow hard: the promise of a great night fading fast.

Our driver pulls over to the curb. I yank El into the car, still reeling from her ridiculous audacity to wear something of Cassie’s and then tell me about. She stumbles out a thousand apologies as we climb in the car.

“First stop. Seventy-fifth and Fifth,” I tell the driver.

“Liz’s house?” Eleanor says.

“Yeah, she’s coming with.”

“Is that a good idea?”

“Does it matter?” I glare at her like she’s speaking Chinese.

“Have you spoken to her since she left?” Eleanor’s eyes get all big with sympathy.

“Only online. But she’s fine. In school and everything.” Liz’s new school’s the kind of place where you wear expensive blazers and have fake IDs. A lot of celeb kids go there. “Why haven’t you talked to her?”

“She’s not answering my texts. Is she still dancing?” It’s so weird for them not to be talking. It feels like everything is changing way too fast.

“She’s taking a break from ballet until the summer intensives.” The car pulls up in front of her luxe Upper East Side building. The doorman opens my side with a gloved hand. I tell him to call up for her. Moments later she comes slinking down in a too-tight bubble-gum-pink dress and checkered heels and big gold earrings, like she’s fallen out of some terrible music video. Her legs are sticks and the hideous dress rides up because there’s barely anything to hold on to. She throws her coat on the seat before sliding into the car.