Tiny Pretty Things (41 page)

“I get it,” I say. At least he’s direct.

“Maybe it’s just stuff that’s, like, different ’cause we’re from different places.” He keeps talking with a little hitch in his voice, from the tears he keeps mopping off his face.

“But, like, answer this question for me,” he says. “If you spend time with someone, that means something, right?”

“What kind of time?” I ask, feeling like he just took the words right out of my mouth, out of my head. “It could be a group thing. Or just friends.” I try piecing together things about who he could have a crush on or be in a relationship with.

“You’re alone. You make plans. Laugh. Joke. Hang out,” he says like he’s building a case for this confusing relationship. “That means something. You know, we don’t have extra time like that here. To just be hanging around without a reason. There’s always something we could be doing.”

He’s right. We don’t have extra time like regular teens to just play around. We could always be stretching in the studios.

“It’s so much better than before. I used to
pine
for Alec. I used to think that being his best friend meant that someday, maybe we could, like, try, you know?”

I don’t know, but I nod my head anyway.

“Now I don’t know what I ever saw in Alec. He thinks he’s the best ballet dancer at ABC. That he’s a shoo-in for the company.” He’s like an emotional roller coaster dipping from sad to angry, then back again. “But with this new guy, I just can’t tell. Sometimes he’s all flirty. Cute texts. Lots of smiley faces, you know? And then, the next, nothing. Silence. I can’t play this game again.” The tears come back. And I know where he’s coming from. All too well. “Maybe in his country, this is how it goes. Maybe he’s afraid to be out.”

I lean forward and whisper, “Is it Henri?”

He covers his entire face now, and his sob gets a little too loud. People look over at him. I pet his hand, trying to be comforting. It’s not my strong suit.

He grabs my hand and squeezes it hard. “Please don’t say anything. I should just ask him what we are doing. I need to get it together.” Will’s voice drops at the end of the sentence. I follow his gaze to find out what stopped him.

It’s Henri and Alec. Then Gigi, right behind them. Henri grins in our direction, but sits at a table across from us. Alone. Like he always does. Alec and Gigi lurk at the end of our table, like they’re deciding if they want to sit with us tonight.

“Looking all serious, kids,” Alec says, patting Will on the shoulder with two loud, hard claps. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Will says, recoiling a little. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Gigi sits beside me. “How was your day, June?” Like she’s my therapist, her tone suggesting I’ve been having a rough time.

“Fine. How are you?” I snap back. “Any more issues lately?”

Her face falls a little, and I feel better, but Alec comes to the rescue. “Nothing lately. Thank God. Maybe people have chilled out and stopped acting all stupid and childish.”

Will agrees with him, like he’s some sort of genius, and that’s when I notice how Will looks up at him like he’s the most beautiful person in the world, and how everything he just said about Alec has now disappeared.

“You know, my dad asked about you the other day,” Alec says, looking down at me. Like he always does. “He’s always thought you were good. Said your mom danced. That true? He didn’t say much, but said it’s clear she taught you a lot.”

I think about Mr. Lucas saying my name, asking how I am doing. A glimmer of something like pleasure sparks in my chest. Maybe this is a good sign about my future at the conservatory. Something that could save me from public school.

Alec sits down next to Will, settling in like he owns the place. Which he pretty much does. “He said you and Sei-Jin and a few of those other Korean girls work too hard and don’t get enough credit. You know, he said Sei-Jin was probably the best dancer we have, but Mr. K doesn’t like her face? It’s disgusting, really.”

It’s so strange to hear him talk about the racist issues in the ballet community like he’s part of them, and experiencing them. Maybe dating Gigi has opened up his eyes a bit. But it’s not like he’ll do anything about it. Not really.

“He went off about that for a while. Weird night. My damn dad. He basically was trying to tell me Gigi will never get as far as Bette could, since the Russians love their snow-white blondes, you know?” Alec’s chatter is nervous, and the hope I had is pinched out so fast I forget it was ever there. He’s just upset that his dad doesn’t like Gigi. And Mr. Lucas wasn’t really asking about me. He was letting Alec know girls like me and Gigi will never really get ahead. Except, of course, that’s not true for Gigi at all. Only for me.

I stare at Alec a few beats longer than is comfortable, and he notices. He laughs it off and leans back in his chair.

“Are you guys mute?” he says, a teasing smile starting at his lips and moving across his whole face as he looks from me to Will.

“No one really wants to discuss racism,” Gigi says. She rubs the back of his neck the way Bette used to do, I guess to make her comment sting less.

“Tired,” Will says. He has been a shade pinker than usual ever since Alec got here. His whole body is so tense and stiff against his chair that he has become practically a piece of furniture himself. And he keeps staring at Henri’s back ahead of us.

I still say nothing. No one wants to talk to the most privileged boy at school about the stuff nonwhite girls face in ballet.

“June, ready to collect the tutus?” another dancer calls out, and I’m actually happy for the interruption. I rise, give a little wave, and scurry off. Gigi follows, calling to me to wait for her. But I don’t. I hear her behind me.

All the girls coming out of Level 5 and 6 rehearsal hold their white practice tutus. We crowd the elevators up to our dorm. We enter our hall and everyone descends upon our room. I keep thinking about Will and his easy tears. He’s like me in a way, always the outsider. But he needs to suck it up. Nothing will change what he is, what he’ll always be here. He has to change things for himself, like I do, or learn to accept that.

“Let me through,” I bark, trying to get to our door. Every night since rehearsal started, they all bring their tutus to my room for collection, my new job for Madame Matvienko. I volunteered with the hope that I could spend more time with her, slip in my questions about my father, and see what she knows. But I haven’t gotten a chance to yet.

I squeeze through the crowd to get to my room. Bette accidentally slams into me, trying to cut in front of Gigi.

“Watch it,” she spits without turning around.

“It’s my room,” Gigi says, pushing past her.

“Calm down, Gigi. You’re getting all worked up.” Bette’s eyes narrow in warning. “I’m so worried about you.” She says it loudly enough for everyone to hear. Her voice full of artificial sweetness, knowing the right way to set Gigi off.

“Line up! Line up!” I say, taking out my clipboard of names. “Hey, one at a time,” I protest. But they drop their tutus in the middle of the room, like I’m their little servant girl. Bette and Eleanor come in last. A pile of tutus grows in the center of the room like the layers of a frilly wedding cake.

“What is that?” Eleanor says. The cacophony of gossip and laughter cuts out, an abrupt stop, like when Viktor pulls his fingers from the piano’s keys at Morkie’s request.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” one of the younger dancers says, seemingly unable to stop her mouth from making those words over and over. Bette covers her mouth, shakes her head, and backs up into the wall. A loud thud echoes when she hits it. They are all staring at the wall behind me, but I don’t
turn right away. Gigi screams, and I’m so startled I drop the clipboard.

I turn slowly.

The terrarium is on its side. The twigs are scattered along the windowsill. Dried rose petals are scattered across my bed.

I look away from Gigi. My stomach twists and turns. Each little butterfly body is pinned to the wall, a sewing needle piercing its center.

Gigi drops to the floor and grabs her chest. Tears pour down her cheeks. I can’t hear anything she says. She cries and chokes at the same time, and makes such horrible, squawking noises that everyone moves farther and farther away. Some scream for the RAs. Others start to go for their cell phones to call for help. Her whole body shakes, an uncontrollable shiver lasting seconds and then minutes.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

THE DARK, DEAD EYES OF
my butterflies catch the light. Their wings are distorted and broken, so much more frail when they are still than when they were flapping. It is the saddest parade I’ve ever seen: unmoving and menacing.

And deliberate. They are lined up so perfectly I swear a ruler must have been used.

My butterflies.

My insides are cold. My face is hot.

I feel as if I will drop through the floor.

They are all out to get me.

The words are loud in my head, and reverberate through my body. I’m certain it’s true. I’m certain this is a threat. Not just on my place at the conservatory but on my life. There are just those words in my head, and my monitor beeping in my ear. And my butterflies dead on the wall.

Black and white spots appear all around me. It all goes a bit hazy, except for one more thing: the exaggerated shake of Bette’s head, and June’s knit eyebrows as she stares accusingly at Bette.

“You did this to me,” I scream at Bette first, and then at everyone. My heart is a drum beating too fast in my chest. I don’t know how to get it to slow.

Everyone backs away from me. An RA circles in the hall, asking the girls what happened. I
scream and scream at them all. Their faces pinch and eyes bulge as I yell.

I lunge at them. June tries to hold me back. I feel her skinny arms grab at my waist. Bette backs away and races down the hall. I want to chase her. I want to chase all of them.

“Who did this?” I scream. “Who did this?”

I feel Eleanor’s arm around me, and an RA leading the way down the stairs. My eyes are so fogged with tears that I can’t see how to get down the stairs or down the hall. My pulse races. I end up on the first floor in Mr. Lucas’s office. He’s the only person with teacher status still in the building this late. Other dancers brush past us, headed upstairs or home off campus, watching me pushed, crying and sweaty, into the office.

Mr. Lucas’s face doesn’t move, doesn’t crack a sympathetic smile at the sight of me, not even when he offers me the seat in front of his mahogany desk, or listens to the RA recount what happened. I squish into the high-backed chair, feeling small, my legs dangling without touching the ground. He looks so much like Alec, but his expression is never as warm, as inviting, as Alec’s is.

I try to wipe my nose and tears and pull myself together, but the thought of my butterflies makes the tears start again. My heart doesn’t slow, and my head feels light, as if it could tumble right off my shoulders and into my lap.

He closes the door and sighs. “You have had a rough time lately.” His voice is serious. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you. I’m sorry that this incident is the one that has brought us together.” He hands me a box of tissues and tells me that the school will be investigating all the incidents happening to me.

His assurance doesn’t make me feel any better, but I guess it’s a start. I don’t know who would do this. Bette? Would she kill my butterflies? Is this over
Giselle
? My head is a wreck of suspects, motivations, and drama. Mr. Lucas listens as I run down the incidents, the tears streaming the whole time. He stands, pats my shoulder awkwardly, nodding, clearly uncomfortable. He returns to his desk, makes some notes in a file and clears his throat.

“I hate to ask you this, but can we switch gears for a bit?” he asks, shifting his tie uncomfortably. I don’t know what’s coming, but I’d rather talk about anything other than my butterflies, and what the girls are doing to me.

“I need to ask you a series of questions,” he says, taking a sip of water. “Very serious questions.”

“Am I in trouble?” I squeak.

“Did you do anything wrong, Giselle?” he says.

I gulp, not knowing whether I should just come clean about the one school rule I’ve broken—having Alec sleep over in my room a few times, and sleeping over in his room. Maybe I should just tell him. Then maybe he won’t call my parents or bar us from seeing each other. I don’t want him to think negatively of me. And I wonder if Alec told him I was his girlfriend now. I can’t tell if he likes me at all.

I’m all squirmy. I will myself to relax.

“Relax,” he says. “You’re not in any trouble. Especially not after what happened tonight. I just
wanted to ask you about something.”

“Okay,” I say, not sure what any of this is about.

“You know I’m the school board president here at the conservatory,” he starts.

“Yes,” I say.

“And so my job is multifaceted. I am mostly responsible for keeping the school balanced between the ballet side of things and the academic side of things. Our reputation is very important to us here.”