Tiny Pretty Things (43 page)

IT
’
S BEEN WEEKS, BUT GIGI
won’t take down the butterflies.

They stay pinned to the wall: browning ghosts. They disintegrate in front of my eyes, their bodies drifting down the wall like dust, a miniature butterfly-themed horror show.

“I can’t look at them anymore,” I say when I’m trying to fall asleep. Gigi’s awake, and the wall is partially lit by the tiny clip-on light she uses when she reads late at night. Their corpses look even more frightening in the strange shadows.

She doesn’t reply. But moments later I hear muffled cries and I know I can’t take them down myself without a full-on meltdown. I don’t sleep that night. Long after Gigi turns off her tiny light, I’m still focused on the wall. The dozen little murders.

It was meant to be a threat to Gigi, meant to push her over the edge. But it’s possible I’m the one who can’t handle the reality of what happened.

Gigi’s dancing doesn’t suffer. If anything, her rawness makes her better. Tears fall down her face in rehearsal the next day. Morkie applauds her emotional connection to the ballet. But in the evening, she’s back to weeping openly. Sometimes sitting outside on the stoop, even in the rain, or wandering the halls or just staring blankly in one direction or another. Almost ghostly. Tonight, she gazes at her empty terrarium while I try to focus on my work. I’m on edge, waiting to see what happens to her. Waiting to see if she will fully crack or just stay on the precipice like this forever.

“What are we going to do about Bette?” she says, interrupting the silence with a broken-up, shuddering voice.

“What do you mean?” I say.

I hope Alec is coming by soon. For the first time ever. He knows how to handle Gigi better than I do. Loves her in a way I certainly don’t. Wants to hold her and comfort her and make her stronger. I don’t want any of that. I want her to leave. That’s the truth of it. I don’t want to watch her slowly fall to pieces, I want her to be pushed over the edge enough so that she vanishes back to California. Cassie vanished like that.
Poof!
Here one minute and gone the next. I fight any guilty feelings I have over the little things I did to her.

“I need more proof. Of what she’s done. Don’t you have any real proof?” Gigi turns away from her terrarium and looks at me full-on for the first time in days. “She trusts you more. Maybe you can get information from her. You could record her talking. Get her to admit to it all. Then we could get her kicked out. I mean, she tortures you, too, right? We all want her gone. And then everything will be fine. Then it will be safe again. I’ll be safe again.”

The way the words come out in a rush scares me—she’s been thinking about this a lot. She’s been mulling it all over.

“We’re not exactly friends,” I say at last, looking down and away from the intensity of Gigi’s face, the crease that has formed right between her eyes, the one that comes from deep thought and trouble. “No one besides Eleanor is friends with Bette.”

Alec stops by before Gigi has a chance to finish her argument. She runs to his arms like she hadn’t just been draped all over him during rehearsal earlier.

“How’s my girl?” he says into her neck. He waves over her shoulder at me, but she presses harder against him, and the wave is barely a breath before he returns his hand to her back.

“Maybe you can help me,” she says to him when they pull away from each other and settle onto her bed.

Alec raises his eyebrows and smiles, ready to do anything she wants. “Of course. What do you need?”

“Get Bette to admit to everything. So I can report her. So that she’ll leave, and I’ll be safe.”

Alec’s whole body responds to the request. A shudder that he can’t control, and I know he may love Gigi, but his feelings for Bette aren’t completely gone either. They probably never will be. Gigi doesn’t seem to notice the reflex.

“Bette and I don’t talk anymore,” he says. “Not even as friends. I am done with her.” He looks to me for support. I don’t want anyone digging around, so I nod.

“Bad idea,” I mumble, but Gigi doesn’t seem to even hear.

“You could start talking to her again,” she says. “You could hang out with her more, get her to trust you again. I don’t mind. I know I said I didn’t want you around her, but this would be different. There’d be a point. It would be for me. It—it would mean everything to me. I need someone to— No one is doing anything about it. No one’s investigating or punishing her or, or anything. So we just have to—”

“Gigi, you’re not thinking straight. That’s really a crazy—”

“You told me all that stuff was nothing. Not to worry about it. Now, my butterflies—” Her voice breaks in half. He holds her.

I cringe.

“Then talk to your dad. Your dad will do what you tell him to do, won’t he? If you beg him. Or if you tell him you won’t speak to him if he doesn’t kick her out. He’s the head of the school. The great Dominic Lucas. He can find out anything,” she says. “Or—didn’t you say he has affairs? You could threaten to expose—”

Alec practically throws Gigi off him and jumps off her bed. “Why would you say that?” he says, his voice barely contained, ready to explode. “I told you that in private! I’m trying to be here for you! I’m supportive. You’ve been through a lot. But don’t bring my family into it. Don’t even suggest something like that! What’s happening to you?” He shakes his head, like he wants to get the memory of her asking for the impossible favor out of his head. It doesn’t work, and he takes a step closer to the door.

“June, tell him how dangerous she is!” Gigi is screeching now. I just shake my head. There’s no right answer. I want Bette to seem guilty, but I also don’t want anyone looking too closely.

“You’re Alec Lucas. You’re Dominic Lucas’s son. You can make things happen,” she yells.

“Wait!” I say, distracted. “Your dad’s first name is Dominic.” I repeat the statement twice as he’s trying to calm Gigi down.

“Yeah, why? It’s actually his middle name. But he goes by it.”

Everything suddenly explodes in my mind. Dominic. Dom. He used to dance in the company. So did my mom. How many other dancers could be named Dominic? It has to be him. But could it really be? That would make Alec my . . . I look for clues in Alec’s long face, broad forehead. Could he really be my brother? Here all this time, right under my nose. I try to stay calm and not let the panic show on my face.

“I bet she hurt Cassie, too!” Gigi shouts.

Alec catches her flailing hands, holds them still. He looks deep into her eyes, trying to make her focus. “I don’t want to talk about Cassie, okay? Or any of this,” Alec says, ending that conversation.

Gigi takes a massive breath to calm herself. A light pink washes her cheeks. A deep discomfort. “I’m sorry,” she says, first in my direction and then again, even more desperately, to Alec. “I’m sorry. I’m getting upset. I just—I’m scared. I don’t like being here. But you’re right.” She is a pretty crier, of course. Tears fall down her cheeks in gorgeous patterns, her eyes go cloudy and her lashes are dotted with dampness. Ethereal. Fairylike. She licks her full lips and Alec brings his hands to her face, uses his thumbs to wipe away the tears.

Seeing them like that reminds me of the way Jayhe looks at me, kisses me. I immediately want to call Jayhe, talk out what I’ve discovered.

“Okay,” Alec says. “Okay. I know. What’s happened to you is terrible. Stuff like that has happened in the past. It’s happened a lot to other dancers,” he says. “Nothing’s gonna happen to you. I promise. We’ll both look out for you. June and I.” He looks at me like we really are a team, that we are all family. “And I’ll help you get to the bottom of it all after the performance. We need to focus.”

“You’re right,” she says, finally, her breath still shaky, a tremor still visible through her sturdy frame. “Maybe I need to stop thinking about this, to stop letting it fester.” She leans into him again, and the shaking stops, at least for a moment. “What I need is a clean slate, a fresh start. A new focus.”

That sounds like the old Gigi, optimistic and happy and light. It pinches a little, to hear the sweetness return to her voice so quickly, to know that mine will never be that bright. That in the end, despite everything that’s happened, she’s still won. She’s still the girl who has it all—the prima role, the important boyfriend, the happiness seeping out of her pores as her skin glistens like gold. In the end, she’s lost nothing.

Maybe the brightness is what I need, a little light to guide me out of the darkness. Maybe I’m the one who’s cracked, who’s lost my way, in all of this. How could I do what I did? How could I not realize? Shame and regret rise up like bile in my throat, and I excuse myself to get ready for the preshow party.

“We’ll celebrate tonight!” I tell Gigi and Alec as I leave, like it really is the three of us against the world, like we’re really friends. But as I gather my things, I’m the one who’s shaking. Neither of them acknowledged what I said. They’ve drifted off in their own little world. Because deep down inside, I know. I don’t have friends. But maybe, just maybe, I’ll have something better soon. Family.

Long strands of lights glitter along the inside of the Koch Theater, where the company had its annual spring gala the opening night of the season in early May. But tonight is the conservatory’s turn. Tuxedoed waiters dole out champagne, sparkling cider, and tiny little appetizers that sit on golden trays like unopened gifts. Everyone is all dolled up in their black-tie finest, the ballerinas letting their hair down after months pulled tight in buns. The whole grand event is like a release for all of us, the night before our
Giselle
performance. The ballerinas and their parents all talk loudly about the artistic directors that will be at opening night tomorrow, and how they’re all going to do their pirouettes
better and improve their variations.

I focus on all the faces around me, looking for my mother. I scan for her dark, bobbed hair and one of the long pencil skirts she’s probably wearing. I’d left her a message about the spring gala and I know she got the official
Giselle
performance invitation in the mail. She never comes. Part of me wants her here. I am alone in the crowd with no one to talk to besides a waiter who won’t get the hint that I don’t care about how delicious the salmon croquettes are.

The crowd shifts around me, like I’m nothing more than one of the hors d’oeuvre tables, as I remain silent. I see a woman with short, dark hair, and I give the waiter my best imitation of an apologetic smile before running toward the woman. It’s my mother. And a tiny part of me is glad she showed up. Maybe she changed her mind about pulling me from the conservatory. Maybe she’ll entertain me staying.

“Mom,” I say, grabbing her arm.

The woman yanks her arm away and turns around. When she sees me, she frowns. And I know my mistake. Hye-Ji’s mother, not mine, glares back at me. She calls me a nuisance in Korean. That word I know, having grown up hearing it from my own mother. All the Korean mothers glare at me, including Sei-Jin’s mom. They are in one large clump.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Then I back up, banging into others. I take off again through the crowd. My heart races at a new pace. I dash away to the farthest corner, where no one can find me.

I am alone.

I am always the understudy.

I am the dancer who gets cast in the tiny roles.

I reach for my phone to send a text to Jayhe. He hasn’t responded all day, which shouldn’t surprise me. But it still hurts. That day, with his dad and his friends, I thought things had shifted. I thought we were real. Since then, though, we’re back to late night chats and unanswered texts. I bet Sei-Jin has gotten to him. Told him about Gigi. Told him that I’m unstable, that I pushed her. He probably thinks I’m damaged and dangerous.

Maybe I am.

When I was with Jayhe, I was the sexy, special, dangerous ballerina. The sob in my throat threatens to explode. I put a hand there, trying to hold it in.

I snatch a flute of something sparkling—champagne or cider, I’m not sure—off a tray and down it. The bubbles go straight to my head, and my limbs feel looser immediately. I grab another flute, despite the waiter’s lifted eyebrows, a warning. This one I sip as I float around the gala, watching the other guests mix and mingle.

I gulp the champagne and snatch up another. Mr. Lucas stands in the corner, talking to some patrons, his pretty blond wife resting a well-manicured hand on his arm, quiet and polite and insipid. I think about what Alec said, and wonder if it might be true. I ponder the planes of his face—his sharp nose, the same long forehead, and wonder if I might have found my answer, if he was right
there all along. But if it’s true, then how can he ignore me, standing right there? How can he not sense my pain and reach out? How could he have watched me all these years and said nothing? I take another sip of the champagne and start toward him, my stride determined. As I hover, just a few feet away, the wife, her bottle blond too brassy, her eyes shallow, cuts me down with a glare. “No shoptalk tonight, darling,” she says under her breath. “Mr. Lucas has bigger fish to fry.”

I want to be bold, to ignore her, to plow forward, but the bitch delicately steers Mr. Lucas away, toward another patron. That’s when I hear that familiar giggle.

Alec and Gigi are on the dance floor, twirling a little and laughing. She seems light as air, as if she took her earlier words to heart. As if she’s forgotten everything. I wish it were that easy for me. I wish I could forget. Let go. Or, of course, have the guts to finally take the other option. The one I try not to think about, but the one that keeps turning up in my thoughts:
Get rid of Gigi
.

As the bubbles slosh in my stomach, I realize I’m ravenous. I grab a canapé from a passing tray, then a second. The pit of my stomach still rumbles like the subway, so I head over to the buffet spread. Lots of salads, platters of meat and cheese, bruschetta and little pot stickers. I pile a plate high with food, sick to my stomach just looking at it. Which is good, right? I can’t afford to keep it down anyway.

I’m about to take a bite when I hear a snicker. “There she goes again.” Sei-Jin’s voice pierces my ears, my soul. “Drowning your sorrows in dumplings, E-Jun?” She points down the hall. “That’s the nearest bathroom,” she adds, laughing. “You know, for when you’re done.”