Tiny Pretty Things (48 page)

I LOOK OUT INTO THE
room. Sterile white walls, bouquets of flowers, balloons, and care packages. My vision is splintered into a thousand little pieces. My eyes are sore and unused. The overhead light hums. My left leg floats above me, hanging in a sling.

I don’t know where I am.

I try to move around, but my body feels stiff, like I haven’t moved for a thousand years. There are cuts and bruises all over my hands. Tight bandages cling to my left hip. A finger clamp connects me to a massive monitor. Electrodes dot my chest. The steady beeps are the only noise in the room.

“Mama? Dad? Aunt Leah?” I whisper, not sure where in time and space I am. My voice scratches against the back of my throat, and I start to cough.

No one answers. I clamp my eyes shut. My mind starts to clear and memories flash in my head like beats of light.

The spring gala.

The club.

Dancing with Alec.

The cobblestones.

The sidewalk.

Feeling the push from behind.

The last memory hurts. The cab crashing into me. My body aches at thought of it.

“Mama?” I say again, craning my neck, trying to search the room. Tears brim in my eyes. I search the left side of my bed for a button. Anything that will connect me to someone outside this room. Someone with answers.

I hear the click of shoes against the floor. I turn my head to the left. My vision is blurred by tears. I try to wipe them away. Will inches closer and closer to the bed.

“What happened?” I ask. “Where are my parents?”

“They’re outside, talking to the doctor. I just . . .” Will slumps onto the bed, causing me to recoil with his shaking and sobbing. “I’m so sorry, Gigi,” he cries, his eyeliner smudging as he heaves on my mattress. “I—”

“It was Bette, wasn’t it?”

Will looks stricken but then slowly nods his head, his mascara streaking down his face.

The heart monitor starts beeping wildly, and I try to get out of bed. I can feel the stitches in my side stretching as I lift myself up. Pain shoots through me. I can’t even move my toes without little explosions of agony. I can’t pull my leg out of the elevated sling.

I’m not going anywhere. Will I ever be able to stand again, let alone dance?

“She told me she was going to do something to you,” he cries. “Something big. They haven’t arrested her yet, but they should.”

I don’t care what the cops do to her—it will never be enough. I know one thing. I have to do this myself. “Bette’s going down,” I tell him.

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IT
’
S FINALLY HERE. THE MOMENT
I’ve been waiting all my sixteen years for. The moment that will lift me out of mediocrity and onto the horizon, make me the next prime-time-worthy prima of the dance
world, elevate me higher than I ever truly thought possible. The performance is now a week later than it was supposed to be, and yes, Gigi had to lose so that I could get here. But Mr. K insisted that the show must go on. And so, the understudy steps into the spotlight. Finally.

And make no mistake: I’ve fought long and hard for this moment, given blood, sweat, and tears, deprived myself at every turn. I’ve earned this.

I wait in the wings as Eleanor basks in the thunderous applause from her second solo variation of the night. She danced Bette’s solo in act I, along with her own in the second act. Eleanor’s undeniably a star tonight. But she won’t outshine me.

The heat of the lights is like a weight on my shoulders, heavy and tangible. The corps wraps up their dance of the willis, every foot and arm and leap in sync, and for a moment, the music, the audience, the world is silent as I take the stage. Alec circles the graveyard. He lays flowers on my grave. I flutter to the center. It’s where I belong—where I’ve always belonged. Dressed and powdered in white, the perfect version of the
ballet blanc
. You wouldn’t know I don’t quite fit at first glance.

I am Giselle. I am a ghost. But they all see me now. There are tiny excited gasps in the audience.

Alec and I find each other. He takes my arms and holds me as we turn. I touch his face. Pretend to lean in for a stage kiss and say good-bye as he returns to his life, and I to the grave. The motions are stiff and mechanical, not graceful and light. This is more awkward than I thought it would be. The reviews will say our chemistry is bad, but they don’t know the real story. No one does.

The applause rings out after I flutter off the stage, and Alec kneels before my grave once more. I return to the stage and take Alec’s hand. We bow, and I try to focus on this final moment of glory. I should bask in the glow, knowing I’ve hit the pinnacle. But all I can think about is who’s in the audience. My mom, who’d still rather die than see me be a professional dancer. But that’s okay. I’m not alone tonight. Jayhe is there, with his dad and his grandmother. Jayhe, who finally showed me that I can be loved, whether I take center stage or not. That’s what finally brings a smile to my face. Knowing he’s there, that silly grin on his face, the pride bursting through. I blow a kiss from the stage—I can’t see him, but I know he’s there.

The curtain drops in front of us. We go into the wings again. The entire cast gathers. The curtain rises again. Groups go onstage a few at a time to take their bows. I wait patiently until the lead soloists return to the stage at last. Eleanor goes out before me. I tiptoe behind her. People stand and clap as I curtsy all the way down to the floor, like the most gracious ballerina. Alec bows and twirls me around like he did Gigi after
The Nutcracker
. The orchestra conductor comes up and takes a bow.

Then I reach out my arm, welcoming Mr. K onto the stage. He kisses both my cheeks, as he does with each girl who dances the principal solo Mr. K bows to the audience, who stand and give him three long rounds of applause. He extends his arm to invite Mr. Lucas onstage. I swallow hard, and feel like I can hear his every footstep through the droning claps.

Even without looking him, I can feel my father’s eyes on me as he takes my other arm, kissing my cheeks for the first time. He may be one of the suns in this world, but for me, there is no warmth
there. He pretends to be proud and overjoyed. He starts to whisper something to me, then stops. I can feel him fretting about the secret he’s kept for so long. The secret that maybe the whole world will soon know.

The crowd turns its attention stage right. A figure ambles out onto the stage. I focus on smiling pretty for the flashing cameras, but the rest of the cast turns to look, then joins the applause. For a moment, I think it’s Bette—that golden crop, that porcelain skin catching the stage lights. But it can’t be. She’s been sent home, dismissed from all end-of-school activities for the horrible things she did to Gigi.

As I realize who it is, my heart sinks, plummeting straight down into the hollows of my always-empty stomach. Cassie Lucas. Of course. Mr. Lucas invites her to center stage, turning away from me as he gives her the classic two kisses on her cheeks. Then Mr. K embraces her, his smile beaming light out into a confused audience.

Watching her grin and bow, I realize that in ballet, no one is ever safe. The thrill of dancing the role of Giselle disappears.

“Thank you all so much for coming,” Mr. K says to the audience. “We’ve seen an incredible display of hard work and talent tonight. The ballet world is fortunate to have these amazing young students joining its ranks very soon. And I’m so pleased to welcome another wonderful dancer, one of the academy’s brightest, Cassie Lucas, back to the conservatory. I’m so happy she’s here with us tonight!”

The sparkles in her baby-blue gown bring out her eyes, glittering as the cameras flash wildly, the press from the major dance magazines swarming. They should be chasing me, singing my praises, promising me pages of accolades that define me as ballet’s next rising star. But they’re not. Because they’re surrounding her, Cassie, standing there, basking in the spotlight. My spotlight.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

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SONA CHARAIPOTRA
and
DHONIELLE CLAYTON
are graduates of the New School’s Writing for Children MFA program. Sona is a New York City–based journalist. Dhonielle is a librarian in Harlem a nd taught at a cutthroat ballet academy. They cofounded CAKE Literary, a boutique book packaging company with a decidedly diverse bent.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

TINY PRETTY THINGS
. Copyright © 2015 by Sona Charaipotra and Dhonielle Clayton. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

[tk]

ISBN 978-0-06-234239-3 (trade bdg.)

EPub Edition November 2014 ISBN 9780062385116

15 16 17 18 19   
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   10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

FIRST EDITION

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