Tiny Pretty Things Read online

  “Turn,” she says without emotion—her face cold and wrinkled, her hair cropped close around her head, her lips frowned up and pursing like she’s an angry fish. She leans forward in her chair and slides a measuring tape around my waist. I fight the urge to look down and see the number. Instead, I focus on holding my breath. I feel big, as if the tape measure has to stretch. She places pins in my waist and stands to adjust the old wig on my head.

  “Hmm. Wig too big,” she says, removing it and placing another one on top. “But costume fit just right.” She pats my side and I release. “You look so much like your mother, but your body remind me of your father,” she says. “So narrow, so tall, such a tiny head on top of it all. Just like him.”

  “I’m . . . sorry?” I say, barely able to get the word out. It must be a mistake. She must be confusing me with Sei-Jin or one of the other Korean girls. I know they think we all look alike.

  “Tiny head. All of his children. Very funny. Such a tiny head for such a powerful man, no?” Madame Matvienko finally looks at my face and notices, midlaugh, that my jaw has dropped, that my cold, clammy skin is as pale as I’ve always wanted to be. My legs shake so badly I have to sit down.

  “Who are you talking about?” I manage to say, in a voice so much higher than my own that I swear it didn’t come out of me at all. Madame Matvienko is the one turning white now, then red, then almost green with what I assume is the nausea of saying something dangerous and wrong.

  “I’m confused. I thought you were . . . one of the others. But of course not. You’re E-Jun, E-Jun Kim. You look so much like the other Asian girls. All of your tiny waists and pretty hair. All the same. Excuse me.”

  She tries to smile and pass it off as an honest, ignorant, racist mistake. But I get the distinct and terrifying feeling that there was no error. Madame Matvienko knows who my father is. Maybe they all do. I get so dizzy, I have to sit down on one of the crappy metal folding chairs. Every part of me is instantly drenched in sweat, and I can’t muster up a single word. The thing I’ve wanted to know all my life—the answers might be right here.

  19

  Gigi

  MY BOBBY PIN SLIDES RIGHT into the lock, easing the bolt left with the slightest click. I should be at the dorm packing my dance bag with everything I’ll need for opening night. I should be stretching my feet or soaking them in an ice bath in the physical therapy room. I should be mentally preparing myself for tonight, and my heart for the long program. All the American Ballet Company ballet masters will be in the audience, hunting for new corps talent. All the company dancers, off for the night, will be watching us dance their roles. Judging us. And Mama and Dad will be in the front row with Aunt Leah, all taking deep, worried breaths when I step onstage.

  But there are a few hours before I have to officially worry about those things, so I push my way into the American Ballet Company shoe room on the third floor of our building. It’s closed now for the night. We’ve all gotten what we needed for the show. The hallway is desolate and the lights are out. I slip inside, falling into the heavy scent of satin and rosin. It’s my second time sneaking in here after hours. I never get enough time in this space. I am never allowed to explore. I have to take the chance while I can. The shoes will be housed in our school building for only another month or so, then moved to the new company building next door.

  Posters on the wall advertise different brands of pointe shoes. A counter window is a portal into the back storage room, where cubbies hold piles of stock pointe shoes and leather slippers, and, in labeled boxes, custom-made ones for company dancers. They entice, like delicate pink candies sealed in pastel wrappings.

  I lift myself over the counter and sneak into the back. I run my fingers over the different shoes and admire the names written under their sections. Shoes for each corps girl, shoes for each soloist, shoes for each principal.

  It was a pair of pointe shoes that first made me want to be a ballerina. They were the first I’d ever seen, stuffed in a garbage can in downtown San Francisco—pretty pink satin stained brown by coffee grounds and trash. I’d reached in before Mama caught me, getting ahold of one shoe. I wanted to take it home, clean it, and keep it forever, but she wouldn’t let me. After that she bathed me in sanitizer and signed me up for a ballet class. She thought it would be light and easy. Something a girl born with a heart defect could do without much threat of injury. But when I got serious, and the teacher said I was good, she wanted to pull me out.

  “It’s too much stress,” she’d said over the dinner table after I received my acceptance letter to the conservatory.

  “I love it,” was my constant response. I sewed elastic on my pointe shoes, determined to have at least a dozen pairs ready before I left.

  “You could be hospitalized. One wrong move. One intense practice or performance. I’m not willing to lose you,” she’d said, like she wanted to scoop me up in one of her summer canning jars, only to be stored in the pantry until winter.

  She’d cried when I told her I’d rather have one year dancing than a lifetime without it. She’d cried when my suitcases were packed and Dad drove me to the airport. She’d cried when I told her I didn’t want her to come to New York to help me settle in.

  I pull out several principal dancers’ shoes and slide my feet into them, even though I know they won’t fit and that I shouldn’t ruin someone else’s brand-new shoes. I don’t stand on pointe. Just let myself feel what it might be like to wear these shoes, be like these women. And any worries I had about being at the conservatory and pushing through disappear.

  Half an hour before curtain, backstage is a frenzy of half-dressed girls and a frazzled crew, trying to finalize everyone and everything. The nerves are zinging in my stomach, like my butterflies when they’re startled. I can’t believe it’s finally here, the moment I’ve dreamed of all my life. I try to remember how calm I’d felt earlier. Tonight I’ll finally see my parents in the audience, show them why I had to go so far from them, show them that it was worth it.

  I slip to the edge of the stage, right where the thick, velvet curtains will part in just minutes. I peer through a crack as the audience pours in, and that’s when it hits me, the stage fright. My heart is racing, the adrenaline surging through me. I do the breathing exercises Mama taught me, but it’s not working. I place two fingers on my wrist, trying to quiet my thoughts long enough to track my pulse. If I had been wearing that monitor, it would surely be shrieking now, drawing everyone’s attention my way. I try to focus on counting: 68, 73, 84, 96, my heart rate climbing up and up and up. Faster and faster, out of my control.

  I know that I’m pushing it. But how can I give up this moment? How can I march over to Morkie before she takes her place in the audience, and tell her I can’t do it? That I’m feeling the warning signs? I can’t not dance. Not now. Not when my feet have carried me this far. Breathe, Gigi, breathe!

  I count again, slowing down this time, really listening to the heartbeats. 57, 62, 78, 85. Breathing in and out, in and out, I feel my muscles relax. And then I startle, as arms circle my waist, and hot breath hovers on my neck, sending goose bumps up my arms and my heart racing once again.

  “Alec,” I say, turning so I’m fully embraced by his arms. I lean into him, breathing in his soapy scent. He’s wearing his gold-and-red brocade Nutcracker tunic and tights, the headpiece mask left in the wings. The heavy stage lights hit the gold of his hair, setting it ablaze, and there’s something different in his eyes tonight. Something that makes my heart race even faster.

  “Showtime,” he says, his voice clear and warm in my ears, even through the din of the crowd backstage. “I’m honored to be your partner.”

  Leaning back onto one knee, he does a little bow, and I grin at him. “I’m glad to be your partner, too,” I say, extending my hand to lift him up. He kisses it as he rises, pulling me back into his arms.

  “And I’m hoping,” he says, whispering now,
even though we’re so close, even though everyone else has fallen away, “that you might think I can be something more than just, you know, your pas partner.”

  Is he asking what I think he’s asking? The heat flushes through my cheeks and neck and chest, warming me from head to toe. “I’m hoping,” he says, his mouth hot on my ear, “that you might be my girlfriend.” He’s nervous, which I’ve never seen before.

  And I look up into the ocean of his eyes and nod. He pulls a small box from inside his jacket. Red and tiny, with a golden ribbon embracing it. Like the presents under the Christmas tree on the far corner of the stage.

  I can’t help but laugh as we both plop down on the floor in our resplendent costumes and I tear into the box. Backstage hands call for the ten-minute curtain warning for the second act. But we don’t stop. Inside, nestled in white tissue paper, is a tiny rose charm, just the size of my pinky nail, made of gold, complete with a little stem and even thorns.

  “For you,” he says. “For luck.” And that’s when he finally kisses me again.

  Minutes later, like in a dream, the music is playing and I’m waiting in the wings. Backstage is charged with tension. The other dancers tiptoe behind me, coming on- and offstage in preparation for my entrance. My palms shake and tiny beads of sweat seep into my costume. I feel their eyes and their worries: Will I mess up?

  My muscles quiver. Thousands of other ballerinas from all over the world have worn this costume and danced this role. I hope I can dance the part as well as them. I fluff out the skirt, just as the costume mistress Madame Matvienko did. Alec’s rose sits in the folds of plum-colored tulle. I sewed it into the lining of my costume. I haven’t stopped twirling it between my thumb and forefinger. I dust my shoes in rosin one last time to make sure I don’t fall.

  June passes by, ready to enter with the rest of the corps. I feel her eyes skate over me on her way onstage. She looks beautiful and willowy, and I wish we were closer. I wish we were close enough to hug each other. She gazes over at me. I nod at her, and she nods back. “Break a leg,” I mouth.

  “You mean, merde.” She flashes me a slight smile.

  I give her one back and turn away. I try to focus on nothing else but my performance. We’ve all worked for weeks on these roles, all day long, and just for six minutes onstage. Six minutes to show the ballet masters what you’ve learned. Ballet must be picture-perfect, because when you make a mistake, a trained eye can spot it.

  After ballet school, there are so few professional jobs. Famous companies already have their principals and soloists, and may only have room for you in the corps, where you have to work through the ranks. You have to love it, and dance your way up. For me, dance was just always about the flow, the movement, the passion. But now, I want to zip through the ranks. Being onstage makes it all worth it.

  I don’t know what to do with my hands. I smooth the edges of my perfect bun, my curls blown-out into sleek perfection. The jeweled tiara digs into my scalp. I try not to lick off my lipstick. I hear Morkie in my head: “If you are nervous in the wings, then you will have a great performance.”

  The first time I was ever onstage, I was six and dancing a peasant child in Sleeping Beauty. I remember sleeping in my costume for days leading up to the show and obsessing over each little step. My old ballet teacher had said the difference between a good dancer and a true ballerina is that a ballerina must be perfect—like a doll come to life, made just for the stage.

  I will be a doll.

  I will be a fairy.

  I peek out from behind a curtain, but can’t see anything beyond the stage. The audience is bathed in darkness, but I feel their eyes watching. I’ve never danced for this many people before. It feels strange to be dancing for more than two thousand people. I shake out my arms and legs. The audience’s applause hits me in waves. I hear a girl whisper my name, as if I don’t know that this is it, the moment I finally take center stage.

  It’s a party and the Nutcracker Prince is introducing little Clara to all the wonders in the Land of Sweets. And I am one of them. I will present myself to the audience and the other dancers. Large jewel-like lights bathe the stage.

  My music starts—little droplets of sound fill the space. I listen to the chiming melody and feel the musical phrases. I want to dance on top of those notes. I smooth my costume and tiptoe onstage. The lights warm my skin, erasing my nerves. The tension disappears and I’ve stepped onto a different plane—one where I am no longer Gigi but the Sugar Plum Fairy.

  I jump onto my toes. My feet sync with the music, and my body glides. As I throw myself into the motions, I don’t see the others anymore. I blend with the music and the movements. My arms are elegant lines of muscle over my head. I keep my head up, only watching my shadow to ensure I look perfect. I smile at the audience even though it’s hard to breathe and sweat drips down my back.

  My solo ends. I curtsy and hear the roar of applause. I recognize Mama’s whistle. I hold a grin and move to the side, while Alec comes center stage. My chest heaves and I try to catch my breath without being seen. My heart is flailing, thumping in my chest like a bird caught in a cage, wanting to be wild again. We’re supposed to be ethereal beings onstage, even through the most tiring variations. But now I’m spent. I double over, trying to find more oxygen. The tightness is cutting into my euphoria, the lack of air causes my muscles to twitch and spasm. I will my heart to slow, to calm. I want to enjoy this moment, not fight my own body. I breathe and count, breathe and count, and finally the rhythm finds itself and slows. I’m still overwhelmed with emotion and fatigue and bliss. But I only have a few minutes until Alec presents his hand to me.

  We perform our pas, his hands holding me at every turn, supporting me during every lift. I feel the heat in his hands on my waist when he lifts me, experiencing his touch everywhere—my legs, my arms, my fingers, my toes—like the way the warmth of a shower hits you all at once. When he lifts me, his long fingers move beneath my tutu. I try not to shiver. I bat my eyelashes at him and throw coy looks his way as we nail each gesture, making it look like we’ve been dancing together our whole lives. His clever hands anticipate my every move and I fold easily into his arms without hesitation.

  And then it’s over. The ballet ends and the curtain goes up for bows, each group of dancers taking their turn before the audience. Alec and I wait in the wings holding hands. My fingers knit into his. Shaky from fatigue and excitement. “You ready for this?” he whispers.

  “Yes,” I say again. I place my other hand on my chest, willing my heart to slow. My head feels light, and I try to hold on to everything going on around me.

  “You were perfect,” he says, before pulling me back on the stage for our final bows.

  We shuffle across and everyone makes room for us. We are last to go to the front and present ourselves to the audience. We curtsy and bow, then turn to our ballet masters and do the same. They nod and clap and shout bravo.

  A tiny petit rat tiptoes out with a bouquet of flowers for me. I hug her and she squeezes my waist tight. The crowd thunders, their roars vibrating the stage. Everything blurs around me like I’m caught up in the currents of a tornado. Suddenly, Alec twirls me, making the audience clap even louder. I blush and smile with embarrassment. Then he pulls me into a kiss. The crowd erupts.

  I lose my grasp on the flowers, letting them fall onto the stage. His mouth is soft and wet, his tongue tastes like a chocolate mint. It’s like the kiss we shared before, except this one isn’t private. This is for the world to see, and I no longer have the spasm of worry about whether he might still be in love with Bette instead of me. I don’t hear the crowd anymore. I don’t hear the dancers around us. I hear my heart and his and I feel that pulse race between my legs again. I fold into him, and lose myself in that one perfect moment, knowing how very, very rare this kind of joy is.

  ACT II

  Spring Season

  SPRING PERFORMANCE: GISE
LLE

  Cast

  Major Soloist Parts

  Giselle: Giselle Stewart

  Giselle Understudy: E-Jun Kim

  Bathilde: Bette Abney

  Count Albrecht: Alec Lucas

  Queen Myrta: Eleanor Alexander

  Willis: Sophomore corps de ballet

  Willis Soloists: E-Jun Kim, Sei-Jin Kwon

  Hilarion: Henri Dubois

  Prince of Courland: William O’Reilly

  20

  Bette

  THE SPRING CAST LIST WENT up twenty-four hours ago and I have taken exactly five pills since then, blowing through the last of the new ones I just got. I ignore the pills’ side effects: my pounding heartbeat, the shakes in my hands, the dry mouth. I can deal, because I need them, their odd mix of peace and razor-sharp focus. Mr. K put the cast up super early this year—the last week of January instead of mid-February, like usual. He says it’s so we have more time, but the whole thing is a mistake. And now, there’s nothing to think about during rehearsal but the slow ruination of my life.

  But the pills did make me dance like the floor was fire and I was the flame. Not that anyone is watching, of course. The Russians have stopped paying particular attention to me. Poof! Just like that after all these years. And Alec rubbed Gigi’s shoulders the entire time, which I guess means they’re officially together.

  Eleanor’s no help. She just stretched and watched her body in the mirror, as if she’d never seen it before. Which maybe she hasn’t, in its new glory. She must have lost five pounds over winter break, and muscles have popped up in her legs that I don’t think were there before. Winter break was a blur of disappointment for me, filled with endless hours of TV stupor and avoiding the calorie-laden crap my mother always fills the kitchen with. I worked out with Adele during the break at the gym with her trainer. And my mother paid one of my former ballet madams, pushed out of teaching at the conservatory by Mr. K, to come over every day.