Tiny Pretty Things Read online

  I’m shaking by the time ballet class is over, from the pills or anger or exhaustion, I can’t tell which. I wave to Morkie on the way out the door, but before she has a chance to acknowledge me or comment on my precision or the two pounds I managed to drop during break, Gigi stops her and starts blathering away and waving her hands around, like she’s the one hopped up on some super-speed elixir. Alec dashes out before I can talk to him. He doesn’t wait like he used to.

  No one waits for me. Eleanor is off to a practice room probably, but I can’t stand the sight of myself in the mirror for one more second. I get paralyzed somewhere between studio A and the elevators, and I lean against a wall to gather myself. I used to go to Alec’s room after a long rehearsal. Or watch movies with Eleanor. Or research dance competitions and summer intensives. Or imagine myself dancing the roles that I thought had been promised to me years ago.

  Now, none of that is an option. I unwind the ribbons on my pointe shoes, and slide my feet out. I unwrap the tape and give each toe a little rub. They all ache from the pressure, the hours of work I’ve been putting in.

  My hands fumble with my empty locket, my thoughts tumbling down into a place filled with my worst nightmare. Being average, one of the corps, a nobody. The chaos of the classes letting out can’t compete with the trauma in my head, so I don’t even notice Henri approach.

  “We’re going to rehearse together,” Henri says. He grabs my wrist, which hurts a little, and gives one quick tug. It yanks me right back to reality.

  “Uh, no we aren’t.” I pull back and the result is a hiccup of pain in my wrist.

  “I could teach you a few things,” he says, and goes for my wrist again, like he’s been given permission to touch me. “You should just get over it.”

  “Get over what?” My black leotard sticks to my back and my stomach, my tights itch, my muscles burning underneath. I can’t forget what he said to me. What he claims to know about the things I did to Cassie.

  “Not being cast in the role you wanted,” he says, like we’re friends and he’s sad for me. When Adele heard I got shafted again, she told me to just keep my head down, to keep working, keep looking for opportunities, that cast lists are whirlwinds that constantly change. My mother threatened to pull me out and send me to a rival ballet school, to get Mr. K fired, to take back the Abney endowment to the conservatory. But this time I’m trying to just listen to Adele, the one who actually has exactly what I want.

  “Come on, let’s have a little fun. That’s what’s missing from your dancing,” Henri says, crossing his arms in front of his chest and smiling. His dimples are deep dents in his face, and his biceps bulge when his arms cross, so for a minute I let myself explore what Cassie found so attractive about him. He really looks like he does in all the dance magazines. Now that I’ve made room to see him. Now that Alec has disappeared.

  “The last thing I’d ever want to do is go anywhere with you,” I spit back, wondering if he’s suddenly forgotten how I didn’t speak a word to him during our pas rehearsals, passing messages through our sophomore understudies, like some messed-up version of the telephone game. I have to remind myself that I don’t care how many magazine spreads or dancewear endorsements he’s got. He’s nothing. Even if he does know the one thing that could really ruin me.

  “You shouldn’t be so mean all the time,” he says with that signature smirk, leaning closer. “It isn’t good for your looks. And you’ll make even more enemies.”

  I look through him like he’s invisible, pretending that the words coming out of his mouth are just white noise, and walk ahead.

  “Your attitude might inspire me to start telling people things about you,” he says, his French accent thick with irritation.

  “You don’t know anything about me,” I snap back.

  “Oh, but I do.” He points a finger at the hallway ceiling. “Did you know there are cameras here? And, of course, in the studios? Even Studio B?”

  A flush overwhelms my entire body, right down to my toes, a knot hardening in my stomach.

  “Did you know that they record everything, and can even pick up conversations?” he says.

  I can feel the tears, hot and angry, ready to spill. I pivot carefully back around to face him, my face stone, not betraying a thing. “What did you say?”

  “I seem to have finally gotten your attention,” he says.

  “You don’t know anything,” I say. I sound exactly the same as my mother did during arguments with my father. “There are no cameras. I’ve been here, like, forever. Don’t you think I’d know something like that?” I say, though I’m not quite sure.

  “There’s a French place,” Henri says. “In the East Village. They let me have wine if I stay in the back. Owner knows my dad. It’s nice.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “Oh, but you are. Because I’m someone who knows your little secrets. The types of things that could get you thrown out of school. Or better yet, sent away. The kinds of things that will follow you, and your family. Might even lead to a lawsuit. You don’t know exactly what I’ll do with the things I know, so I’m confident you’ll meet me out front.”

  He leaves me standing there in a blend of misery and aggression and confusion. “Fine,” I call out. “But let me at least change.”

  “I like you like this,” Henri says, “but okay.”

  I hate that last comment. I push away all the reasons why I get dressed and skip history class and lie to Eleanor about going to Adele’s in order to leave with him. He’s waiting in the school lobby, all dressed up with a smug look on his face, like he knew I’d show up. Like he knows exactly how to make me do what he wants.

  “French food’s too heavy,” I say, carrying my coat, still unable to commit to leaving the building with him. What I really mean is that all food is too heavy lately. Celery, carrots, broth—all my standbys are making me ill. Catching sight of my reflection now in the foyer mirror, I’m sick to see my hips pushing out past my waistline, my cheeks fuller than usual. The lines of my body are all wrong in these regular clothes. I can’t balloon to the size of a regular girl. The two-pound loss didn’t do enough. My little pills don’t seem to be speeding me up, helping me focus, or keeping my weight down. Meanwhile, all I dream about or see when I close my eyes for longer than a blink is Gigi’s lithe, lean body, twirling and leaping and finding its way into Alec’s strong arms.

  Thirty minutes later we’re in the back booth of the smallest French bistro in all Manhattan. Everything is red: the booths, the fringe on the lamps, the carpet, the wine, its stain on Henri’s lips. His foot has found mine under the table, and while he downs steak, he keeps paying aggressive footsie with me.

  “It’s not happening,” I say again. “I don’t why you’ve dragged me here, or what you think is going to happen.”

  “Play along, at least,” he says.

  I don’t, and at first this makes him smirk and tease me and try grabbing my hand, but about halfway through the bottle of wine the waiters have been feeding him, it starts to piss him off. I just want to know whatever it is that he’s figured out and be done with it. I’ll find a way to discredit it all. Cassie is a crazy person now. Her injury pushed her over the edge. That’s what I’ve heard. And no one believes those types.

  “What,” he says, a slur marring his accent, “you don’t like the restaurant? Cozy, no?”

  “Not my style,” I say, sipping the wine even though it will stain my teeth. “When you get a cute little freshman girlfriend, you can bring her here to seduce her.” This finally shuts him up, and he finishes his steak pretty quickly. I don’t touch the food on my plate. Just stab it around with my fork, volleying the image of Gigi’s face and Henri’s eyes in my head. “I don’t have any more time to waste on you. If you really knew anything, you’d bring it up by now.”

  The owner comes to the table and they fire back and fo
rth in French. With my meager childhood lessons, I can barely keep up. Henri turns in his chair, jumping deeper into the conversation. He doesn’t bother introducing me. Which is fine. I turn my attention to the couple sitting nearby, who fuss about their middle school son’s math grades, when Henri’s phone, faceup on the table, starts to light up.

  I crane to peek. It’s Will. He calls twice, then a series of texts flood the screen. Lots of desperate Where are you? and Do you want to play pool? or Watch TV later? They remind me of texts a lovesick girl sends to a crush. I try not to smile, and wonder if Henri is into both girls and boys. That wouldn’t be a totally off-the-wall thing in the ballet world. But even better yet, Will has a new crush, and it’s not Alec anymore.

  Henri ends his conversation too soon, and snatches his phone from the table and my gaze.

  “I’m going to the bathroom, then leaving,” I announce, pulling on my coat. “I don’t actually care anymore. Say what you want. No one will believe you.” I get up before he can respond.

  The bathrooms are in a nook in the back of the bistro, where they store aprons and high chairs and a sad, lonely-looking old pay phone. I smooth the bun I kept my hair in and put on a fresh coat of my Dior red lipstick. He won’t say anything and no one will believe a word. After telling myself that a few times, I text my pill dealer and tell him to meet me at the school building when he can.

  I’m not surprised to see Henri leaning against the wall when I come out of the ladies’ room. He wraps an arm around my waist, his fingers stroking my side. I push at him. He grips me tighter, like he’s going to lift me above his head, like we’re in the studio practicing a pas. It tickles, and I wince away but end up pushed farther into the corner, farther into the dark.

  “Don’t think about trying your shit with me,” I say, giving him a little shove. He pushes me back. “Get off me!”

  “How does it feel?” he says.

  “How does what feel?” I look around for waiters or other customers who need to use the bathroom. It’s like they’ve been told to stay out of the little dark nook.

  “To be backed into a corner. Like what you did with Cassie.”

  “I didn’t do anything to your precious girlfriend. We were friends.” The lie is delivered perfectly. Conversation over. I try to step away again, with some amount of grace, but he just holds tighter. Blocking me.

  “HEY,” I say, louder, more meanly. “Back off.”

  “Oh, come on, Bette,” he says instead, the whisper of his voice hitting my throat, feeling too much like someone’s fingers strangling me. “Don’t be a bitch. Obviously, I know what you did to her—” I cut him off with a shove. Not with my hands, which I can’t access because of the way he’s holding me, but using my whole body, slamming into his.

  The force of it must have been impressive, because he finally moves a little.

  “Just shut up. I didn’t do anything,” I say. I mirror his ugly whisper, my own voice making me shiver. “You’re making shit up. You’re desperate.” I’m practically spitting on him now. For an instant he made me feel small and powerless and scared in this corner, and now I want to make him pay. The way he pawed at my skin, stepped in my way, manipulated me into coming down here in the first place gets my heart pounding. But I’m Bette, and I won’t let him make me forget that. “You’re not Cassie’s hero, so stop trying to be.” I’m talking fast now. Too fast. I’m on fire.

  I think about what it would be like to tell Mr. K about Henri grabbing at me, forcing me into a dark corner, and not letting go. No one would believe him then. For a delusional moment I picture Mr. K pulling me to his chest and letting me cry on his perfectly pressed shirt, but then I remember that’s not who I am to him anymore.

  I probably couldn’t even get a moment alone with him if I begged.

  “I’m lying?” he says, stretching out the word with his accent, until it almost sounds funny.

  “Get a life,” I say, sliding past him.

  “You had something to do with Will dropping her last spring,” he says before I’m two steps away from him. “She fractured her hip, and is still recovering from that injury. But I bet that’s what you were hoping for.”

  I freeze, trying to keep my face calm and expressionless. Did Will tell him? Would he do that? I pivot back around.

  “And I bet you did all those other little stupid things to her, too.” His words have my heart plummeting into my empty stomach, a boulder in an empty well. Thud.

  “I also have a theory, after being around you these past few months. Seeing how you look at Gigi, how you operate.” He grabs me again, so close I can smell the wine on his breath. “You made Will drop Cassie. She said the lift was perfect. And I plan to get pro—”

  I erase the word proof with a hard, disgusting, sloppy kiss. I shove my tongue into his mouth and let his into mine. I let it erase his accusations and whatever else he knows. I have to do what I can to protect myself. Maybe if I give him just a little bit of me, he’ll forget all about Cassie. I’ve come this far. I can’t lose now.

  21

  June

  I’M WITH MY MOM AT her favorite restaurant, Cho Dang Kol in Koreatown. I didn’t even get to shower or change after rehearsal or have a few minutes to think through how I need to find a way to get a soloist part again. Morkie praised me for how well I danced the Harlequin Doll in The Nutcracker, but the spring cast list doesn’t show any progress. My mom just popped up outside and an RA came and plucked me right from the studio. She clearly has something on her mind, since she won’t stop pursing her lips. But I’m distracted by the cacophony of noise outside. We’re too close to the big Macy’s store for comfort, and confused tourists keep wandering inside and asking for pad thai and curry.

  I sip kimchee tofu broth and water, and push the rest of the food around on my plate. I remember loving the food at this place when I was younger, when I liked food. But my mom is on high alert, so every few minutes she’ll raise her eyebrows, point to my plate, and watch as I pick up a few bites and swallow them. My throat’s killing me. Every bite that goes down feels like metal scraping the raw, hidden parts of me, and I wonder how anyone could actually enjoy eating. Chewing disgusts me. I blame my body for why I didn’t land Giselle. I can fix it. I can make it work.

  “You’re too skinny,” my mom says at last. It takes almost the whole meal, eaten in silence, just to get to that thought. I know she worries, I know she loves me, but she’s never been quite sure of how to show it. “Need to eat more.” She pushes a plate of mandu across the table, juicy and meaty dumplings that are nearly bursting. They make me want to throw up.

  “No,” I say. I find it’s best to say as little as possible to her. The more words I give her, the more ability she has to shift them around and get them to fit her own purposes.

  “No point in being so skinny if you’re not going to be a ballerina,” she says, folding her hands in her lap and again raising her eyebrows, commanding me to take another bite.

  I eat, knowing it won’t stay in me for long anyway. It chafes all the way down, and the pain brings tears to my eyes.

  “I am a ballerina,” I say.

  “We had a deal.”

  It’s not like I thought she’d forgotten the things we’d talked about at the beginning of the school year. She is not a woman who throws threats around without purpose. But I guess I had pushed the ultimatum she gave me into some dark, cobwebbed part of my brain, hoping I’d never have to actually look at it.

  “Hmm?” is all I can muster. I can’t really play dumb. I know she notices me avoiding eye contact, twisting my napkin in my hands, but I can’t think of anything else to say. The waiter drops off the spring flavors of sorbet in the middle of our table. Even though it’s barely even a few days into February.

  “Our agreement. If you couldn’t move from being an understudy to something more substantial, you would finally return to a good academ
ic school and be a good student and become something worthwhile. You remember?” She spoons a pink glob into her mouth. I imagine it melting on her tongue, the sugar finding its way into her face and body.

  She doesn’t even blink. She clicks her spoon against the glass bowl, her gaze on me, and even the waiters know to stop rushing around us so that she can make me sit in my own shame. Why doesn’t she want me to dance? Why did she even enroll me in the school in the first place?

  She takes a folder from her purse and presents it to me. “School papers.” She taps the forms.

  “I need to use the bathroom,” I say.

  “Principal says you can go during the summer to make sure you are on grade level for math and science,” she adds, like I’ve said nothing at all. “You can take summer class, too. Ballet school doesn’t give you a good education, this I know.”

  I don’t say anything, but keep shaking my head. No, no, no! I will be at a summer intensive just like every other summer. I will dance all day. I will eliminate all my flaws so that when the fall semester starts, I am perfect.

  I glare at the pages my mother has laid down in front of me. Her scrawled handwriting fills in the details. The only line that is blank is the one reserved for information about my father.

  “Who is my father?” I ask. “I know he was a dancer.”

  She jumps back in her seat like I’ve slapped her. “E-Jun—”

  “Maybe he wouldn’t want me going to a public school,” I say, because it sounds like something kids say on TV. “I have a right to know. You don’t get to make all the decisions for me.” I say that just to watch her face shift and fight that familiar, uncomfortable expression as she tries to hold her gaze on me. My mom continues to stare me down. She believes if she glares at me long enough, I’ll stop.