Tiny Pretty Things Page 18

  “For what?” I say.

  “Our reservation.”

  I love the way he says our and we and us—those words only ever referred to my parents or my friends from home. The new meaning wraps around me and I remember watching couples kiss on the trolley, wondering how they got “there,” to that place where touching and kissing is like talking. I remember never believing I could ever have anything like that. I remember never really wanting it. And now, all I want is to do those things with Alec.

  He leads me.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, eagerly following.

  “You’ll see.”

  We walk past an entrance to Central Park, where the path is quiet, and we walk through it from west to east. I love how each time I go to the park I see something new. We step into a fancy Italian restaurant called Maria’s on the Upper East Side, and Alec opens the door for me. The restaurant is warm, aglow with votive candles. We brush off, and Alec dusts snowflakes out of my curls. A waiter leads us to our table and I fight the permanent grin on my face. My cheeks hurt from all the smiling and cold air.

  “Can we sit near the window?” I ask. “I want to watch the snow.”

  The waiter looks at me like I’m ten years old, but obliges, leading us to one of the side tables. I look around at all the couples sharing wine and dipping their bread in oil. Is this what grown-ups do on Valentine’s Day? I mean, this and fancy hotel rooms, maybe? I feel like such a kid compared to Bette, compared to Alec. I remember making cards with my mama’s paints and special paper and handing them out at school, and my dad bringing home two bouquets, one for her and one for me. That was the extent of my Valentine’s Days for the past fifteen years, and now this year it’s different. I still feel like a kid playing dress-up in my mama’s heels.

  Earlier my dad called, leaving his sweet message, and he even sent a dozen roses. I laugh out loud remembering his card.

  “What’s so funny?” Alec asks, pulling me out of my memory.

  “My dad,” I say, “and the Valentine’s Day card he sent me.”

  I laugh again. “He said that he was my only valentine, despite the boy I kissed onstage. I think he’s still trying to figure out . . . like . . . what we’re doing. I haven’t really said anything to them.”

  “Oh, yeah?” he says with a tease.

  “I mean . . . like, yeah,” I admit. “They were on me about being on my phone all break texting you.”

  “My dad, too. I ran the phone bill up while we were in Switzerland.” He takes my hand. “Well, I’d never want to compete with Mr. Stewart. But you know I like you.”

  “Is that so?” I try to flirt, then feel my cheeks redden. The words are brand-new and sweet as anything.

  “Uh, well, I guess.” He rubs his head. “I sound like an idiot right now. I’m usually better with words. And you never really answered my question, when I asked you to be my girlfriend.”

  My mind replays the night of the Nutcracker performance and us backstage. I remember him asking, and me being so surprised. I start to laugh. “I guess I didn’t officially say yes.” I quickly practice saying yes in my head like a whisper, so I don’t scream it in the restaurant. A deep heat rises in me from the pit of my stomach all the way to my cheeks.

  “I guess I should ask again,” he says.

  “That you should,” I say back.

  He puts his hands to his chest, like he’s playing Romeo from the ballet. “Giselle Elizabeth Stewart, will you be my girlfriend?” He reaches for my hand to make it even more exaggerated and cheesy. “Wait! Wait, before you answer.” He riffles through his pockets, pulling out a tissue-wrapped wad. He slides it across the table.

  My legs shake under the table. I feel like I’m going to burst with emotion. I unwrap the bundle, and it’s a tiny bouquet of origami roses made of red paper. His signature.

  I finger one and notice each has a different shape. “Alec . . .”

  His mouth curls into his crooked smile. “So . . . ?”

  “I already thought I was your girlfriend!”

  He grins at me like he’s the happiest guy in the world. And I can’t help but grin back. When I thought of what this first year here in New York would be like, I never expected to earn top soloist roles so quickly. I never expected to love being in the city. And I never expected this. I never expected Alec.

  Still blushing, I stumble with my pasta order when the waiter comes, because my mind is all over the place. What do people in relationships do? Every movie romance races through my head.

  “So, girlfriend?” he says.

  “Yes, boyfriend?” I answer, then feel silly, like we really are in some romantic comedy.

  “Will Mr. Stewart be happy with the confirmation of this development in our relationship?” he jokes.

  I think of my dad just shaking his head back and forth like he does when he’s trying to hide a laugh. Mama will frown, as she thinks boys are a distraction in youth, especially to an artist—she didn’t meet my dad until she was in her late thirties, which is why they only had me.

  I parrot him. “Will Mrs. Lucas be excited about me?”

  His face drops and all the excited energy between us swirls away, like water down a drain. His smile goes away and he leans back in his chair. I freak and fidget with the napkin in my lap. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No,” he says, looking down. “I just don’t really talk about her, is all.”

  I open my mouth to ask why, but he keeps talking. “She left when I was little,” he says.

  “Who was the lady with your dad at opening night?” I whisper, feeling nosy and ridiculous, but overwhelmed with the need to know.

  “My stepmother,” he says, dipping his bread in the olive oil.

  “Oh,” I say for lack of anything better. I’d assumed it was his mother because they all share the same perfect white-blond hair and bright blue eyes.

  “She’s a real bitch,” he mutters. “My mother left because my dad had a problem with staying away from other women.”

  My face must look puzzled, because he explains.

  “He cheated on her a bunch, so she took off,” Alec says. “But didn’t take me with her. Or my little sister, Sophie. Haven’t seen my mother in almost six years.”

  My heart sinks. How could someone not want Alec and leave him behind? I reach for his hand under the small table. He lets me hold it and I trace words like sorry and like and love and amazing into his palm.

  “I’ve never really talked to anyone about this,” he whispers. “Not like seriously.”

  I don’t say anything, and I fight away questions about if Bette knows—just let the silence settle between us and let my hands tell him everything I want to say. He lets go and rubs his warm palms along my leg, lightly pinching the softness of my inner thigh. It sends a shiver through me, and I wonder if his hands will wander farther under my dress. I wonder if he booked us a room tonight. I wonder if I’m ready for that. My heart starts to thump heavily and a little wave of light-headedness hits me from all the dancing earlier and the excitement of the date. It’s a reminder of what’s wrong with me. Should I tell him about my condition? A familiar emotion crops up. I don’t want anyone to know. I don’t want him to look at me differently.

  Alec changes the subject away from his mother, and brightens, talking about dancing the part of Count Albrecht in our upcoming performance and how it could launch his career early, how dancing the role of Giselle could do the same for me. He explains how all the company ballet masters and madames will be there, and some from rival schools and companies, hoping to steal us away. I try to listen but somehow can’t seem to quiet my questions and newfound insecurities about being afraid to tell him something so personal, even though he just shared with me.

  “You want to start rehearsing for our pas early? Before Doubrava and Mr. K want to work with us? So we’re ready?�
�

  “Huh?” I say, completely tuned out.

  “Did you hear anything I just said?” he says. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “What just happened?” He stares at me like he’s trying to find the answer on my face. “Just tell me. I can tell something’s up.”

  “I can’t,” I whisper. “It’s nothing.”

  “C’mon . . .”

  “I can’t,” I say sharper than I intended. “I’m sorry. I just . . .”

  He starts running his hands over his buzzed head and taking sips of water. Sip. Glass down. Glass up. Sip. Glass down. Over and over. I don’t think he’s actually thirsty at all. And now I’ve ruined it.

  “This has been so nice.” I try to smile and reach for his hand. He lets me rub his palm, but he doesn’t stroke my fingers, doesn’t try to hold my hand in his own.

  I pick at the rest of my food while he pays.

  “Thank you,” I say, “for dinner.”

  “You’re welcome.” He stands and we get our coats. He still holds my hand on the way home, but it doesn’t feel the same as when we walked to dinner. He doesn’t squeeze it or hold me tight like he wants me close. My feet are heavy boulders as we tread back to school. The lights are out and it’s almost eleven. He stops me before we go inside.

  “I really wish you wouldn’t keep things from me. That’s something Bette used to do.”

  Her name hits me in my chest.

  I open my mouth to protest and say it’s complicated, but he pulls me close abruptly, and kisses me hard. It’s not the same kind of kiss he gave me at the beginning of the night. It’s rough and pushy and aggressive—all the things Alec is onstage. When he releases me, I look around to see if anyone’s watching. Then he takes the elevator up to his floor without another word.

  Restless, I decide not to go to my room. Instead, I head to the basement studio. I race through the lobby, the empty office corridor, disappear down the staircase, go inside the room. Plokhaya energiya. Bad luck. The Russians are right, and tonight I feel it wrap all around me like long fingers as I step into the darkness. I don’t turn on the light. My feet know the path, and my body curves around every heap. I barely make it to my place in front of the mirror before the tears begin to fall.

  Alec’s scent is trapped in my clothes and the night replays in my head. I hear myself refuse to tell him about my condition. I hear the insecurity in my voice. I hear the disappointment in his. I imagine him in bed, thinking he doesn’t really love me at all. How could he, when he doesn’t even really know me? When I won’t let him really know me?

  I push the button on my cell phone, hoping and wishing that he texted me something, like It’s okay that you didn’t tell me whatever it was or I understand, I’m not mad or You can tell me in your own time. But the screen is empty.

  I finger the little roses he gave me.

  I flash the phone’s light on the cracked mirror, letting the beam reflect and illuminate a path to the corner. The beam breaks into thousands of tiny suns from the splintered reflection. But something’s different. Parts of the mirror are covered. I lift the cell phone screen and more tears come before I even really register what I’m seeing.

  It’s pictures. Pictures of Bette and Alec. Naked Bette and partially naked Alec. Taped all over the mirror. Arranged in a big, terrible heart shape. I wipe the frantic tears from my eyes and see the final touches: a huge, fully-blossomed black rose taped to the mirror, in the middle of the heart. The rose terrifies me. The pictures are a reminder of my inadequacies. But the rose is a threat. There’s a tiny slip of paper attached to its thorny stem, and I prick myself prying it off.

  It’s just messy handwriting and a message so simple it turns my insides cold. My heart’s beating at a strange pace, reminding me again I should be wearing my monitor.

  Happy Valentine’s Day, Gigi! Be careful with your heart, and with Bette.

  23

  Bette

  I’M STANDING ON THE SCHOOL’S front staircase, waiting for Eleanor and our cab. She’s late. She’s always late these days. It’s almost ten, and we’ve got rehearsal tomorrow, but I’m determined to not let Valentine’s Day be a total wash. I shiver and pull on my coat. It’s not very heavy, but the fur collar warms my cheeks. A vintage rabbit fur bolero stolen from my mother’s closet. A classic. I push away thoughts of what Alec and I used to do on Valentine’s Day. Our tradition of making snowmen in the park or going dancing, all dolled up, like we were tiny versions of our parents.

  I stare at the door and think about going back inside to wait when I hear my name. It’s Adele. She’s wearing one of those Russian trooper hats, ice-white, like her hair and skin. Her eyes almost glow blue in the darkness. Her coat hugs her body, and even though she has on layers, you can’t tell. Those kinds of fabrics would make me look huge. Of course, Adele escaped the family curse of curves without any help, according to my mother and everyone else I’ve ever talked to. But we can’t all be as shiny and spindly and delicate as Adele.

  The day before winter break was over, my mother asked if I was wearing a padded bra. When I said no, her eyebrows shot up to the sky and she gave me her pouty-lipped pity smile. “Well. At least the boys will love you,” she’d said. Adele, so kind it hurts, told my mother to stop harassing me. I think Adele being nice about it made it even worse.

  “Did you get my texts?” she says, so annoyed that her face starts to resemble our mother’s.

  “No.” I buried my phone at the bottom of my purse to avoid looking for texts from Alec that will never come.

  Her cheeks are pink from the cold, and it makes me think back to when we were little, running around on the winter beach in Montauk. Before our father left and took the beach house with him. “What are you doing out here?” she asks, frowning at my thin jacket, my gloveless hands. “Mom told you I was coming over today, didn’t she?”

  She looks up at the school emblem over the door lovingly. And for a moment I just want to sit next to her on my bed, her old one, let her sew ribbons on some of my new pointe shoes, bitch about our mother, hear all the company hookup gossip, and rehash what went wrong during my audition for the lead role in Giselle. But that would mean being me. Tonight, I want to be someone else. I want to be somewhere else, I want to forget all the things going on between these walls. Especially with Henri.

  “Yeah, guess I forgot. Now I’m headed out. It’s Valentine’s Day,” I say. “You don’t have plans?”

  “I’m trying to be promoted to principal, Bette. There’s no time for plans outside of ballet,” she says. Her words are pointed: if I were more like Adele and less like myself, I’d be the elegant and ethereal Giselle. But I’m not like Adele. And being around her tonight would keep slapping that reality in my face.

  Adele used to say, “So many ballets are about love, so we have to know a little about it, right?” Maybe Adele was in love at some point, but we aren’t the kind of sisters who share those sorts of details.

  “Well, we should talk. I feel like you’re flailing. Mom said you never gave her the details about what happened at the Giselle audition.”

  “Maybe because I don’t want to talk about it.” My eyes find an ice-covered railing to fixate on.

  “How can I help? I’ll show you whatever little details of the variation you missed. At this point, you’ve got to be cast in better roles. You have only one level left at school.” She touches my arm, concerned, and I can feel my temper simmering.

  Eleanor flounces out at last, and saves me from further conversations with Adele. “Where are we going?” Eleanor says before seeing Adele. Then her mouth drops open and she gets this stupid, starstruck look on her face. “Oh, hi, Adele,” she says in a weird, pitchy voice. “You coming with us? Please say you are.”

  “Well, Bette didn’t say where you were going,” she says, showing all her teeth, like she’s onsta
ge.

  “Let’s go,” I say, examining the bottom part of Eleanor’s dress that peeks out from under her coat, trying to get her away from Adele as quickly as possible. I won’t lose another person who is in my life. Not even to my sister. “Red on Valentine’s Day? Cliché much?”

  “I got this out of the lost and found last year,” she whines, and I know I shouldn’t have said that. She’s trying hard to work on her looks.

  “And you probably brought bedbugs with it to our room,” I say, not knowing why I can’t stop my mouth from saying hurtful things tonight. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s Valentine’s Day, and I’ve never been dateless before.

  “Bette.” Adele starts to scold me.

  “We have reservations,” I say.

  “We do?” Eleanor says.

  “Yes.” I grab her arm, and pull her forward to reinforce the lie. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Adele.”

  We leave her on the staircase and head down the block. I crane to look for the Town Car I called for, but can’t stop looking at her dress. It’s so familiar: a deep scarlet and fringed on the bottom. The kind of dress you don’t forget. I can’t place it.

  “I think it was Cassie’s,” Eleanor says, her words slow and deliberate, like I might have trouble comprehending. She looks at me and I avoid her eyes. Avoid memories of Cassie. Avoid memories of what I did or didn’t do to her. Forget what I did with Henri to secure his silence. But of course that’s why I recognize the dress. Cassie wore it a year ago, last fall, to the back-to-school party I always throw in September. It’s in a hundred pictures. She spun around and around in it all night, saying she loved the way the fringe felt hitting her thighs. I swallow hard: the promise of a great night fading fast.

  Our driver pulls over to the curb. I yank El into the car, still reeling from her ridiculous audacity to wear something of Cassie’s and then tell me about it. She stumbles out a thousand apologies as we climb in the car.