Tiny Pretty Things Read online

  Mr. K stops at Henri, glaring at the mess of hair around his shoulders. Even though the dance mags have called him the next great ballet star, a mini Mikhail Baryshnikov, we still treat him like he’s nothing. He came for the last summer session. Henri says something in French and gathers his dark, shaggy hair into a ponytail. He used to date Cassie Lucas. I shudder, thinking of what the girls did to her last year, how we all have to suffer through those seminars on competition now. He doesn’t talk to anyone, and no one wants to talk to him anyway. Guess they worry he knows the things that happened to his girlfriend. That he might tell someone who matters. Ballerinas have their secrets. He has a mean glint in his eyes.

  I would cast him as the Rat King just because of that.

  While Mr. K inspects a few others, the room simmers and bubbles into a rolling boil. I review all the major parts, counting them out on my fingers, and assigning each of my classmates their obvious role: Clara, the Nutcracker Prince, Snow Queen, Snow King, Uncle Drosselmeyer, Arabian Coffee, Chinese Tea, the Russian Dancers, the Mechanical Doll and Harlequin, the Spanish Dancers, Snowflakes, the Sugar Plum Fairy, Reed Flutes, Dew Drop Fairy, Mother Ginger.

  It’s not till the end of the list that I realize my mistake. I didn’t cast myself.

  WINTER PERFORMANCE: THE NUTCRACKER

  Cast

  Major Soloist Parts

  Clara: Maura James

  Older Clara: Edith Diaz

  The Nutcracker Prince: Alec Lucas

  Snow Queen: Bette Abney

  Snow Queen Understudy: Eleanor Alexander

  Snow King: Henri Dubois

  Drosselmeyer: William O’Reilly

  Arabian Coffee: Liz Walsh

  Chinese Tea: Sei-Jin Kwon, Hye-Ji Yi

  Sugar Plum Fairy: Giselle Stewart

  Sugar Plum Understudy: E-Jun Kim

  Rat King: Douglas Carter

  Dew Drop Fairy: Michelle Dumont

  4

  Gigi

  IT’S MIDNIGHT. CASTING DAY IS officially over. The shock and the excitement of it all keeps me up. I am the Sugar Plum Fairy. Me, Giselle Stewart! I am Mr. K’s korichnevaya babochka. His brown butterfly. I let the words flutter around in my head like my own little butterflies in my windowsill terrarium, all light and frantic and impossibly beautiful. They keep me company here.

  I got a handful of congratulations that felt mostly strange and hollow and a few stiff hugs. Like it was all for Mr. K and the teachers who were watching.

  I can’t stop thinking, fidgeting. My muscles itch to move even this late—past curfew, past lights out. It’s the only way I’ll be able to clear my head, get some sleep, and be fresh for morning ballet class tomorrow. I slip out of bed and tiptoe from my side of the room, careful not to wake my roommate, June, on my way out. I listen for the nighttime RA patrolling in the girls’ hall before sneaking out. I should rest. Mama would insist on it if I were home. It’s the healthy thing to do. But I know what I really need is to dance. Especially now. I need space to think it through. I need space to get ready for it all.

  The elevators have cameras, so I take the stairs down eleven flights to the first floor. I don’t want anyone to know I’m out of bed. I’m a bit breathless as I tiptoe to my secret place, passing the administrative offices, through the lobby, and dashing from hall plant to hall plant, hoping not to be spotted by the front desk security guard. The whispers from earlier follow me, buzzing in my ears and my head as if the parents and other dancers were still standing there, mocking me.

  The black girl. The new girl. She’s no Sugar Plum Fairy. Her feet are bad. Her legs are too muscular. Her face won’t look right onstage. It should’ve been Bette. Bette’s sister was luminous, you heard Mr. K say it. Gigi could never be that.

  The ghost words push me forward. I walk as quietly as possible down the hall. The ballet conservatory is at the back of the Lincoln Center complex, in one of the beautiful buildings that makes up the performing arts center. The first time I walked along the promenade, it seemed impossible that there was a place that housed it all: dance, theater, film, music, opera, and more. The studios on the first floor are glass boxes that let in light. I graze my fingers along the cool panels as I pass.

  I hold my breath and duck past the nutritionist’s office. Her charts and scales and cold metal examining table provoke hysteria, and the tiny woman wields the power to boot a dancer out of the conservatory for falling underweight. It’s enough to keep me eating, that’s for sure.

  I jump when I catch sight of Alec slipping out of one of the studios. It’s the middle of the night, practically. Our eyes meet. I open and shut my mouth like a fish, and start to mumble out some explanation for why I’m down here. He smiles like he’s not going to tell anyone.

  “What are you doing up?” Alec says, grabbing my hand and leading me to a dark spot in the hall away from a camera. The gesture means nothing, of course. He belongs to Bette, whose face is porcelain and smooth and whose words and expressions are so carefully chosen they are always dead perfect. My hair is frizzy and wild and I never say the right thing. I hope my hand isn’t clammy.

  “They’re always watching,” he whispers. “You’ve got to know where to hide.” His body is close to mine. He smells good, especially for someone who’s been dancing all evening, and I take an illicit breath of his woodsy deodorant and the sweetness of new sweat making his forearms glisten in the dark.

  “I like to dance at night,” I say, trying to remember how easy talking used to be back in California. “I go to the locked-up studio. The one in the basement.” I don’t know why I tell him this.

  “Just came from a late-night workout myself,” he says.

  I try on a smile and force myself to hold on to Alec’s eye contact. Secretly, I’m wondering about him: why he dances, what he dreams about, what kissing him might be like. I’ve never really been this curious about a boy before. Boys are distractions. Well, to ballerinas. Not to normal girls.

  Bette’s boyfriend, I say in my head, even as I take note of how wide his shoulders are, how I can make out the shapes of the muscles under his tights and hoodie. There’s something so romantic about a ballerina couple. You can’t help admiring their beauty and symmetry when they walk down the hall together. Long limbs and blond hair and a graceful ease that can’t be denied. And onstage, I bet the audience can sense that they’re together.

  I mean, obviously.

  “You won’t tell on me, will you?” I try to flirt like girls in the movies.

  “I won’t tell if you don’t, Sugar Plum Fairy,” he mock whispers. There’s nothing sinister in the words, no threat. If anything there’s a laugh underneath it all. I smile back. I’m not sure anyone has really smiled at me for the entire month I’ve been here. Though he’s always been so nice to me.

  “Deal,” I say, and reach out to touch his arm. I don’t know why. The deal doesn’t require a touch to lock it in, but letting my fingers rest on his strong forearm is a strange reflex. His muscles tense, but he doesn’t pull away immediately.

  “You’re an interesting choice for a Sugar Plum Fairy,” Alec says.

  I don’t know what to say to that.

  “I mean, you’ll bring a lot of energy to the role,” he says, filling the space where I am not talking. His arm grazes mine—a breath between our skin, so close I can feel the heat of it, but neither of us moves away to get more space.

  “Thank you,” I say, letting myself believe, for just one second, that Alec is just as curious about me as I am about him. “Didn’t Cassandra dance it last year? Wasn’t she only a sophomore?” I don’t know why I say it, and I wish I could erase the words after seeing his face twist into a pained expression.

  He nods. “Yeah, she did. Cassie’s my cousin.”

  A strange silence stretches between the two of us. No one really speaks about the girl who left last year, which makes me s
ad and curious. And I didn’t know she was his cousin. I start to say I’m sorry.

  “It’s cool. Let’s not talk about it. Let’s talk about you dancing the role.” It’s not lost on me that Alec smiles when I smile right now, or the way his eyes light up when I say in way too small a voice that I’m excited to work with him. And he doesn’t move away. I wonder if he needs to get back upstairs to his room, if he needs to get some sleep.

  “I’m excited to work with you, too,” he says, the blueness of his eyes glowing even brighter.

  There’s a noise at the opposite end of the hall. He moves away. “See you tomorrow, okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Don’t stay up too late,” he says, and walks in the opposite direction, leaving me to think over the words and the light touch while I walk farther down the hall, farther into the dark.

  The corridor dead-ends at a staircase that leads down into the basement level. I’ve noticed people never walk this far down the hall. I race down. This area is separate from the student rec lounge and the physical therapy room, like it has been purposefully blocked off. There’s a studio here that’s locked up. A small studio window gives a view inside: the shadowy outline of stored objects. The first week of school I’d asked June about the unused studio, and she’d said it’d always been under construction, and that the teachers hated it because it had no windows, and ballet needs light. The Russians call it plokhaya energiya: a room brimming with bad luck and darkness, and so it isn’t used.

  But I don’t believe in superstitions. I don’t exit the dressing room with my left foot first or sew a lucky charm into my tutu or kiss the ground in the stage wings before going on for a performance or need other dancers to say merde to me on opening night. At home, my parents have their silly broom to sweep out evil and often burn sage to keep the house energy clean. But I only believe in my feet and what they can do in pointe shoes.

  I pull a bobby pin out from my bun and push it into the old lock, waiting for the tiny bolt to ease downward and click out of place. I like to be in places where I’m not supposed to be—in my old high school’s attic or in the empty house in my San Fran neighborhood. There’s a tiny thrill in picking a lock and exploring a space that others want closed up.

  The lock gives without much effort. I look to the left, then look to the right, and disappear into the dark space. Dirt and debris crunch under my sandals, and I run my hand along the wall, and click a switch.

  The one working light sputters, and then buzzes on. The bare lightbulb flickers an erratic pulse. Its half-light illuminates covered objects, a partially gutted dance floor, and mirrors draped with black sheets. Broken and decayed barre poles lean at odd angles, coated in a constellation of cobwebs and dust. The air is thick and inviting.

  I head to my little corner, plop down my dance bag, and inspect myself in the only uncovered mirror. Descending from the upper corner of the glass, a tiny fracture stretches across my reflection like a lightning bolt. Mama says looking into a broken mirror is bad luck, but I don’t care. My lip has a hilly scab. I can’t believe I bit it so badly. That my nerves made me do that. The ugly aberration replaces whatever is pretty about my face. I won’t let myself get nervous like that again.

  My phone buzzes in my bag. My parents. They know I’m still up. I click them to voice mail. I know what they want. They’ll ask if the nurse checked me after the cast list excitement. They’ll gloss over my accomplishment, only wanting to know how I’m feeling physically. Since I came out here, they treat me like I’m sick, some patient who shouldn’t be out or who should be in a wheelchair, or better yet, a bubble. I was officially cleared to dance at the conservatory months ago. I try not to think about it. I don’t want anyone to know. Ever.

  I turn on the music on my cell phone. The Nutcracker score sounds tinny and distant, but it will have to do. I need to dance. I dig my pointe shoes out of my messy bag and put them on. My legs start first, extending out of my hips so far I feel like I’m on stilts. Long and tall, I stretch from the top of my head down to my tiptoes, trying to become one straight line. As I dance my mind quiets and my body takes over. I follow the current of music, each chord a wave, each note a splash. My feet move to match the rhythm, drawing crazy, invisible patterns on the floor.

  My heart’s racing. I tell myself it’s just from the dance and the excitement of landing the role. But a voice in my head whispers that it’s because I’m thinking of Alec, too. Bette’s Alec. My chest tightens. Control your breathing. I haven’t had one episode, not in ballet class, not in Pilates, not in character dance, not even once all last year at my old regular school. I’m fine. I will my heart to slow. I’m in control of my body.

  I come down off pointe, wipe the sweat from my forehead, and put my hands on my head until I can catch my breath. If I stretch a bit, maybe I’ll relax even more. If I focus on the deep pulls in my muscles, I can get it together. I push my leg across the barre to feel the stretch and the calm that usually comes afterward. My muscles tremble, my feet spasm, my hands shake. My fingernails are purple. The light flickers off for a long moment. Sad darkness surrounds me until the light comes on again. Maybe I’m not good enough to dance the Sugar Plum Fairy. Maybe I’m not cut out for the role. Maybe I’ll disappoint Mr. K and Alec and prove everyone right. Maybe Mama was right—I’m not well enough to dance.

  “Shut up,” I say to the mirror. “Chill out.” I fight the negativity. “I got the role!”

  My heart’s not slowing down. This hasn’t happened in a whole year. My body usually obeys. I sit on the floor and press the soles of my feet together so that my legs form butterfly wings. I press on my knees. I try to breathe like a yogi—deep, slow breaths. Nothing will take this away from me. Nothing.

  5

  Bette

  NO ONE HAS SPOKEN TO me since the cast list went up, not even Eleanor, who is breathing heavily in the bed next to mine, so comfortable with mediocrity as an understudy that she can sleep right through her failure. I do all the tricks: counting sheep, picturing myself afloat on the ocean, pretending my body is filling with grains of sand and getting heavier and heavier.

  It does nothing for me. On endless loop is one impossible thought: I am not the Sugar Plum Fairy. I am not the Sugar Plum Fairy. I assume I have text messages on my phone from Alec, checking to make sure I’m okay after I ran off and hid in my room, but nothing can interrupt the flow of those words and their hold on my mind. Which is why it takes me a few moments to register the loud knocking at our door at one o’clock in the morning, when the dorm should be all silence except for roommate whispers or secret hookups.

  “Bette?” Eleanor says, and it’s her voice, sleepy and soft, that breaks through the loop. Then the harsh knocking and our RA calling out my name, louder and louder.

  “Jesus, what’s going on?” I say, and get myself out of bed and to the door. Eleanor moves more slowly, rubbing her eyes and grumbling about the time and the noise. Our sour-faced RA is at the door when I open it, and she rubs her knuckles as if the incessant knocking has caused her an injury.

  She does not look pleased.

  Then again, neither do I.

  “Your mother,” she says.

  “You can’t send her away?” I say.

  Eleanor is awake enough to scoff behind me.

  “So not my job,” our RA says, and she stomps off, slamming the door to her room behind her and probably waking up the students who didn’t already stir from all the knocking. A few people have opened their doors, and others are shuffling behind them. The gutsier ones take the elevator right after me and come down to the parents’ lounge on the first floor, though Eleanor tries to motion them away and Liz threatens them with bodily harm. It’s useless: my mother always puts on a show, and they know it. Besides, these girls have been waiting a decade for my downfall. They wouldn’t miss it for the world.

  She’s right outside the elevator w
hen the doors open, moments away from heading up without permission: steely, skinny, mouth in a line so straight I could use it as a ruler. My mother. She smells like red wine and rare steak and the angry kind of sweat.

  “Bette,” my mother says, her lips tight and too pink from Chanel lipstick, which has been hurriedly drawn on over red wine–stained lips. The Ts in my name land hard. She pulls me past the front desk and toward studio C. The three other elevators open with a ping. More students pour out. She doesn’t seem to notice, or care. Someone laughs, but the cowards mostly hide near the elevator bank or chat up the front-desk guard, waiting to hear whatever she’s come to say to me. They are too far away to smell the booze on her breath or to see the unfortunate pit stains that have ruined her couture gown. But they’ll be able to hear every slurred word. “Next time, please tell me the truth about how your audition has gone.”

  My mother doesn’t raise her voice. Not ever. It’s more powerful all low and practiced anyway, and she knows it. Even when the vowels are long and loose and the words slip on top of each other, she stays in control of the volume. We’re WASPs; we don’t shout.

  “It’s not like I’m some understudy, Mother,” I say. I do not let my voice break, but my eyes are filling with tears. During the last winter ballet, I was the only Level 6 girl, besides Cassie, to dance a soloist part. I was the Harlequin Doll, cast with the Level 7 and 8 girls. I try to remember that feeling, but my mother erases every inch of it.

  “I’d already called some very important people to come see you perform, Bette,” she says. “You said your audition went well. I took that to mean you were ready to be seen. When your sister—”