Shiny Broken Pieces Read online

  “Who’s drinking?” Alec calls out, and Gigi gives him a dreamy look: sleepy eyes, blinking lashes, her lips soft and ready. I want all that back.

  Alec pulls out a few water bottles that must be filled with liquor, handing them out, trying not to trip over the sword to his costume, which dangles awkwardly off his belt. Level 6 sophomores pass by, leaving a trail of girly giggles in their wake, no doubt in love with them both, Alec and Henri.

  That’s when I notice Will. He hangs near the very edge of the little foursome, talking to some girl dressed as a sexy maid, and staring over her head into their conversation. He seems desperate to be included, but relegated to the outside. I try to keep from smiling and fail.

  Alec looks around for the RAs, then takes a big gulp of his drink, as if to show everyone how it should be done. I want to march over there and reveal myself, tell them I’m coming back, that I was wrongly accused. I’ll have proof soon. I want to shove my hand in Alec’s and feel the calluses on his palm from lifting tiny ballerinas. I want to feel the steadiness that he brings, the reminders of when everything was right.

  I take a step in their direction. Clever phrases play in my head. I freeze as more girls cut in front of me. The hairs on my arms lift with a little fear, a little excitement, a little anticipation.

  Gigi’s body is wrapped around Alec’s. But up close he is stiff, upright, and not grabbing her back, in spite of what I assume is a good amount of vodka in his system. He pokes Henri in his chest with his water bottle and slurs out, “I used to think you loooooved Gigi.”

  Cassie leans forward and her lips purse. She never was good at hiding her emotions. Henri stops laughing. Gigi tries to say something, but drunk Alec keeps talking. “The way you used to look at her. That’s why I didn’t like you at first.”

  Henri stiffens even more, tightening the few muscles that weren’t already flexed. Alec’s accusing him of something dangerous, and I don’t really know why. Maybe it is the Halloween spirits, if you believe in such things, making him crueler, turning them all into troublemakers, bringing out emotions.

  “You looked at Bette like that, too,” he slurs out, which makes me blush. He does think of me. Deep down he still cares.

  “Why would you bring her up? You’re too drunk, Alec,” Gigi says, grabbing the water bottle from his hands. And I agree with her, because that is what alcohol does: erases that pause between thoughts and words said aloud.

  “What are you talking about, Alec?” Cassie’s eyes turn to slits, lost in eyeliner and glitter, the blue of them no longer visible. She’s in his face now, searching for answers about how her doting boyfriend behaved while she was cooped up recovering. Was he not a perfect angel?

  The DJ lets the room know that this will be the last song, so I turn to leave and do what I came here to. I slip out of the room and into the dimly lit hall.

  In the office corridor on my way to the elevators, I hear familiar laughter. Eleanor’s.

  I want to reveal myself, to show her how clever I am. I want her to remember all the fun things we did together.

  Then there’s more laughter. I follow her voice toward the stair doors. There she is, dressed as Little Red Riding Hood in a tight bodice, flowing skirt, and hooded cape, the deep red making her look as pale as snow. Her skin is luminescent with shimmer, a glow so soft and deep and inviting, you want to touch her. And someone is. A tall, masked figure leans in close, whispering in her ear, serving as the cause of that ringing laughter. I can’t see his face.

  They hear me scuffle as I tumble forward, a bit wobbly in these heels. Then they disappear into the stairwell, and Eleanor’s gone.

  Who was she with? If this were last year, I would’ve known everything about that mystery boy before she’d built up the nerves to talk to him. I’d know what he liked to eat for dinner and how many siblings he had, and every nauseating detail about the way he danced. There’s a squeeze in my chest and I feel like I’ve missed so much by being at home. That the space I used to occupy in this building, in this world, in her life, is disappearing.

  I go up to the twelfth floor. The RAs have decorated the bulletin boards and doors with spiders, witches, and ghosts; and little pumpkins sit outside every girl’s room. I wiggle all the handles of the rooms on the right side of the hall. My side, if I were here. They all turn easily and it seems the open-door tradition of the school is still in effect, regardless of what happened last year. I get to Gigi’s room. Maybe it’s just the magic of the night, but her door opens, too.

  When I flip the lights, Gigi’s room comes alive. Her butterflies are gone, but a large glass terrarium full of strange-looking plants sits on the windowsill. Halloween cutouts of ghosts and witches are taped up around the room, and a bowl of orange-wrapped chocolate pumpkins sits in a candy dish. She’s got some physical therapy stuff stashed in front of the closet in the corner, and a few of Alec’s old sweatshirts are tossed on the spare bed. A ballet barre crowds the middle of the space.

  I find a spot for a tiny video camera in between a bunch of books lined up along the desk shelf, tucking it securely between her copy of Shakespeare’s tragedies and the latest teen romance. I open the app on my phone that’s connected to the feed and make sure it works properly. There’s a pinch in my stomach. I shouldn’t be in here, doing this, invading her space like this. What if she finds it?

  But I have to. She invaded my space, took everything—and everyone—from me. I wasn’t the one who hurt her. So I will watch her. Whoever wanted to hurt her will try again.

  I hear voices in the hall and quickly step out of her room. There’s too much movement and laughter for anyone to really pay attention to me. I get bumped several times. I used to walk into a hallway and girls would move out of my way. They’d hold their breath or try to talk to me. They’re all so spindly and narrow I can push right through them. The weakest ones look like haunted little skeletons that will never make it because they think they can just starve themselves and that will be enough. They forget about strength, that crucial component of ballet.

  The elevator door opens and more girls pour out. It’s Gigi and Cassie and a few others I don’t recognize in their costumes, or maybe because I never got to know them. Then there’s Eleanor. I get into the elevator, standing right next to her. We don’t say anything to each other. I wonder if she recognizes me, if she can smell my perfume, if she can tell that it’s me. She gets off on the next floor and looks back. Her eyes find mine and I see a flicker of recognition. I blow her a kiss as the elevator doors close. Her mouth drops open in a surprised O.

  As the elevator descends, tears wet my mask and become so furious that it can’t catch them all. Not angry or bitter ones. Little girl tears. Sad tears. Unexpected tears.

  11.

  Gigi

  THE SOUNDS OF A FIGHT drift through my bedroom walls from the stairwell. Angry shouts and the noise of clomping footsteps and slamming doors seep through. It’s almost midnight. I slip out of bed, step over bits and pieces of my Halloween costume that should’ve made it to the hamper, and creak open the door. The hallway is dark now that the RAs have turned down the lights postcurfew.

  It’s Sei-Jin, dressed as a black cat, which makes her blend a bit too well into the darkness of the stairwell.

  I freeze and press myself against the wall, so I can see Sei-Jin, but she can’t see me.

  “You tell so many lies, E-Jun, I don’t know how anyone believes you.”

  June.

  “Someone went through my room,” Sei-Jin says. “My stuff was everywhere.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me,” June yells back. “I’m not the only one who hates you here.”

  “You messed my pointe shoes up, too. All this feels just like something you’d do.”

  “I didn’t do anything to your shoes.” June’s voice echoes out of the stairwell and into the hall. “And you left those pictures of Riho in my room.”

  Shoes? The vinegar. She thinks June did it. That feels like such a long time ago. I remem
ber Sei-Jin’s embarrassed face, pink from crying and her sitting out of ballet class after discovering the ruined pointe shoes.

  My heart accelerates and I don’t need my wrist monitor to tell me it’s beating too fast. A hot pinch of guilt twists in my stomach. I liked seeing Sei-Jin upset in ballet class, but part of me still felt terrible.

  “I know you did,” Sei-Jin says. June’s stuck in the stairwell—probably trying to sneak in past curfew. She looks panicked. Sei-Jin won’t let June pass her and come out onto the floor. “You’ve always wanted what I had. And you’ve always been willing to do whatever it takes to get it. You’re pathetic. You’re disgusting.”

  “You didn’t always think I was that way. Or did you forget?” June lunges forward, in Sei-Jin’s face. She’s so close that Sei-Jin turns her head in the opposite direction, her arms flailing as she tries to shove her away. “You remember kissing me? You’re the liar.”

  I take a step back, unsure about what I’ve just heard. Sei-Jin and June kissing. I hold my breath and keep listening, even though I know I shouldn’t.

  I think about the things June told me about Sei-Jin. How they used to room together in ninth grade and spend all their time at Sei-Jin’s aunt’s house. How they used to share clothes and Sei-Jin tried to make her learn Korean by introducing her to K-pop. How Sei-Jin was dating Jayhe, a boy June had known since she was in diapers. I remember the wistfulness when she told me that, the pain underneath, like it was an old scar that still felt sore to the touch sometimes.

  Sei-Jin’s voice breaks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, yes you do.” June tries to shove past her again, but Sei-Jin blocks her. “Do you want to kiss me again? Just come out to your parents. Tell them you like girls and boys. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled.”

  “You shut up. Just shut your mouth,” Sei-Jin says through her teeth. “Stop with your lies and messing with my things.”

  “I didn’t touch your shoes, and I didn’t tear up your room.”

  “If you mess with me again, I’m going to tell everyone the truth about you.”

  “Oh, that old lesbian rumor. Dating Jayhe has erased that.”

  Sei-Jin smiles. “No, E-Jun. I know something so much worse. Something no one would ever forgive you for.”

  “You don’t know anything about me. I’m not afraid of you.”

  “I’ll tell them that you killed Gigi’s butterflies.”

  June’s face looks terrified, like she’s seen a ghost.

  My breath catches in my throat. I feel like I’ve been punched in the chest. I press into my door. The knob jams into my back.

  “You’re sick, E-Jun,” Sei-Jin says, as June sways, like she’s been socked in the stomach. “Really messed up. Mental case.”

  “I didn’t—” June pushes forward. “Let me out of the stairwell.”

  Sei-Jin puts a hand on her shoulder, and I can see her bare white teeth despite the dark. I can hear her angry growling. “I saw you sneak out of rehearsal early that day, when you thought no one was watching. Then, magically, you were back in rehearsal to collect tutus. I bet if someone checked the security cameras that day, they’d see you going up to your room.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Your needles gave you away. You’re the only one that coats the middle with nail polish to grip them.” Sei-Jin pokes a finger in June’s chest. “I saw them. Clear-nail-polish-coated needles.”

  Silence stretches between them. I hold my breath, waiting for June to say that Sei-Jin is lying again. I wait for her to deny it all. I wait for her to storm straight through Sei-Jin.

  “Fine, I did it. Is that what you wanted to hear?” she snaps. “Is that going to get you to move? Or should I start screaming for the RAs?”

  Tears roll down my cheeks, unstoppable. How could she do that to me?

  Doors start to open. Girls step into the hallway. The RA comes out of her room. A chorus of confusion starts.

  “What happened?”

  “June, are you okay?”

  June starts to cry now. Her sobs echo, wet, snotty, and hysterical.

  “Sei-Jin, let her out of the stairwell,” the RA says. “Why is everybody still up?”

  I walk backward one soft footstep at a time and slip back into my room. I stand in the middle and put a hand on the practice barre. I close my eyes. I remember my butterflies’ dark, dead eyes and frail wings. I remember the needles piercing their bodies, pinning them in place. I remember how my heart beat like a drum in my chest, threatening to burst. I remember how I screamed so hard that my throat went raw.

  A knot hardens inside me. I think of all the times I wanted to be June’s friend, brought her little gifts and asked her to hang out with me, trying to forge some sort of friendship. I think about how I’d catch her admiring my butterflies on the windowsill sometimes, how we’d talked about how they are the ballerinas of the insect world. I think about all the times Alec said mean things about her cold personality or weird behavior. How much I stuck up for her.

  My hands squeeze the wood barre. I bite down on my lip, trying to hold in the scream building in my chest. Anger flickers inside me like a live wire. The pain lingers right behind it.

  I think of things I could do to June: tell the RAs about her eating disorder, tell Jayhe about the butterflies, tell everyone about the kiss between her and Sei-Jin. But no. I want it to be something that hurts, something that makes her feel like she’s lost a thing that she needs, something that embarrasses her, something she will always remember.

  More tears race down my cheeks as I sit at my desk. I pull a mirror in front of me. The scarf covering my head has slid down, and some of the pin curls I put in my hair before bed have escaped. I sniff and wipe my face, then wrap pieces of my hair around my finger and pin them to my scalp with bobby pins. I retie my scarf and take a few soft breaths.

  I stand before my barre and do the nightly physical therapy exercises to strengthen and lengthen the muscles in my left leg.

  An idea creeps into my head like a whisper. A dark one. I know exactly what to do to June. I know how to really hurt her.

  The only thing more beautiful about New York than California is the changing leaves. They are everywhere today, blowing past the glass windows and making me want to be outside in Central Park instead of in Studio C, doing my physical therapy exercises on a Sunday morning. I’ve done two hours of stretches and movements already, but I’m shaky today—my pirouettes a mess, my grand jetés not quite as grand as they once were. The anger, it’s rippling through me, throwing everything off-balance.

  Sore and exhausted, I sit myself in the center of the room, my reflection staring back at me from all the mirrors. I close my eyes, blocking it out, and I meditate, just like Mama and some of her holistic doctors have urged me to. I hate it usually, because each time I close my eyes I can feel the accident again. Now I’m only thinking about my butterflies, June, and how much I want her to hurt.

  I turn my phone off. I’ve been obsessively looking at June’s online feed. Sei-Jin has filled it with hundreds of pictures of butterflies. They’re all tagged with her name. Even Bette has chimed in on how harsh that prank was.

  I try breathing deeply, counting backward, hanging on to a single word or sound, like om, until everything fades away. But it never does, not really.

  I let my hands rest on my knees. I find the biggest tree that I can see through the windows. I don’t know if it’s technically “right,” but I let my eyes focus on the branches and watch the colors blur together and make my mind go still. Red, orange, and yellow crowd out all the other colors of the city, overwhelming the brownstones across the street and the silvery gray of the high-rises.

  I’m about fifteen minutes into what should be a half-hour meditation session (if I’m going to be honest when I report back home to Mama tonight), when I feel someone standing over me. I don’t know how many times she’s had to say my name, because when I do hear her, there’s a distinct edge.

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nbsp; “Gigi,” Eleanor says, the sound of my name cutting through the quiet of the studio and my own orange-and-red Zen moment.

  “Oh! Hey!” I shake my head a little to reenter the world of the conservatory.

  “How’s it going?” she says.

  “Fine.” There’s a strange pause between us, a thing that can’t be filled, so we just listen to the wind outside the window and the light scratching the leaves make when they brush against the glass. Seeing her makes me think of Bette. We’ve exchanged more words right now than we have since the school year started. I try not to remember the last real conversation we had—the one when she told me she sent that disgusting heart-shaped cookie to me covered in dead roaches.

  She presses her hands against the glass and stares out at the trees. “I was going to go to Central Park today.”

  “Good for you.”

  Her eyes bulge. “Okay.”

  “Why are you talking to me?”

  “I just saw you in here and thought I’d say, you know, hi, or whatever.”

  “Lonely now that Bette’s not here?” Mean words won’t stop pouring from my mouth. I flush with heat. I’ve never said anything like this in my entire life. It feels good to see her face twist, her mouth purse, her cheeks turn red. Her body tenses up, like it’s ready for a fight.

  “I’m not friends with Bette anymore. And I’m sorry for my part in all that stuff last year.”

  “That stuff nearly killed me.”

  “I know,” she whispers.

  “I’ve got to focus.” I turn away from her and start to stretch.

  “I can help you figure out who did it if you want.” She digs in her dance bag and takes out a tub of hummus and little baggies of sliced veggies and carrots. She waves them at me. “You want some?”