Tiny Pretty Things Page 8

  I don’t know how to react.

  “You just remind me of my ex, Cassie,” he says, dropping his head. “You’re both just really good. . . . I miss her.”

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out again. I tell myself to get up and leave, but my body is heavy and awkward. I don’t know how to go without making things weird. We’re both the new kids at school. He got here just a few months before me, in the summer. We’re supposed to have a connection because of that.

  I fill the silence. “So. France. I’ve been there. Well, Paris. And Toulouse. And . . . and Bou . . .” I stumble over the pronunciation. “Boulo . . .”

  “Boulogne.” His voice is so low and husky compared to mine that I blush. He presses his thumbs into my leg muscles. “When you speak French, let your lips go soft and move your mouth slower.”

  I nod. He makes me say the city name again, but I fumble with the long French syllables.

  “So you’ve been many places in my country,” he says.

  I nod again. My parents have an apartment in the nineteenth arrondissement near Sacre Coeur and we go most summers so Mama can paint, but I don’t say any of that.

  “I was born in Charenton-le-Pont, just outside of Paris. My maman and I moved into the city when I was eight.”

  “Is that when you started dancing?” I ask.

  “Oui . . . eh,” Henri says, “I think I was almost ten.”

  “Ten,” I say with a shock that embarrasses me. Most dancers start when they’re five, or even younger.

  “I am a quick study. Ballet became my obsession. I have many,” he says. “Are you from New York?”

  “Me? Oh, no,” I say. “California.”

  “I have never been. Just seen it on American TV. Beaches, sunshine, surfing, little dogs in big purses, car chases.” He teases. “All smiles.”

  I slap his leg playfully. “There’s much more than that.” He rubs my hand and I pull it back. I quickly ask another question. “Do you miss home? Do you like it here?”

  “Do you?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I guess. It’s growing on me.”

  “You should be careful,” he says. “Cassie wasn’t.” He touches my arm. My stomach flutters and I wonder if I’ll ever get used to all these boys around me—Alec, and now Henri.

  “What happened to her?”

  He grimaces, and though I want to know, I don’t press any further. I know the discomfort of talking about something you don’t want to.

  “Just watch out,” he says. “Especially after that mirror thing.” He shakes his head and mutters a word in French that feels like a curse.

  “The girls told me it was Bette, most likely,” I say, not quite sure I should accuse her to other people.

  “Be careful with that one,” he says, fingers grazing my cheek, almost as if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. I try not to flinch. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  The overhead bulbs dim, threatening to go out. The shifts in light make a mess of his face. In the new shadows, he’s a different person. Heavier brow, hidden eyes, frowning mouth. I feel like we shouldn’t be in here alone in the dark anymore. The last few notes of The Nutcracker ping out of his phone and then it’s just me and Henri and the silence. He reaches for me again as the lights stamp out, and he kisses my cheek.

  11

  Bette

  IT’S LATE—ALMOST NINE P.M. CURFEW—but I head to the first-floor studios. I take the most public route I can think of, making sure to pass by a few open dorm rooms and even take the elevator to the basement past the student lounge. I want them all to see me exactly as I am: hardworking and dedicated and not willing to be thrown off course by something ridiculous, like Gigi Stewart, who probably got the Sugar Plum Fairy part by letting Mr. K touch her for a few beats longer than was actually necessary. Maybe she let her lips graze his neck. Or worse. It wouldn’t be the first time girls had thrown themselves at Mr. K for a role. And it wouldn’t be the first time he gave in to it, either.

  Just a little something I learned from in-depth conversations with Adele. She slipped up and told me about those too-close moments brought on by hard work and late-night rehearsals. How working so intensely on something brings out feelings. How things might cross the line. And about how girls can get caught up in it all. But Mr. K’s never tried anything with me.

  I know the history of this place backward and forward, and when an unknown, awkward nobody gets cast in an important role, there’s usually a good reason for it. My assessment makes me feel better.

  I walk by the rest of the dancers with pride and a new leotard. Even during class I am the perfect ballerina. Even in a room by myself with all the doors locked, just me and the mirrors and the music, I am everything Mr. K and my mother and Adele and the school have ever asked me to be.

  I am perfect.

  I go back upstairs to the main floor, through the lobby, which is now being wiped clean of an earlier reception for the petit rats’ parents. I take another long route, fluttering past Mr. K’s dark office and the cast list. I peek into each studio, just so I know who’s dancing and who’s slacking off or prioritizing an English paper or a new boyfriend. Eleanor is in one of them, but she’s just doing barre work and checking herself out in the mirror.

  We used to always rehearse side by side, pushing each other to do better and complimenting each other’s footwork. Somewhere along the way, though, she said I was too intense during practice and it wasn’t fun anymore. I guess she’s not wrong. And she does look happy now, inching away from the mirror, mesmerized by her own body. I would never want to take that away from anyone—especially not her.

  I run into Liz. She’s drenched and clearly has been in the basement weight room. Not that she needs it. Her eyes are all hollowed out lately, and her arms and legs so thin and wiry that I worry about her strength. But we don’t call each other out on things like that.

  “Pilates?” I say to her.

  “Elliptical,” she breathes out, panting, wiping sweat from her face. It’s very unbecoming. “I burned six hundred calories.”

  I frown at her. She doesn’t need all the extra workouts. In the past year, she’s shrunk down from a respectable size two to an I don’t know what. Negative two, if there’s such a size. How does she even find anything to fit her anymore?

  “God, Bette, stare much?” she says as she pats the last few drops of wetness away, smoothing down her hair. “Hey, so, I’ve been meaning to ask—what’s it like practicing with Henri?” There’s a wink in her voice, but I don’t like the implication. Alec and I have had our ups and downs, but at the moment, we’re very much on again.

  “Yeah, he’s hot,” I say, already heading in the other direction, my tone colder than it should be. “But you know I have a boyfriend.”

  “Uh-huh,” Liz says, pulling her long dark hair into a high ponytail, and I can’t help but stare at her too-lean legs, not sure whether I should worry about her or be jealous, as she peers into the other studio, where a few of the boys practice jumps. She’s looking for Henri, no doubt.

  Things between Liz and me have been good lately, but there was a time when we competed for everything—including Alec. But he made his choice pretty early on, and after a few petty incidents, Liz realized there was no changing that. It was just making her look desperate. Plus, we finally figured, we’re more powerful together than working against each other. It just makes sense.

  She heads up to shower, and I’m about to enter studio C when I remember a little something Eleanor mentioned earlier—that Gigi practices in the old basement studio. I’d stored the information, and now I want to test it out. I want her to know she can’t do anything in this school without me knowing about it. I don’t miss much around here. She’ll learn.

  I pass the nutritionist’s office. I pause at the top of the staircase. I remember being little and sneaking to the edge of these
steps with Eleanor and Alec and Will. We’d dare each other to go stand in front of the locked door. Whoever did it the longest always got candy from a secret stash and, most important, glory.

  Voices drift up to me. I can see the door is open a hair and I’m nothing if not graceful, so I tiptoe down, dip under the window, and peek in through the slightly open door without being heard or sensed. There she is. Gigi. The Sugar Plum Fairy. Except she’s not dancing. She’s on her back, legs splayed, Henri pressing on her thigh as he stretches her out in semidarkness.

  I don’t know why, but I shiver as I watch. Almost like I’m outside in the crisp fall air. I remember that Cassie used to come here, too. The insomniac girl who got in trouble for dancing all night. The girl with the perfect 180-degree grand jeté. The only Level 6 girl to land a major soloist role last year, even above me. I don’t like thinking about her. I want to forget that I even knew her and how good she was. And especially that she’s Alec’s cousin.

  Henri lets his hair drop around his face and says things I can’t hear. I don’t like the way he touches Gigi and makes her laugh. I don’t like how his fingers graze a loose curl near her neck. Her voice is light and delicate—it’s too pretty. Henri is eating it up. And if Henri’s eating it up, I worry that Alec will fall for it, too, when they start rehearsing.

  My stomach twists. I can’t remember a time when Alec and I weren’t together. My first memories have him in them, from family dinners when my dad was still around to dance classes and kissing him in the school’s dark corners. It was always just us.

  I take out my cell phone and zoom in on Gigi and Henri with the camera. I click the picture button. The flash is too bright, so I duck and slink away quickly, quietly. I don’t get caught when I do things like this, and I don’t need that to change. I run back to the upstairs to studio C and throw myself into the Snow Queen variation. I do five, ten, twenty pirouettes, but the image of Gigi and Henri races through my head alongside my music.

  I drop down off pointe and pace the room. I scream at my reflection and hope no one hears me. Or sees me breaking down in this glass box of a space.

  I cover my ears and let my head bob on my shoulders, falling into a deep stretch. I try to revel in the pink message and its cryptic cleverness. The powerful way it made me feel writing it and waiting for someone to discover it. How Gigi’s face had fallen, how lucky I was that everyone saw it at the same time. I was probably the only one who spotted the tears in her eyes. I hope she’s cried every night since. That’s not quite true. I hope she goes back to California. She’ll be happier there anyway, so it’s not even that terrible that I want her to leave. It would be better for everyone. The girl is too fragile and sweet and mellow to succeed here. In some ways, I’m just looking out for her. She’ll realize it soon enough. That ballet is too much for her. That it makes you do things. Makes you do whatever is necessary.

  I remember Adele’s advice before my first casting audition. She yanked me out of the pack of petit rats. “You don’t get many shots, peach.” Her hands were in my hair, redoing my bun the proper way with a hairnet. “So when the opportunity comes”—she leaned into my ear—“you’ve got to claw your way to the top.”

  My body relaxes at the memory. Adele would approve. Maybe not of these methods. But of my motivation for sure. I grab my warm-ups and head upstairs to my room. When I open the door, Eleanor jumps from the futon and turns off the TV. I see those old videos of Adele out on the floor.

  “Again?” I say.

  “She has perfect feet, Bette,” Eleanor says. “Arched like bananas.” I can’t even fight the compliment she gives my sister.

  “Can I use your printer?” I ask, wishing I didn’t have to, but I’ve been avoiding my mother, so I couldn’t possibly ask her to send me new ink. I don’t have time to go get more.

  “What for?” she asks, clicking the TV back on.

  “Just a little surprise for Gigi.” My voice lifts an octave with excitement. “Got pics of her and Henri in some compromising positions.”

  Eleanor frowns. “We’re not doing that again, are we?”

  Her words bite and I almost drop my phone. “We are,” I snap, waiting for her to look away from me and apologize for her weakness. To join in on the little fun I have planned, like she’s done a thousand other times before.

  “Uh-huh. Sounds great,” she says, easing slowly back into watching my sister perform a perfect rendition of Kitri’s solo from Don Q. “Let me know how it goes.”

  I don’t let her hesitation stop me. I plug my phone into Eleanor’s computer and wait for the picture to load. I try to block the screen, so she can’t see, but she doesn’t even look up. Eleanor can turn into sort of a saint at times. But I know how to get her to do things. I print the picture, delete it from Eleanor’s downloads folder, and slip out the door while Eleanor’s still in an Adele trance.

  The eleventh-floor hall is empty. Everyone’s mostly in their rooms listening to music, in the upstairs student lounges watching TV, on other floors, or sewing shoes and stretching. I go to the Light, and tap three times on the door. No one is in there. I lock the door behind me.

  I exhale, surrounded by pictures of primas and beautiful thin bodies and perfect feet. The day after I turned twelve, my mother shipped me off across Central Park to the school dorms. Finally old enough to live on my own here. Back then, I used to visit this closet every night. I used to fall asleep on the floor sometimes, and the RAs would have to wake me to go back to my room. I run my fingers over the collaged walls and find a spot for the picture in my hands. Before I tack it up, I see a message that makes me smile: Gigi should watch her back. I rub my finger over it. Someone else hates her as much as I do. I’m not alone.

  I grab one of the glue sticks that sit on top of the TV. I wipe it all over the back of the picture. I slam the page on the wall and smack it hard, like I’m hitting Gigi’s face a thousand times.

  I step back to admire the picture among the others. At first glance you can’t tell it’s one unlike the others. I wish I could see the look on people’s faces when they spot it, and the look on Gigi’s face especially.

  12

  June

  I’M LUCKY MY WEIGH-IN TIME is at 5:10 p.m., after academic classes. Gigi is off somewhere by herself, probably smelling the flowers she keeps plucking from God knows where, and I have the room to myself. She’s been at it for the past few days, claiming that her mama says a flower’s scent helps boost happy brain chemicals. I don’t care about being happy. Only about being the best.

  I think through what I’ve eaten today: three cups of clear tea; half a grapefruit sprinkled with a pinch of sugar; one rice cake; a half-pint of soup; a mixed green salad, no dressing; and a half scoop of tuna. Although I must admit, I didn’t touch the tuna. But I count it because it was on the salad. If there were any day I could eat, it would be today. Weigh-in Wednesday is on every calendar in these halls. For some of the girls, like Bette, it isn’t ever a problem. They’re carrying a few extra pounds here and there, just what they need to keep Nurse Connie’s confidence.

  But I need more. Nurse Connie has rules. For my height, I should be 110 pounds, a hippo in tights. Instead, I make sure I’m a model of grace, with perfect posture; a lithe, lean frame; a prizewinner all around. I do what I have to do. It’s all a concerted effort. Because I take my work and myself seriously. Unlike some of the other girls.

  When I weighed myself this morning, the scale read 99 pounds. A number that the other girls would kill for. A number that means I’m light and liftable. But here, anything less than 100 pounds at my age and height gets you sent packing. And I can’t let that happen. I won’t let that happen.

  I pour myself a tall glass of water from my electric teapot. It’s my fourth in half an hour. Today, I need the water weight, as slight as it is. But it won’t be enough. So I sit at my desk and pull a needle and some thread out of my dance bag. From the d
esk drawer, I take four pieces of the Korean won my grandmother gave me the one time I met her. They are ideal: heavier than American coins. I pick up my clean Wednesday leotard from its labeled bureau drawer and flip it inside out. We’re required to wear them for weigh-in. A little mesh pocket lifts from the crotch area—the perfect don’t-go-there space. I set four won on my digital food scale. The numbers blink: 612 grams, 1.34 pounds. Just right.

  The won fit perfectly in the leotard’s little pocket, and I sew the tissue paper–wrapped coins into the flap. Unnoticeable to anyone but me. I pull the leotard on over my pink tights and smooth out the edges, so nothing protrudes. The coin-filled pouch pushes between my legs like the maxipads I don’t have to wear anymore, since I stopped getting my period. I pull on a chiffon dance skirt over my ensemble. No one will ever know.

  I step on my floor scale. The numbers calibrate and settle on 101 pounds. A warm flush rushes through me. Just to be sure, I drink two more glasses of water.

  I take the elevator to the basement before going to the nutritionist’s office on the first floor. I stop in the computer lab, printing out a hastily written English paper, since I have some time to kill and can’t stand the nerves when I’m just standing around waiting for my appointment.

  The computer lab has been officially taken over by the Korean contingency. They do everything in a big group: eat, watch Korean soap operas on their laptops, and spend weekends at Sei-Jin’s aunt’s brownstone on the Upper East Side. Right now they are all video chatting with faraway relatives and it’s an assault of fast-paced Korean, so speedy I can’t even make out the occasional noun. I fight the pinch in my stomach, burying the nagging desire to be part of their group. I’ve seen exactly how cruel they can be. So why do I still want that?

  Sei-Jin sees me, and as usual, throws out some insults in Korean, commanding the whole room to laugh. I’m sure she’s calling me a banana or whatever the Korean word is for a halfie.