Shiny Broken Pieces (13 page)

I
'
M IN THE CAFÉ
,
FINISHING
up homework and slurping a bowl of broth, when Sei-Jin and her pack of followers walk in. They carefully inspect the various options in the different food stations, all settling on a dinner of grilled steak and veggies, and gather around a table close enough that I can hear their chatter. Much of it is in Korean, so I only catch bits and pieces. But two words I recognize out of Sei-Jin's mouth: Jayhe and love.

Ever so casually, she turns her head my way, catching me in the act of eavesdropping. “Oh, June, she doesn't know yet,” she says with that practiced, lip-glossed smile.

I choke after hearing her say my name. “Yes, yes, I applied to three schools already,” Sei-Jin tells them. “You know, just in case I don't get a spot here.” She stands and walks over, leaning heavily on my table, bringing her face down close to mine. “I think I want to go to school in Providence. It's so lovely. The foliage, the artists.” She waits for a reaction.

Stupid. She doesn't know that Jayhe's focusing on NYU, on me. She doesn't know about anything. I gulp down my broth, trying to grin despite the too-hot liquid shooting down my throat. She adds, nearly spitting, “I guess Jayhe and I will just have to enjoy it together.”

Trying not to give her the satisfaction, I focus on the little slivers of onion in the yellow liquid, and pick at the small plate of broccoli on my tray.
Eat
, I tell myself.
You have to. Ignore her.

“Oh, yes, I know. You worry. How will you and Jayhe manage, you here—probably living at home with your mom—and him there, all that distance between you? Especially with me so close by?”

I take a bite of stiff, flavorless steamed broccoli. It scrapes my already raw throat. In that moment, I hate myself for all of it: the undercooked broccoli; the broth; and, worst of all, letting Sei-Jin get to me. “I don't think you have anything that interests him,” I tell her, my teeth clenched, my jaw tight. “I mean.” I look up, pointed. “Just look at yourself lately. Giving up on being a dancer already?”

She smacks her small fist on the table, but it's laughable, her lack of strength. She barely makes a sound. “Shut up, June.” She turns on her heel to walk away, her troops already gathering around. “If anyone should be worrying about their weight, it's you. You think Jayhe will want you? Look at you, with your bowl cut. You look like a little kid.”

I stand up, splattering my soup. Her pack gasps and disperses a bit as the rest of the room stops to stare—Sei-Jin doesn't move an inch.

“You did this to me.” My hands tug at my hair, and my voice is low, heavy with a threat. “You think you're going to get away with it? You just wait.”

“Oh, June.” She slams the table again so the hot broth splashes on my arm. “What are you going to do? Shove me down the stairs when no one else is around? You tried that once already, and it didn't work.”

I pick up my fork, and I want to stab her with it. A slow smile spreads across Sei-Jin's face, and she knows she's won this round. She sees it in me, this dark side, and she pokes at it on purpose.

“All right, ladies. Cut it out now.” The lunch RA finally lumbers over to the table, but the pack scurries before she can quite make it, leaving Sei-Jin and me in our standoff. The woman pries the fork from my hands. “End this now, or I'm going to write you both up. And you don't want that, do you?”

Sei-Jin backs away from the table, but she's still wearing that stubborn, straight-mouthed expression, so I know this isn't over. “You'll see, June. I'll get back at you for all that you've done to me.”

As she rushes off, I gather my soup-soaked notebook and head to my room, taking the stairs. When I get to the twelfth floor, I walk right past Cassie and let myself into the bathroom. I run the water in the shower, letting the steam fill the room. I lean over the toilet and stick my fingers in my mouth. This time, it doesn't take more than a second for it all to come up—the broth, the broccoli, the anxiety. All the tension swirls away; and the anger, the hatred I feel for Sei-Jin is just a dull ache now, like
a muscle stretched a bit too far.

I walk over to Cassie's scale. I reset it to pounds, and step on. The numbers scramble as they always do, and they settle at 102. That's with clothes still on.

A wave of warmth washes over me, relief and something oddly close to joy. It's working—the skipped meals, the extra workouts, the vomiting. It makes me feel invincible.

When I come back out of the bathroom, Cassie's plopped on her bed, her math book set in front of her, her headphones on—they're always on when we're both in the room, so she doesn't have to entertain the idea of talking to me. She looks completely zoned out. She doesn't seem like she's about to go to bed anytime soon.

I click off the overhead lights and climb under my covers, waiting for the impending rage.

Even though her desk lamp provides more than enough light for her to see, she rushes over, and flips them back on.

I get up, walk to the switch, and flip them off again.

She turns them back on.

“Can't you see I'm working?”

“You can work with your desk lamp on. I'm going to sleep.”

“Oh, is your eye mask suddenly not enough anymore?”

I stand up, and put my hand on the light switch. She rushes forward and puts her hand on my shoulder. “You could probably boss Gigi around, because she's nice, but I'm not. If you keep messing with me, I'll let Mr. K and Nurse Connie know that you're puking up everything you eat. And every time you use my scale, it records your numbers. You're so obvious.”

I remove her hand from my body, as if it's the most disgusting thing that's ever touched me. I walk back to bed, slip the eye mask over my eyes, tune her out, and go to sleep. I know her kind: all words, no action. She doesn't have the guts to tell.

I hope.

The next afternoon, Morkie puts me and Riho side by side again. It's like she gets off on the contrast between us: Riho's small proportions, the flowing grace in all her movements, making me look stiff beside her. I feel like Morkie's setting me up to fail. Mr. K's words from the assessments last week ring in my head: “It's not enough to have perfect technique, June. You have to have passion.”

Riho gives me this awkward smile as we both walk to the center. It looks more like a grimace, really, and for a minute I feel sorry for her. “You okay?” she asks in quiet, perfect English. It's the first time she's ever actually spoken to me. I panic about all the things I said about Sei-Jin around her, thinking she couldn't understand. A flush creeps up my chest. “I could ask Morkie to let us go last.”

I shake my head, and she smiles again. “I hate going first,” she says, making me think about why I automatically slotted her into my nemesis category, why I didn't just let myself warm up to her. She's like me, an outsider—not one of them but not one of the white kids either. There aren't any other Japanese kids this year. She's such a good dancer, she could've commanded her own clique, instead of hanging with Sei-Jin and her pack.

But I know why she does, and I feel a pinch inside, wanting to have my friends back.

I raise my eyebrow at her, signaling I'm ready, not quite willing to commit to a smile. We settle into our spots, waiting for the music.

Morkie shows the class the next part of the Odette variation. Everyone marks it. Except Eleanor, who is still recovering from her terrible allergic reaction. The movements are fast-paced and staccato, all quick, precise feet and big arms. I force myself to relax, not to overthink it. “Ready?” she says to Riho and me.

I bow. The music starts. We spin into the movement, lifting, then turning, lifting, then turning. Morkie hollers out corrections, but she doesn't stop us. We must be decent. I push myself to show her I want to be Odette.

The studio door opens. Morkie waves her hand in the air. We stop. I press my hands on top of my head and will my breathing to slow.

It's Mr. K's assistant. “E-Jun Kim, Mr. K wants you in his office.”

Hearing my name makes me jump.

I look from the woman to Morkie and back.

“Go,” Morkie says, irritated.

She immediately turns back to Riho. “Excellent. Lots of emotion,” I hear her saying as I walk out.

I follow the assistant down the hall and to Mr. K's office, wondering what he could possibly want. My brain is a storm of panic. Maybe they figured out Sei-Jin cut my hair. The RAs said they'd investigate. Though it's been almost a full month since it happened. Or maybe Sei-Jin told them about the butterflies.

When I get to Mr. K's office, he's sitting at his desk, wearing a serious expression.

That's when I see Nurse Connie. She's sitting across from Mr. K, in the seat closest to the wall. My stomach clenches. “Have a seat, E-Jun,” she says, patting the chair next to her.

I sit across from Mr. K, who has my file spread in front of him—I can see the numbers on my weight chart, the triple digits as they fall to doubles, getting smaller and smaller.

“When you got back to school this year, E-Jun, I was so pleased by your progress,” Nurse Connie says. “You were up to a solid one hundred and eight at the first weigh-in. We thought you were doing so well. Anorexia and bulimia are usually lifetime struggles.”

I wince at the words, not willing to accept them. My stomach clenches as I unravel where this is headed. During the past few weigh-ins, Nurse Connie frowned every time I stepped on the scale, the deep line on her forehead getting bigger as the number on the scale got smaller.

I try to tell them I'm fine, but the words don't come out.

“Sadly, E-Jun,” she says, “your numbers have been steadily dropping.” She looks down at the file, the numbers upside down and all wrong.

Mr. K interrupts then. “We don't tolerate these habits. You've been here long enough to know that. You've seen other girls—stronger dancers—get dismissed from this institution for this behavior.” The exasperation is heavy in his voice.

Nurse Connie asks what I've eaten today.

“Chicken soup and salad.” It was broth, really, but soup sounds better. Heartier. “And coffee with cream.” Cream always sounds so lush.

“And did you purge it?”

I panic. Cassie told them, just like she said she would.

Mr. K's eyes burn into me. The silence stretches around me. My skin warms. I don't know why I do it, but I nod. I tell the truth. I can't bear the weight of their stares or the silence. I don't know how to lie to this man.

“Should she be hospitalized?” Mr. K asks, shaking his head, his tone defeated, as if I'm the latest conservatory catastrophe. An eating scandal is the last thing the school needs right now.

There's a knock on the door, loud and insistent. Nurse Connie opens the door.

“No way. You cannot talk to my daughter like this without me.” My mom stands in the doorway. “You were supposed to wait to start this meeting—”

“Ms. Kim, please come in. We really haven't started the entire meeting.” He's using that familiar, coddling tone he reserves for parents. I want to interrupt and tell her that he lied.

Mr. K's assistant offers my mother her seat. My mom glares as she takes it. “Now, Ms. Kim, Nurse Connie has been worried about E-Jun's numbers for months. Due to previous incidents, we have no choice but to take immediate action. This type of behavior spreads like a virus.”

“I can fix this, Mr. K,” I blurt out.

“Lots of dancers have struggles with food.” Mr. K sighs, like this conversation is exhausting him. “But to be a ballerina one must be strong. All muscle. And you cannot do that without eating.”

“I know.” His words settle into me, and shame floods my body.

“I want to talk with June alone,” my mom says. “Please
excuse us one moment.”

Mr. K nods and says, “We'll step out for a bit.”

Nurse Connie follows him out the door.

My mom stands up and looks down, towering over me for once, as I sit slumped in the chair. “I know your fears. I had the same ones.” She takes a deep breath. The quaver in her voice makes me look up at her, seeing her clearly for maybe the first time ever. “I know you want this. I know you do.” She takes my hand, and hers is cold and frail. “But this will kill you. Make you so sick you won't be able to dance anymore.” She's looking at my hand now, and it takes me a minute to see the similarities—how bony and taut it is, so much like her own.

“You trust me?” she asks.

I nod.

Mr. K knocks. My mom reopens his office door. Mr. K and Nurse Connie come barreling back into the room. Mr. K takes his seat, and gets straight back to business. “As you already know, Ms. Kim,” he says, addressing my mom and not me, “this has been a difficult year for American Ballet Conservatory and for my Level 8 dancers. June's eating, well, as we all understand it, this has been a problem for quite a while. One that Nurse Connie here has tried repeatedly to address with June.”

Nurse Connie nods. “For a while there, I thought we'd truly turned a corner, that June was getting better—that she wanted to get better. But the downward spiral is starting again.”

My mom nods, but if she's startled she doesn't let it show. She waits for them to continue.

“We have to make a tough decision here about whether to
dismiss her or not,” Mr. K says.

“You will not dismiss her.” She hands him an envelope, and in it I see what looks like conservatory letterhead. “Take a look, Mr. K. You'll see, according to the letter from the board, that June will remain at the conservatory through the end of the year, when she graduates. She will audition for Damien Leger, just like the rest of the students, and dance in
Swan Lake
performance.” She looks at me, her face still firm. “Make no mistake, her weight is a problem, and she will fix it. But Nurse Connie will not be involved. Per my discussion with the board, June will work with a professional counselor I hired, with a custom menu for her meals with Korean food, not American food. She will meet with her twice a week.”