Shiny Broken Pieces (23 page)

“Excellent,” she says. “Let's go check out your options.” She stands, heading toward the lunch line. I get up and follow. She carefully observes the day's offerings, as if there will be something new and delightful to eat. “So what will you have for lunch today?” It seems like an innocent enough question, but it's a test. I'm supposed to be learning the art of composing healthy, carefully balanced meals—lean protein, lots of veggies, some carbs, and limited fats, of course.

I know she wants me to pick the fish—all protein and good fats. But it's salmon, the worst kind. It's pale pink and gooey looking in the center, but crispy at the edges. My stomach lurches at the sight of it. I shake my head, maybe a little too violently. “I'll stick to the chicken.” I pile my plate high with greens, then toss a few pieces of grilled meat on top, hoping that will satisfy her. I add peppers—pretty much zero calories—and tomatoes and cucumbers.

She's frowning. “Maybe a little hard-boiled egg, too?” she suggests, putting two whole chopped eggs onto my salad and
ruining it. “And you can have some balsamic, if you'd like.”

I opt for a sprinkle of dressing instead—no oil—and she frowns some more. She adds a roll, butter, and a carton of milk to my tray. I don't protest, although I want to scream. She's going too fast, I'm going too slow. I guess we just have to meet somewhere in the middle.
Recovery is a long process,
I hear her say in my head.
One day at a time.

Tray loaded, we head back to the table. She says a little prayer over her own tray—which is laden down with the salmon, a few roasted baby potatoes, and some greens. She opens my milk carton, butters my bread, all without asking. I should be used to it by now, but it still burns me up every time.

“So, Junebug,” she says, and I seethe. “Tell me about morning classes. You had a history paper due, right?” She's chatting away, as if this is perfectly normal, as if she's not secretly counting the number of bites I take.

I force food down. I've discovered that twelve is the magic number. If I can take twelve solid bites, she's happy. She'll sigh that little sigh and make her notes. Then she'll nod, satisfied, as if she's full, as if she's eaten them herself. It's enough to make me want to sob.

But I get it. I know why my mom is doing this, why I'm committed to following through. My body already feels stronger, more in control, more confident. It's as if the food has made me fuller in every respect, and it actually helps. Every time I've wanted to throw up, I write it down instead—all the thoughts, the anxieties. That curbs the desire. But I'm just waiting for it all to fall apart again. This is harder than ballet.

I'm thinking about that when Bette appears in the café. I duck behind a notebook as she passes, but she sees me.

“Hey,” she says, walking over to the table. She's got two sandwiches tucked in their little plastic boxes, along with chips and salsa.

“This is Taylor”—I gesture over to her—“my therapist.”

Bette smiles. “Nice to meet you. June says great things.”

Taylor smiles, too, and I wonder if she thinks that's not true.

“Just getting lunch for me and Adele.” Bette looks at Taylor. “My sister, she had an accident, so she's not very mobile.” Her expression is pained, and I know what she's thinking: that it's her fault. It is, in a way, because surely that trap was meant for her.

Bette's eyebrows are perched high, and I know she's wondering if I've overheard Cassie and Henri talking in my bedroom, if I know anything that might help her figure out who hurt Adele.

“You find out anything new?” I ask before she can.

Bette shakes her head. “I was hoping you might have—”

“Nothing,” I say, and Taylor looks confused, so she focuses on her salmon. But I know Bette gets what I mean. “Let it go.”

“I can't. They—it's personal now. I have to—”

“Focus on what you can control. Isn't that what you told me once? Isn't that what Adele would want?”

Bette nods, still looking defeated. She steals a carrot stick from my plate and charges out of the café, full speed ahead.

“It's good advice,” Taylor says after a minute of silence. “You have to take it, too. Focus. Focus on getting healthy. The rest will follow.” I nod. When I take another bite, she beams.

“I'm trying.”

“That's really what it's all about, June. You'll never be cured, and there will always be triggers.” She waves her arms around, excited. “Especially in this world. But you're working hard, you're figuring it out, and look at you. You're already so much stronger.”

It's only been a few days, but I can already see a real difference in my dancing. I've been working with Bette on one of the
Swan Lake
variations from Act Three, the ballroom scene, and it's quick and loud, just like she is, with fast footwork and lots of in-character acting. With Bette's—and Taylor's—help, I think I might really have a chance at dancing professionally, stress fractures and all.

“
HOW
'
S ALEC?
”
AUNT LEAH ASKS
.
She's got a smirk on her face, that
I-know-what-you've-been-up-to
look.

“I don't want to talk about it.” It's been weeks since I've talked to her or Mama, and they're severely out-of-date on my life these days, which I guess is my own fault. But I can't tell them about Alec. Not yet. I think back to our fight, to all the origami cranes and hearts and the terrarium he's given me. I can't bring myself to take them down.

It's our first family dinner out in months. I shouldn't be in such a bad mood. “I did do well on that history paper though,” I say.

Mama nods, pleased, and Aunt Leah babbles a bit about her new museum job.

“Oh, Dad's got the summer off,” Mama says, grinning from ear to ear. She takes another bite of halibut and sprinkles some pepper on her salad. “I thought we could all go on a big trip, rent
that old house in Maui for a couple of months. I could paint, you could swim, maybe Leah could come, too.”

Aunt Leah nods, her smile matching Mama's. “Maybe not the whole summer, but a few weeks for sure,” she says. “I was thinking Gigi and I could learn to scuba dive—I've heard the water can be very healing.”

I focus on my plate, taking a small bite, pushing food around like I have been for the past twenty minutes. I let them chatter about this possible, hypothetical trip, even though, if all goes as planned, I won't have time for anything this summer. I'll have intensives, and then my apprenticeship will start.

“Your steak not good?” Of course Mama notices my lack of appetite. These days, she notices everything when she's around. Like she's watching every breath I take or move I make. Like she's treating me as if I'm sick again. She reaches over and pokes at the meat. “It is a little red.”

She's motioning toward the waiter when I shake my head. “It's fine, Mama. I'm just not that hungry.”

“Let the girl be,” Aunt Leah interjects. “She'll eat if she wants to eat.”

Mama puts her arm down and focuses on her own plate for a minute. “Maybe Ella could come down, too,” Mama says. “She's headed to UCLA—did you know that, Gigi? Microbiology, just like she wanted. I bet she'd love Hawaii. Does she have plans?”

It's a simple question, one I'd easily have known the answer to a year ago. But my old best friend, Ella, and I haven't talked in months, and I feel like I can't definitively say anything about her anymore. The whole idea of California feels foreign and fuzzy,
like some vague dreamscape, long forgotten. New York is where I want to be. Ballet is my everything. I need to earn this apprenticeship because I've put all my eggs in one basket. I need to focus on the role of Odette and impressing Damien.

“I don't think I'll make it.” It slips out like a butterfly from a cage, quick and unstoppable, filling up the little Italian café with its sudden enormity.

“What do you mean?” Mama's dropped her fork now, her face fierce, concerned. She's not oblivious to my ambitions, but for months she's been in denial about how close I am to making them real. She never asks me about ballet anymore, just calls Mr. K every other week to rant and complain.

“You know what I mean.” I don't mean for it to come off as rude, but the bite is there. “I'll probably be needed here. I'll probably be dancing.”

Aunt Leah looks worried now. I know she's been calling Mama every week, reporting in on how I'm doing, trying to convince her that I'm fine, that she can stay put in California. Mama's got a mind of her own, and there's no changing it. But maybe I take after her after all. “Gigi, I—”

Mama shushes her with a wave of her hand.

I expect Mama to yell, to fight, but instead her face softens. “Gigi, baby, I know you want this. And I know how hard you've been working. But I think it's time we let it go.” It feels like a slap, unexpected and mean. “It's time to come home to California, to regroup and figure out next steps. Work for a little while, maybe. Dad could use a summer intern. Or you can take some summer classes and figure out what you want to do for the fall.” Satisfied,
she takes another bite, as if the discussion is over, finished.

“I can't let it go, Mama.” My voice is shaky, heavy with the weight of tears. “I won't.”

Mama sighs, putting her fork down again. “Gigi, I understand your ambitions. I mean, I get it. I'm an artist, too. But this dream, it's become a nightmare. You've barely made it out alive this year, you're clearly depressed, and Dr. Khanna says your heart is holding steady at best. I can't support you anymore if you choose to keep chasing this.”

As if on cue, my monitor goes off, betraying my heart. I look down at my plate. My steak sits, cold and congealed, a pool of bloodied grease collecting below it.

“Yeah, bug,” Aunt Leah adds. “Maybe it's time for a break.”

“There's no such thing as a break in ballet. Drop it. I'm staying here.”

I race back to the dorms after dinner with Mama and Aunt Leah. I get to the twelfth floor and run past my room, heading straight to Cassie's. I need to talk to someone who'll understand. When I push the door open, Cassie's not there, but the room is lit and the shower's running.

“Hey,” I hear as I'm about to pull the door shut. It's Henri, tucked under the covers on Cassie's bed, his hair sleep rumpled, his eyes heavy. I instantly think of Will and his accusation about Henri making him push me. But one look gives me away. “Gigi. You okay?”

I shake my head, and crumple into a mess on June's perfectly made bed, not caring if she flips about her mussed sheets. “My
mom—I can't—she wants—” I'm crying so hard now, I'm hiccupping through, making no sense whatsoever. I don't know if it's sadness or fear or rage. He rises from the bed and crosses the room, pulling on a T-shirt as he makes his way. I can't help but notice how different his body is from Alec's—fuller, more muscular, with small patches of dark hair scattered across his chest. I look away, frantic, trying to figure out how to escape.

He sits next to me on the bed, putting a heavy arm around my shoulders. “Shhh, breathe, Gigi, breathe.”

I swallow tears and try to slow myself down—my heart, my mind, my breathing. His arm has dropped, and he's rubbing my back in long, low strokes. My first instinct is to panic, to pull away. I keep thinking back to Will's words. “Henri made me . . .” But he moves his hands as soon as he sees the expression on my face, and I realize too late that there was nothing really sexual about it. “Sorry,” he says with a sheepish grin. “I just—What happened?”

“My family wants me to give up dance and move back home to California.” A tearful tremor shoots through me, and Henri pats my arm, brotherly. “I can't. I've worked so hard, so long—”

“So you don't have to,” he says. I can't even get the
but
out before he continues. “You Americans are so funny. Gigi, you're almost eighteen, a grown-up. And you've been on your own for almost two years now. You've gone through hell. You're one of the strongest girls—one of the strongest people—I know. Do what you want. You don't need anyone's permission.”

I'm dumbstruck. As much as the magazines have gushed and called me a rising phoenix and this and that, no one's ever
pointed out my own power to me before. Not when it counts. Not when they really believe it. But Henri, I can tell he does.

I think about asking him about Will, but Cassie steps out of the bathroom, wearing pajamas, her cheeks rosy from the heat. “Hey!” She looks at me and is instantly worried. “You okay?”

I nod, realizing how much better I feel. All because of Henri. “Yes, I am. Or I will be.”

I think back to last year, those moments when I thought he was too intense, too invasive. I think about how easily I misinterpreted all that concern as something more—and how Will might have done just that, too. How Will might have gotten it all wrong. Just like me.

Looking at Henri now, as he leaps up to give Cassie a kiss, quietly filling her in on my drama, I realize that maybe he was just trying to look out for me. That maybe he was right to.

I open the door, ready to step out of the room. “I've got to go, though, so we'll talk later, okay?” I tell Cassie. She looks from me to Henri and back, but I can't stay and explain.

Right now, I have to go dance. I have to remind myself of why this is so important.

MORKIE HAS ME IN STUDIO
B to watch Gigi and Alec's
pas
rehearsal before I have to go work with Cassie. Alec and I warm up at the barre, even though I'm only supposed to be here to watch. I'm supposed to observe what type of white swan Gigi will turn into so I can be the opposite—dark, sinister, dynamic. That's what Morkie said. Eleanor sits quietly on the left side of the studio.

“We will begin from the love duet in Act Three,” Morkie says. Gigi still hasn't come to the front. I look at Alec, ready to purse my lips and roll my eyes to communicate how utterly irritated I am with her. But he looks away. For the first time since returning, I realize that we haven't fallen back into our old relationship. I guess it will never be quite the same again.

“Gigi,” Morkie calls out.

She tiptoes to the front. She won't even look at me, no matter how hard I stare. In the mirror, we're a mismatched trio. Alec
stands in the middle, with Gigi and me at his sides. We're cast as opposites. I look like the classical version of the White Swan, and she should be the black one.

She's sullen, quiet, probably dying to ask Morkie why I'm here. I bet it bothers her. It would bother me.

“Last time, remember, I told you that there wasn't enough of the story in your dancing,” Morkie says. “Tell me what the scene is.”

Alec doesn't wait for either Gigi or me to answer. “It's the ballroom scene with the princesses, the one where Siegfried comes in, along with Rothbart in disguise with his daughter, Odile, Odette's evil double.”

“Yes, Alec. Very nice,” Morkie says. “What else?”

Gigi chimes in. “Siegfried welcomes the disguised Odile to the ball and they dance. He chooses her as his bride and swears the oath.”

“Gigi, where are you during this scene?” Morkie asks.

“She's off to the side watching from a window,” I interject. “She's a mess and shattered.”

Gigi rolls her eyes while I speak, so I continue without being asked. “The masked Rothbart reveals his true identity—and Odile's—and they disappear. Siegfried rushes off to search for the real Odette. It's about love and deception and perception.”

Morkie nods in approval with my addition. “Great—there is so much feeling, so much emotion. I must see all of that in your movements. Tell this tragedy.”

Alec and Gigi take their positions.

“Let us try.” Morkie moves to the front to take a seat. “Bette,
watch how light and graceful she is. Because you must do opposite for your
pas
with Alec.” She waves me out of the center and I stand back.

Gigi flits over to the far corner, awaiting her entrance. The music starts. Alec trots through the studio as if he's searching for Odette. The chords speed up and Gigi enters. Her arms flap and pulsate in beautiful waves like they are wings.

“Beautiful arms,” Morkie shouts. “Articulate the feet, Gigi. Alec, strengthen your lines.”

Gigi takes tiny steps in his direction, then folds herself down onto the floor. He lingers over her and takes her by the arms, lifting her like she's nothing more than a feather. He turns her as she stretches her arms and legs out in arabesque. A little voice inside me whispers:
She's gotten better
.

“Gigi, descend through the toes,” Morkie commands. “Yes, perfect, perfect. Show me you love her, Alec. Gigi, you, too. I need to feel the love.”

Morkie stands and motions with her arms, demonstrating what she expects from Alec. A knot coils in my throat as he slides his hands along Gigi's arms and turns her around like a beloved object. It's the way he used to touch me, to look at me. I want to step between them, dousing the fire before it flares again. Instead, I'm frozen, transfixed, unable to move or breathe.

I'm not the only one. Morkie stops shouting corrections and we all just watch them float and glide and fall into the most well-known classical variation from the most beautiful ballet in the world. Level 6 and 7 dancers crowd outside the glass walls like moths to light, everyone drawn to their
movements and the flame between them.

They anticipate each other's movements, just like he used to know mine. She trusts him. There's no clenching of her stomach when he lifts her or tightened mouth when he holds her waist. In that moment, I feel like I've lost. Like there's something real and maybe lasting between them.

An hour later, we've shifted studios. I'm with Morkie, Cassie, and Riho in Studio E to work on the thirty-two
fouettés
in the coda.

“Did you hear the news?” Cassie leans over me while I tie on new pointe shoes. Riho is facedown in a deep stretch and meditation. She doesn't even look up.

I ignore Cassie. I pretend that she's some version of an imaginary friend that will just disappear if I think about something else. Morkie lingers up front, talking to Viktor, so I have at least ten more minutes to get my muscles warm and my feet ready to do what she needs them to.

“I would think you'd want to hear it from me.” Her grin is so wide I can feel it.

“All I want to hear is the date you plan to jump off a bridge. Or that you're going to leave me alone. I didn't tell. Your little pill stunt could've injured me, seriously.”

Her smile doesn't disappear. “You might not have gotten hurt this time, but there's always another opportunity.”

“Get over it.” I shoot up and bounce on my toes to make sure these shoes feel good. I go to the barre and sink into a stretch. She follows; she's desperate for me to look at her.

“I'll never ‘get over it,' as you say. I lost a year of my life. My hip still isn't the same. I'll never forget that, and I'll never let you forget it either.” She's not smiling anymore. I'm pinned close to the barre. The wood digs into my back.

“Move,” I say.

“No.” She steps closer. My back curves over the barre. The pain of it shoots through me. I push her. She doesn't budge.

“Oh, my Cassandra.” Morkie turns around, and claps her hands together. “Congratulations. You will be beautiful. This is your start.”

Cassie makes a kissy noise at me, then pivots around, and rushes over. Morkie rubs Cassie's cheek, then pats her back like there's a bruise there. “The company corps will be stronger with you in it.”

It takes a minute for it to sink in. But then it hits me all at once.

She got the apprenticeship. She's in the company.

There's only one spot left.

I hold the barre so tight my knuckles go white, then my fingers turn red.

Cassie squeals with delight and thanks Morkie over and over again for all her help.

Riho finally looks up from her phone. “What's going on?”

Cassie doesn't answer her. Morkie wraps Cassie up in another hug. “I'm so thrilled,” Cassie's babbling as Morkie embraces her. “I'm glad Damien's letting me do both performances, though. I'm proud to be able to finish off my final year with you and all my friends here at the conservatory.” Her eyes
flash with victory, her mouth a smug smile.

Riho turns to me. “Cassie got into the company,” I say as if I'm reporting that she's suffering from a case of hemorrhoids. Her face twitches with anxiety.

As Morkie walks off to consult with Viktor about today's rehearsal, Cassie turns to grin at me again, expectant.

“No one cares, Cassie,” I say. Even though I care. A lot.

“Oh, but of course you do,” she says.

“Center, girls.” Morkie waves us forward. “Odile's
fouettés
are what people who love
Swan Lake
wait for.”

Viktor plays the music, and she has us listen to it three times. Rehearsing on my own and with Adele, I've managed twenty- five or maybe even thirty, but I've never gotten the full thirty-two
fouettés
—and that's a feat expected of any future principal dancer, especially at ABC.

“Cassie, I know you have company corps rehearsal after this, so you give a try first. I think Bette and Riho will need more time.” She flutters her arms out left and right like she's shooing me to the sidelines.

I step back and turn away, so I don't have to watch Cassie. I see Damien standing in the studio doorway, observing. He winks at me, then joins Morkie at the front.

The piano chords grow louder. Cassie moves her shoulders and arms back and forth like the perfect imitation of a stretching swan. Then she steps into her
fouettés
. One after another she hits them, perfect lines and perfect turns and perfect pointed feet. You would never know she had a fracture in her hip, that she's been through rehab. She makes the turns look effortless.

Damien starts to clap before she's even finished. She beams and spins a few more times. I lose count after she hits number thirty-two.

A few minutes later it's my turn. This is what I've always dreamed of. This is what every ballerina dreams to dance. But today it feels like a nightmare, with all those eyes on me, and Cassie smug with her flawless turns and company news.

I think of Adele, of all the time she spent with me and what happened to her, because of me. I have to make her proud. I have to be a true reflection of her, of the Abney name.

I spin and stretch and curve, taking my body to lengths it's never been before. I prepare to do the
fouettés
, all thirty-two of them.

I step into the first one, up on my standing leg, strong through the hip. I'm spinning and spinning and spinning, almost perfect, counting them out in my head—twenty-nine and thirty and thirty-one. And then, just as I nearly have it, my leg drops and I miss the last one.

Everything comes to a screeching halt as Damien calls out, “Stop! The understudy gets it, but the Odile does not.” He's not glaring at me, but I can tell he wants to. He motions at Morkie, as if it's somehow her fault that I missed one. “Bette, you must get the
fouettés
. It's part and parcel of this performance. You have to let the foot go completely flat in order to maintain your strength.” His hands land on my calf, adjusting my turnout.

I can practically feel Cassie smirking from the sidelines. I want to turn to her and scream, ask her if she's happy now that she's better than me. Now that she's won.

Damien leaves us with Morkie. We practice the thirty-two
fouettés
for two hours straight—Cassie can get it without stopping, without thinking. But I have to work through it. Riho struggles, too, but lands more of them than me. “You're thinking too much, Bette,” Morkie says for the hundredth time. “Relax into it. Let go. Or you'll lose it.”

She sends me spinning again, but all I can think about is beating Cassie. About all the things I did to her. Maybe this is some kind of cosmic punishment for being a bitch. Again, at maybe number twenty-three, I crash.

“Bette,”
I hear Adele's voice drilling into my head,
“if you're going to join me at this level, you have to give it your all.”
So I try again without Morkie saying a word.

I only get twenty-six this time.

Frustrated, Morkie ends rehearsal early. Riho rushes out. It's just Cassie and me left in the studio gathering our things.

“So you're not even going to congratulate me?” Cassie's already out of her toe shoes, her bag on her shoulder. “Still sour?” She laughs like she's just said the funniest thing in the world. But my face is stony. “Oh, Bette. Don't worry about the
fouettés
. You'll get them eventually. I mean, you nearly got them that day, when you were working at Lincoln Center with Adele.”

I freeze. My hands stop untying my pointe shoe ribbons. “What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

“No one else was there that day.”

“When are you going to learn, Bette? I've made sure to know exactly what you're doing. Always.” She applies lip gloss. “You terrorized me, so it's your turn.”

“Adele could've died.”

“Oh, don't be so dramatic, Bette.” She makes popping sounds with her mouth as she rubs in the lip gloss. “She'll be fine, eventually. She's such a wonderful dancer. Or she was.”

“Don't ever talk about my sister.”

“I'll do whatever I want.” She picks up her dance bag. “Tell her I hope she gets better soon.
Swan Lake
won't be the same without her.”

My heart beats itself all the way up my throat. “Did you hurt my sister on purpose?”

“Now, why would I ever do that?” She blinks her eyes at me like a doll. A creepy, evil doll. “I just wanted to hurt you. And I will.” With that, she walks away, and I'm left there, stricken, unraveling every detail but unable to do a thing.

I reach into my dance bag, planning to text Eleanor, but my phone is gone. Maybe I left it in my room or the other studio? I start combing through my bag, looking around where we were sitting. Nothing.

I look back up. Cassie presses her lips to the glass and leaves the imprint of a kiss behind.

I go down to the student lounge. Henri's right where I thought he'd be—playing pool with a few of the Level 7 guys. I lean into one of the new kids, Lucio. He's Brazilian, with golden skin that sets off deeply brown eyes. I pout at him. “Mind if I borrow your stick?” He blushes, handing it over immediately.

Henri raises an eyebrow, annoyed. “We're in the middle of a game.”

My voice is ice when I say it. “So are we. And you know
what, Henri? I'm winning.”

That gets his attention. He misses his shot, sending the cue ball right into the corner pocket. The other guys laugh, but Henri's eyes don't even have a sliver of a smile, not even that signature smirk. He comes around the table, grabs my arm, and says, “Come with me.”

He pretty much drags me into the ice and vending room, playing right into my hands. What I want to say to him doesn't require an audience. Not yet, anyway.