Maybe some are lucky and pretty. Gigi’s were not. They were a dull orange, with black stains streaking across their backs, and large, menacing dark eyes that stared at me when I reached into Gigi’s window terrarium, that trusted my delicate and graceful hands coming toward them. Eyes that still haunt me now. But in that moment, it felt good to push needles into them and finally still that endless, frenetic flapping that bothered my sleep for months.
My halmeoni would say that I gave up all my good fortune that day.
The memory causes me to shake. I will myself to forget about it. I tell myself I’m not the same girl who did that. I can make it up to Gigi. Mr. K claps and I startle out of it. Cassie and Gigi hold each other’s hands before sitting down again.
Mr. K motions at Damien. He steps forward. “Thank you, Anton. I’m not going to sugarcoat anything. Honesty is part of what makes us all artists. I’ve heard much about you—some of it good, a lot of it not so good. The press calls you a morally flawed lot of dancers. Last year’s Level 8s were a disappointment, too. Their talent and technique subpar, and not ready for the ballet world. You all have the talent, but your choices have had a tremendous effect on the company itself. Along with not dancing The Nutcracker, you also won’t be choreographing senior workshop pieces at the end of the year.”
The gasp is an audible, deep, collected breath. The weight of it, of hearing this news aloud, is staggering. We knew this could be a possibility. All of us knew, deep down inside, that our actions could deem us unworthy—after all, we nearly killed a girl. But surely Gigi should get to dance? I’m staring at her—we all are, I realize—and her face has gone pale, the way it does when her heart gets out of control.
“This year, under a close collaboration between Mr. K and myself, we will be performing Swan Lake in the spring for the fiftieth anniversary of the company. The company will dance opening night, and you will dance the second. The principal positions—in particular Odette and Odile—will be danced by two different dancers. I will choose my apprentices from that performance.” He takes a moment to breathe, sipping lemon water from a glass. “However, the dancers cast in the principal roles are not guaranteed to be my apprentices.”
“Damien will choose two girls and two boys. And maybe fewer, if you don’t rise to this grand opportunity,” Mr. K adds. “He chose no one from last year’s class.”
Shoulders slump a little. Some are already accepting defeat. I refuse. I know that I was born to do this, that I will do it. Mr. K rounds this out with his serious, signature three claps, refocusing our attention. “Mr. Leger and Madame Dorokhova will stop by frequently to observe you all, which means you must be your best in every ballet class, every rehearsal.”
The applause starts slowly but spreads through the room, and soon I find myself clapping, too. It’s hard to not want to please these men, to show them you’re ready for this challenge. But so many of us want this, and so few will get it.
I will be one of the few, I tell myself. And I’ll do it the right way, by simply dancing my best. The best.
I will.
7.
Bette
I WAIT UNTIL THE LIGHT snores waft from my mother’s bedroom before calling her car service. I hide outside near the holly bush my mother sets out in the little front patio every fall.
I spot the car lights as he turns on to Sixty-ninth Street. I’m on the curb before he can call up to the house to confirm a pickup.
“Sixty-fifth and Broadway,” I say, like I’m an adult and he shouldn’t for one second question where my parents are. It’s only 8:56 p.m, but at school, most of the students will be heading back to the dorm for curfew. At least those who are following the rules will be. But Eleanor posted a picture of a fresh latte five minutes ago. She’s at the coffee shop a block away, probably with her head in some book, instead of being out on a Friday night like normal people. The way we would both be if we still lived together.
“Lincoln Center?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
The driver cuts through Central Park. It’s pouring and the wind whips fat raindrops across the windows. Dark trees have already lost their leaves. Fall is coming too soon. As the weeks slip by, so, too, does any chance of my ever really coming back to school.
He zips down the winding street until we exit the park and we’re on the West Side of Manhattan, where it’s all bars and restaurants and late-evening chatter. Green subway lamps leave a glow along the sidewalks. The driver makes a left to head downtown toward the school, following the bustle of Broadway.
My heart bangs against my rib cage like I’ve just rushed offstage. “Get it together,” I tell myself. They’re just kids, like me. They can’t actually do anything to me. Besides, it’s not like I’ll really be on school property. I can’t risk turning my suspension into an expulsion.
The driver makes the final turn and the great glass windows of the American Ballet Conservatory glitter in the streetlights. It’s still just as beautiful as it was the first time my mother brought me here to watch Adele dance.
I get out of the car. I don’t march up to the front doors and stomp past the guard like I wish I could. I casually walk past the building, heading south. The coffee shop windows glow with warmth.
I linger at the edge of the window and steal glances inside. I recognize a few girls from Level 7, but nobody I know too well, thankfully. I’d blend right in here. I’m dressed like a ballerina who has spent the day dancing. Big, cozy sweater thrown over the lean lines of dancewear, leg warmers tucked into sheepskin boots.
In the far corner next to the coffee shop’s small fireplace, Eleanor sits at a table by herself. I pull up my hood.
Before walking in, I listen, like I’m counting the beats of music before I have to go onstage. There’s a flutter in my chest. The door opens and someone leaves. I catch it before the bell jingles and slip inside. I hear Eleanor’s humming as I take the smallest steps in her direction. She sounds very pleased with herself. She has earbuds in and dips carrots into a tub of hummus. She gazes between her phone and a set of math problems, half-solved.
She hits a high note in whatever terrible song she’s singing along to, and as much as I hate to admit it, I wouldn’t even mind having to deal with her pitchy voice again every night. Because then my life would be back to normal.
I steel myself, drop my shoulders, and walk up to the table. She seems skinnier, happier. I tap her shoulder. She lifts her head and yanks the earbuds from her ears.
“You look good, El.” Quiet, direct, for the most dramatic effect.
She drops the earbuds on the table.
“What are you doing here?” Her eyes bulge so big that they’re no longer bright and beautiful. She looks like a bug.
I wait for her to stand up and hug me. She doesn’t move. I slip into the seat in front of her. “Happy to see me? I called you a million times.”
“Bette, you shouldn’t be here.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“You—”
“I already know I’m not supposed to be here, but I don’t care right now.”
She retreats to her chair. A long, cold moment stretches between us, one that the fire can’t even begin to thaw.