Cassie motions at me, and she gets up to exit, too. She kisses her uncle, then Sophie again. Alec’s stepmother is biting back tears now, her eyes all bloodshot and red. She bites down on her lip to, no doubt, keep it from quivering.
“Thank you so much for dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Lucas,” I say. “It was great. Really.”
Alec’s stepmother doesn’t say anything. It’s like she can’t get a word out.
“You are most welcome,” Mr. Lucas says, walking me out. “Anytime. I’m sorry we didn’t know about your fish allergy.”
“It’s fine, really,” I say. “And happy birthday, Sophie.” She doesn’t look up from picking at the pink, fleshy bits of salmon on her plate. The dining room is completely silent now. All the air sucked out of it, the little girls focusing on pushing the food around on their plates. I scoot to the front door.
Mr. Lucas closes the door behind me. Alec already has a cab waiting. He’s staring out the window when I slide in. Cassie sandwiches me in the middle.
I put my hand in Alec’s. He resists at first, then loosens his hand to let mine in.
“It was okay, you know?” I whisper.
“No, it wasn’t,” he says without looking at me. “You don’t force food on people. She’s always trying to control everyone and everything around me. I refuse to let her do that to me or anyone I bring over.”
“It was just food. Not a big deal. She was trying to be nice. A little pushy, but nice.”
“My mother would’ve never done that. ‘Those who are hungry—’”
“‘Will eat.’” Cassie finishes Alec’s sentence. “I miss Aunt Gemma, too.”
Alec puts my hand to his mouth and kisses it. “She would’ve loved you.”
He slumps in his seat, settling in for the ride, his head resting on my shoulder, his hand still tightly wrapped around mine.
Somehow, I had it in my head that today’s visit to Alec’s would bring him and me even closer. But instead, I feel like I really don’t know him well at all. I can’t help but think that maybe it was Bette who belonged there, at that long, carved mahogany table, not me. She’d know exactly what to do, what to say, right now. That thought, it kills me, just a little.
9.
June
IN THE LAST WEEK, I’VE gained a second shadow. One that’s threatening to eclipse me completely, despite her small stature. Mr. K wasn’t joking about this whole mentor thing. I was assigned a new kid, and of course she’s Asian. Riho Nakamura. She’s Japanese, which is a totally different country, but Mr. K doesn’t think about things like that. She’s a Level 6, so she has morning ballet. But she’s taking afternoon classes with us, too, which means Mr. K thinks she’s really good. So I guess it makes sense to keep an eye on her anyway.
I’ve taken her to lunch in the café once, and tried to tell her things I’d thought would be useful—like how Morkie likes quiet feet on the dance floor and big, bold arms or how Pavlovich will nitpick your fingers—but she didn’t say a word the whole time. She just bowed her head a little in a Japanese way and followed me silently through the halls without making a peep.
“Did you study the Vaganova style of ballet in Japan?” We’re waiting outside Studio B for afternoon ballet class to start.
She stares up at me with blinking eyes and I wonder if she understands at all. I could probably tell her anything: That I have never been to Korea, and that fact embarrasses me. That I stole Jayhe to get back at Sei-Jin, but now I might really love him. That I murdered Gigi’s butterflies. She wouldn’t understand a word of it.
She’s been hanging with Sei-Jin and her group, which means they’ve probably already filled her head with all kinds of crap about me. I wonder what they call me now: boyfriend stealer, bitch, pathetic.
“Sei-Jin isn’t a nice person, you know.”
She nods her head in that fake way, when someone is agreeing with you but they don’t know exactly what you’re saying. She doesn’t say anything.
“She’s evil. Really.” You’ll see.
I scramble to my feet as girls enter the studio and ballet class starts. Morkie calls the class to attention in her megaphone voice. Morkie’s in a mood, so we work extra time at the barre. We start with a series of deep pliés to open up our hips and rapid tendus to warm up our feet. Then it’s forty-five-degree ronds de jambe en l’air. My legs burn and sweat already soaks my leotard. Gigi stands tall in front of me, and little Riho is behind me. As we work, Riho echoes my movements, her arms lifting in tandem with mine, her legs swishing in the same exact manner, but better. I can’t stop watching her in the mirror. She’s precise, controlled, but still fluid.
“Higher, June,” Morkie snaps, catching my leg and lifting it as I sweep it behind me. “Focus. You need to be here. You’re drifting. I do not like it.”
The reprimand stings. I center my mind and try to make every motion flawless, the most outstanding in the bunch. When we’re warmed up, Morkie calls us to the center. “The adagio will be tough today. No one is working hard enough,” she says. The positions she rattles off in French hit me one after another. She quickly shows us the combination with a half flourish of her arms, legs, and hands.
The door opens. Damien Leger walks in, and his presence drowns the whole space. He nods toward Morkie before taking a seat near the mirrors.
“All together first, then trios,” Morkie says. We stretch out into rows and try the combination twice. Morkie complains and shows us again. “Now, clear out of center. Three at a time. Two in the front and one in the back. Riho and June up front first.”
I swear Riho flashes me a grin as we head to the center. Level 6 dancer Isabela is placed behind us.
“Clean adagio, girls,” Morkie reminds. The point of the adagio is to show your strength, your fluidity without the barre as an anchor. It’s what people think of when they think ballet. We’ve been perfecting our strength in the center since we were petit rats in Level 1.
The combination that Morkie has us doing today is challenging. Viktor presses the piano keys, and the chords ring out long, smooth, and heavy. I feel wobbly and rushed. I needed to see others go before me, so I could have a little time to think through the movements.
I thought no one could make me stress like Mr. K, but my muscles spasm under the pressure of having to perform in front of Damien. He is a clean slate—for me, for all of us. He’s the man who decides if I have a future in his company.
As we start the movements, we are mirrors—I see myself reflected in Riho’s dark eyes, in her somber expression. Delicate arms gliding overhead—fifth position down to first and out to second. Our legs sweep high in arabesque, toes extended, strong. I can feel my body reaching, working, and hitting every step, catching every note.
I have this. I worked hard for it.
But in the mirror, my shadow, Riho, reflects the same. While you can see the work, the thought, I’ve put into the variation, Riho has given herself over to it completely, her eyes soft, her face serene, her smile effortless. I’m perfect, but she’s magic. Angelic. Effortless.
I put all my focus back into the dance, back into myself, and then, just as we’re wrapping up, Morkie shouts again: “Add three piqué turns to finish.”