I spin and spin and spin across the floor in a diagonal, and Riho bursts out in the other direction—her turns a tiny bit crisper and quicker. In opposite corners, we each take our bow.
“Brava,” Morkie shouts cheerfully, nodding her appreciation. “Riho, flawless.”
Damien’s face betrays no emotion, no pleasure or critique. He’s stone, unyielding.
Morkie steps right in front of me. She pats my cheek. “June, your technique is very nice.” I bask in the praise. “Relax a little, like Riho. Look like you’re enjoying it. I need to see passion. The danseur russe.” She stamps her foot and bells out her arms in a signature danseur russe movement. “We have to want to watch you.”
I deflate. Energy shoots out of my arms, legs, feet, and heart. I turn to face the wall so no one can see my face or the tears welling in my eyes. I’m fine. I can do this. I do have passion.
We scurry back to the corner, where the rest of the girls wait, as Gigi and Cassie and Eleanor take the center. Riho immediately is enveloped by Sei-Jin’s group, and I can already hear them giggling and twittering in Korean. How does Riho even begin to understand what they’re saying? Maybe she just doesn’t care.
“Oh, too bad,” comes Sei-Jin’s voice, a low whisper so Morkie won’t hear—but loud enough so I do. “Poor June, never quite good enough, huh? So sad.”
I try my best to ignore her, focusing on Gigi and Cassie, and the contrast between them, but Sei-Jin gets right up in my space, not two inches away, her warm breath on my neck as she continues. “Maybe it’s time to give it up,” she says in my ear. “Why not quit? Bow out gracefully.”
I can feel my cheeks burn. I can’t let her get to me. Not now. Not anymore. I grab my dance bag and take out my phone. I type up a text to Jayhe right where she can see it.
I can’t wait to see you this weekend!
“You’re such a bitch,” Sei-Jin says—a little too loud. “He’s using you. Just wait.”
I turn around to face her, nearly knocking her over. “Oh, Jayhe loves me—he told me so himself. Maybe he used you.”
That’s when I notice that the music has stopped, and Gigi, Cassie, and Eleanor are paused—Gigi angry, Cassie amused, Eleanor confused—as Morkie storms over to us. Damien stands near the piano, looking irritated.
“Girls!” Morkie shouts, her eyes flashing to Damien and then back to us. “Have you lost it? This is not how we behave in ballet class. Go to your rooms. I will talk to Mr. K.”
Sei-Jin and I don’t speak as we make our way to the elevators, and ride in silence up to the twelfth floor. When the doors open, she gets off, but I let them shut again in front of me.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she shouts. I like seeing the doors close and erase her face and voice. I press the button for the first floor and ride down again, the anger slowly building up inside me, threatening to burst. How can Morkie treat me like that? Would they if they only knew who I really am? Or maybe they all know Mr. Lucas is my dad, and they don’t care, because after all, he doesn’t claim me.
I storm through the hall, past Studio B where my ballet class is still going, past Mr. K’s office, until I finally get to where I want to be. I don’t knock. I just barge in.
There he is, the man I’ve always known as Mr. Lucas, cold and distant. He’s startled out of reading some stupid report by my bold entrance, distress spreading across his face, widening his pale blue eyes, eyes just like Alec’s. Not like mine.
“Shut the door behind you,” is all he has to say to me. “Take a seat.”
He puts down the papers, an indication that I have his full attention. It’s laughable. “What can I help you with?”
I don’t sit. I lean forward on his desk, looking him straight in the eyes. “What can you help me with?” I say, in a low, guttural voice that even I don’t recognize. “You can tell everyone here that you are my dad. That I’m a legacy, just as valid as Alec or Sophie or Cassie. That I belong here. That I was born to dance. That they can’t treat me badly. That I am important.”
He looks shocked. He opens his mouth to speak, but I collapse into the chair, the tears overcoming me. They rush down my cheeks, hot and furious. He stands and walks over to me. But instead of embracing me, comforting me, he puts a cold hand on my shoulder and whispers, “June, pull it together, for your sake and mine. This simply cannot be. No one’s to blame here—it’s just the way things are. The way things have to be.”
“But why?” A sob breaks my voice. “I don’t understand. Why weren’t you there?” I lay my head down on his desk, let its polished solidness share my burden. I wonder what it’s like to have a real father. The dads that pick up their petit rats, hug them, and ask them how their ballet classes went. I wish that just once, he’d ask me about my life and I could know what it feels like.
He doesn’t say a word. He hovers awkwardly, like he really is just a school administrator and not the man whose thin nose sits on my face, whose long slim fingers are mine, too.
He removes his hand from my shoulder, and walks back around to the other side of the desk, settling back into his chair. “Listen, June, and understand.” His tone is serious, as if he was simply talking to a student in trouble. Which, in his eyes, I guess he is. “Before you were even born, your mother and I signed a contract. She told me you’ve read the document. You know what it says. Your education—both here and at the college level—is completely paid for. Your mother was able to start a very successful business. And with her wise investments, you could never work and you’d be okay. She made the decision before you were born. We have no choice but to honor it.”
I sit openmouthed across from him, trying not to let his words sink in. “No choice?”
He stands and opens the door. “You should get back to class.” He looks at his watch. “Quickly, before it ends.”
He returns to his seat as I slowly rise. It takes every ounce of my energy to get out of the chair, to walk back down the hall and to the elevator, which, thankfully, is still empty.
I make my way down the Level 8 dorm hall, open the door to my room, and throw myself onto my bed. But instead of the soft embrace of the comforter, I feel the distinct crunch of paper—a lot of paper. I pick up a piece and realize it’s a photo from today’s ballet class—about a hundred copies of the same one: Riho, graceful and elegant in a turn, while I look awkward and rigid beside her. On each one, the same distinct taunt, no doubt from Sei-Jin: “Stiff competition!”
My phone starts to buzz. Alerts race down the screen for the same pictures. They are tagged with both Riho and me.
For a second, I wish I had really hurt Sei-Jin when I pushed her down those stairs last year. But I think about how differently I wanted this year to go. I have to be bigger than this. My mom was a dancer. My nonfather was a dancer. I am meant to be one.
I just have to prove it, again. To all of them. To myself.
I skip dinner, even though I know Nurse Connie will harass me about it. I can’t even deal with the charade of eating tonight. And I don’t want to see Sei-Jin and the others. I thought I’d have the room to myself, but Cassie has been in here doing homework the whole time.