After my last pirouette, Yuli jostles my shoulder. “You ready to go back . . .” It’s half a question and half a statement.
“Yes,” I say, breathless. “I am ready.”
“Madame Lobanova.” My mother’s voice travels down the staircase and bounces off the mirrors in the studio. The slur beneath the words makes me cringe. “No more today. Bette has company.”
“Yes, of course, Mrs. Abney.” Yuli gathers her things and kisses my sweaty cheek. I want to reach out, touch her shoulder, tell her not to leave. But she slips away before I can say anything.
“Bette, freshen up,” my mother says once I reach the top of the stairs. She’s perched over the kitchen island and halfway through a glass of red wine. She points it up in the air, directing me to my room.
I go upstairs and take off my leotard and tights. I gaze out the window and look down on Sixty-ninth Street to see if there’s a car parked out front that I might recognize. Nothing. I take a two-second shower, change into a dress, then ease down the front staircase. Justina squeezes through the French doors in the living room.
“Who is it?” I whisper.
“Man from your school, I think. And a lady.” She pulls my hair away from my shoulders, smoothing it. Her fingers are warm, her touch light. “Be my good girl in there, okay?”
I peek through the French doors before committing to opening them. The back of Mr. Lucas’s blond head stares back at me. I nearly choke.
“Oh, there you are.” My mother waves me in.
I take a deep breath and exhale, like I’m standing in the wings, preparing to take my place center stage. I step into the room and sit across from him.
A man like Mr. Lucas doesn’t just show up at your house unannounced. He’s with a woman who isn’t his wife. She’s got one of those haircuts meant to make her look older, more sophisticated, less hot in a beach-babe way. She probably wants to get people to pay attention to more than just her very blond hair and the fact that her shirt is a tad too tight, showing off her large breasts.
“Hello, Bette.” Ballerinas are mostly flat-chested, so I’m lucky not to have her problem.
“Hi, Mr. Lucas.” I dig my nail into one of the curved rosewood armrests, leaving a half-moon shape behind. One evening, not long from now, my mother will settle into this high-backed chair in front of the fire and ask Justina for her nightly glass of wine. She will run shaky, wine-drunk fingers across the indentations and yell about it.
“This is my new assistant, Rachel.” He motions at the young woman. She gives me a slight smile. He unfolds a thick bundle of papers and flashes them at me. “Your mother showed me this.” He’s holding the settlement agreement. All the things I supposedly did to Gigi are spelled out in black and white. The little typed script makes them look sicker, more disgusting and official than they actually were.
“You know, I still don’t understand how any of this happened.” His brow crinkles in the same way Alec’s does when he’s confused.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out because that’s what the Abney family therapist told me to lead with. I flash him a half smile. I try to show him I’m a different Bette. That I’ve learned whatever lesson they’ve been trying to teach me. That I’m ready to go back to normal now.
“Do you know what you’re sorry for?”
“Messing with Gigi.”
My mother steps in. “Dominic, we don’t need to go back through this entire incident. That can’t be why you came here.”
“It’s okay, Mom. I’m taking responsibility for my part.”
“Things have been settled, and you didn’t—”
“Mom, it’s fine.” It feels good to clip off her words the way she’s done to mine so many times. She takes hurried sips from her wineglass and motions Justina over with the bottle. Mr. Lucas’s assistant shifts uncomfortably in her seat and tugs at her shirt. Mr. Lucas refuses a glass of wine or any of the expensive cheese my mother goads Justina into offering.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t tragic,” he says in the gentlest way possible. The words hurt even more when they hit me softly. The sting burns long into the silence in the room.
“Can I come back to school?” I ask.
“No,” he says, and his assistant looks at me like I’m this fragile thing that might break at any moment. “We’ve deliberated long and hard, and we still can’t let you return. Not at this point.”
“But—” My mother rises out of her chair.
“What would it take?” My eyes bore into his. I hold my body perfectly still but my heartbeat hammers in my ears. I lift my rib cage and drop my shoulders like I’m ready to jump off this chair into the most beautiful firebird leap he’s ever seen.
“This”—he shakes the papers—“doesn’t fix it. Not all of it. Not by a long shot. I don’t understand you girls. The boys don’t behave this way.”
He’s right. But I want to remind him of how different it is to be a female dancer, treated like we’re completely replaceable by choreographers, while the boys are praised for their unique genius, their dedication to being a male ballet dancer when the world might think it’s unmasculine. He rubs a hand over his face and passes the settlement papers back to my mother.
“I didn’t push Gigi.” My words echo in the room. They feel heavy, like they’re my very last words.
“If you’re innocent, prove it.”
I can. I will.
2.
Gigi
STUDIO D BUZZES LIKE DRAGONFLIES swarming in the September sunshine. Everyone’s chatting about summer intensives, their new roommates, and their ballet mistresses. The parents are comparing ballet season tickets or grumbling about the rise in school tuition this year. New petit rats storm the treat tables, and other little ones steal glances, cupping their hands over their mouths. I hear my name whispered in small voices. None of the other Level 8 girls are here.
Just me.
I should be upstairs, unpacking with the rest of the girls on my floor. I should be breaking in new ballet shoes to prepare for class. I should be getting ready for the most important year of my life.
Mama’s hand reaches for mine. “Gigi, please be an active participant in this discussion.” I’m back to reality, where Mama has Mr. K pinned in the studio corner. He looks pained. “Mr. K, what have you put in place so that Gigi is safe?”
“Mrs. Stewart, why don’t you set up an appointment? We can go into more detail than we did in our last phone call.”
Mama throws her hands up in the air. “Our last conversation was all of ten minutes. Your phone calls have been—how can I put it? Lackluster. You wanted her back here. She wanted to be back here. You told me she’d be safe. I am still unconvinced.”
Her complaints have been following me around like a storm cloud. Why would you ever want to go back to that place? The school is rife with bullying! Ballet isn’t worth all this heartache.
A younger dancer walks past me and she whispers to her friend, “She doesn’t look hurt.”
I look at my profile in one of the studio mirrors. I trace my finger along the scar that peeks out from the edge of my shorts. It’s almost a perfect line down my left leg, a bright pink streak through the brown.