A reminder.
Mama thinks the scar might never go away completely, even though she bought cases of vitamin E oil and cocoa butter cream made for brown skin. I don’t want it to go away. I want to remember what happened to me. Sometimes if I close my eyes too long or run my finger down the scar’s raised crease, I’m right back on those cobblestoned streets, hearing the metal-crunching sounds when the taxi hit me, the faint blare of sirens, or the steady beep of the hospital monitors when I woke up.
I flush with rage, hot and simmering just under my skin.
I will figure out who did this to me. I will hurt the person who pushed me. I will make them feel what I went through.
Mama touches my shoulder. “Gigi, participate in this conversation.”
I watch her anger grow.
“She’s still in the hall with all those girls.” Mama’s tone is pointed.
“Each student lives on a floor with the others in their level. The Level 8 hall has been traditionally the most sought after of them all,” Mr. K says in that soothing voice he uses with benefactors and board members. “We wouldn’t want to isolate her.”
“She is already isolated by virtue of what she looks like and what happened to her.”
“Mama, it’s fine. It’s where I need to—” She shushes me.
Parents turn their attention to us. In this room, Mama sticks out like a wildflower in a vase of tulips, in her flowy white dhoti pants, tunic, and Birkenstocks. They all take in Mama’s exasperated hand gestures and facial expressions, and how calm Mr. K remains under all her pressure. He even smiles at her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, like he’s inviting her into a pas de deux.
“I assure you that we’re doing everything we can to make sure she is safe. She even has her own room this year—”
“Yes, and that is much appreciated, but what else? Will there be a schoolwide program initiated to address bullying? Will teachers be more mindful in addressing incidents? Will security cameras monitor—”
“Aside from Gigi having her own personal guard, we will do as much as we’re able to,” he says.
She jumps like his words are an explosion and shakes her head, her billowy afro moving. “Do you hear that, Giselle? They don’t care. Is ballet really worth all this trouble?”
I touch her arm. “Mama, just stop. We’ve had this conversation a million times.” A flush of embarrassment heats every part of my body. “Please trust me. I have to be here.”
No one moves. Mama’s eyes wash over me. I chew on the inside of my cheek, afraid that she’ll change her mind and take me back to California. I want to tell her that she doesn’t understand what ballet means to me. I want to remind her that I almost lost the ability to dance. I want to tell her that I can’t let Bette and the others win. I want to tell her that I’m stronger than before, and that those girls will pay for what they did. I have been thinking about it since the day I left the hospital. Nothing like what happened last year will happen to me again. I won’t let it.
Mr. K winks at me and moves to stand beside me. He places a very warm hand on my shoulder. “She’s moya korichnevaya. She’s strong. I need her here. She was missed during summer intensives.”
His words fill up the empty bits of me. The tiny broken parts that needed a summer of healing, the ones that needed to know I am important here. I am supposed to be dancing. I am supposed to be one of the great ballerinas.
It took all summer to heal from a bruised rib, fractured leg, and the small tear in my liver. I stayed in Brooklyn with Aunt Leah and Mama, dealing with countless X-rays and doctor visits, weekly CAT scans and concussion meds, physical therapy twice a day after getting out of my cast. And, of course, counseling to talk about my feelings about the accident.
I worked too hard to get back to this building.
Mama touches the side of my face. “Fine, fine.” She pivots to face Mr. K. “I want weekly check-ins with you. You will have to make yourself available.” He walks Mama to the beverage table. She’s smiling a little. It’s a tiny victory.
Warm hands find my waist. I whip around. Alec’s grinning back at me. I practically leap into his arms. He smells a little like sunscreen.
“They’re calling you the comeback kid, but can I just call you my girlfriend?”
I laugh at his terrible attempt at a joke. Young dancers look up from combing through their colorful orientation folders, full of papers that list their current ballet levels, new uniform requirements, and dorm room assignments. I grab him and push my tongue deep into his mouth, giving them something to stare at.
I didn’t get to see Alec a lot this summer. Dance intensives kept him too busy. Phone calls and video chatting and texting took the place of hanging out. I almost forgot what he tasted like, felt like, smelled like.
He pulls back from kissing me. “I’ve been texting you.”
“My mom’s been interrogating Mr. K.” I point behind me. Mama and Mr. K are still talking.
He groans. “Wouldn’t want to be him.”
“Nope.”
“You all right?”
“I’m great.” I stand a little taller.
“Nervous about being back?”
“No,” I say, louder than I mean to.
He touches my cheek. My heart thuds. The monitor around my wrist hums.
“I’ve missed you.” He takes my hands in his and turns me like we’re starting a grand pas. He lifts me a little, so I’m on my toes. My Converse sneakers let me spin like I’m on pointe. It feels good to partner and dance, even if it’s just playing around. Being hurt made me miss dancing every single day.
Everyone clears away, giving us some space. Enthralled, they watch us.
We do the grand pas from The Nutcracker. Our bodies know every step, turn, and lift without the music. I can hear it in the rhythm of his feet and how he reaches for me. Invisible beats guide our hands, arms, and legs. The music plays inside me. He sweeps me into a fish dive.
“You’re even better than you were before,” Alec whispers as he brings me back down, his mouth close to my ear.
His words sink deep into my skin, making it feel like it’s on fire. The room claps for us. Mr. K beams. Mama smiles.
No one will take this away from me ever again.
3.
June
IT’S LATE BY THE TIME Jayhe and I finally get to school. Jayhe double-parks his dad’s delivery van and hops out to unload my stuff. Usually my mother drops me off, and we suffer the whole hour trek in from Queens in an uneasy silence, her disapproval seeping into every nook and cranny of her silver car and my brain.
But this year, everything is different.
I have a boyfriend. Now that I know about Mr. Lucas, my mother doesn’t have the power to control me anymore. My hard work is finally paying off. Summer intensives went well, and I’m ready to be on top this year. It’s finally my time. I plan to enjoy it.
I look up at the towering buildings that surround Lincoln Center. The conservatory sits nestled in the northwest corner of the complex, in the shadow of the most beloved performance space in the most important city in the world. Sometimes I still have to pinch myself to believe this is actually my life—that at this time next year, I’ll be one of two apprentices at the American Ballet Company. Well, if all goes according to plan, anyway.