Home > Shiny Broken Pieces(8)

Shiny Broken Pieces(8)
Author: Sona Charaipotra

I pace around the room for what feels like hours. That night floods back to me—dressing up June to come with us to the club, the cab down to SoHo, seeing Gigi dance with Alec. I remember trying to be nice to her and buying her a drink, making a truce, and owning up to some of the petty things I did. I think through every step I took that night after we left the gala, like it’s a difficult variation I have to learn. In slow motion, I try to recall every detail again: the slur in Gigi’s laugh as she and Alec were tripping on cobblestones in front of us. The spring mistiness in the May air. Alec’s hand resting on the small of Gigi’s back as we walked toward the street. The look on Will’s face as he caught that same moment. It must have mirrored mine.

And then, the light shifting from red to green as Gigi stumbled forward, traffic taking her with it. I shudder at the memory, so vivid in my mind.

“Who hates me?” I say out into the room.

A voice inside answers: Everyone.

Tears prick my eyes. I shake my head. This is not the time to fall apart. My mother would say Abney women never fall apart. I pull my hair out of my face, sweep it up into an easy knot. It is trained to behave even without the bobby pins and hair spray and water.

I pore through the papers again, trying to figure out who could have done this. The obvious choice: Cassie. But Cassie wasn’t there that night. Henri made his intent to destroy me clear last year, with Cassie as his impetus for the whole thing. And I can’t remember where he was standing. The feeling that I’m right is overwhelming as it bubbles up inside me, ready to erupt.

All the evidence I really need is inside the dorms because everyone is there.

I have to find a way back.

 

 

5.


Gigi


A MAGIC SORT OF FEELING zips through me as I change for ballet class. The sounds of slippered feet and laughter push through the thin walls of my room. Doors open and close. The ping of the elevator echoes. I can feel the excitement of the girls getting ready for afternoon ballet class.

I pull on tights and try to figure out if you can see my scar through the pink. Just a little. I pack my dance bag, which is now outfitted with one of Mama’s ugly suitcase locks. I sew the key into the lining of my leotard so that it’s close. It makes me wonder whatever happened to the little rose charm Alec gave me last year for luck. It’s long gone.

I put on my heart monitor. Everyone knows about it now. I don’t care anymore. I text Alec that I’ll see him downstairs and receive a smiley face back. I filter through all my social media feeds. First-day-of-ballet-class posts fill the screen. Good luck messages and pictures of pointe shoes flash. I check various students’ feeds: Eleanor, June, Will, Alec, new girl Isabela, even Bette. I let my guard down last year, and it nearly killed me. This year, I plan to know exactly what everyone’s up to.

I skip going to the café for lunch and head straight down to the first-floor studios instead. I can’t eat anyway. My stomach is a tangle of nerves.

The lobby is thick with bodies. Moms and dads drop off their petit rats for afternoon ballet. Little dancers zip around in a chaos of white, red, yellow, and green leotards, looking for their ballet class locations. Parents position themselves outside the glass walls of the studios, hoping for a prime watching spot. For a small moment, I wish Mama was still here, fussing with my hair, slicking down the edges so they won’t frizz. She used to love to watch me dance, and she’d bring me to the studio early and stretch alongside me. Then she’d peer through the glass, ignoring the other watching mothers who tried to chat with her, focusing on me. She’d always ask me how it felt to move like that. She used to like ballet then.

One of the moms stares at me. She nudges the woman beside her. They cup their hands over their mouths, exchange looks, and whisper. A few others have now spotted me. Some of their faces bear weak half smiles or pitying grimaces. I want to elongate my arm and break out into the deepest arabesque penchée they’ve ever seen. A full 180-degree standing split right above their heads. They’ll know nothing’s wrong with me after that.

The elevator opens. I just see the blondness—a familiar golden halo—and it feels like I’m seeing a ghost.

I step back. A knot twists in my stomach. My heart beats faster. The little monitor on my wrist vibrates.

I tell myself, You are not afraid of Bette. She should be afraid of you.

But it isn’t Bette. It’s Cassie.

“Hey,” she says.

Their resemblance is unnerving.

“Hey,” I finally manage. We’ve never spoken before.

“I’m Cassie. You must be Gigi.” She grins, and in that moment I can see the difference between her and Bette. “I’ve heard we have a lot in common. I mean, besides my awesome cousin Alec, of course.”

“We do.”

Her eyebrows lift in a telling way. Dancers stare at us from their stretching spots as we walk down the corridor toward Studio B. When we pass the front office, Madame Yelena Dorokhova—one of the company directors—steps out. She’s dressed in dancewear and is tapping away at the tablet in her hands. Instantly, every girl in the hall sinks into a deep révérence, bowing her head in respect. The teachers command a presidential authority here. I’m in awe of her. After all, she is a former principal at ABC and danced fifteen years as one. I can’t help but smile. She smiles back. She’s beautiful—dark hair, dark eyes, pale white skin. She nods, and we all disperse, like we’ve been unpaused by a remote.

Cassie and I scurry toward Studio B. We drop our stuff in the hall and plop down. She fingers the suitcase lock on my bag. “Smart. I should do that, too.”

“Yeah.” I look at her profile as she sinks into a deep stretch and realize that she’s the only other person in this building, in this entire city, in the entire world, who knows the exact shape my life took last year. “I guess I was the new you.”

“You’re not kidding.” She faces me. “Did you find out who did all those things to you?”

“Yes. And you?” A strange web of energy grows around us. We’re complete opposites, and yet we’re exactly the same—the hurt, the fear, the anger connects us.

“Yes.”

Neither of us says her name.

“I had my boyfriend, Henri, investigate a little. You know, to confirm everything. I was so naïve when I first got here. I didn’t realize how far people would go just to dance.”

I nod and think of Henri, that weird intensity in his eyes and the surprising softness in his touch. It makes me shiver.

She helps me stretch forward. “We should keep each other informed.” The word lands in my bun. I nod, then inhale and exhale. I lift up and pull her forward toward me. Her hands are soft yet strong, and she smells like hair spray and baby powder and resin. Like Bette. But she’s not, I remind myself. She’s not.

“Henri told me you were always so nice,” Cassie says. We open our legs into a stretch, touching our feet together. I wonder if he told her that he kissed me. Just my cheek, but still. I wonder if that was part of his investigating. “How’s your foot? He told me what happened with the toe shoes. Also, the whole ballet school online world.”

“Brand-new.” I flex my foot. Aside from a tiny scar, you’d never know shards of glass had pierced the skin and muscle.

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