“Henri told me that Sei-Jin’s the one who did that.”
I drop her arms. She sits up. Her face is calm despite the hugeness of what she’s just said to me. “What did you say?”
“That Henri overheard Sei-Jin bragging about the glass in your shoe.” She doesn’t break eye contact with me.
“How could he just hear something like that?” I’ve never done anything to Sei-Jin. I’ve barely even spoken to her.
“He’s good like that. People pretty much ignored him last year. Didn’t realize he was even around, let alone listening.” She lets her arms glide over her head and down to her ankles. “I just thought you should know, in the interest of us, you know, being in the same situation.”
Girls shuffle down the hall as ballet classes begin. Cassie and I stand up and walk into Studio B. She rests a hand on my shoulder before we enter. “I know exactly how you feel.”
I follow her into the studio. The space is just as I remember it. Clear glass walls, smooth floor, sunshine streaking through, the scent of tights and ballet shoes and a little bit of morning sweat. Chairs hug the front mirror. Viktor sits at his piano, tinkling the keys to warm up. Next to him, perched on a chair, is Madame Dorokhova—already making notes about us. A little flutter bursts in my chest. Why is a company director here on the first day of class?
The other girls cluster along the walls, stretching their muscles, hydrating, and sewing ribbons and elastics onto new pointe shoes.
I scan the room. I make eye contact with Eleanor. She smiles but quickly drops her gaze. Her face looks the same—round, rosy, with impossibly bright and hopeful eyes. I don’t smile back at anyone. I want them to know I’m not the same girl anymore. I want them to be afraid of what I might do.
There are new girls: another brownish girl named Isabela from Brazil, and a new Japanese girl, Riho, who seems to have been adopted by the other Asian girls. Maybe if they had taken me in, I’d have a group. I look for June, but she’s not with them, of course. She never was. I see Sei-Jin. She smiles. Cassie’s words echo inside me. Anger simmers.
I turn away.
“Hey, Gigi. Welcome back,” a few voices say. I don’t return their warmth. I ignore them. I find a spot to plop down and get a final stretch in. I feel eyes on me, but focus my attention on loosening my hamstrings and making sure my hips are open.
A foot touches my leg and I look up. It’s June. She’s smiling down at me. No, beaming. It catches me off guard—the smile is gracious and real, like it’s coming from deep down inside. I get up and we just stand there, staring at each other for what feels like a long moment. Then she wraps her arms around me and the hug feels so out of place. I don’t know what to do with my arms and head. I try to sink into it, to find a place to rest my worries, and finally she just pulls me closer and tucks me in, as if she knows. She feels softer than before. More comfortable.
“How are you?” Her words rub against the nook of my neck.
“Okay.”
She pulls back and opens her mouth several times, the words stuck in her throat.
“It’s good to see you,” I say, so that she will stop wrestling with whatever she’s trying to tell me and just be. “How was your summer?”
“Good. You look a lot better,” she says, tentative. “Stronger.”
“I’m great.” I can feel the others listening in. “Brand-new.”
“I’m—” she starts, but a round of claps cut her off. Mr. K strides into the studio. Our female teachers trail behind him, Morkie first, then Pavlovich. Madame Dorokhova hugs Mr. K briefly, then she settles into her seat again.
The rest of us stand, smoothing our buns, and shuffle into the middle of the studio, ready to listen, ready to dance. I remember why I love this so much—the routine, the discipline, the elegance.
“Welcome to the most important year of your life,” Mr. K says with a flourish of his hands. We all clap and bow. “You all are reaching the pinnacle of your career as students entering Level 8. And this year, some of you will transition into the realm of professional dancers.” He paces around the front of the studio, rubbing his goatee. “You must love it. That’s the only way through the rigors you will face this coming year. Love.”
The group starts to part as he enters our flock. I feel his strong gaze on my face. He’s towering over me again, and I flash back to the first casting last year, the moment that started me on this difficult path.
“And speaking of it, let’s welcome back moya korichnevaya, Giselle,” he says.
Brown butterfly.
I think of my own fluttering butterflies, slaughtered and sacrificed and pinned to my room wall, and I can’t stop the shudder that shoots through me. He kisses both my cheeks, takes my hand like we’re preparing to do a pas onstage. I wonder if he notices that it’s shaking. He leads me to the front of the studio. He turns me. “You are resilient,” he almost shouts, then faces everyone. “That’s what ballet is all about.”
I do a deep curtsy down to the floor before he reaches for me again. Morkie squeezes my hand and kisses me.
“You are better,” she says, shaking my hand. “You look good and strong.” I want her words to sink into my skin and down into my muscles and bones, which still feel so fragile and out of practice.
Mr. K goes back into the group and pulls out Cassie. “Another one has returned to us.” He presents her. She does a spin. “Cassandra Lucas. I’d thought I’d lost this butterfly long ago.” He lifts her by the waist and twirls her. She winks in my direction. Everyone claps again before he leaves to go next door to the boys’ studio.
We start class at the barre with Morkie hovering around us. Right away I can feel the difference—my tendus are not as smooth, my relevés are not as high on my left foot. I’ve been working all summer, but I have a long way to go. As much as I tell myself that nothing’s changed, my confidence plummets. I can feel Madame Dorokhova’s eyes on me, curious, judging.
Morkie doesn’t say a word. She notes every little fault in the other dancers, but she skips right over me, not mentioning even my stumble as we make piqué turns across the floor. She’s trying to make me feel better about all this, but it’s just making me feel worse.
After class I wait for June, thinking we can go to the café and fill each other in on our summers. But she rushes out without a word. In the hall, I see Jayhe. He kisses her, lacing his fingers through hers, and they head for the lobby. When did that become official? Was I just not paying attention? I think back to the end of last year, and my head starts to hurt. I remember Jayhe’s face at the club after the gala. I remember seeing them together and Sei-Jin being upset. I remember wondering if June actually liked him or if it was just a ploy to make Sei-Jin angry. I remember Alec walking in front of me, and trying to catch up.
I stop in the middle of the crowd of dancers. The noise of their feet and chattering voices, the pings of the elevators, piano chords escaping other studios, it all drains away and the faces blur around me. I can feel my feet slipping out from under me, feel myself plunging forward into the darkness, all of me shattering, just like on that night. The night when everything changed. I back into the nearest wall, desperate to cling on to something.