“No,” I say. It just slips out.
“What did you say?”
There’s silence. Korean kids aren’t supposed to talk back to their parents. Only white kids do that—and being half-white still doesn’t afford me that privilege. I hear her breathing accelerate. Whether she’s willing to admit it or not—and usually she’s not—dancing is in my blood. I may not have the white-blond hair or crystal blue eyes, but I belong here just as much as Bette or Eleanor or even Alec.
“You danced,” I whisper, slightly afraid she might reach through the phone and slap me.
She clears her throat and I know she’s smoothing the front of her ironed skirt and trying to remain composed. Sometimes I wish she’d tell me what it was like when she danced here, or share those tips only veteran ballerinas know. I wish she’d put on one of the old leotards she hides under her bed and dance with me in a studio.
I listen to her breathe for three more beats. She finally speaks: “What did you have for dinner last night? Stay away from that fatty American food. I’ll drop off jap-chae and baechu gook.” And there she goes, burying her secret, the thing my mother will deny until the day she dies. “Maybe Hye-Ji can tutor you in math again. I was speaking to her mother. Mrs. Yi says that Sei-Jin and the other girls always ask you to their parties, but you never go. Sei-Jin and Hye-Ji are nice, pretty girls.”
Sei-Jin is not a nice girl. Deep down, neither am I. Our moms think we’re sweet and obedient kids, behaving just how we would if we’d been born and raised in Korea. Sei-Jin and I used to be roommates and best friends. My heart squeezes a little, even though I don’t want it to. I glance at Sei-Jin’s room door, our old room door, and remember how close we used to be. I haven’t had a real friend since her.
I tell my mom a lie. “I went to one tea that Sei-Jin had. And they all spoke Korean the whole time. And really fast. I couldn’t keep up.”
“That’s your own fault,” she interrupts, not taking any of the blame for the way she raised me. I know little Korean phrases, all the foods, and just enough to eavesdrop during her Korean social events, but not enough for a full conversation, which is depressing when I think too long about it. “I raise your allowance, you take a language class. Will help on college applications. Oh, also, you sign up for the SAT? The academic counselor says one is in late October and . . .”
“I have rehearsals for three hours every night for the next two months,” I say, quietly seething. “I told you, I’m the understudy for the Sugar Plum Fairy.”
“Understudy,” she says with disdain. I want to give her the understudy speech Morkie gives after every casting: that I could be thrown in last minute, that I was picked because I’m a fast learner, that I can handle the pressure of dancing the role for the first time live, that it’s an enormous responsibility.
“E-Jun, that’s all you’ll ever be. They’ll never cast an Asian in the lead. You accept that. The Russians never did, even when I was there. . . .” She pauses, tucking those secrets back in. “Better start working on getting into good college now.”
“They cast a black girl as the Sugar Plum Fairy. My roommate, Gigi,” I say, not really sure if that made things worse or better. Point is I didn’t get the role.
Silence follows again. She says the word understudy again. I can hear her disappointment turn to anger. “I’m serious now, E-Jun,” she says. “No more nonsense. Time to focus. This will be your last year if you can’t be any better than understudy. No more dancing. You’ll be going to the public school in our neighborhood.” Then she simply hangs up, not even waiting for me to argue or to say good-bye. Listening to her talk about dance, you’d never know she’d walked through these very halls, lived in one of these tiny dorm rooms, danced in the studios, was part of the company. But something happened, something bad, and she never told me why she’d stopped.
She’s since become a successful businesswoman, importing high-quality dancewear from Korea, and she wants me to follow in her footsteps and eventually take over. That is the Korean way. What little of it that I know. She raised me all alone—her parents disowned her for staying here and having me. I’m all she’s got. So part of me knows I should obey her. Be a good daughter. Go home on weekends, and shop with her at the Korean markets on Saturdays, attend church with her on Sundays, and return to the time when I used to curl up in her bed like a little spoon in front of her.
But the thought of going to a public school unnerves me, making me want to throw up again. Now, the bathroom is full of girls getting ready for ballet class, and my stomach is basically empty. So I head to the Light instead. It’s a little storage closet at the end of the eleventh-floor girls’ hall that’s become a confessional booth of sorts. No one knows who started it. But it’s been here forever. Wallpapered with a collage of pictures, kind of like a living, breathing picture feed—from famous ballerinas to gorgeous costumes to the perfect arched foot to anonymously posted inspirational quotes and messages. Even things from the ’80s. There’s a tiny TV and DVD player, and a cabinet filled with discs of the greatest ballets ever performed, if one needs some inspiration. And I could definitely use some.
I slip inside, still reeling from the conversation with my mom.
If I can just have one chance, I know I can do this. I am a prima ballerina. I just have to make them see. I have to make my mom see. I can’t leave the conservatory. I won’t. The Sugar Plum Fairy is my shot. Maybe my only one. The understudy is just one little step away from the lead. I’ve got to make it happen. No matter what. I fight off my thoughts about Gigi, how we sometimes stay up late watching old sitcoms and online videos of classic ballets, how she’s always leaving me little notes and flowers. This is too important. This is my career.
I riffle through my duffle bag for my compact, and my old jewelry box distracts me. A gift from a father I’ve never met. It fits perfectly in my palm. I carry it with me everywhere I go, a promise that I will someday find him. I run my fingers along the back, winding the tiny key and opening the lid to watch the little ballerina twirl. Muyongga, dancer. The sweet melody reminds me of all the things I love about ballet: the control, the beauty, the music. In ballet, I can work on things over and over and over again until I achieve them, training my muscles until my body submits to what I want. It doesn’t matter who my family is or if I have friends or if guys like me—only what my body can do.
A copy of the cast list is up on the wall, alongside ones from previous years. I see Gigi’s name above mine. I stare until the typed letters blur, until I can see my name above hers. I can’t be invisible anymore. No matter how nice Gigi might be to me.
The staring contest with the wall helps me calm down, the conversation I just had with my mom drifting away. I won’t give up. I’ll push someone out of the way to get it. I pick up a marker from the floor. My hand shakes. Guilt creeps into me, but on the wall, in bold black ink, I write: Gigi should watch her back.