“Okay,” I said.
“I don’t—I’m not—” Her voice broke. “I was just—”
“Of course not,” I said. Korean girls don’t kiss other Korean girls. They kiss boys. They marry boys. I wanted to ask more, wanted to know why she kissed me and what was really going on. To let her know that she’d be okay, no matter what. That I’d be there for her.
“It’s all right. All of it—” I started to say, but she put her hand up, and I had to go.
Before the end of that day, Sei-Jin asked the RAs to move me out of our room, and a week later a rumor surfaced. That I was a lesbian and she didn’t want to live with me anymore. My mother was called, and the guidance counselor lectured me about making other students feel uncomfortable.
Sei-Jin’s wearing that same shade of lipstick now, and I bet her mouth tastes like it did all those years ago. A mix of lipstick and grapefruit and tea. Probably a lot like mine does, actually.
“You’re always second favorite, aren’t you?” Sei-Jin says, taking a step closer to me.
Sei-Jin’s sweet perfume wraps around me. She bats her big eyes. “Understudy for Gigi. No one’s first choice. You think you’re so great, but no one else does, huh?” Her eyes narrow.
That hits. My momentary quick wit vanishes, and I fidget, trying to squirm out from under her gaze. It only hurts when it’s true, I guess. I feel the jewelry box shift in my duffle bag and hear the tinkle of its insides. I don’t know if she’s thinking of my father, too, but I can’t help myself. The only thing my mom ever said about him was that he started a new family, one he prefers more than us. What Sei-Jin says is true in more ways than one.
Of all the things she’s called me—a bitch, a poser, a wannabe-white girl—this is the worst. Understudy. I remember my mom’s words on the phone. And her threat. If I can’t do better, I’m getting pulled out.
“Nobody wants you,” Sei-Jin says.
I want to say that she wanted me. I want to bring up the kiss. Which I never have. Not in all these years. But I don’t. I’ve kept her little secret.
Jayhe says something to her in Korean. She stops.
“You already won,” I say at last. Sei-Jin doesn’t know what to do with that. I want Jayhe to see her as the bad one. The other girls throw a few Korean insults my way, and even though I can translate some of it and know how rude they’re being, they can’t come close to hurting me the way Sei-Jin just did. Sei-Jin hushes them, waving her hand in their direction the way I’ve seen Bette do to Eleanor and Liz. She really is trying to model herself after Queen Bette, and she’s pulling it off. The girls quiet instantly.
I turn to retreat into the studio.
“I found this,” Sei-Jin says, and reaches into her own bag. Something glints in her hand, and I know immediately what it is. My missing compact. She knows how important it is to me. It’s always in my bag or on my desk. I imagine her riffling through my room. I grab for it, like a child, and am surprised when she lets me have it. Her mouth twitches, holding back a smile. I open the compact, but inside the mirror is broken, and the glass has cut the perfect little powder cake. It’s destroyed.
“Oops,” Sei-Jin says.
The hall is now full of dancers and they all must be watching, because the space is silent and I feel the heat of a dozen pairs of eyes on my face.
Jayhe says something else. Sei-Jin and he spar back and forth. I wonder if it’s about me. I click the compact closed, wondering if I can glue the tiny mirror back together again.
Morkie sweeps everyone into the studio for class. We warm up, complete our barre exercises, then Morkie makes us do fouetté turns in the center. I go to the front of the class, squeezing between some of the other girls. I spread out my arms to get them to move. Some grumble. Others mutter under their breath. I don’t care. I want her to see me turn.
The music starts. The other girls around me finish their four turns. Just what Morkie asked for. But I can’t stop. I spin and spin and spin, stamping out the conversation I had with Sei-Jin. I do one revolution for every insult and mean word.
I feel eyes on me for the first time. Morkie walks in front of me. The other girls move away from me. I know they want me to stop. I know they’re thinking that I should’ve just done the four turns Morkie asked for. I am alone in the center. A spinning top.
I’ve lost count of how many I’ve done. I finally come down off my leg.
“Bravo!” Morkie says. She calls me dedicated in front of everyone. She says my fouettés are perfect. Usually, I’m a ghost to her and all the teachers. Not worth noticing. But not today. I took the risk. I pushed myself to show off a little.
Everyone claps for me, except for Sei-Jin. Some rub my back and give me compliments that don’t feel fake or ridiculously transparent. Gigi squeezes me so tight I feel like I can’t breathe. She grins like she’s proud she gets to live with me. I fight the warm feelings it gives me. I even see Mr. Lucas, Alec’s dad, watching from behind the glass wall—which he almost never does. He gives me a strange little smile and nod.
When I curtsy and return to the barre, I catch Jayhe’s eyes on me through the glass. He’s standing instead of sitting now. I hold his stare for what feels like an eternity, then turn my back, trying to fight off a smirk, the weight of his gaze heavy on my slim shoulders. Not so invisible anymore.
I know what I’m going to do to Sei-Jin.
10
Gigi
I’VE BEEN VISITING THE MIRROR in studio E every night, looking for the edges of the message Bette left me. The girls told me it was her, and probably Liz, and maybe Eleanor, too. It was cleaned off days ago. Everyone else seems to have forgotten the way it looked, but I hear the threat in my head like my performance music. Each time it repeats, I get more determined to be the best Sugar Plum Fairy, more determined not to give into the ugliness and pettiness of it all.
I take the elevator to the first floor. Then I take the stairs to my basement room.
It’s empty, aside from dust bunnies in the corners and the creaks and clacks of the old radiator and the buzzing of nearly dead lightbulbs. But I get lost in the mirror in this room, too. I can’t move, can’t close my eyes to meditate, just keep looking at my reflection. Mama always says it’s unnatural to spend a lot of time in front of the mirror, that it calls out the worst of us. But for a dancer, the mirror is home.
I try to focus and imagine myself filling with light, the way I did in yoga class with Ella back home. I want the beams to erase the message and all my worries about it. Then I lift one of my legs, first to the barre, and then toward my ear. I want to become one straight, impossible line, from my left toe on the ground all the way to my right toe in the air. But my body isn’t responding as it usually does. There’s a little ache in my heart. I can’t decide if I’d prefer it to be over Alec or something medical. I’m not sure which is more dangerous.