It all comes down to this: the casting of The Nutcracker. The first ballet of the school year. This one starts the game. I can’t wait to finally be in it.
By now, the American Ballet Conservatory is more like home than the two-bedroom apartment in Flushing that I shared with my mom. I know the studios, the academic classrooms, the café, the student lounge, my corner bedroom. I know that the elevator won’t take you to floors thirteen to eighteen. I know every staircase exit that lets you onto boys’ dorm floors, all the dancers in the black-and-white photographs, quiet places to study or dark corners to hide from the RAs, the best places to stretch or make out. Not that I’m doing much making out. Or any, really.
The lobby crowd thickens with more adult bodies. Parents. Someone opened the door for them. They’re here to pick up the petit rats or to nose around to find out who got what role. When Mr. K’s ex-wife Galina, a retired Paris Opera ballerina, was here, she’d block the door and gather us—her petit rats—all around her, willing us to be silent as we watched the older girls get cast. Any serious dancer tells their parents to stay in the far hallway or, even better, just wait by the phone. Mr. K doesn’t like when we act like children who need mommies. We may be young, he says, but we’re supposed to be professionals.
My parents are not here, of course. My mom refuses to set foot in the atrium. When she does come, she just pulls up out front of the school and makes me take the rice cakes, the endless packs of seaweed and tea she’s brought for me from the car. And I don’t have a father.
Gigi’s big-haired aunt keeps inching closer and closer to us students, and I can hear her talking. It’s distracting me from hearing Mr. K explain how difficult it was for him to choose student roles this semester. I let my eyes burn into the back of Gigi’s head. I want to tell her that she should’ve clued her aunt in and told her not to talk until after the cast list is revealed. I want to whisper under my breath, joyonghae—be quiet—just like my mom always does. I need to hear every word out of Mr. K’s mouth. His announcement will show how far I’ve come, what he thinks of me now.
Mr. K pauses and the parents clap awkwardly. He nods, placing a finger to his mouth. Maybe he’ll add something new. Probably not. I could give the spiel myself. And I know his cast list before his little blond assistant tacks up the page.
Gigi shakes in front of me, trembles working their way down her back and legs. She’s like one of the petit rats at the front of the pack. I feel her fear and excitement. Mr. K will cast her as Arabian Coffee, just like the other brown girl from two years ago. Gigi’s exotic like her. Can’t even remember her name, she gave up so quickly once it all got tough. She complained it was so lonely being the only black girl at school. Try being the only half-Asian ballerina. Not quite right anywhere. That’s tough. And Mr. K’s just predictable enough to put minorities in ethnic roles. He’ll cast the pack of Korean girls as Chinese Tea. But my face isn’t Asian enough to join them. And I wouldn’t want to. I want to be as far away from them as possible.
Everyone knows Bette Abney will be the Sugar Plum Fairy. Ever since her sister landed it when we were kids, no one has stopped talking about her performance. And the mean girls always get what they want here. Bette isn’t anywhere near as luminous as Adele, but that’s what Mr. K will do. Her feet are good—quick and light—and she is undeniably elegant. Even though we aren’t friends (and never have been, nor will be), I actually wouldn’t mind seeing her as the Sugar Plum Fairy if I had to lose the role. Bette has a razor-sharp edge. It’s a fascinating contrast to her sweet, doll-like face and stately pedigree.
Her lapdog roommate Eleanor will be her understudy and nothing else, of course. And Bette’s clone, Liz Walsh, stands two bodies away from me, in consummate formation. Chest out, soft hands at her sides, and feet in first position. Her body ballet perfect. An icy brunette, she’ll be just right for the Snow Queen.
But even though she looks relaxed, Liz’s eyes are wild, darting about the room, and I’m glad I don’t have to feel that desperation. No matter how many knits she piles on, it won’t hide her underweight body. I sip my tea, happy it leaves me satisfied, without the pains of hunger. The white girls don’t know much about diet teas from Asia. They fill themselves with calorie-packed American brands. We should tell them. But of course we don’t.
“Mr. K, c’mon already,” Alec shouts out. “Let us see the list.”
Mr. K breaks out in a smile. Only blond and blue-eyed Alec can get away with that. His father stands beside the other male ballet teacher with a bright grin on his face. Alec is the son of the president of the board of trustees. He can do what he wants.
Alec heckles Mr. K once more. He will be the Nutcracker Prince and he will dance with Bette. It makes sense for the only couple in our grade to dance together. Of the sixteen girls and six boys in the junior class, only two of the boys are straight—the new superstar boy, Henri, and Alec.
Bette beams and touches the side of Alec’s face like some doting wife, and Alec’s best friend, Will, jostles his shoulder. Bette thumbs her silly locket, the one she’s worn forever. It was probably a gift from Alec. I touch my bare neck. The only jewelry I ever want is Mr. K’s butterfly pendant.
Redheaded Will, of course, will be relegated to playing old Drosselmeyer. Slack chested and delicate, Will could dance the female variations better than most of the girls in our class. If allowed on pointe, he would. His eyeliner is always expertly applied and he possesses a grace most of our class would kill for. But Mr. K and Doubrava frown at him, and until he becomes supermasculine—a true male danseur russe—he’ll keep getting stuck there.
Mr. K steps into our midst once again. He’s winding us up for the big finale. He’s finally ready to tell us. Dancers shuffle out of his way. Gigi keeps throwing glances back to that aunt of hers, and she almost does a jump with excitement. She’ll learn soon enough not to do that here. Never show how you feel about a particular role. People are watching. Always. They’ll take what you want.
Mr. K stops at Henri, glaring at the mess of hair around his shoulders. Even though the dance mags have called him the next great ballet star, a mini Mikhail Baryshnikov, we still treat him like he’s nothing. He came for the last summer session. Henri says something in French and gathers his dark, shaggy hair into a ponytail. He used to date Cassie Lucas. I shudder, thinking of what the girls did to her last year, how we all have to suffer through those seminars on competition now. He doesn’t talk to anyone, and no one wants to talk to him anyway. Guess they worry he knows the things that happened to his girlfriend. That he might tell someone who matters. Ballerinas have their secrets. He has a mean glint in his eyes.
I would cast him as the Rat King just because of that.
While Mr. K inspects a few others, the room simmers and bubbles into a rolling boil. I review all the major parts, counting them out on my fingers, and assigning each of my classmates their obvious role: Clara, the Nutcracker Prince, Snow Queen, Snow King, Uncle Drosselmeyer, Arabian Coffee, Chinese Tea, the Russian Dancers, the Mechanical Doll and Harlequin, the Spanish Dancers, Snowflakes, the Sugar Plum Fairy, Reed Flutes, Dew Drop Fairy, Mother Ginger.