Other students punch at the elevator button, no longer trying to stay quiet. There are guttural laughs and a few imitations of the great, drunk Mrs. Abney.
I look over at one of the elevators. Will stands there holding it open for everyone, red hair gelled up with the color-enhancing treatment he puts in every night, his cell phone in his hand, no doubt sending out mass texts (and hopefully not video) about what just happened. And I know he’s the reason half the school is down here watching in the first place. He loves seeing me fall.
Eleanor tries to hold me in place, so that I don’t run after the vultures, but I practically throw her off me. Maybe I got drunk on my mother’s breath. I don’t know. But I’m getting really tired of keeping it together, especially when it doesn’t make a difference. I fly after the students, fueled with the desire to hit one of them. I almost do, too. June’s just a hand’s length in front of me, and I could push her too-skinny ass straight into the elevator doors if I wanted. And I do want to. Just to hurt someone. Just to feel a release.
Hitting her will only get me into more trouble, though, and she’s not the person I hate most of all right now.
“Watch out, ladies! Bette’s a real animal,” Will calls out with a smug grin on his face. I want to slap the look off his face, but I shove past him, past June, past all of them, making sure to elbow as many girls as possible on my way to the last elevator. I don’t let anyone get in with me. It zips up to the eleventh floor. I throw open the door to my bedroom. And then the door to my bathroom. And there she is, the girl I hate. The one I really want to punch. I draw my hand back, make my first real fist, and punch the mirror. Hard. So hard it shatters around my hand. So hard that sad pieces of glass clatter in the sink. So hard my knuckles start to bleed. It hurts, but not as much as the rest of the day.
6
June
AT 7:30 EVERY MORNING AND 8:30 every night, on the dot, my mom calls. Like clockwork. She wants to ensure that her good little girl remains exactly that, which means I have to be tucked away in my room, safe and sound, a half hour before curfew. To confirm that I’m actually in the dormitory and not just pretending to be, she doesn’t call my cell phone but rather the pay phone in the girls’ hallway—a relic from the old days. What she doesn’t realize is that I am always here—in the studios, the dorm, a classroom, or the student lounge. I do nothing but study and dance. I am her good little girl.
I watch the hall and wait to see if Gigi’s back. That nut got up at six a.m. to go to Central Park to feed the ducks. Last time she brought me a flower for my desk, which is kind of nice or whatever. She’s really into nature, but she should be stretching or seeing how Bette’s looking this morning, since she slept through all of last night’s theatrics. She’s the Sugar Plum Fairy, after all, and that means she is probably Bette’s next victim. Or everyone’s victim for that matter. We don’t handle change to our hierarchy very well. I’m still shocked by Mr. K’s decision. And I’m still on the fence about Gigi. Some days I like her, some days I don’t. It’s been so long since I’ve had a friend, I don’t know what to do, how to behave.
This morning I’m worn out from staying up late to watch Bette’s mom cut her down to size. I didn’t relish it the way the other girls did, but I like to know what I’m up against. I like to know everything about everyone because it all matters at this school—what you eat, what you wear, where you came from, how much you weigh, your ballet training, who your friends are, how much money you have, if you have good feet, if you’ve won any competitions, what kind of connections you have, if your parents have season ballet tickets, if your mother or father was a dancer, if you know the history of ballet. And I plan to know it all. About every single dancer here. That’s the only way to be on top.
I thumb the pay phone’s receiver at 7:26 a.m., my stomach griping as I wait for it to ring. I feel like I ate too much for breakfast. My mom is always exactly on time, so, knowing I have exactly four minutes, I run into the hallway bathroom. I throw up a mix of water, tea, and grapefruit. Two fingers bring it out smooth and soundless. The third grade was the first time I ever did it. I caught my mom vomiting after a dinner party at the neighbor’s house. She’d swept me from the bathroom, her face clammy and hands shaky, telling me that American food can poison you, and you must always get rid of it. I asked her why she’d eaten it in the first place, and she said that one has to eat to be polite. Never be a bad guest or you won’t be invited again. And that would be shameful.
Now, I get rid of most things I eat. Even Korean food.
I bury those thoughts, though. It’s all for ballet, for my love of the dance. My head feels clearer now. My stomach is calm. Back in place, I glare at the phone, hoping to catch it on the first ring. I check my watch. One minute until half-past. Restless, I run through basic positions—first, second, plié, tendu, and pas de bourrée—when she finally calls. 7:30. On the dot.
I grab it before the second full ring. She doesn’t waste time with greetings. Doesn’t waste time confirming that she’s actually talking to me, and not one of the other girls on the hall. Her voice fills my ear. “I got an e-mail from Mr. Stanitowsky. You have a D in math. A D, a sixty-two percent. I don’t understand what the problem is. You have it so easy. Kids in Korea are at school after school. They work hard. You dance all day, and still you get poor grade.”
I try to respond, but her tirade continues. “You know, E-Jun, colleges look at everything. You will not get into good school. You will not be successful.”
She’ll never call me June. Always my Korean name. She buzzes on and I move the phone a little away from my ear. Even now, after I’ve been at the conservatory for nearly a decade, it still doesn’t occur to her that this is my dream. That this is my reality. That I will be a dancer. That I won’t go to college. To her, it’s some silly, short-lived phase that I’ll eventually grow out of. It’s a résumé builder, perhaps, something to put on my college applications, but nothing more.
I attempt not to listen or to care and to discount her mispronounced words, but each one finds its way into my ear. My cheeks are hot and sweat clumps up my foundation. I work desperately to look perfect. To have that doll-like ballerina face. Delicate and soft. The feel of the makeup on my skin and the scent of the powder remind me I’ve transformed into a ballerina, something better than being just a regular girl.
If I add another layer of powder I feel like I can erase this stress altogether. My mom yells and I dig through my dance bag—half listening, half worrying, half obsessing—hoping my missing compact is floating around in the mess of shoes and bandages and leg warmers jumbled inside. I order my little compacts special, and I’m useless without them. My newest one has been missing since yesterday. I had to use an old one earlier, and there’d barely been any makeup left in it.
“It’s time to give up dancing, E-Jun,” my mom says.