- -
- 100%
- +
After the dealer distraction, I can’t help but give in and text Alec. I miss you.
Then, of course, I can’t take my eyes from my cell phone. I do halfhearted pliés and can just make out my reflection in the window: wrapped in white and silver. He’d still think I was beautiful, I think. Maybe.
My phone dings in response. You’ll do great, B, he texts.
Not enough to give me hope, exactly, but more than enough to make me want him immediately.
Can we talk? I type in quickly, before I have a chance to worry about it sounding needy.
There’s no response. My heart turns into a brick and drops to the floor. Every other December dress rehearsal since we were little, Alec has shown up with a bouquet of paper roses and a kiss. Even when he was too little to know how good it made me feel, he’d put a hand on each of my cheeks, and hold my face before going in for that first dress-rehearsal kiss. Even at twelve, the guy knew what he was doing.
The little snow flurries have escalated, and the wind has picked up, so there’s nothing outside now but a wash of white. It’s time to go backstage. It’s time to care about the performance. It’s time to prepare myself to dance with Henri.
The calm of the lobby is in complete contrast with the chaos of backstage. Stick-figure girls move at fast-forward speed, twisting their hair into buns, layering on stage makeup, doing contained versions of their choreography, marking the steps with little hops and hand flutters and complicated feet movements that take up only a few square inches of space. The smell of rosin and hair spray and stage makeup wafts through the air—the scent of ballet.
I swallow and walk to one of the mirrors. I don’t ask for permission, don’t say excuse me, or even put a hand on any of the other dancers, asking them to move aside. I just keep my head high and my gaze focused on the spot at the mirror that I have deemed my own, and take slow steps with the confidence that they will all part and make room for me.
Which they do. It’s all I have left: the ability to make them move for me, the illusion of power.
Shaking hands apply lipstick, silver shadow, silver eyeliner, midnight black mascara. They are so out of my control, they can’t possibly be mine. I practically blind myself with the liner, an impossible feat, since I’ve been putting on my own eyeliner before dress rehearsals and performances since I was eight, when Adele taught me to keep my lips parted and my eyes pointed skyward.
“You look amazing,” one of the corps members says in a small voice, like she’s been planning out that sorry sentence for hours.
“We all need to look amazing,” I say. “Mr. K expects nothing less.”
I used to do this a lot last year: talk about Mr. K with authority, report back on little things he’d said or done. It was easy last year: Mr. K and I spent so much time together that I could always pull out some saying of his or remind the girls of his vision for the ballet. I knew about their costumes before they did. I had insider information and would pull back the curtain to show them just an edge of each little secret. Enough to keep them on their toes. Enough to keep them in awe.
I’m trying to do it again today, but the most personal interaction I’ve had with Mr. K lately was him telling me I needed to work harder.
Still, these girls don’t know the difference. They all nod their heads as if I’m the Messiah, delivering a message from the ballet god. Like I really am the Snow Queen, emerging from the miniblizzard outside to deliver messages of their fates. I take a huge breath and my hand stills so I can get mascara all the way from the base of my lashes to the white-blond tips without a hitch. The shakiness is slipping away, finally.
Until I hear the music-box sound of Gigi’s giggles.
“Alec!” Her voice pokes out from the cloud of laughter. An airy sigh floats behind it, the hard edges of his name all smoothed out.
And I can’t stop myself from whipping around to find the source of the sound. Or from making a strained, animal noise when I finally do see them. Gigi’s leaning against the wall directly outside the mirrored dressing room, and Alec is holding her foot like it’s something that could break. Something that’s fragile. Something that could give way to blood and weakness and pain at any minute. One hand cups that tiny, ready-to-break foot, and the other is on her thigh, pushing her whole leg so that it’s parallel with the rest of her body. His body comes in close to hers, and he’s got his patented Alec smile on his face. Doesn’t break eye contact, even as her eyes dart all over, even as her giggles come out in eager little bursts. He stays steady and strong. I know this side of him well.
My anxiety deepens. Gigi is in the costume that should have been mine: plum and gold and intricately beaded. The guy that should be mine is breathing on her neck, the prerehearsal moments that should have been mine, stolen and on display in front of me. In front of everyone. His Nutcracker Prince jacket is open and I see his bare chest. She touches it playfully, like she’s done it a thousand times before.
My muscles feel cold, my feet feel like they’re falling asleep, and I can feel the extra Thanksgiving weight on me as surely as I could feel the weight of soaking wet jeans. The only cure, the only thing I can think of to help me calm down and get back into my body enough to dance the Snow Queen and make them all fall in love with me again, is to have Alec hold me and whisper to me and treat me the way he used to. And it will happen. As far as I’m concerned, we’re getting back together.
One last look in the mirror reveals at least my costume is beautiful and my skin shimmering with pixie dust. I look regal, even if I don’t feel that way.
I can do this.
I walk away from the mirror and over to Alec. I stand close, making sure my bare skin is against his, our arms touching. He moves away, so there’s a breath of air between us, and I shift my weight immediately so that there isn’t.
“Hey there,” I say, trying to give some of that soft, Gigi-like air in my voice, too, but it comes out flat and hoarse. I should stick to what I know.
“Hey,” he says, smiling enough so that his dimples show, but not so much that I believe him. He’s still holding her leg, even though I’m there. Like he doesn’t care that I’m standing here.
“Can we go for a quick walk?” I say. I mean: Can we go to the lobby, can we steal a kiss, can you watch the snow fall with me and tell me I’ll be magical on that stage? “Would that be okay with you, Gigi? If I steal your … partner? It’s just that we have a ritual we’ve been doing forever.”
Gigi blushes and makes about a thousand different little gestures: a shrug, a hand wave, a tremble. It’s infuriatingly adorable.
“I can’t right now, okay?” Alec says, placing Gigi’s foot back on the floor. His hand lingers too long on her calf, and he doesn’t straighten up as quickly as I know he could. She gets all quiet.
“After?” I say. There are girls who would give up now. He just said he couldn’t, meaning he doesn’t want to be with me after all. He’s broken up with me and he’s drooling over the new girl, making sure some part of his body is in constant contact with some part of hers. I don’t care. She’s nothing. A silly virgin. A passing fancy. I’m not letting us evaporate like some puddle, some accident.
We’re getting back together.
“Sure, maybe,” he mumbles. It is the first time I have ever heard Alec mumble. His mouth is practically closing in on the word, that’s how small the noise is. “I need to go focus,” he continues, a little louder, but still not his true voice. “Focus before we start. Okay?” I don’t know whose permission he’s asking, but I doubt it’s mine.
Gigi blushes. Anger stirs itself into my anxiety, and my whole body’s buzzing with way too many feelings. I will not be able to dance if I can’t get myself back under control. The Snow Queen would never have trembling legs or boiling blood. And when Alec slips away without another word, I feel the urge to cry moving from my rib cage to my throat and into my sinuses, like a foreign thing, attacking me
“Stage fright?” Gigi says, like she’s had it, too, which I cannot imagine. She is not the kind of girl who scares easily, if this semester at school is any indication. It doesn’t seem like anything that happened to her has had any effect.
“Not usually,” I say.
“Well, you look beautiful.”
That shuts me up. Not because no one has called me beautiful before, and not because I don’t feel beautiful. There are white feathers in my hair and white tulle haloing my waist, and so much makeup around my eyes that they have nearly doubled in size. But the way Gigi says it, so simple and bare … I have never heard anyone say something and know how much they believe it to be true. Gigi hasn’t put on her makeup yet, so her light brown face is still naked, too, like her voice, and for a horrible instant I think: Yes, I can see why Alec is choosing her.
But he can’t. Not ever. Please, no. I can’t let him go. I won’t.
“They did a wonderful job with your costume, too,” I say. It is as close to a compliment as she’s going to get from me.
“Thank you!” she says, beaming. Her eyes are expectant, like our conversation could continue, when I want nothing more than for it to end. I don’t get her. Why doesn’t she bring up the lipstick on the mirror or the photo I left in the Light closet? She has to know it was me. Other girls have been whispering about it. If I were her, I’d bring it up. And I kind of want her to, just so I can be mean and make her look crazy and accusatory. But no one dares mess with me.
“Just so you know, Alec and I aren’t really over,” I say. If I’d thought it through more, I would have said something smaller, scarier, more threatening but less clear. Something like what my mother would’ve said. I scold myself in my head for being an amateur all of a sudden. “This is, like, our pattern, so don’t get too excited about being with him.”
Her pretty mouth curves into an O. She starts to say something, but I try making a cool, clean escape. Except when I step backward, I run right into another bony body.
Eleanor. But not just Eleanor. Not Eleanor outfitted as my understudy or going invisible in her corps costume. No. This is Eleanor with a small, elegant gold headdress and a taut, golden bare belly. Long, sheer harem pants. Small gold top. Eleanor has transformed into Arabian Coffee.
And she’s grinning. Girls and boys peek out of the dressing rooms and look up from their warm-ups. All eyes on Eleanor and her exposed rib cage and the prettiness none of us ever knew she possessed. They shout out congratulations. “Why are you in that costume?” I say.
“I’m taking over,” Eleanor says through her smile, so full of joy I think she is just as close to breaking as I am, just on the opposite side of things.
“They gave it to you?” I say, not meaning to sound so harsh. My words hang in the air for a moment over all of us, and there’s shock all around.
Her forehead wrinkles with hurt.
“Congrats,” Gigi says. “You so deserve this. I hope Liz gets better, though.” On her brown face is the perfect balance of concern for Liz and support for Eleanor. It’s impossible, how good she is. Too good.
She goes in to hug Eleanor, and I beat her to it, pulling Eleanor close and away from her. I am proud to feel a surge of actual happiness for Eleanor. I squeeze her arms tight. “Look at you,” I say into her ear, and I can feel her heart beating at a rapid pace through her skimpy costume. I hold on tight, the one person who loves me no matter what.
“When did this happen?” I whisper.
“A private audition with Mr. K.” She whispers so fast I can barely register it, and she doesn’t hug me back as tightly, quickly slipping from my arms and into Gigi’s arms. They jump and giggle and whisper something I can’t quite hear. It’s clear that this isn’t the first time they’ve laughed together like that. Like friends. And just like that, I’ve lost everything.
THE NEWS DOESN’T FEEL REAL. Just like the kiss with Jayhe didn’t feel real.
I have to ask Morkie to repeat herself, which is embarrassing. It’s nine a.m. and we’re in studio C. Most people are sleeping in, trying to get every last minute of rest before opening night.
“Do you want to dance?” she says. “Then show me you know it.”
Viktor plays the music for the Harlequin Doll. My feet whisper along the floor as I take my place in the center of the room. I keep my head bowed. Eight hours before opening night and I’m at school in the studio with Morkie, Doubrava, and Mr. K. They’re standing along the mirrors, waiting for me to show them if I know the choreography. There are three other girls here. Two other Level 7 girls, and one Level 8.
I step into the dance. I will show them that I know all the steps. I spend hours studying every role in every major classical ballet. I’ve seen The Nutcracker performed live every Christmas since I was little enough to remember it. I’ve memorized every girl’s role, and could probably dance the boys’, too.
I try to be delicate and light, an embodiment of all that’s great in The Nutcracker’s Land of Sweets. I try to picture my mom right in front of me, watching and seeing me nail it. I try to hear the applause in my head. I try to remember how it felt when Morkie praised me weeks ago for my pirouettes.
I finish. I don’t dare move out of the bow.
Mr. K nods. “Well done, butterfly. I’ve never seen you move like that before. You’ve been working hard.”
“Yes,” I acknowledge.
“You dance like you really want it. Like you know,” he says, doing a circle around me. “In Russia, being a dancer gives you a place in history. A life more intense and special than the others. It sets you apart from the rest of the world. I feel that in you.”
A bright blush creeps up my neck.
He says something in Russian to Morkie, who nods at me, too. They’re starting to see me, really see how hard I work, how much I want this.
He doesn’t let any of the other girls dance. The Harlequin Doll is mine. A soloist role. He trusts me enough to get it ready and perfected in just eight hours. I wonder if this has ever happened before. I wonder if I’m finally special to him.
The news spreads. The cast timing and music are all adjusted. After spending hours in the studio—and skipping lunch—I have my new Nutcracker costume fitting. I go to the third floor and wait outside Madame Matvienko’s costume room with the other girls in our black leotards and white practice tutus.
I sip my omija tea to keep my stomach calm. I will be fitted for three costumes—the Sugar Plum Fairy one, just in case Gigi doesn’t dance for some reason that’ll never happen, my plain pink corps one for the Waltz of the Flowers ensemble dance, and the bodysuit for the Harlequin Doll. Across from me, Gigi hums and I glance up from my place on the floor to shoot her an evil look, implying that she should be quiet.
She stretches flat along the floor like a pancake. Alec’s loud voice escapes the costume room, and each time it rings out, Gigi gazes at the door like a puppy. She doesn’t even hide it. Pathetic. I guess they’re really together now, even though she’s been babbling to me about how he hasn’t “asked” her. So she can’t be sure. What she should be sure of is that if Bette didn’t hate her before, she definitely does now.
Bette marches into the area. “They’re not done yet?” she asks, waiting for someone to answer her. One of the younger girls chimes in, saying the boys are running late, her eagerness to please Bette written all over her face. Bette pops a piece of fruit in her mouth. “How’s everything, Gigi?” she asks. “You feeling okay?”
“I’m fine,” Gigi replies curtly. “I’m not sick.” Her voice lands hard on the word sick, like it’s the last word on earth she’d ever want to use. Her eyes narrow, and she eyes Bette suspiciously. “Why are you asking?”
“Well, Mr. K wanted me to check in on you. I am one of the girls that’s been here the longest. I just wanted to follow up with you about things. I probably should’ve checked on you a while ago. Been busy and all. We really don’t tolerate bullying here. There haven’t been any other incidents, right?”
Gigi doesn’t look up from the floor, like she’s trying really hard to focus on her stretching. I squirm a little, thinking about how I added to it. I wonder if Bette’s seen that medical report. I wonder if Gigi has, too. I feel a pinch of regret, but only for a minute. I try not to think of Cassie either. Things were at their worst with her.
“I’m fine, Bette,” she says, as gracious as ever. “Thanks though.”
Bette bats her eyelashes over her blue eyes and adds a little giggle, then continues. “Let me know if anything else happens, okay? I’m here for you.”
Before Gigi can respond, we’re called into the costume room. It’s full of light and perfume and the smell of makeup. We only get to be here twice a year, and the costumes we need are brought over from the company’s storage. I savor every moment. Tiaras line one table, while costume ornaments and handmade pointe shoes and ballet slippers sit primly on another—little pink layers piled one on top of the other like miniature cakes. Once we all settle in, the mood is airy. Here, we’re just girls playing dress up—the best part of ballet.
The volunteer mothers bring around our costumes. During dress rehearsal, some costumes needed readjusting and one final check. Gigi and I stand together as ours is presented. A rich plum costume drapes down from a wooden hanger, jewels stitched along the bodice. My fingers graze the fabric just as Gigi’s do, too, and we admire it, both wanting to wear it forever.
“You’ll be gorgeous in this,” the mother says to Gigi. She doesn’t even look at me. Like I don’t even have a chance of wearing this costume. She knows all too well how the ballet world works. I don’t let it pinch. The woman helps Gigi change into the tiny costume, and it squeezes her rib cage snugly, clearly needing to be let out a little. I hide my smile, knowing it’d never need to be let out for me.
I put on my corps costume—a pink, frilly, knee-length outfit worn by all the girls who will play flowers in the group dance. It itches.
“Put this hairnet on.” One of the mothers hands it to me. I pull it over my bun and head, then go to the wig area. They fit me in a white wig that smells like baby powder and mothballs and looks like it should be atop the head of some seventeenth-century judge. I see other corps members reflected in the room of mirrors. We are all the same girl.
I change out of that costume and into the checkered bodysuit costume for the Harlequin Doll. Black and white diamonds cover my whole body and a white neckpiece that reminds me of a coffee filter is fanned around my throat. There’s a gold keyhole in the back where I’ll be wound up onstage like the tiny dancer in my music box.
“E-Jun Kim!” Madame Matvienko shouts my name from the front of the room. And I realize by her frown that she’s called my name more than once. I approach, head down, and curtsy to her. She’s just as important as the other Russian teachers here, even though she’s only the costume mistress.
“Turn,” she says without emotion—her face cold and wrinkled, her hair cropped close around her head, her lips frowned up and pursing like she’s an angry fish. She leans forward in her chair and slides a measuring tape around my waist. I fight the urge to look down and see the number. Instead, I focus on holding my breath. I feel big, as if the tape measure has to stretch. She places pins in my waist and stands to adjust the old wig on my head.
“Hmm. Wig too big,” she says, removing it and placing another one on top. “But costume fit just right.” She pats my side and I release. “You look so much like your mother, but your body remind me of your father,” she says. “So narrow, so tall, such a tiny head on top of it all. Just like him.”
“I’m … sorry?” I say, barely able to get the word out. It must be a mistake. She must be confusing me with Sei-Jin or one of the other Korean girls. I know they think we all look alike.
“Tiny head. All of his children. Very funny. Such a tiny head for such a powerful man, no?” Madame Matvienko finally looks at my face and notices, midlaugh, that my jaw has dropped, that my cold, clammy skin is as pale as I’ve always wanted to be. My legs shake so badly I have to sit down.
“Who are you talking about?” I manage to say, in a voice so much higher than my own that I swear it didn’t come out of me at all. Madame Matvienko is the one turning white now, then red, then almost green with what I assume is the nausea of saying something dangerous and wrong.
“I’m confused. I thought you were … one of the others. But of course not. You’re E-Jun, E-Jun Kim. You look so much like the other Asian girls. All of your tiny waists and pretty hair. All the same. Excuse me.”
She tries to smile and pass it off as an honest, ignorant, racist mistake. But I get the distinct and terrifying feeling that there was no error. Madame Matvienko knows who my father is. Maybe they all do. I get so dizzy, I have to sit down on one of the crappy metal folding chairs. Every part of me is instantly drenched in sweat, and I can’t muster up a single word. The thing I’ve wanted to know all my life—the answers might be right here.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.