Tiny Pretty Things and Shiny Broken Pieces

I NIBBLE AT MY BOTTOM lip until I taste blood. The spot is a tiny heart thumping harder than the one in my chest. My teeth sink into the cut despite the sting, and I can’t stop. I won’t go to the bathroom to see how bad it is. I can’t miss all the excitement. I can’t be anywhere else.

Shoulder to shoulder, we are a sea of paper-thin bodies. One large gust could push us around, like the fall leaves tumbling past the lobby’s picture windows. We are that light, that vulnerable, that afraid. Nervous excitement flutters through me. Even the little ones, the petit rats, gnaw at their fingernails, and the boys hold their breaths. The gurgles of half-empty stomachs churning a ballet diet of grapefruit and energy tea invade small pockets of silence when Mr. K finally pauses, all showmanship.

We listen intently. The occasional whisper is a firework. The melody of his Russian accent makes the words feel heavier, more important. He paces before us, waving his hands in fiery motions, and leaving the scent of cigarettes and warm vodka wrapped around us. I fixate on every word coming out of Mr. K’s mouth like I could catch each one in a mason jar.

Our other teachers are lined up behind him. Along with Mr. K, there are five of them that decide our fates. The piano accompanist, Viktor, the lowliest of the lot. His smile holds a cigarette, and he barely speaks but knows everything—all the things they think of us. Then Morkie and Pavlovich, our ballet madams. We call them the twins—though they’re not related and look nothing alike. Their narrow eyes flit over us ever so briefly, as if we’re ghosts they don’t quite see.

Lastly, there’s Mr. Lucas, the board president, Alec’s father—and Doubrava, the other male teacher.

Mr. K concludes his speech by congratulating us on making it through the audition process like the budding professionals we are. They all retreat into the admissions office. Someone whispers that they’ve gone to get the cast list. The open space feels lighter without them in it. Everyone starts to talk softly. I hear the words new and black and girl whispered in various combinations. After one month here at school, the first major casting makes me feel my skin color like a fresh sunburn. I’m the only black ballerina aside from a little one named Maya. Most times, I try not to think about it because I’m just like everyone else: classically trained, here to learn the Russian style of ballet, with a shot at moving from the school to the company.

But my skin color matters more here than it ever did at my California studio. Back there, we held hands while waiting for the cast list and hugged each other with hearty congratulations. Aurora in Sleeping Beauty, Kitri in Don Quixote, Odette in Swan Lake came in all colors. There were no questions about what looked best onstage. There were no questions about body type. There were no mentions of the Russians’ love of the ballet blanc—an all-white cast onstage to create the perfect effect.

Here, we tug our hair into buns, we all wear colored leotards that signal our ballet level, we put on makeup for class, and we only learn the Vaganova style of ballet. We follow traditions and age-old routines. This is the Russian way. This is what I wanted. This is what I begged my parents to send me across the country for. My best friend, Ella, from back home, says I’m crazy to come this far just to dance. She doesn’t understand when I tell her that ballet is everything. I can’t imagine doing anything else.

Someone whispers, “Who will he choose to dance the Sugar Plum Fairy?” but she is quickly hushed. Besides, we all know that it will be Bette.

Everyone wants a soloist part. Everyone wants to be the prima ballerina of the American Ballet Conservatory. Everyone wants a spot in the company. Everyone wants to be Mr. K’s favorite. Even me.

The moon stares in through the glass, even though it’s barely past dusk. At home it’s still the afternoon. Mama’s just finishing up in her garden about now. I wonder if she’s waiting for the cast list news, too, and if she’s finally getting excited about me being here. She wanted me to keep dancing at my local studio. Keep ballet a fun after-school activity.

“You could permanently hurt yourself,” she’d said before I auditioned for the conservatory, as if the rigor of ballet is like falling off a bicycle. “You could get sick. You could die.” Death is her favorite threat.

I fight the nerves. I fight the feeling of homesickness that creeps up on me. I fight the weird knot forming in my throat as I look around and it sinks in that I am the only black ballerina in the upper ballet levels. I’m lonely here. Most of these kids have been at the school for years, like my roommate, June, and Bette and Alec, who’ll likely be cast as the leads this year. I watch Bette lean her golden head against his, a matched set, and hear her sigh, content, knowing that her big moment is coming. I suppress a little pang. I just got here, I’m the new girl. I shouldn’t want what she has—the role, or Alec. But I can’t help it. I look away, trying to find somewhere else to put my thoughts.

I stare up at the hundreds of black-and-white portraits of the American Ballet Conservatory graduates who went on to be apprentices, soloists, and principals in the American Ballet Company. They cover all the walls in the halls here, looking down on us, showing us what we could become if we’re simply good enough. In the almost fifty years of history on the wall, there are only two other black faces in a white sea. I will be the third. I will earn one of the few spots in the company saved for conservatory members. I will show my parents that every part of me can handle it: my hands, my feet, my mind, my legs, and my heart.

I scan the crowd for my aunt Leah, who is decked out in leggings and a hand-knitted sweater dress. I can hear her voice above the others, a little too loudly introducing herself to other parents and guardians as Mama’s younger sister and an art curator at a Brooklyn gallery. She grins and waves at me. With her pink knit hat and freckly brown skin, she’s as much an outsider as I am in this lobby, and she’s been a New Yorker for decades.

I wave back. The girls around me tense up. My roommate, June, moves a small step away from my side. Even my waving is too loud, but I don’t care.

The office door cracks open, its squeaky hinges hushing everyone. We all gasp. I put a hand to my chest. Clapping echoes through the room as he reenters. Mr. K’s pretty secretary walks to the board with a sheet of paper, her arms outstretched to tack it up.

Mr. K looks around. “Podozhdite! Wait, wait.” He raises his hand before she exposes the page.

He crisscrosses between us. He’s dark—almost ominous—dressed in all black. Anton Kozlov, a danseur russe. Frantic energy bubbles through me. The other dancers squirm and part, giving him way. I drop my head, my body still jittery whenever he comes near. I haven’t quite overcome it.

I will my hands to settle. I will my muscles to relax. I will my heart to slow. Beside me, I hear other girls’ breathing accelerate. We are one sphere of nervous, nauseous focus. I try to use Mama’s calming technique: listening to the noise inside our gigantic pink conch shell. I picture my dad finding it in Hawaii that summer. I attempt to listen for the gauzy melody, but the calm doesn’t come.

I hear footsteps, then see my reflection in the toes of two black shoes. Two of Mr. K’s long fingers lift my chin and I meet his mottled green eyes. Sweat dots along my hairline. I feel dried blood mar my mouth like a tiny streak of Mama’s paint. All eyes turn to me. Our ballet madams watch. The parents go silent, including my aunt Leah. I lick my cut, hoping to stop the pulsating thrum.

Mr. K’s face looms right above me. Heat gathers in my cheeks.

I can’t escape his gaze. He holds me there and everything slows.

I DON’T MIND THAT MR. K’S interrupted his speech to lift Gigi’s chin and force her to pay attention. It’s terrible, but I like seeing her get in trouble for her California spaciness. Serves her right. He didn’t say a word. But I know he’s sending her a warning: tune in. Always.

I sip tea from my thermos to hide my smile. The bitter omija herbs warm my irritable belly, calming the bile that’s constant company. I fight the urge to retreat to the bathroom and escape to the cold comfort of porcelain and an empty stomach. But I can’t afford to miss this moment. I have to know where I am now.

Mr. K’s secretary holds the page close to her chest, as if we’d attack her for it—and maybe she’s right.

“Luminous,” he says, then goes on to repeat it five more times, asking dancers close to him to define it, to describe what it means onstage or else he’ll delay the casting announcement even further. They quake and stutter, unable to answer him. If he’d have asked me, I’d have known just what to say—to be luminous onstage means to glow, to shine, to own it. It’s a quality few among us possess, but I know I’m among the very few. Still, they don’t give me the roles I want, no matter how well I think my auditions have gone. But it’s only a matter of time.

A tingle tickles its way up my spine. The worry, the anxiety, the nerves. I savor it. My classmates, they’re all stupid and empty-headed, wrapped up in their emotions, unable to see things clearly. They don’t pay attention. If they had, they’d already know whose name will be written in each spot. Mr. K never changes. Those who have been here forever know his habits, his choices, his patterns. Newbies don’t stand a chance. Ballet is about routine, training the muscles to obey tiny commands. I’ve been here since I was six—shuttled back and forth from Queens until I got old enough to live in the dormitory above us. I know the drill.

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.

It’s not till the end of the list that I realize my mistake. I didn’t cast myself.

WINTER PERFORMANCE: THE NUTCRACKER

Cast

Major Soloist Parts

Clara: Maura James

Older Clara: Edith Diaz

The Nutcracker Prince: Alec Lucas

Snow Queen: Bette Abney

Snow Queen Understudy: Eleanor Alexander

Snow King: Henri Dubois

Drosselmeyer: William O’Reilly

Arabian Coffee: Liz Walsh

Chinese Tea: Sei-Jin Kwon, Hye-Ji Yi

Sugar Plum Fairy: Giselle Stewart

Sugar Plum Understudy: E-Jun Kim

Rat King: Douglas Carter

Dew Drop Fairy: Michelle Dumont

IT’S MIDNIGHT. CASTING DAY IS officially over. The shock and the excitement of it all keeps me up. I am the Sugar Plum Fairy. Me, Giselle Stewart! I am Mr. K’s korichnevaya babochka. His brown butterfly. I let the words flutter around in my head like my own little butterflies in my windowsill terrarium, all light and frantic and impossibly beautiful. They keep me company here.

I got a handful of congratulations that felt mostly strange and hollow and a few stiff hugs. Like it was all for Mr. K and the teachers who were watching.

I can’t stop thinking, fidgeting. My muscles itch to move even this late—past curfew, past lights out. It’s the only way I’ll be able to clear my head, get some sleep, and be fresh for morning ballet class tomorrow. I slip out of bed and tiptoe from my side of the room, careful not to wake my roommate, June, on my way out. I listen for the nighttime RA patrolling in the girls’ hall before sneaking out. I should rest. Mama would insist on it if I were home. It’s the healthy thing to do. But I know what I really need is to dance. Especially now. I need space to think it through. I need space to get ready for it all.

The elevators have cameras, so I take the stairs down eleven flights to the first floor. I don’t want anyone to know I’m out of bed. I’m a bit breathless as I tiptoe to my secret place, passing the administrative offices, through the lobby, and dashing from hall plant to hall plant, hoping not to be spotted by the front desk security guard. The whispers from earlier follow me, buzzing in my ears and my head as if the parents and other dancers were still standing there, mocking me.

The black girl. The new girl. She’s no Sugar Plum Fairy. Her feet are bad. Her legs are too muscular. Her face won’t look right onstage. It should’ve been Bette. Bette’s sister was luminous, you heard Mr. K say it. Gigi could never be that.

The ghost words push me forward. I walk as quietly as possible down the hall. The ballet conservatory is at the back of the Lincoln Center complex, in one of the beautiful buildings that makes up the performing arts center. The first time I walked along the promenade, it seemed impossible that there was a place that housed it all: dance, theater, film, music, opera, and more. The studios on the first floor are glass boxes that let in light. I graze my fingers along the cool panels as I pass.

I hold my breath and duck past the nutritionist’s office. Her charts and scales and cold metal examining table provoke hysteria, and the tiny woman wields the power to boot a dancer out of the conservatory for falling underweight. It’s enough to keep me eating, that’s for sure.

I jump when I catch sight of Alec slipping out of one of the studios. It’s the middle of the night, practically. Our eyes meet. I open and shut my mouth like a fish, and start to mumble out some explanation for why I’m down here. He smiles like he’s not going to tell anyone.

“What are you doing up?” Alec says, grabbing my hand and leading me to a dark spot in the hall away from a camera. The gesture means nothing, of course. He belongs to Bette, whose face is porcelain and smooth and whose words and expressions are so carefully chosen they are always dead perfect. My hair is frizzy and wild and I never say the right thing. I hope my hand isn’t clammy.

“They’re always watching,” he whispers. “You’ve got to know where to hide.” His body is close to mine. He smells good, especially for someone who’s been dancing all evening, and I take an illicit breath of his woodsy deodorant and the sweetness of new sweat making his forearms glisten in the dark.

“I like to dance at night,” I say, trying to remember how easy talking used to be back in California. “I go to the locked-up studio. The one in the basement.” I don’t know why I tell him this.

“Just came from a late-night workout myself,” he says.

I try on a smile and force myself to hold on to Alec’s eye contact. Secretly, I’m wondering about him: why he dances, what he dreams about, what kissing him might be like. I’ve never really been this curious about a boy before. Boys are distractions. Well, to ballerinas. Not to normal girls.

Bette’s boyfriend, I say in my head, even as I take note of how wide his shoulders are, how I can make out the shapes of the muscles under his tights and hoodie. There’s something so romantic about a ballerina couple. You can’t help admiring their beauty and symmetry when they walk down the hall together. Long limbs and blond hair and a graceful ease that can’t be denied. And onstage, I bet the audience can sense that they’re together.

I mean, obviously.

“You won’t tell on me, will you?” I try to flirt like girls in the movies.

“I won’t tell if you don’t, Sugar Plum Fairy,” he mock whispers. There’s nothing sinister in the words, no threat. If anything there’s a laugh underneath it all. I smile back. I’m not sure anyone has really smiled at me for the entire month I’ve been here. Though he’s always been so nice to me.

“Deal,” I say, and reach out to touch his arm. I don’t know why. The deal doesn’t require a touch to lock it in, but letting my fingers rest on his strong forearm is a strange reflex. His muscles tense, but he doesn’t pull away immediately.