I jump up. “Let’s go,” I say, grabbing Cassie by the arm and leading her out. I don’t need to look back to see that Eleanor’s still standing there, frozen, devastated.
“I was just getting rid of her when you came in.”
“That’s exactly what she deserves. I should’ve said even more.” She’s walking so fast and furious, I race to keep up. “You’ve got to stop letting her fool you with those crybaby antics. She’s not nearly as innocent as she looks.”
“Oh, I know.”
Cassie stops short. “No, after everything you’ve been through, you still don’t get it. She’s always been a sidekick, a lapdog. With Bette gone, this is her big chance. You better believe she’s going to take it.”
I fill in the blanks. “And she’s learned from the best.”
Cassie nods solemnly. “Exactly. So no hanging with the enemy.” Then she adds with a smirk, “Unless, of course, you plan to set a trap.”
12.
June
“A PICNIC?” I ASK, LAUGHING. “In November?”
I feel shaky as I sit with Jayhe, and not just from the cold. A part of me panics, wondering if he can see the scars Sei-Jin’s words left on me last night. After that fight, I had to see him, had to reassure myself that this is what’s real, not those dead butterflies that will haunt me for the rest of my life.
“Chicken wings. Dumplings, too.” He gestures from one dish to the next, all spread out on a red-checked blanket in the park. He unwraps a pristine white box and sets it in the center of the blanket. “And coconut cake for dessert.”
“Ballerinas don’t eat dessert.” I try to make it into a joke. He doesn’t laugh.
“I’ll eat it myself.” He’s got a doofy grin on his face, like he’s just realized his mistake. “You can enjoy the show.” He starts pulling out napkins and boxes of food and bottles of the calorie-free fizzy water we had on a beach day in Brooklyn last summer. He holds one out to me, and I realize it’s watermelon—which they no longer make. “Your favorite.”
I grin, taking the bottle from him and popping it open. I take a few sips, letting the fruity bubbles settle the anxiety that’s filling me up. I pull my peacoat tighter around my shoulders, wishing I’d brought a heavier jacket.
“I know it’s cold,” he says, wrapping me up in a bear hug. I try to let the warmth envelop me. It’s only the beginning of November, but you can already tell that this winter will be brutal, the chill settling into you like an anchor. “I brought us layers.”
We both sink down onto the blanket, and pull another checked wool one on top of our laps. He starts piling food on to a plate, careful that each thing gets its own space, no touching, just the way I like it. Then he makes a plate for himself, everything smushed all together, and drizzles it all with chili sauce. He tucks himself in next to me and digs in.
I inhale the salty pork and chives of the dumplings, made by hand in his dad’s restaurant. I can’t bring myself to take a bite. My stomach churns with bile and anxiety. Instead, I lean into Jayhe and listen to him talk between bites—about his little cousin, whose first birthday is coming up, and how different she’ll look a year from now. He lifts my plate up, noticing that it’s still full. “Try the chicken,” he says. “It’s delicious. My dad started adding a touch of honey to the sauce to make it less hot.” He holds up a piece. “The white people love it.”
I take the piece and chomp down, trying to drown my worries in grease and home cooking. “It’s yummy,” I say, then reach for the chili sauce. “But I like it hot.” I don’t eat all of it. Just enough to get him to stop focusing on food.
I can feel him watching my mouth, and then our eyes lock like magnets. He smiles and there’s a gleam in his eyes, and before I know it, we’re both sprawled out on the blanket, food tossed aside. It’s all play at first, a roll onto the grass, me giggling, a button flying off my peacoat as he tries to pull it open. I feel his hot, calloused hands climbing under my sweater and up my back, wandering in places we’ve left unexplored. His tongue goes farther into my mouth, and I push back, wanting to erase last night. The goose bumps spread wherever his touch goes, the cold and the hot conflicting, strange and familiar. It’s like the odd pleasure and pain a new pair of toe shoes brings.
I don’t know how long we lie there, frozen in time, letting the world fall away, but a shrill whistle knocks us out of our daydream and scrambling back into our coats. A group of kids zoom by, their teacher—blowing her orange plastic emergency whistle—trying to get them to line up and hold hands. “Everyone find your partners,” she keeps shouting, and I blush, thinking maybe I finally found mine.
He watches my face and then grins, reaching for the dumplings. He eats one and then a second, offering me some, too. They’re cold and congealed now, and I can feel that familiar bile rising in my throat. I tell him I’m full. He frowns but lets it go.
“Just one more month until the new Brooklyn restaurant opens.” He dips another into that salty soy-chili-scallion sauce his dad is famous for. “I think my dad will want me to take over that one.” His voice is low, as if someone might overhear. But aside from the kids, the park is really quiet for a Sunday afternoon, probably because of the chill. I’m so absorbed in my own worries that it takes me a minute to realize what he means.
“It’s a lot,” I say, ever the supportive girlfriend. “Can you handle that along with your classes?”
He starts talking about the college-level figure drawing class he’s been taking on Thursday nights. “We’re two months in, and she still hasn’t even approved my sketch.” He reaches into his backpack and pulls out one of those familiar black sketchbooks. He opens it up to the middle, and there’s one of the first drawings he did of me as I pirouette in the center of the studio, with echoes of me reflected in the mirrors. He keeps talking about the color and the shading. To me it just looks beautiful, so I say so. But he sort of shrugs it off.
I guess that’s the thing—it’s not me he needs to hear it from. It’s the same with me and ballet. To Jayhe, what I do is beautiful and perfect. He doesn’t see the flaws in my pirouettes or that my leaps are not quite high enough.
“I asked Professor Tadeka for a recommendation for RISD. The Rhode Island School of Design. She went there, so she might have some pull.”
“That sounds great. Is it a good school?”
“One of the best. I don’t know if I’ll get in, but it’s like you always say, I have to try.” He’s lost in thought for a minute, then finally says it. “But I’ve been thinking. Rhode Island is five hours away, you know. We hardly see each other now, and we’re forty-five minutes apart. So . . .”
“I’ll miss you.” I reach across, putting a cold hand on his warm cheek. “I miss you now.”
He puts his hand on mine, then moves them both away from his face. In that moment, he’s not the same, sleepy-eyed boy I’ve always known. His seriousness leaves lines across his forehead, down his cheeks. He looks older. Weary. “I was just thinking. You always seem so miserable there.” I know what he’s about to say, and I’m already shaking my head. But he plows forward. “This summer, you were doing so well. The intensive was less stressful. You were eating a little more, you were going to that therapist, you were learning Korean, you were hanging with family—even your mom. And now, you’re—”