“I’m what?” I can’t listen to all this. Not now. Not when I’ve worked this hard and come this far. “You know I can’t give up dancing. I’ve got a real shot—”
“Really?” He’s completely pulled away now—there are only a few inches between us, but they might as well be miles already. “It just seems like you’re unhappy whenever you go back there. So I thought maybe you could come with me. Or we could both go somewhere closer. Together.”
It feels like I misheard him for a minute.
“There are a lot of universities nearby. You could study almost anything. Can you imagine it? Taking classes together, hanging out.”
I think about the picture he’s created for us: college, dancing, being with him on weekends. It would be so easy. Like a normal girl.
I could have everything I’ve ever dreamed of.
Except professional ballet. Sure, there’s the Boston Ballet and the New England Ballet. But there’s nothing like dancing in New York at the American Ballet Company.
He waits for an answer. I try to calm myself down before I speak. I want this—I want him—more than I’ve wanted almost anything. But he makes it seem too easy.
“I can’t do that.” I don’t let my voice waver. “You don’t get it. You don’t have to. But if you love me, you’ll accept the fact that I need to dance. To do that, I need to be in New York.”
He smiles. “Okay, I thought you’d say that, so I’ve looked into a few places in New York, too. Could you do the same?”
He reaches down into his backpack and pulls out pamphlets for schools in Boston and New York and everywhere in between. For a minute, just a minute, I can’t be mad. He’s really trying to make this work. It feels so strange because my life looks so different from the way it was last year, facing this type of decision, having someone who wants me to factor him in. Right now, it seems like I’ll have to choose one or the other, Jayhe or ballet.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll think about it, I will.”
But I can’t make any promises.
I’m standing at the barre between Gigi and one of the new girls, in perfect formation. My arms are up, my leg extended, my right foot swishing back and forth, in unison with the others. I’m invisible and yet perfectly in tune, exactly how it should be. But I’m not thinking about the music, or the perfect line my leg makes when I lift it straight up to my head. Jayhe’s words absorb my thoughts, every moment. Knowing that it might have to be over, that I can’t give up ballet or New York.
Morkie’s shadow drapes over me, and I remember her lecture about focus from last week, so I straighten up even more.
“Legs in grand battement. Hold.” She stands beside me, waiting. I lift my leg to the side, trying to ensure a solid turnout. Her bony fingers stretch out and touch the inner part of my thigh. Her fingers pinch at the tights until they grab part of my skin, burning through the thin material, sharp and mean, with a firm grasp. Tears prick at my eyes, but I swallow hard, determined to hold them back.
“Too much,” she says.
I’m drowning in shame, the heat of it threatening to melt me as she continues to pinch that excess flesh.
“Now it’s time to be long and lean. It’s almost audition time.” Morkie pauses for effect. “Because this will not do.”
Everyone freezes. No one breathes at all. But in my ears, I can hear the snickers, the laughter they’re saving for later. She moves on to Riho. “Extend, extend.” She’s shouting now, and Riho kind of ducks, as if she’s about to get hit. Morkie pulls her out of the line and lifts an arm, indicating that Riho should kick to the side, into grand battement. When Riho does, Morkie lifts her leg even higher, and the girl lets out a little yelp of pain. For a moment, I feel bad for Riho. She’s too young, too small, for such harsh treatment. Then again, we all were once.
When class is over, I wait until the hallway outside the studio is clear. Then I head straight down to the physical therapy room, where the PT therapist will contort my body in a dozen directions, pulling me apart and putting me back together again. Pretty much all of us go to PT, but some need it more than others.
I lie facedown on the therapy table, my head supported by the headrest, a towel covering me even though I’m wearing a tank top and shorts. The shooting pains I’ve been having in my shins could mean the beginnings of a stress fracture. I don’t tell her that. She’ll tell Nurse Connie and Morkie, and I’ll be out of ballet class for at least a week.
I inhale the scent of her rubber gloves, melding with the nutty scent of almond oil as she rubs my scalp. She stretches out my limbs and massages the tension out of them.
“You’re all set,” she says in her chirpy tone. “You can stay for another few minutes. Try to relax.” She always says that. She puts a hot, wet towel on my back, the warmth of it seeping into my sore muscles. I hear her rubber soles squeak as she leaves the room.
My brain is a tangle of stressors: Jayhe, Morkie, Cassie, ballet class, food, and Gigi. But eventually I drift off to sleep.
I wake up, pull the towel off my back, and slide off the PT table. My bare feet feel soft furlike piles beneath my toes. I fumble around in the dimly lit room. Clumps of black hair make a trail between the treatment table and the door. My heart thuds. My hands find their way to my head—the once long strands now end abruptly by my ears.
I start to scream, the rasping, gasping sounds scraping their way up and out of my throat. Tears stream down my face like fat raindrops, ominous and endless. I cry out of confusion, out of anger, out of pain. The hair is all over the floor and the PT table.
The therapist’s sneakers make their signature squeak as she skids back into the room. “June, June! What’s wrong?” She turns the lights all the way up. “Oh, no. Your hair. How did this happen?”
I know exactly how it did. I watched it all happen to Gigi and didn’t say a word. Now it’s my turn.
13.
Bette
AFTER A SESSION WITH MADAME Yuli, I’m standing at the bottom of the basement stairs, working up the energy to go back upstairs.
“Bette,” Justina calls down, “your mother—”
“Coming.” I steel myself, then I climb the stairs. I walk through the kitchen and into the foyer. The space is lit up and warm, and there’s laughter. It makes me think, just for a second, that I’ve walked up into the wrong house.
But the laugh—bright and deep and rough—is Alec’s.
It takes all my strength not to run into the living room. Instead, I compose myself at the foyer’s wall mirror, wiping the sweat from my brow and pulling my ballet sweater down a little on my shoulders. I make a few settling noises so they know I’m out here.
When Adele finally calls out, “Is that you, Bette? We’ve got company!”
I smooth down my damp hair and finally poke my head into the living room.
“Well, actually, you’ve got company.” Adele giggles, the same sweet, little girl laugh I’ve always wanted. “I’ve just been entertaining Alec with ARC horror stories while he waited.”
Fall Alec is my favorite kind. He always wears fancy, grown-up pants and cozy, oversize sweaters that are always roomy enough for me to climb right into, not an inch between us, his long arms wrapped around me like a scarf. The craving for him is so sharp, so elemental, tears prick my eyes.