“Sure.”
“Great,” I say. “I have just the thing.”
15.
June
THE ROOM IS STILL DARK when my alarm blares, and I rush to turn it off before Cassie wakes. I can’t take another argument. Not today. But she doesn’t stir at all, her light snore echoing in the small space, piles of pink blankets muffling the sound. I tuck my cold feet into slippers, then head into the bathroom to start the shower, turning it all the way up to screaming hot. I need the scalding right now. I need to not feel Morkie’s pinch.
I wipe the steam away from the mirror and take a good look at myself completely naked. I touch my too-short hair and force down a swell of emotions. I run my fingers over my collarbone and chest to my ribs. The bones used to stick out more. I used to be able to count them. My hands find their way down my stomach to my hips. I push a finger against my skin and feel the squish around my thighs. I flush red—not from the growing steam and heat in the bathroom, but from the unwanted weight there. I find the spot, the extra flesh, pinching it tight like Morkie did. I hold that extra inch between my fingers until the skin burns, a cry of pain working its way through me.
I’m not quite as bad as the beginning of the year—some of the definition is back. But there’s still that unwanted curve to my hip, and a little extra padding in the chest. It has to go.
The last weigh-in I had was a week ago in Nurse Connie’s office, and she sighed as the numbers stopped on 104. “You’re on a slippery slope, E-Jun,” she’d said, that condescending tone settling into me. “You must get back on track and get your weight up.”
I step gingerly onto the silver scale Cassie keeps in the corner of the bathroom, leaning down to reset it into pounds rather than kilos. Everything she owns is British, and she’ll definitely know it was me if I don’t remember to reset after I step off. The numbers jump, up, down, frantic, then slowly stop—103, 105, 104, 107—before landing at 105.
Morkie’s words repeat endlessly in my head: This will not do. This will not do. This will not do.
I step off, but the number flashes in my head.
A voice inside asks: What would be small enough?
100. 99. 98. 97.
I go back to the mirror, wipe away the new layer of steam, and stare at it. “You can do this!” I need that rush, that powerful feeling of control, like when I’m at the barre telling my muscles how to move and bend. I stand and look at the toilet. I touch my stomach again. I crouch down over the sparkling porcelain bowl, the familiar gargling of the water welcoming me as I lean in close. My breathing goes shallow and heavy all at once, and the familiar lurch moves my whole body.
But nothing comes. I lean in some more, my head hovering over the water below, and wait. Still nothing. Impatient, I stick two fingers in my mouth, and gagging triggers immediate results—even though it’s mostly water and bile. The coughing brings tears to my eyes. A pink tinge stares up at me. Worry zips through me for just a second, but I can’t stop myself. My fingers have a mind of their own.
I give one more smooth stroke with my finger and the rest erupts, coming fast and furious. I’m empty and full all at once, the relief settling over me, slick and satisfying.
I shower quickly, letting the rush of the water drown out all the thoughts that won’t quiet in my head—about my hair and Cassie and college and our upcoming auditions. It washes away all the stress about Morkie’s pinch and Riho’s perfection and Gigi’s butterflies. By the time I’m done, I’ve let it all go, sliding down the drain with soapy water.
When I step outside the steaming bathroom, Cassie’s awake and standing at the door in her pink bathrobe, her face matching it.
“What is it now?”
“You think I don’t know?” She’s pointing a finger at the door. “I’m not stupid. You spray that hideous air freshener, and oh, Cassie’s oblivious. But I can still smell it, June! It’s disgusting. You’re disgusting. And you have a problem.”
“I don’t know—”
“Oh, you know exactly what I mean. You better figure out how to take care of yourself, or I’ll tell them all—Connie, Mr. K.”
Would she really rat out another dancer? She wouldn’t. But Cassie’s so angry, her usually pale face is turning a livid red, from her roots to her ears, just like Alec’s. I know then that she would do it in a second, and be glad to see me go. I wonder if she’d treat me like this—like a gross, foreign thing—if she knew we were cousins. Somehow, I believe she’d react exactly the same. The whole thought of being related to her strikes me as funny, and when I laugh, she’s stamping her feet like a petulant poodle, her blond curls frizzing around her face. “What do you think you’re laughing at?” She grabs her things. “You think I can use that bathroom now? Between the steam and the smell—”
Part of me wants to just say “you’re my cousin” out loud, let the words slide between us, watch how they change the shape of her face.
My ringing phone cuts her off. I don’t recognize the number, but I answer it anyway, just to get her to stop talking and leave.
“June?” a voice says. “I need to see you. Now. Can you come over?”
“Who is this?”
The voice laughs. I recognize the sound immediately. Bette.
“Whatever,” I tell Cassie, leaving her in her pink bathrobe and slippers and fit of rage. “I’ve got to go.”
Fifteen minutes later, Bette sends a car for me. Because she’s Bette. The Lincoln Town Car has heated leather seats and bottled water in the back just for me. I don’t take taxis in New York, let alone hired luxury cars with suit-wearing drivers who open the door for me.
Manhattan changes as we leave school and go where Bette lives. We pass expensive shops, the Fifth Avenue windows full of well-dressed mannequins and overpriced purses. The car rolls to a stop in front of a white-brick town house. Even the outside looks like Bette.
The driver gets out and opens the door for me with a stupid little smile. I grumble out a thank-you and reach in my pocket for a few dollars to tip him.
“Already included, miss.” After he’s gone, I kind of wish I was back in the cozy seat of the car and that I took it all the way to Jayhe’s house in Queens instead of here. She didn’t say what she wanted, and I was too curious to turn down her invitation. Anything was better than staying in that room with Cassie. I open the little wrought-iron gate that leads to Bette’s front door, imagining what it must be like to call one of the most expensive blocks in Manhattan home. I ring the bell. The chime is delicate, like a sequence from our performance music.
Of course, she doesn’t answer. A maid ushers me down the stairs and into the basement, which is a well-lit, mirrored dance studio, complete with smooth floors and a long barre. Swan Lake music tinkles in from various built-in speakers, and Bette’s in the center of the floor, practicing fouettés en tournant. She’s still aiming for the lead despite her exile. Even though she hasn’t been at school in almost six months, she’s maintained her skill—the turns are sharp and flowing. She’s still got it.
“Would you like something to drink?” the maid asks. “Tea, lemonade?” I shake my head, and she disappears. Bette continues to dance, ignoring my presence. She spins and stops, spins and stops, spins and stops, never quite hitting the complete thirty-two, but getting close.