The last time she does it, I clap, more to get her attention than to show my support. But she takes it as a compliment, giving me a deep bow and rising, then running to turn off the music.
“Thanks for coming.” The flush that starts in her cheeks and runs down her bare arms makes her look like an undercooked sausage, especially in the leotard and tights. She walks toward me, her toe shoes clomping against the hardwood. She sits on a bench that lines one wall, and gestures for me to do the same. She’s breathless. She presses a buzzer on the intercom. Her maid comes running in again, with tea, even though I said no, and Bette waves the tray away. “Justina, I need lemonade,” Bette informs her. “The one infused with electrolytes.”
The maid just nods and leaves, taking the tray with her.
Bette inspects me, her eyes flitting from my head down to my feet. She reaches for my hair. Immediately, my hands fly to my head—my once-long dark hair is now cropped in a short bob. “Cute?” she offers. It’s not a statement, but a question, as if she’s not quite sure what to make of it. All I know is, it’s too short to pull back into the standard, mandatory ballet bun, and too long to just let it be. It’s useless. The RAs still haven’t figured out who did it. But I know it was Sei-Jin.
Everyone keeps reminding me that it’s just hair, that it will grow back. I know one thing for sure: Mr. K will not let me onstage looking like this. Just thinking about it makes the tears sting my eyes again, and I find myself wondering where the bathroom might be. But I can’t do that here.
“It’s good to see you,” I tell Bette, even though it’s really not. “Things aren’t the same without you at school.” Which is true.
She nods. “I heard about all the changes.” She grabs the lemonade off the tray as soon as Justina returns with it. She guzzles half the glass, and the maid refills it immediately from the pitcher. Bette nods to her to fill up the second glass for me, but I shake my head.
She waits for Justina to leave to continue. “I need to clear my name. You do know I didn’t do it, right? That I wouldn’t do that.”
“I know.” Bette may be a lot of things, but she’s not a killer. “But someone sure wanted to make it look like it was you.”
She grins, which I wasn’t expecting. “Right, and I know exactly who. That’s why I need your help.” She stomps across the floor, then she hands me her laptop. She sits down, unlaces her ribbons, and removes her pointe shoes. Her feet are so bright red and bruised, they’re distracting me from whatever I’m supposed to be watching on the screen. Despite the horrible shape her feet are in, her toenails are perfectly painted a deep purple. Naturally.
“Click the video.”
I watch us pour out of the club that night. I see myself with Jayhe, holding hands, beaming. I watch Gigi, Alec, and Will stumble forward, drunk and laughing, and Bette and Eleanor not far behind them. Then comes Henri, smirking as usual. Just as they take their first steps toward the cobblestones, it cuts off.
“Where’s the rest? What happened?”
She takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. I’m waiting for the guy who took the video to get back to me. But in the meantime, I need help from inside the conservatory. Finding a way to get Henri to show that he’s guilty.” She takes another quick breath, convincing me, convincing herself. “Isn’t Cassie your roommate? That’s what I’ve heard.”
“Unfortunately. Everything’s pink, I have to stay out of her space, but she’s always in mine. And she’s mean.” It feels good to share it. “She’s so cold. Like she’s the queen and I’m a fly buzzing in her territory. And Henri is always there and they’re all over each other. It’s gross.”
“But sort of perfect.”
“How?”
“The video will prove that Henri pushed Gigi, once I get the rest of it. But I need something else, more proof, in case I can’t get it. You have twenty-four seven access to Cassie and her stuff. And Henri, by association.” She looks down at her foot and retapes a Band-Aid in place.
“He’s definitely twisted, but trying to hurt Gigi? I don’t know.” I tell her how strange they are together, him and Cassie, probably doing disgusting things on my bed just for kicks when I’m out.
“He blackmailed me last year. I’m not proud of the stuff he made me do.”
“What?”
“Yeah.” She sighs. “That’s why I really need to make him pay.” She goes over to a file box near the mirror. She returns with a tiny camera, like the kind you’d attach to a computer. “I need you to put this in your room, facing Cassie’s side.”
I thumb the camera between my fingers. “The thing is, everyone thinks you did it. I heard you even settled with Gigi’s family.” What I don’t say: What’s in it for me?
“We did pay her for the bullying stuff. But I didn’t hurt her. That’s not what it was all about. Listen—”
“If I help you—and I’m not saying I will—then I want something in return. Morkie’s been on me, lately. She says my technique is good, but I’m not giving in to the music and the story. You know how to do that.”
“Deal.” She smiles. “I’ll give you the password to the video app, so you can watch it, too.” She takes my cell from my bag and asks for the passcode, typing it in. Two minutes later, the app is downloaded.
She’s handing my phone back to me when it starts buzzing, a string of notifications. At first I think they must be from Jayhe, but they’re pictures some of the girls at school posted to social media—ambulances pulled up in front of the conservatory building. I scroll through, trying to figure out what happened.
There’s a post on that new girl Isabela’s feed—“Oh shit! Eleanor’s headed to the hospital. Allergic reaction.” A string of comments and sad smiley faces follow. The picture pops up on a dozen more feeds.
Nuts. Allergies. Eleanor. Hospital.
“Oh my god.” Bette just keeps repeating those three words.
Bette texts Alec. She’s pacing while she waits the few minutes for him to text back. “This can’t be happening,” she keeps saying. “Eleanor’s super careful about her allergy.”
The thought sends shivers down my spine. Everyone knows Eleanor is allergic to nuts—we’ve known since we were kids. She’s never had an incident at school—until now. Which means one thing. The pranks are definitely getting worse. This time, it’s definitely not Bette.
When Alec texts that it’s Mount Sinai West, Bette’s already halfway out the door—throwing a coat and scarf over her leotard. She puts me in a cab, pays for it, and grabs another one, heading straight to the hospital.
16.
Bette
THE HOSPITAL WAITING ROOM IS a nightmare of crying babies, cranky nurses, and teary-eyed adults. Eleanor’s mother is at the nurses’ counter. Her hair is streaked with gray. I hardly recognize her. The last time I saw her was during our ninth-grade Nutcracker performance, when we were in Level 4. All of Eleanor’s four siblings were sitting in one long row, and my mother complained that their mom struggled to keep them quiet and contained.