I remove her hand from my body, as if it’s the most disgusting thing that’s ever touched me. I walk back to bed, slip the eye mask over my eyes, tune her out, and go to sleep. I know her kind: all words, no action. She doesn’t have the guts to tell.
I hope.
The next afternoon, Morkie puts me and Riho side by side again. It’s like she gets off on the contrast between us: Riho’s small proportions, the flowing grace in all her movements, making me look stiff beside her. I feel like Morkie’s setting me up to fail. Mr. K’s words from the assessments last week ring in my head: “It’s not enough to have perfect technique, June. You have to have passion.”
Riho gives me this awkward smile as we both walk to the center. It looks more like a grimace, really, and for a minute I feel sorry for her. “You okay?” she asks in quiet, perfect English. It’s the first time she’s ever actually spoken to me. I panic about all the things I said about Sei-Jin around her, thinking she couldn’t understand. A flush creeps up my chest. “I could ask Morkie to let us go last.”
I shake my head, and she smiles again. “I hate going first,” she says, making me think about why I automatically slotted her into my nemesis category, why I didn’t just let myself warm up to her. She’s like me, an outsider—not one of them but not one of the white kids either. There aren’t any other Japanese kids this year. She’s such a good dancer, she could’ve commanded her own clique, instead of hanging with Sei-Jin and her pack.
But I know why she does, and I feel a pinch inside, wanting to have my friends back.
I raise my eyebrow at her, signaling I’m ready, not quite willing to commit to a smile. We settle into our spots, waiting for the music.
Morkie shows the class the next part of the Odette variation. Everyone marks it. Except Eleanor, who is still recovering from her terrible allergic reaction. The movements are fast-paced and staccato, all quick, precise feet and big arms. I force myself to relax, not to overthink it. “Ready?” she says to Riho and me.
I bow. The music starts. We spin into the movement, lifting, then turning, lifting, then turning. Morkie hollers out corrections, but she doesn’t stop us. We must be decent. I push myself to show her I want to be Odette.
The studio door opens. Morkie waves her hand in the air. We stop. I press my hands on top of my head and will my breathing to slow.
It’s Mr. K’s assistant. “E-Jun Kim, Mr. K wants you in his office.”
Hearing my name makes me jump.
I look from the woman to Morkie and back.
“Go,” Morkie says, irritated.
She immediately turns back to Riho. “Excellent. Lots of emotion,” I hear her saying as I walk out.
I follow the assistant down the hall and to Mr. K’s office, wondering what he could possibly want. My brain is a storm of panic. Maybe they figured out Sei-Jin cut my hair. The RAs said they’d investigate. Though it’s been almost a full month since it happened. Or maybe Sei-Jin told them about the butterflies.
When I get to Mr. K’s office, he’s sitting at his desk, wearing a serious expression.
That’s when I see Nurse Connie. She’s sitting across from Mr. K, in the seat closest to the wall. My stomach clenches. “Have a seat, E-Jun,” she says, patting the chair next to her.
I sit across from Mr. K, who has my file spread in front of him—I can see the numbers on my weight chart, the triple digits as they fall to doubles, getting smaller and smaller.
“When you got back to school this year, E-Jun, I was so pleased by your progress,” Nurse Connie says. “You were up to a solid one hundred and eight at the first weigh-in. We thought you were doing so well. Anorexia and bulimia are usually lifetime struggles.”
I wince at the words, not willing to accept them. My stomach clenches as I unravel where this is headed. During the past few weigh-ins, Nurse Connie frowned every time I stepped on the scale, the deep line on her forehead getting bigger as the number on the scale got smaller.
I try to tell them I’m fine, but the words don’t come out.
“Sadly, E-Jun,” she says, “your numbers have been steadily dropping.” She looks down at the file, the numbers upside down and all wrong.
Mr. K interrupts then. “We don’t tolerate these habits. You’ve been here long enough to know that. You’ve seen other girls—stronger dancers—get dismissed from this institution for this behavior.” The exasperation is heavy in his voice.
Nurse Connie asks what I’ve eaten today.
“Chicken soup and salad.” It was broth, really, but soup sounds better. Heartier. “And coffee with cream.” Cream always sounds so lush.
“And did you purge it?”
I panic. Cassie told them, just like she said she would.
Mr. K’s eyes burn into me. The silence stretches around me. My skin warms. I don’t know why I do it, but I nod. I tell the truth. I can’t bear the weight of their stares or the silence. I don’t know how to lie to this man.
“Should she be hospitalized?” Mr. K asks, shaking his head, his tone defeated, as if I’m the latest conservatory catastrophe. An eating scandal is the last thing the school needs right now.
There’s a knock on the door, loud and insistent. Nurse Connie opens the door.
“No way. You cannot talk to my daughter like this without me.” My mom stands in the doorway. “You were supposed to wait to start this meeting—”
“Ms. Kim, please come in. We really haven’t started the entire meeting.” He’s using that familiar, coddling tone he reserves for parents. I want to interrupt and tell her that he lied.
Mr. K’s assistant offers my mother her seat. My mom glares as she takes it. “Now, Ms. Kim, Nurse Connie has been worried about E-Jun’s numbers for months. Due to previous incidents, we have no choice but to take immediate action. This type of behavior spreads like a virus.”
“I can fix this, Mr. K,” I blurt out.
“Lots of dancers have struggles with food.” Mr. K sighs, like this conversation is exhausting him. “But to be a ballerina one must be strong. All muscle. And you cannot do that without eating.”
“I know.” His words settle into me, and shame floods my body.
“I want to talk with June alone,” my mom says. “Please excuse us one moment.”
Mr. K nods and says, “We’ll step out for a bit.”
Nurse Connie follows him out the door.
My mom stands up and looks down, towering over me for once, as I sit slumped in the chair. “I know your fears. I had the same ones.” She takes a deep breath. The quaver in her voice makes me look up at her, seeing her clearly for maybe the first time ever. “I know you want this. I know you do.” She takes my hand, and hers is cold and frail. “But this will kill you. Make you so sick you won’t be able to dance anymore.” She’s looking at my hand now, and it takes me a minute to see the similarities—how bony and taut it is, so much like her own.
“You trust me?” she asks.
I nod.
Mr. K knocks. My mom reopens his office door. Mr. K and Nurse Connie come barreling back into the room. Mr. K takes his seat, and gets straight back to business. “As you already know, Ms. Kim,” he says, addressing my mom and not me, “this has been a difficult year for American Ballet Conservatory and for my Level 8 dancers. June’s eating, well, as we all understand it, this has been a problem for quite a while. One that Nurse Connie here has tried repeatedly to address with June.”