28.
Gigi
“TAKE A LOOK AT THIS patheticness.” Cassie passes me her phone. She’s sprawled out on the extra bed in my room after curfew. I’m on a mat on the floor, doing my physical therapy exercises. I zoom in on the picture. It’s June bent over their toilet, vomiting. Her face is twisted into the ugliest expression. Liquid spews from her mouth.
“Gross. How’d you get this?” I give her the phone back. I remember catching her throwing up last year. The embarrassment, the shame of it all, floods back to me.
“I set up a camera right above the toilet bowl. If she half paid attention, she would’ve seen it.” She clicks through a few others, flashing them at me. “She stinks up the bathroom, too. How did you deal?”
I shrug. Back then I liked June and didn’t mind putting up with her quirks and habits, however damaging they might’ve been. But now, every time I see her, every time I hear her name, every time I think of her, I see my butterflies pinned to the wall. The gleaming needles pierced straight through the space right under their heads and their eyes, where a human heart would be if it were that small and fragile. The wings pushed forward and brushed up against the walls. I feel my cheeks flush and the pressure build up.
“I need to ask you something.” I dredge up courage.
“Yeah, what’s up?” She doesn’t look up from her phone.
“Did you know that Eleanor would end up in the hospital?”
She looks up. Her eyebrow lifts. “No.”
She stares at me so hard, I can’t ask another question. My stomach knots. The question has been burning inside me since the incident.
“You think I wanted to send her to hospital?”
“I’m not saying that. Just wanted to know if—”
“I thought she’d just look funny, okay?”
“Okay. Forget I asked.” I jump up, take her phone, and try to change the weird mood in the room. “I have something fun we can do.”
“Oooh, what?” She nibbles her bottom lip.
“Let’s remind the girls not to throw up what they eat. Make sure they know how ugly it makes you look.” The mean words pour out of my mouth and erase a little of the anger inside me. I can’t stop. The cruelness fills me up.
She breaks out in a smile, like she’s just finished a particularly difficult variation and is basking in the applause. “This will get her to clean up after herself or, better yet, get sent home.”
I plug the phone into my computer and select those photos. I print about fifty of them. I hand her a bunch of the papers and clear tape. “We’re going to let everyone know her nasty little habit. Ballerinas love their secrets.”
We put tape on the photos, ready for posting, then open the door. The hallway is silent. It’s just after midnight, and most girls are asleep or on their computers.
“I’ll start on the eleventh floor—the Level 7 girls will find this hilarious.” She slips down the stairwell.
I start putting the photos up on every door and the wall space in between. I even plaster them over the Level 8 bulletin board, June’s ugly, pained face covering up announcements about changes in dorm rules for the new year. I imagine what her face is going to look like in the morning: twisted, weepy, shocked. I imagine how loud the laughs will be. I imagine her racing through the hallway, trying to tear them all down, only to find a dozen more. I imagine how long it will take her to find all of these. I imagine how many tears will stream down her face.
The guilt doesn’t bubble up this time. Maybe it’s all gone now. Maybe I am completely different now.
I go to the kitchen area and climb on one of the chairs. The streetlamps leave shadowy beams of light across the floor. I open the cabinets and tape them on everyone’s cereal boxes and food containers. This feels addictive. A rush goes to my head.
“What are you doing?” The lights startle on. “You know there’s a camera in here.”
I almost fall out of the chair. The nighttime RA has her hand on her hip. She looks around at all the pictures, then starts tearing them down. My heart monitor buzzes on my wrist. Worry floods into my stomach and I start to shake.
“Get down, right now.”
I ease down and put the rest of the pictures on the counter.
“What the heck are you doing?”
“I—I—just—”
“This is bullying and harassment.” Her mouth is a hard line. “What’s happened to you?”
“I was messed with, Miriam!” I shout. The anger shoots out of my mouth. I want her to feel it. I want everyone to feel it.
She closes the gap between us and puts a hand on my shoulder. Her sleepy eyes brim over with concern.
“June killed my butterflies. Will pushed me in front of a car.”
She shakes her head, whispering “I know” a few times, and rubs my shoulder. She puts the rest of the photos in the trash. I can’t move. My legs are frozen in place. I can’t stop staring at the hall where I’ve put up all those pictures. I think about Cassie downstairs doing the same. I wonder how much trouble we’ll be in.
“Help me take them down.”
We remove each photo in silence. No one comes out into the hall. No one discovers the pictures. They end up in a pile in her arms, ready to be deposited into her trash bin. I text Cassie to do the same and warn her about the RA.
She finally says something just as I’m about to go back to my room. “Gigi, I’m disappointed.”
I wait for the punishment—a meeting with Mr. K or a suspension or worse, possibly being banned from performing? The weight of it crashes in on me. Sweat drips down my back. My lips start to quiver.
“You’ve always been better than this.”
I bite my bottom lip to keep from crying.
“Don’t let the worst thing that ever happened to you define your life. Don’t let it eat you up. You’re back. You’re dancing better than ever. You will be successful here. You don’t need to do all”—she waves her hands around—“of that petty little kid stuff. Be better than it. Just dance. Doing all this makes you no better than Bette.”
Her words hit me square in the chest. Bette’s name slaps me. I think about Eleanor’s face after she got sick eating the hummus, June’s beautiful hair all over the PT room floor, Sei-Jin’s pointe shoes, and mailing all those magazines to Bette. I’ve wasted so much time trying to show everyone that they shouldn’t mess with me instead of pouring that energy into dancing, making sure my body is strong again and my technique is still there. I think about what Mama would say or do or think if she knew what I’d done.
“Fix it, and this will stay between the two of us. You do anything else, I’ll make sure you’re done at this school. Understand?”
“Yes,” I say.
I close my room door and slide down to the floor. I press my knees into my chest. I’m wracked with pain and tears and anger at myself now. I’ve become Bette. I’ve become the person I hate. And that’s the thing that shifts it all, the thing that snaps it into place.
The next morning I’m sitting in Mr. K’s office again. The scent of his tobacco, the buttons in the chair, and the noise of ballet music pushing in through the door mix together and make me sick. Or maybe it’s because Will’s sitting in the nearby chair. His eyes glare down at his lap. His mother dabs her eyes with a handkerchief. She’s got the same pale white skin and bright red hair, and wears almost as much makeup as her son.