They hand us each a fan, and announce that we’ll be doing Kitri’s fan variation from Don Quixote. We learned this in class back in Level 6. We spent weeks perfecting how to hold a fan while doing simple jumps. “No chicken wing arms,” Madame Dolinskaya would holler at us. “Big, bold Spanish arms. Bigger, bigger!” I always had trouble getting into character. But I’ve been working on that with Bette, so I know I can handle this.
“Wait your turn stage right.”
We line up along the edges of the studio. The other three girls in front of me are white, brunettes. They all look alike to me—although they probably look at Sei-Jin and me and think the same. We’re mirrors, despite my short bob, now starting to grow in, and her long dark hair, pulled into a proper bun.
A ballet mistress goes over the steps once as a refresher. Then, one at a time, we’re called forward to the center.
I mark the movements. I get to review them three times before I go on. Sei-Jin performs right before me, missing a step early on, then staying slightly off the beat for the remainder of the variation. Usually, I’d be filled with glee at this humiliation, but I can see the pain behind her pasted-on smile, and it breaks my heart. I’ve been there. We all have.
“Number forty-four!” the ballet mistress calls, and I grimace, but manage to pull myself together. I saunter to the center, circling the space. I smile and bow at the line of ballet masters and mistresses sitting in front of the mirror. The music starts, loud and clear. I flash my fan, jump on my toes and prepare. The harp chords deepen. I press my hand against my hip and flutter the fan. The variation begins: arms wide, long steps, leg up. All you hear is the music and the clack of a fan opening. My movements are automatic, step, step, step, extended leg, plié. Slide the leg out and up, and turn. I do a quick crisscrossing of the feet and tiny taqueté hops with pointed toes.
Remember to smile.
Remember the quick, small fan flutters from the wrist.
Remember a Spanish-style port de bras, arms extended over the head.
The joy of the wedding dance lifts up from the center of me, floating like the celebratory bubbles in a glass of champagne. My face is rosy and flirtatious, the smile beckoning. I glide my toes forward, one after another, as I move from the left corner to the center, presenting the fan.
I take a small bow, and exit. One other girl dances after me. We wait for them to let us know who’ll go on to the next round. I’m feeling good about my chances, and then the ballet master, a man with a thick Eastern European accent, calls out, “Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three.” He pauses. “The rest may go.” The rest. Sei-Jin and me.
I don’t think I’ve heard him correctly. “Wait, what?”
Sei-Jin steps forward to leave, and my hand reaches for her arm, holding her back.
“But—” I can’t believe the word has escaped my mouth, and she looks as horrified as I feel. It’s not proper to acknowledge the rejection, to utter a word of pain or regret. Still, I can’t quite believe it. I did well. I know I did.
“Yes, number forty-four?” The man’s voice drips with ice and disdain.
“I’m sorry, I just—I thought I performed well.” I look at Sei-Jin, and her eyes are dark, desperate, begging me not to drag her into this. But a surge of confidence shoots through me.
There’s dead silence in the room. When he speaks again, there’s a finality to his voice, which remains neutral, indifferent. “You certainly were spirited, and your technique was strong.” His eyes trace all the lines of me, from tip to toe. “Strong pointe, good expression, although a bit too practiced. The passion doesn’t scream authentic. But frankly, you’re not the right type for San Francisco. The look—too lean.” My head drops along with my heart, and he waits for me to lift my eyes, to look at him again before he dismisses me. “Honestly, I think you’ll find it difficult to get work without building some strength. It’s a risk most companies, financially and otherwise, are not willing to take.” He waves his hand, and I feel Mr. K’s shadow enveloping me. “Good luck in your search.”
I will not cry. I keep telling myself this as I storm out of the room. I feel a hand on my shoulder before I break down. It’s so familiar, the touch of those long, lean fingers, the scent of lip gloss. Like a flash of home in this foreign place.
“June.” In that moment, I want to forgive everything and let Sei-Jin hug me. “I know this is hard. But I don’t think this is about what you think it’s about.”
“And what’s that?” I’m blinking back tears, trying not to give her this moment, the satisfaction. Knowing, then, that we’ll never be friends again. Not in the way I’ve secretly hoped for, all this time.
“I know I did poorly,” she says. “I didn’t display the fan properly, my leaps weren’t great, and my heart wasn’t in it. I shouldn’t really be here at all, but I couldn’t let it go.”
I don’t know what to say to that—except that she’s right, it’s all true. So I don’t say anything at all.
“You, though.” She looks at me so intently, from just inches away, like she did that day when everything ended. “You were probably as good as I’ve ever seen you. Despite the unlucky number.” She swallows and looks down and then looks up again. “But, E-Jun, what he said was true. You’re going to have a hard time.” She reaches out, touches my chin, and then my collarbone, which is exposed by the scoop neck of my black leotard.
The tears fall, fast and furious and unstoppable. She tries to hug me then—the moment I’ve been hoping for every second of the past three years. But it’s all wrong, and I’m flailing my arms and pushing her away.
She won’t let go. I give in this time, and we stand here, heads together. “Come on, E-Jun, let me help you.”
Sei-Jin gets our stuff from the locker room and bustles me downstairs. I’m still wearing my pointe shoes when we get into the cab. I can’t bear the thought of having to take them off again.
The trip home is a blur. I take a cab from the airport straight to my mom’s. She doesn’t ask me how it went. We don’t talk about it that night or the next morning. But I know she knows. She’s been watching me, when I’m not looking, trying to figure out what to say, what to do.
I sit next to her, doing math homework while she knits and watches a Korean drama. When the show is over, she gets up and heads into the apartment’s small kitchen. I can hear her chopping vegetables, stir-frying beef. The smell makes me realize that I’m starving—and nauseous. “E-Jun,” my mom yells into the living room. “Come set the table.”
I rise from the sofa like a zombie. I walk into the kitchen and set out two deep, flat bowls, along with napkins, two pairs of chopsticks and spoons, and two tall glasses filled with water. I see her twirling clear noodles into the stir-fry pan, which still glistens with the grease from the beef. The smell is amazing—salty and garlicky, sweet and sour, like soy and sesame.
Putting everything together, my mother brings the serving bowl to the table. The noodles are glassy and beautiful, surrounded by the bright orange of the carrots, the red of the peppers, and bold green of the spinach and scallions. The scent of the stir-fried beef and shiitakes wafts up. It makes me want to heave, but I sit in front of the bowl and let the steam graze my face, prayerful and soothing. Why can’t I just love this like I used to? Why can’t I just eat it like a normal person?