“I should be asking you the same thing.” Eleanor’s eyes are on my sister’s cast, and they’re full of worry. “What, uh, happened exactly?”
“They say it was a switch malfunction—that the trapdoor opened when it shouldn’t have. And I fell right in!” Adele laughs, but I can tell that Eleanor is thinking the same thing I am: that this was no accident.
“Can I sign your cast?” Eleanor asks then, and Adele beams at her.
She’s scribbling on Adele’s leg when the doorbell buzzes again. This time it is the delivery guy.
“Please share,” Adele says as I pull out the chicken salads and put them on the coffee table. We all pick at them for a few minutes, and I find myself repeatedly stopping myself from spilling Eleanor’s secret. Because if there’s anyone who’d know what to do about it, it’s Adele. After all, she lived it. Sort of.
The whole meal is awkward and slow and lull filled, like we’re strangers instead of girls who have known one another our whole lives. Too much has happened, and too much is being left unsaid. At nine p.m., Eleanor looks at her phone, which has been buzzing for a while, even though she’s tried to ignore it. “It’s getting late,” she says, standing. “I should get back to the dorm.”
“Oh, Bette, why don’t you go with her?” Adele says.
I start gathering up the leftovers, putting them all into one container. “I was planning to crash,” I say, but Adele’s shaking her head.
“No, Bette, go. It’s Saturday night. You shouldn’t be stuck here with me. And, really, I’m about to take a few painkillers and go to sleep.”
I open my mouth again, but the look in Adele’s eye tells me she’s not about to listen. I do as she says, getting her the medicine and helping her into her room. Once she’s tucked in, I turn off the lights. Then I hear her say, in the darkness, “You should talk to Eleanor. I think she needs you.”
I nod to myself in the dark.
Eleanor and I walk the four blocks back to the dorm in silence. When we get there, I expect her to walk in with me, that maybe we really will pop some popcorn and watch a movie. But she’s looking at her phone again. Which means she’s still communicating with him.
“Eleanor, don’t.” I put my hand on her arm, but she’s set to walk away. “This—it—it just isn’t right.”
“You’re hardly one to judge.” She tosses away my concern like garbage in a nearby street bin. “Look, I know things haven’t been easy for either of us. And I know this thing with Adele, it’s eating you up. But it’s not your fault, okay?”
That’s the thing, though. It is. “It was meant for me. I know it.”
“No,” Eleanor’s saying again, and now she’s got her arm around me, the weight of it familiar and comforting, like a heavy winter blanket. “You’ve got to let it go. Focus on ballet. You’ve got a second chance. You know how rare that is?”
“That’s just it.” I don’t know if it’s the cold bite of the wind that’s stinging my eyes or tears, but either way, I let them fall. I just want to be in this moment, to maybe fix all the things I broke. “I’m finally getting exactly what I wanted. What I’ve always dreamed of. But none of it feels like I imagined it would. Adele. You. I’m like little hurricane Bette, taking out everyone in my path.”
“You haven’t ruined me, Bette.” She sighs. “I’m right here. And Adele will be fine.”
“But you and me . . . we’re a mess.”
“I know,” Eleanor whispers. She looks down at her phone again. I start to walk toward the building, heading inside and out of the cold.
“Wait, Bette.” She slips the phone into her pocket. “I’m so tired. Popcorn? Movie?”
I smile at her. “Only if it’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
Damien will be watching our ballet class today. With Adele out and cast lists shifting, he’ll probably hire early, like he did last year. Aiko Yosidha left the conservatory last November to join ABC’s corps de ballet and start her professional career before graduating. The same thing happened with Adele. But they were both clear standouts, proving themselves over and over.
That’s what I need to show: that level of technique, that level of commitment. I have to be perfect. I have to be like my sister. I slip into a new leotard and tights and give myself a flawless bun. I open the jewelry box where I keep my locket hidden away. I open its usual drawer to find empty red velveteen. My heart thuds against my rib cage. Sweat beads my brow.
I comb through the other compartments, then go to my dance bag. I tear through it, throwing everything out onto the floor. The locket is tangled with pointe shoe ribbons. The clasp is open and the pills have scattered throughout the bag. My heartbeat drums through me, making my fingers all wobbly and anxious. I dump everything out of the bag and fish the pills from the mess, one by one, returning them to their safe space inside my locket. The familiar little halo makes everything slow down.
I swallow one pill, then decide to take one more. I need to be extrafocused during rehearsal. I race downstairs to warm up early.
Damien watches as we do the movements, Morkie barking at this girl or the other. “Extend. Higher. Soft arms. Long, lean lines.”
I can feel the sweat seeping through my leotard and dripping down my face. I try to tune Morkie out, focusing instead on my toes, which burn so badly I think they’ve burst. I let the pain wash over me, pushing me harder. But then all I can hear is the pounding of my heart in my ears, like the bass in a club. I try to slow my breathing, to relax.
Everything is making me anxious: my own reflection, the sound of the variation music, the lower-level dancers drifting past the window, Damien’s pen scribbling across a page, the weird smile Cassie keeps flashing my way.
The room swirls around me. Reflections twist and warp in the mirror.
Calm down, Bette. Relax.
I put my hand on the mirror to keep from falling. My head feels like it’s floating away, and my chest tightens. I know it’s nothing but panic. It has to be that.
“A tarantella, Viktor,” I hear Morkie saying. He plays a few chords on the piano, and she stops him to give directions. The noises all blend together into one droning glob of sound. My legs feel like they’re going to give out from under me.
Cassie rushes forward. She puts a hand on my shoulder. I can’t move away from her. It’s like we’ve plunged under water. Each movement is slow and watery. “Are you okay, Bette?”
I try to answer her. I try to jerk away from her. I try to tell her to get away from me.
Cassie leans in and whispers in my ear: “How does it feel to lose control? To not know what the things you put in your body might do to you?” She smiles and pats my arm, but I don’t hear what she says next, because black dots stamp out my vision and the studio goes dark.
When I wake up, an EMT hovers over me, a stethoscope cold against my chest. I’m wearing an oxygen mask.
I try to tell them I’m fine. The words get caught in the plastic. Nurse Connie pets my arm. “Stay still. Rest,” she says. “Your mom is on the way.”
My mother? That’s the last thing I need.