She’s going to be fine, I keep telling myself. She has to be. I don’t know Eleanor that well, despite being in school with her for a decade now. She’s always been Bette’s sidekick, but with roles like Arabian Coffee and the Swans, she was starting to come into her own finally. I’d heard the rumors, about a teacher and a student. But there have been rumors about Mr. K before, too. There have been rumors about Adele, rumors about Gigi, and others before them. Mr. K takes liberties. He seduces students. Mr. K is a predator. Mr. K prefers blondes. I remember overhearing Sei-Jin and her friends talking about Mr. K and Adele, about what she did to get to the top—and what Bette would have to do to beat that. “Wonder if he’s into sisters?” one of them had said at the time. Seems they had the wrong girl all along.
Just as the ambulance pulls away, a horrible sound breaks the quiet.
I walk away from the windows, where the crowd is still gathered, and over to Bette, who’s got a hand on the glass door. They won’t let her out, but she refuses to step away. She’s crying, mascara running, snot dripping, and she doesn’t even care. I put an arm around her shaking shoulders, and it feels strange and familiar all at once, like new toe shoes that will be perfect once they’re broken in. She doesn’t stop sobbing, and an RA comes and guides her into the administration office, probably hoping to prevent other breakdowns.
The other Level 8s swarm around the elevator bank, unsure of what to do with themselves.
Mr. Lucas appears, taking charge, his voice droning as he’s shouting commands. “Upstairs now. There’s no reason for you to be down here. You can get your evening meals, but we will be instituting an eight thirty curfew tonight. No sign-outs, unless a parent or guardian comes to get you.”
The old me would hope for a glance, a glimmer of warmth or recognition. But now I know not to have expectations, and I realize I don’t care anymore. If anything, I feel disgusted by him and his presence.
As the next elevator opens, I follow the crowd into it. I head straight for my room, which is empty, thankfully. My first instinct is to head toward the bathroom—but I stop myself, my hand resting on the doorknob. I turn around and press my back to the door. If I give in to that, how am I any different from Eleanor?
I’m killing myself, too, just at a slower pace.
I climb into bed and pull the covers over my head, blocking out everyone and everything. I’ve always loved this place, longed for it when I was away for the summers, considered it home. But today, I feel done with it, ready to move on. It’s all too much. I’ve never been able to relax here, not really. The competition, the anxiety, the sheer meanness that sets in gets to even me. Exhausted, I let myself go, give myself over to sleep.
It’s just past midnight when I wake, my phone buzzing incessantly. My mom. I answer, my voice heavy with sleep. “I’m okay,” I tell her.
“Thank God!” She sounds wide awake, frantic. “Want me to come get you?”
I shake my head, realizing she can’t see me. “No, I’m okay. I’m in bed. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay, E-Jun. Stay safe. Love you.”
She hangs up, and I look around the room by the light of the streetlamp. Cassie’s not in her bed or the room. She’s with her company friends, I guess. Or maybe with Henri.
Alone in the dark, I feel haunted. Butterflies, bloodstains, broken bones. They’re all crashing in on me. I want to text Jayhe, to let him fold his arms around me or, better, take me away from this place. But I can’t. Not after all that’s happened. I look at the phone, willing myself to do it. Knowing I won’t.
The cold call of the bathroom beckons, like death with its skeletal fingers gesturing me forward. I climb out of bed and follow the call blindly, not even stopping to turn on the lights. The sound of the swirling water from the toilet rushes my ears, bringing up that familiar instinct. Crouching there, I almost give in. Almost let all that hurt take over. I feel the warmth that always comes before the releases.
But then, faintly, I hear chatter in the hall. First quiet, then louder, closer. I push myself away from the toilet, propel myself up and out of the bathroom. I nearly gave in, gave up. I take deep breaths until the contents of my stomach settle.
I rush to the door and pull it open, hoping for Gigi or Bette or even Riho. I practically spill out into the hallway, where Sei-Jin and her friends are gathered, standing in their pajamas, headed toward the common room, no doubt.
“June.” Sei-Jin looks surprised but not unhappy to see me. “We were just coming to get you.” She gestures to the others, and Riho grins at me. “We’re going to watch some K-dramas on the big screen. The RAs said it was cool, you know, to get our mind off things. Want to come?” If she notices how shocked I am, she doesn’t let on. “Oh, come on. It’ll be fun.”
She offers her arm. For a moment, I look for an excuse. But she looks so hopeful, I just nod and take the hand she’s extended. As the other girls walk ahead, she pauses for a second. “I’m glad you’re coming.” Then more quietly, she adds, “and don’t worry. We’ll put on the subtitles.”
I smirk as she laughs, but I’m glowing with warmth inside.
It’s a nice Saturday, so I sign myself out at the front desk. It takes me an hour and a half to get to Queens on the train. I have to switch from F to the E, and there’s a big wait in between trains, and I should have brought a heavier coat, because it’s still chilly for late April.
One week since Eleanor’s incident, things have settled down in an eerie way—kind of like nothing has happened at all. Eleanor’s recovering, but they don’t know when—or if—she will be back. Mr. K has returned because the situation remains “under investigation.” And I finally, weirdly, have friends again. I’ve tried knocking on Bette’s door a few times, but she never answers. She hasn’t been in class all week.
Riding the train, I look at the NYU acceptance letter I received. I try to picture myself at NYU, imagining myself in purple polka dots and a plum lipstick, in acting class or maybe creative writing, on a stage or maybe behind the scenes. I imagine myself at parties and studying in the library. I try to picture Jayhe’s face when I share my news. It warms me up, and I must look like an idiot, standing there in pink tights and my little spring jacket, beaming. But for once, I don’t care what anyone else thinks.
I get off the train in Elmhurst and realize I’m not quite sure which direction to walk in, because we always drove over in Jayhe’s van when we went to the restaurant. I don’t even know if this is the branch Jayhe will be at, or if he’s full-time now at the new place in Brooklyn.
There are so many things I don’t know anymore, and it makes me want to just turn around and get right back on the train. What was I thinking? I’m already missing afternoon ballet, and by the time I get back, I’ll miss my pre-calc tutoring session, too. I look around. This New York is so different from mine: the bustle of the street, people of all different shapes and colors and sizes. English, Hindi, and Korean and who knows what else mingle into a pulsating backbeat. This place is a different New York, teeming with life. Not all glass and metal and sheltered like the conservatory. Not so easy to shatter.
I can hear the sizzle of meat from the Indian restaurant across the street, and the pizza guy is tossing pies in the window behind me. I don’t see Jayhe’s dad’s place. But there’s something familiar about the street names, the shops around here. I don’t think I’m far. The light changes and I go to cross the street and suddenly there’s a whole lot of honking and I leap back.