He shakes his head, taking my hands. “You can start over now.”
I want to tell him that I don’t want to start over. I want to be right here with him. He lifts me up into his arms. I tuck my face into the nook between his shoulder and his neck. I take in a breath and try to hold the smell of him inside me. I don’t know when I’ll see him again. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him.
“I wish we didn’t have that fight.” The words land against his skin. “I wish we hadn’t wasted that time, now that I’m leaving.”
“Me, too.” He kisses my neck, then finds my mouth. His tongue parts my teeth. I taste the slice of pineapple he must’ve just had. His hands hold me just like we’re beginning a pas de deux. Their warmth find its way through my clothes and into my skin. I wonder what life would’ve been like if I had gotten chosen as one of the apprentices. Would we be back together?
He traces his fingers along the curves of my face. He counts the freckles.
“What are you doing?”
“Memorizing your face.”
A smile bubbles up inside me.
“I don’t want you to leave.” His fingers find my mouth and chin.
“I don’t want to leave New York. I don’t want to leave you.”
An RA yells from the hall that the airport shuttle is out front. My stomach does a flip. Alec squeezes me one more time.
“You can always come back. There are other companies here. The American Ballet Theatre. The Dance Theatre of Harlem.”
“I just thought I’d be—”
“I know. I did, too.”
He moves my suitcases into the hall. The RAs load them onto a cart to bring downstairs for the shuttle to the airport.
“Gigi, let’s go,” the RA calls out.
I linger in the room and take it in one last time. I slip my phone from my pocket and group text Mama, Dad, and Aunt Leah that I’m leaving the school for the airport. My finger scrolls past Will’s name in my contact list.
“Gigi!” Alec calls from the hall. “We gotta go.”
I type three words to Will: I forgive you.
I hit Send, then delete and block the contact.
I close the door, and walk away from the American Ballet Conservatory for the very last time.
44.
Bette
ELEANOR IS TUCKED INTO HER childhood canopy bed, her cheeks rosy, and I feel like we’re six again. Her room still has the buttercup yellow wallpaper, a dollhouse, and a collection of plastic horses peeking out from her bookshelf. It’s so weird to see her here. This room doesn’t feel like she belongs in it anymore after all our years at the conservatory.
I thought she wouldn’t want to see me after everything that happened. But when I called her mother, she invited me right over, said Eleanor had been waiting for me to call.
“How are you?” I’m lying on the pillow beside her, and we’re face-to-face. I try to sink into the bed, not let the anxiety of everything that happened this year linger between us.
“Better.”
I don’t know if I believe her. Bandages cover her wrists, and her eyes are rimmed with purple and black half-moons. Her skin is translucent and little tremors make her hands shake a little.
“I’m sorry about everything getting out,” I say to just rip the Band-Aid off. “The pictures, all of it.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Someone took my phone.”
“I know.” She smiles at me for the first time in what feels like forever, and in this moment I feel like nothing has changed, even though everything has shifted into unrecognizable shapes. “I’m glad you got the spot,” she says. “You worked really hard.”
“So did you.”
“I just don’t have it in me. Not like you do.” She sighs. “Not the talent, not the stamina, not the charisma. That’s why I felt like I had to—” She stops there, afraid to say too much.
“You’re stronger than you think, El.”
“Just not strong enough.” She lies flat on her back, staring up at the ceiling. It feels like I’m losing her again, like she’ll shut me out for good this time. But then I feel the tremor move through her and right into me, and I know what she’s thinking. About him. About them. About things I might never understand. I always felt like the grown-up, worldly one of us, but she’s so far out of my reach now, I’ll never catch up.
“It’s not your fault, Eleanor. No one blames you.”
“But they should. I knew what I was doing. It started out as a tease, just to see what would happen. But I got caught up in the glamour of it. The attention, the adoration. The way he looked at me. It was all about the power. It had nothing to do with dancing at all.”
I inch closer to her. “This wasn’t your fault.” I say it again, because she needs to hear it. “Everything got all messed up. You didn’t do this all on your own.”
“Bette, I can’t blame him.”
“Why not? I do.” I force her to turn over and face me. Her eyes brim with tears, which cause mine to do the same. “He’s the grown-up here, Eleanor, and what they say is true. He’s power mad, a predator. You weren’t the first, and you likely won’t be the last. But not if I get my way, Eleanor. Because I’m going to make him pay.”
“Don’t you dare, Bette Abney. I made my choices.” She blinks away falling tears and takes a deep breath. “I decided that I would allow that whole thing to happen. I touched him first.”
“But—”
“I want to let it all go. Ballet hasn’t made me really happy in a long time. It’s sort of messed me up.”
“I hope you know, you’re a beautiful dancer. Even if I didn’t tell you enough.” The truth is I should’ve told her all the time. I should’ve made sure she knew I thought she was great. I should’ve been a better friend. A best friend, like she was always to me. Maybe she wouldn’t have done this. Maybe she would’ve relied on me and the strength of her feet and the beauty of her movements to get what she wanted. Maybe this thing with Mr. K would’ve never happened.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do without ballet, but I’m excited to find out. I’m excited to learn what will actually make me happy.”
I slip my hand in hers. “You’ll find something. I’ll help you.”
“And you’ll dance for the both of us,” she says.
“Always.”
I walk into the American Ballet Company building for the first time as a company apprentice, as a professional ballerina. It’s my first ballet class after graduation. I stand in the lobby and look straight up. Pictures of the great ballet dancers seem to float down from the ceiling, held by string I can’t see.
“You’re a little Adele,” someone says.
I whip around.
It’s Alina Rozanova, one of the soloists. She doesn’t stop to chat, just smiles at me as she heads to the elevator. I want to tell her that I’m Bette, that I’m my own person, but she’s already long gone.
“Hey.”
I turn, and see Alec. He’s already dressed for rehearsal, in tights and a slim-fitting white T-shirt. It’s only been a few weeks since I’ve seen him, but he looks different somehow. Bigger, more grown-up. Like the shift from student to apprentice has changed him already.