Tiny Pretty Things by Sona Charaipotra, Dhonielle Clayton Read Free Book Online

bathroom. I throw up a mix of water, tea, and grapefruit. Two fingers bring it out smooth and soundless. The third grade was the first time I ever did it. I caught my mom vomiting after a dinner party at the neighbor’s house. She’d swept me from the bathroom, her face clammy and hands shaky, telling me that American food can poison you, and you must always get rid of it. I asked her why she’d eaten it in the first place, and she said that one has to eat to be polite. Never be a bad guest or you won’t be invited again. And that would be shameful.
    Now, I get rid of most things I eat. Even Korean food.
    I bury those thoughts, though. It’s all for ballet, for my love of the dance. My head feels clearer now. My stomach is calm. Back in place, I glare at the phone, hoping to catch it on the first ring. I check my watch. One minute until half-past. Restless, I run through basic positions—first, second, pli é, tendu, and pas de bourrée —when she finally calls. 7:30. On the dot.
    I grab it before the second full ring. She doesn’t waste time with greetings. Doesn’t waste time confirming that she’s actually talking to me, and not one of the other girls on the hall. Her voice fills my ear. “I got an e-mail from Mr. Stanitowsky. You have a D in math. A D, a sixty-two percent. I don’t understand what the problem is. You have it so easy. Kids in Korea are at school after school. They work hard. You dance all day, and still you get poor grade.”
    I try to respond, but her tirade continues. “You know, E-Jun , colleges look at everything. You will not get into good school. You will not be successful.”
    She’ll never call me June. Always my Korean name. She buzzes on and I move the phone a little away from my ear. Even now, after I’ve been at the conservatory for nearly a decade, it still doesn’t occur to her that this is my dream. That this is my reality. That I will be a dancer. That I won’t go to college. To her, it’s some silly, short-lived phase that I’ll eventually grow out of. It’s a résumé builder, perhaps, something to put on my college applications, but nothing more.
    I attempt not to listen or to care or discount her mispronounced words, but each one finds its way into my ear. My cheeks are hot and sweat clumps up my foundation. I work desperately to look perfect. To have that doll-like ballerina face. Delicate and soft. The feel of the makeup on my skin and the scent of the powder remind me I’ve transformed into a ballerina, something better than being just a regular girl.
    If I add another layer of powder I feel like I can erase this stress all together. My mom yells and I dig through my dance bag—half listening, half worrying, half obsessing—hoping my missingcompact is floating around in the mess of shoes and bandages and leg warmers jumbled inside. I order my little compacts special, and I’m useless without them. My newest one has been missing since yesterday. I had to use an old one earlier, and there’d barely been any makeup left in it.
    “It’s time to give up dancing, E-Jun,” my mom says.
    “No,” I say. It just slips out.
    “What did you say?”
    There’s silence. Korean kids aren’t supposed to talk back to their parents. Only white kids do that—and being half-white still doesn’t afford me that privilege. I hear her breathing accelerate. Whether she’s willing to admit it or not—and usually it’s not—dancing is in my blood. I may not have the white-blond hair or crystal blue eyes, but I belong here just as much as Bette or Eleanor or even Alec.
    “You danced,” I whisper, slightly afraid she might reach through the phone and slap me.
    She clears her throat and I know she’s smoothing the front of her ironed skirt and trying to remain composed. Sometimes I wish she’d tell me what it was like when she danced here, or share those tips only veteran ballerinas know. I wish she’d put on one of the old leotards she hides under her bed and dance with