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

It’s a little storage closet at the end of the eleventh-floor girls’ hall that’s become a confessional booth of sorts. No one knows who started it. But it’s been here forever. Wallpapered with a collage of pictures, kind of like a living, breathing picture feed—from famous ballerinas to gorgeous costumes to the perfect arched foot to anonymously posted inspirational quotes and messages. Even things from the ’80s. There’s a tiny TV and DVD player, and a cabinet filled with discs of the greatest ballets ever performed, if one needs some inspiration. And I could definitely use some.
    I slip inside, still reeling from the conversation with my mom.
    If I can just have one chance, I know I can do this. I am a prima ballerina. I just have to make them see. I have to make my mom see. I can’t leave the conservatory. I won’t. The Sugar Plum Fairy is my shot. Maybe my only one. The understudy is just one little step away from the lead. I’ve got to make it happen. No matter what. I fight off my thoughts about Gigi, how we sometimes stay up late watching old sitcoms and online videos of classic ballets, how she’s always leaving me little notes and flowers. This is too important. This is my career.
    I riffle through my duffle bag for my compact, and my old jewelry box distracts me. A gift from a father I’ve never met. It fits perfectly in my palm. I carry it with me everywhere I go, a promise that I will someday find him. I run my fingers along the back, winding the tiny key and opening the lid towatch the little ballerina twirl. Muyongga, dancer. The sweet melody reminds me of all the things I love about ballet: the control, the beauty, the music. In ballet, I can work on things over and over and over again until I achieve them, training my muscles until my body submits to what I want. It doesn’t matter who my family is or if I have friends or if guys like me—only what my body can do.
    A copy of the cast list is up on the wall, alongside ones from previous years. I see Gigi’s name above mine. I stare until the typed letters blur, until I can see my name above hers. I can’t be invisible anymore. No matter how nice Gigi might be to me.
    The staring contest with the wall helps me calm down, the conversation I just had with my mom drifting away. I won’t give up. I’ll push someone out of the way to get it. I pick up a marker from the floor. My hand shakes. Guilt creeps into me, but on the wall, in bold black ink, I write: Gigi should watch her back .

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
    ..................................................................
     

    A WEEK AND A HALF after the cast list went up, we’ve settled into our rehearsal schedule. We pile into the second-floor studio E, where I won’t be able to see the rest of the sunset. I’ve been trying to follow Mama’s advice and watch it every day in order to stay positive. “Don’t carry worries around,” she always says. “They’re heavy.” It’s hard to hold on to her words here. Nerves erase them easily. But I have to, and it helps that I haven’t had another episode since the list was posted. So they have nothing to worry about.
    Eleanor walks into the studio beside me and I make a joke about our ballet madam’s new haircut, just to get her to talk to me. It’s hard to have real connections or even conversations with the girls here. But she laughs, and so do I.
    The room is a mess of leg warmers, pointe shoes, and chatter as we stretch our bodies so they’ll fold like putty. June rests her head against the wall, her legs two arrows shot in opposite directions. She always warms up, even though she doesn’t get to dance in the center with the rest of us. She only sits and marks variation movements and timing in the understudy book off to the side. I imagined that we’d rehearse together, laughing, teaching each other little things, moving in sync, like we used to do back home. But she won’t. No matter how