Shiny Broken Pieces by Sona Charaipotra Page A

the way it does when her heart gets out of control.
    â€œThis year, under a close collaboration between Mr. K and myself, we will be performing Swan Lake in the spring for the fiftieth anniversary of the company. The company will dance opening night, and you will dance the second. The principal positions—in particular Odette and Odile—will be danced by two different dancers. I will choose my apprentices from that performance.” He takes a moment to breathe, sipping lemon water from a glass. “However, the dancers cast in the principal roles are not guaranteed to be my apprentices.”
    â€œDamien will choose two girls and two boys. And maybefewer, if you don’t rise to this grand opportunity,” Mr. K adds. “He chose no one from last year’s class.”
    Shoulders slump a little. Some are already accepting defeat. I refuse. I know that I was born to do this, that I will do it. Mr. K rounds this out with his serious, signature three claps, refocusing our attention. “Mr. Leger and Madame Dorokhova will stop by frequently to observe you all, which means you must be your best in every ballet class, every rehearsal.”
    The applause starts slowly but spreads through the room, and soon I find myself clapping, too. It’s hard to not want to please these men, to show them you’re ready for this challenge. But so many of us want this, and so few will get it.
    I will be one of the few, I tell myself. And I’ll do it the right way, by simply dancing my best. The best.
    I will.

7.
Bette
    I WAIT UNTIL THE LIGHT snores waft from my mother’s bedroom before calling her car service. I hide outside near the holly bush my mother sets out in the little front patio every fall.
    I spot the car lights as he turns on to Sixty-ninth Street. I’m on the curb before he can call up to the house to confirm a pickup.
    â€œSixty-fifth and Broadway,” I say, like I’m an adult and he shouldn’t for one second question where my parents are. It’s only 8:56 p.m, but at school, most of the students will be heading back to the dorm for curfew. At least those who are following the rules will be. But Eleanor posted a picture of a fresh latte five minutes ago. She’s at the coffee shop a block away, probably with her head in some book, instead of being out on a Friday night like normal people. The way we would both be if we still lived together.
    â€œLincoln Center?” he asks.
    â€œYeah.”
    The driver cuts through Central Park. It’s pouring and the wind whips fat raindrops across the windows. Dark trees have already lost their leaves. Fall is coming too soon. As the weeks slip by, so, too, does any chance of my ever really coming back to school.
    He zips down the winding street until we exit the park and we’re on the West Side of Manhattan, where it’s all bars and restaurants and late-evening chatter. Green subway lamps leave a glow along the sidewalks. The driver makes a left to head downtown toward the school, following the bustle of Broadway.
    My heart bangs against my rib cage like I’ve just rushed offstage. “Get it together,” I tell myself. They’re just kids, like me. They can’t actually do anything to me. Besides, it’s not like I’ll really be on school property. I can’t risk turning my suspension into an expulsion.
    The driver makes the final turn and the great glass windows of the American Ballet Conservatory glitter in the streetlights. It’s still just as beautiful as it was the first time my mother brought me here to watch Adele dance.
    I get out of the car. I don’t march up to the front doors and stomp past the guard like I wish I could. I casually walk past the building, heading south. The coffee shop windows glow with warmth.
    I linger at the edge of the window and steal glances inside. I recognize a few girls from Level 7, but nobody I know too well, thankfully. I’d blend right in