Shiny Broken Pieces by Sona Charaipotra Page B

here. I’m dressed like a ballerina who has spent the day dancing. Big, cozy sweater thrown overthe lean lines of dancewear, leg warmers tucked into sheepskin boots.
    In the far corner next to the coffee shop’s small fireplace, Eleanor sits at a table by herself. I pull up my hood.
    Before walking in, I listen, like I’m counting the beats of music before I have to go onstage. There’s a flutter in my chest. The door opens and someone leaves. I catch it before the bell jingles and slip inside. I hear Eleanor’s humming as I take the smallest steps in her direction. She sounds very pleased with herself. She has earbuds in and dips carrots into a tub of hummus. She gazes between her phone and a set of math problems, half-solved.
    She hits a high note in whatever terrible song she’s singing along to, and as much as I hate to admit it, I wouldn’t even mind having to deal with her pitchy voice again every night. Because then my life would be back to normal.
    I steel myself, drop my shoulders, and walk up to the table. She seems skinnier, happier. I tap her shoulder. She lifts her head and yanks the earbuds from her ears.
    â€œYou look good, El.” Quiet, direct, for the most dramatic effect.
    She drops the earbuds on the table.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” Her eyes bulge so big that they’re no longer bright and beautiful. She looks like a bug.
    I wait for her to stand up and hug me. She doesn’t move. I slip into the seat in front of her. “Happy to see me? I called you a million times.”
    â€œBette, you shouldn’t be here.”
    â€œI need to talk to you.”
    â€œYou—”
    â€œI already know I’m not supposed to be here, but I don’t care right now.”
    She retreats to her chair. A long, cold moment stretches between us, one that the fire can’t even begin to thaw.
    I press on. “How are things?” The air is thick with the scent of coffee and pastries and things that need to be said, but that’s all I can manage for now.
    â€œFine.” She puts her phone in her lap. “Bette—”
    â€œJust be normal.”
    â€œWhat is that?”
    I shove the lump down in my throat. We spent so many nights here at this very coffee shop—dissecting all the crap that went down in ballet class, with Will, with Alec. She spent countless days with me in hell on family vacations to the Cape or in the Hamptons, witnessing my mother’s drunken dramas firsthand. We danced every class and performance together, whispering merde to each other for good luck, ever since we were six. She’s not getting off that easy. “I need us to be us . Just tell me what’s going on at school, like we’re in our old room again and about to go to bed.”
    She sighs, not looking up. She picks up her phone, texting, like I’m not even there.
    â€œWhy can’t you just talk to me?”
    â€œSo much has changed.” Her eyes finally meet mine. They aren’t scared or begging for my approval like they used to. They’re different now. Her pupils are dilated, drowning out the goldensunflowers that usually rim them. They glitter with newfound confidence or self-assurance. Something she didn’t have last year. Something she hasn’t had in the whole time I’ve known her. I want to like her new strength, but it might mean she doesn’t need me anymore.
    I move my chair closer to her, so close to her I can smell the rose-scented shampoo she’s using now. “Please, Eleanor. I miss you.” I drape my arms around her and don’t let go until I feel her hands finally land on my shoulder, the stiffness slowly softening. I can feel her breathing, that old hiccupy rhythm. I wish I’d been nicer to her all these years, treated her better.
    â€œI miss you, too,” she whispers.
    â€œI’m going to fix everything. I didn’t do it. I swear to you.”
    She doesn’t tell me