Shiny Broken Pieces by Sona Charaipotra

be useful—like how Morkie likes quiet feet on the dance floor and big, bold arms or how Pavlovich will nitpick your fingers—but she didn’t say a word the whole time. She just bowed her head a little in a Japanese way and followed me silently through the halls without making a peep.
    â€œDid you study the Vaganova style of ballet in Japan?” We’rewaiting outside Studio B for afternoon ballet class to start.
    She stares up at me with blinking eyes and I wonder if she understands at all. I could probably tell her anything: That I have never been to Korea, and that fact embarrasses me. That I stole Jayhe to get back at Sei-Jin, but now I might really love him. That I murdered Gigi’s butterflies. She wouldn’t understand a word of it.
    She’s been hanging with Sei-Jin and her group, which means they’ve probably already filled her head with all kinds of crap about me. I wonder what they call me now: boyfriend stealer, bitch, pathetic.
    â€œSei-Jin isn’t a nice person, you know.”
    She nods her head in that fake way, when someone is agreeing with you but they don’t know exactly what you’re saying. She doesn’t say anything.
    â€œShe’s evil. Really.” You’ll see.
    I scramble to my feet as girls enter the studio and ballet class starts. Morkie calls the class to attention in her megaphone voice. Morkie’s in a mood, so we work extra time at the barre. We start with a series of deep pliés to open up our hips and rapid tendus to warm up our feet. Then it’s forty-five-degree ronds de jambe en l’air . My legs burn and sweat already soaks my leotard. Gigi stands tall in front of me, and little Riho is behind me. As we work, Riho echoes my movements, her arms lifting in tandem with mine, her legs swishing in the same exact manner, but better. I can’t stop watching her in the mirror. She’s precise, controlled, but still fluid.
    â€œHigher, June,” Morkie snaps, catching my leg and liftingit as I sweep it behind me. “Focus. You need to be here. You’re drifting. I do not like it.”
    The reprimand stings. I center my mind and try to make every motion flawless, the most outstanding in the bunch. When we’re warmed up, Morkie calls us to the center. “The adagio will be tough today. No one is working hard enough,” she says. The positions she rattles off in French hit me one after another. She quickly shows us the combination with a half flourish of her arms, legs, and hands.
    The door opens. Damien Leger walks in, and his presence drowns the whole space. He nods toward Morkie before taking a seat near the mirrors.
    â€œAll together first, then trios,” Morkie says. We stretch out into rows and try the combination twice. Morkie complains and shows us again. “Now, clear out of center. Three at a time. Two in the front and one in the back. Riho and June up front first.”
    I swear Riho flashes me a grin as we head to the center. Level 6 dancer Isabela is placed behind us.
    â€œClean adagio, girls,” Morkie reminds. The point of the adagio is to show your strength, your fluidity without the barre as an anchor. It’s what people think of when they think ballet. We’ve been perfecting our strength in the center since we were petit rats in Level 1.
    The combination that Morkie has us doing today is challenging. Viktor presses the piano keys, and the chords ring out long, smooth, and heavy. I feel wobbly and rushed. I needed to see others go before me, so I could have a little time to think through the movements.
    I thought no one could make me stress like Mr. K, but my muscles spasm under the pressure of having to perform in front of Damien. He is a clean slate—for me, for all of us. He’s the man who decides if I have a future in his company.
    As we start the movements, we are mirrors—I see myself reflected in Riho’s dark eyes, in her somber expression. Delicate