Shiny Broken Pieces by Sona Charaipotra Page B

doesn’t claim me.
    I storm through the hall, past Studio B where my ballet class is still going, past Mr. K’s office, until I finally get to where I want to be. I don’t knock. I just barge in.
    There he is, the man I’ve always known as Mr. Lucas, cold and distant. He’s startled out of reading some stupid report by my bold entrance, distress spreading across his face, widening his pale blue eyes, eyes just like Alec’s. Not like mine.
    â€œShut the door behind you,” is all he has to say to me. “Take a seat.”
    He puts down the papers, an indication that I have his fullattention. It’s laughable. “What can I help you with?”
    I don’t sit. I lean forward on his desk, looking him straight in the eyes. “What can you help me with?” I say, in a low, guttural voice that even I don’t recognize. “You can tell everyone here that you are my dad. That I’m a legacy, just as valid as Alec or Sophie or Cassie. That I belong here. That I was born to dance. That they can’t treat me badly. That I am important.”
    He looks shocked. He opens his mouth to speak, but I collapse into the chair, the tears overcoming me. They rush down my cheeks, hot and furious. He stands and walks over to me. But instead of embracing me, comforting me, he puts a cold hand on my shoulder and whispers, “June, pull it together, for your sake and mine. This simply cannot be. No one’s to blame here—it’s just the way things are. The way things have to be.”
    â€œBut why?” A sob breaks my voice. “I don’t understand. Why weren’t you there?” I lay my head down on his desk, let its polished solidness share my burden. I wonder what it’s like to have a real father. The dads that pick up their petit rats , hug them, and ask them how their ballet classes went. I wish that just once, he’d ask me about my life and I could know what it feels like.
    He doesn’t say a word. He hovers awkwardly, like he really is just a school administrator and not the man whose thin nose sits on my face, whose long slim fingers are mine, too.
    He removes his hand from my shoulder, and walks back around to the other side of the desk, settling back into his chair. “Listen, June, and understand.” His tone is serious, as if he was simply talking to a student in trouble. Which, in his eyes, I guess he is. “Before you were even born, your mother and I signed acontract. She told me you’ve read the document. You know what it says. Your education—both here and at the college level—is completely paid for. Your mother was able to start a very successful business. And with her wise investments, you could never work and you’d be okay. She made the decision before you were born. We have no choice but to honor it.”
    I sit openmouthed across from him, trying not to let his words sink in. “No choice?”
    He stands and opens the door. “You should get back to class.” He looks at his watch. “Quickly, before it ends.”
    He returns to his seat as I slowly rise. It takes every ounce of my energy to get out of the chair, to walk back down the hall and to the elevator, which, thankfully, is still empty.
    I make my way down the Level 8 dorm hall, open the door to my room, and throw myself onto my bed. But instead of the soft embrace of the comforter, I feel the distinct crunch of paper—a lot of paper. I pick up a piece and realize it’s a photo from today’s ballet class—about a hundred copies of the same one: Riho, graceful and elegant in a turn, while I look awkward and rigid beside her. On each one, the same distinct taunt, no doubt from Sei-Jin: “Stiff competition!”
    My phone starts to buzz. Alerts race down the screen for the same pictures. They are tagged with both Riho and me.
    For a second, I wish I had really hurt Sei-Jin when I pushed her down those stairs last