Shiny Broken Pieces Read Free Page A

silence in the room.
    â€œCan I come back to school?” I ask.
    â€œNo,” he says, and his assistant looks at me like I’m this fragile thing that might break at any moment. “We’ve deliberated long and hard, and we still can’t let you return. Not at this point.”
    â€œBut—” My mother rises out of her chair.
    â€œWhat would it take?” My eyes bore into his. I hold my body perfectly still but my heartbeat hammers in my ears. I lift my rib cage and drop my shoulders like I’m ready to jump off this chair into the most beautiful firebird leap he’s ever seen.
    â€œThis”—he shakes the papers—“doesn’t fix it. Not all of it. Not by a long shot. I don’t understand you girls. The boys don’t behave this way.”
    He’s right. But I want to remind him of how different it is to be a female dancer, treated like we’re completely replaceable by choreographers, while the boys are praised for their unique genius, their dedication to being a male ballet dancer when the world might think it’s unmasculine. He rubs a hand over his face and passes the settlement papers back to my mother.
    â€œI didn’t push Gigi.” My words echo in the room. They feel heavy, like they’re my very last words.
    â€œIf you’re innocent, prove it.”
    I can. I will.

2.
Gigi
    STUDIO D BUZZES LIKE DRAGONFLIES swarming in the September sunshine. Everyone’s chatting about summer intensives, their new roommates, and their ballet mistresses. The parents are comparing ballet season tickets or grumbling about the rise in school tuition this year. New petit rats storm the treat tables, and other little ones steal glances, cupping their hands over their mouths. I hear my name whispered in small voices. None of the other Level 8 girls are here.
    Just me.
    I should be upstairs, unpacking with the rest of the girls on my floor. I should be breaking in new ballet shoes to prepare for class. I should be getting ready for the most important year of my life.
    Mama’s hand reaches for mine. “Gigi, please be an active participant in this discussion.” I’m back to reality, where Mama has Mr. K pinned in the studio corner. He looks pained. “Mr. K,what have you put in place so that Gigi is safe?”
    â€œMrs. Stewart, why don’t you set up an appointment? We can go into more detail than we did in our last phone call.”
    Mama throws her hands up in the air. “Our last conversation was all of ten minutes. Your phone calls have been—how can I put it? Lackluster. You wanted her back here. She wanted to be back here. You told me she’d be safe. I am still unconvinced.”
    Her complaints have been following me around like a storm cloud. Why would you ever want to go back to that place? The school is rife with bullying! Ballet isn’t worth all this heartache .
    A younger dancer walks past me and she whispers to her friend, “She doesn’t look hurt.”
    I look at my profile in one of the studio mirrors. I trace my finger along the scar that peeks out from the edge of my shorts. It’s almost a perfect line down my left leg, a bright pink streak through the brown.
    A reminder.
    Mama thinks the scar might never go away completely, even though she bought cases of vitamin E oil and cocoa butter cream made for brown skin. I don’t want it to go away. I want to remember what happened to me. Sometimes if I close my eyes too long or run my finger down the scar’s raised crease, I’m right back on those cobblestoned streets, hearing the metal-crunching sounds when the taxi hit me, the faint blare of sirens, or the steady beep of the hospital monitors when I woke up.
    I flush with rage, hot and simmering just under my skin.
    I will figure out who did this to me. I will hurt the person who pushed me. I will make them feel what I went through.
    Mama touches my shoulder. “Gigi,