Free Tiny Pretty Things by Sona Charaipotra, Dhonielle Clayton Page B

“Done?” Her face is still rosy, like the first day I ever met her. Six-year-old would-be ballerinas auditioning for the conservatory, standing in tiny leotards, hands and feet ready to be examined.
    “Can we watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s ?” I say. My voice is quiet and I just want her next to me, sharing a blanket, watching the TV like it’s a portal to a world outside this stupid dorm. Eleanorsighs. I’m sure she thinks she’s supposed to stay mad, but I know she just can’t do it. Not strong enough.
    We lie on the futon-couch thing we have set up and get to the part when Audrey tears up her apartment in grief. Eleanor’s breathing has slowed. She always falls asleep first. Her head flops on my shoulder. I wish I could sleep as soundly as she does. But I know I won’t be able to for a long time, until spring semester’s ballet and my second chance to snag the lead.
    “What do you think of Gigi?” I whisper into the dark, knowing she won’t hear, except in her dreams.
    “Mmmm,” she says, which I decide means Gigi’s no big deal. Nothing special.
    “She can’t take everything from me, right?” I say, and listen again for Eleanor’s nondescript sigh. It comes, and I try to let it comfort me as much as it would if we could actually talk about this.
    A few tears come before I finally fall asleep. Quiet ones. Just between me and the dark.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
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    I WALK TO MORNING BALLET class alone, super early, so I can have studio C all to myself and get my head together before it starts. I’ve piled on the layers—it’s late October and the chill has already started seeping into every pore. Plus, layers give me just enough invisible padding so that it’s not obvious. I blend right in with the rest of them. But I know, really, that I need to make Morkie see me. That’s how you become a star. Catch your teacher’s eye.
    Right outside the studio, I almost drop my thermos. Sei-Jin’s boyfriend, Jayhe, sits on a booth seat in front of the glass, where everyone gawks in at us. He’s slouched, in unlaced Converses and slim black pants. His red hoodie is up and he’s looking at his phone.
    I haven’t seen him since Sei-Jin and I stopped being roommates and friends. Almost two years ago. When did he start wanting to watch her dance? He looks sort of the same. But cuter. Less awkward. I’ve known him longer than Sei-Jin. We went to the same Sunday school as kids, he lived three blocks from me, and before I moved to the conservatory his halmeoni used to watch us bothafter school. She’d call me her little granddaughter, and I would swim in his blow-up pool. I even know he has a blue-bottom birthmark on his butt. But now, Sei-Jin and Jayhe are like a version of Bette and Alec: made for each other, perfect, royalty in the Korean community.
    He leans forward and looks up at me.
    I feel my face get hot. I’m afraid my makeup will run. He doesn’t say anything, just stares.
    “Hi,” I say, not sure why I’m even talking to him. In the ninth grade, I lost all my friends when Sei-Jin turned on me. Everyone disappeared. Even him. Especially him.
    “Hi,” he mumbles back, rubbing his sleepy eyes.
    “What are you doing here?” I say, taking another sip of tea to fill in the space between his delayed responses. I wonder if he’s skipping school. I wonder if he’s changed.
    “Sei-Jin,” he says. “Supposed to watch now, I guess.”
    I try to make more small talk and realize that this is the first time I’ve actually spoken to a boy from outside the conservatory in a long time.
    “Are you going to finally join ballet class with us? Remember when you used to try to do pirouettes in your basement?” I laugh, surprised at myself. For a second, I feel like I’m back in my old life. The one with friends and people who wanted to be around me. The one where I had inside jokes and memories and