Tiny Pretty Things Read Online Free PDF

to me.
    “Deal,” I say, and reach out to touch his arm. I don’t know why. The deal doesn’t require a touch to lock it in, but letting my fingers rest on his strong forearm is a strange reflex. His muscles tense, but he doesn’t pull away immediately.
    “You’re an interesting choice for a Sugar Plum Fairy,” Alec says.
    I don’t know what to say to that.
    “I mean, you’ll bring a lot of energy to the role,” he says, filling the space where I am not talking. His arm grazes mine—a breath between our skin, so close I can feel the heat of it, but neither of us moves away to get more space.
    “Thank you,” I say, letting myself believe, for just one second, that Alec is just as curious about me as I am about him. “Didn’t Cassandra dance it last year? Wasn’t she only a sophomore?” I don’t know why I say it, and I wish I could erase the words after seeing his face twist into a pained expression.
    He nods. “Yeah, she did. Cassie’s my cousin.”
    A strange silence stretches between the two of us. No one really speaks about the girl who left last year, which makes me sad and curious. And I didn’t know she was his cousin. I start to say I’m sorry.
    “It’s cool. Let’s not talk about it. Let’s talk about you dancing the role.” It’s not lost on me that Alec smiles when I smile right now, or the way his eyes light up when I say in way too small a voice that I’m excited to work with him. And he doesn’t move away. I wonder if he needs to get back upstairs to his room, if he needs to get some sleep.
    “I’m excited to work with you, too,” he says, the blueness of his eyes glowing even brighter.
    There’s a noise at the opposite end of the hall. He moves away. “See you tomorrow, okay?” he asks.
    “Yeah,” I say.
    “Don’t stay up too late,” he says, and walks in the opposite direction, leaving me to think over the words and the light touch while I walk farther down the hall, farther into the dark.
    The corridor dead-ends at a staircase that leads down into the basement level. I’ve noticed people never walk this far down the hall. I race down. This area is separate from the student rec lounge and the physical therapy room, like it has been purposefully blocked off. There’s a studio here that’s locked up. A small studio window gives a view inside: the shadowy outline of stored objects. The first week of school I’d asked June about the unused studio, and she’d said it’d always been under construction, and that the teachers hated it because it had no windows, and ballet needs light. The Russians call it nevezeniya: a room brimming with bad luck and darkness, and so it isn’t used.
    But I don’t believe in superstitions. I don’t exit the dressing room with my left foot first or sew a lucky charm into my tutu or kiss the ground in the stage wings before going on for a performance or need other dancers to say merde to me on opening night. At home, my parents have their silly broom to sweep out evil and often burn sage to keep the house energy clean. But I only believe in my feet and what they can do in pointe shoes.
    I pull a bobby pin out from my bun and push it into the old lock, waiting for the tiny bolt to ease downward and click out of place. I like to be in places where I’m not supposed to—in my old high school’s attic or in the abandoned row house in my San Fran neighborhood. There’s a tiny thrill in picking a lock and exploring a space that others want closed up.
    The lock gives without much effort. I look to the left, then look to the right, and disappear into the dark space. Dirt and debris crunch under my sandals, and I run my hand along the wall, and click a switch.
    The one working light sputters, and then buzzes on. The bare lightbulb flickers an erratic pulse. Its half-light illuminates covered objects, a partially gutted dance floor, and mirrors draped with black sheets. Broken and decayed barre poles lean at odd angles, coated in a