Tiny Pretty Things by Sona Charaipotra, Dhonielle Clayton

Even in a room by myself with all the doors locked, just me and the mirrors and the music, I am everything Mr. K and my mother and Adele and the school have ever asked me to be.
    I am perfect.
    I go back upstairs to the main floor, through the lobby, which is now being wiped clean of an earlier reception for the petit rats’ parents. I take another long route, fluttering past Mr. K’s dark office and the cast list. I peek into each studio, just so I know who’s dancing and who’s slacking off or prioritizing an English paper or a new boyfriend. Eleanor is in one of them, but she’s just doing barre work and checking herself out in the mirror.
    We used to always rehearse side by side, pushing each other to do better and complimenting each other’s footwork. Somewhere along the way, though, she said I was too intense during practice and it wasn’t fun anymore. I guess she’s not wrong. And she does look happy now, inching away from the mirror, mesmerized by her own body. I would never want to take that away from anyone—especially not her.
    I run into Liz. She’s drenched and clearly has been in the basement weight room. Not that she needs it. Her eyes are all hollowed out lately, and her arms and legs so thin and wiry that I worry about her strength. But we don’t call each other out on things like that.
    “Pilates?” I say to her.
    “Elliptical,” she breathes out, panting, wiping sweat from her face. It’s very unbecoming. “I burned six hundred calories.”
    I frown at her. She doesn’t need all the extra workouts. In the past year, she’s shrunk down from a respectable size two to an I don’t know what. Negative two, if there’s such a size. How does she even find anything to fit her anymore?
    “God Bette, stare much?” she says as she pats the last few drops of wetness away, smoothing down her hair. “Hey, so, I’ve been meaning to ask—what’s it like practicing with Henri?” There’s a wink in her voice, but I don’t like the implication. Alec and I have had our ups and downs, but at the moment, we’re very much on again.
    “Yeah, he’s hot,” I say, already heading in the other direction, my tone colder than it should be. “But you know I have a boyfriend.”
    “Uh-huh,” Liz says, pulling her long dark hair into a high ponytail, and I can’t help but stare at her too-lean legs, not sure whether I should worry about her or be jealous, as she peers into the other studio, where a few of the boys practice jumps. She’s looking for Henri, no doubt.
    Things between Liz and me have been good lately, but there was a time when we competed for everything—including Alec. But he made his choice pretty early on, and after a few petty incidents, Liz realized there was no changing that. It was just making her look desperate. Plus, we finally figured, we’re more powerful together than working against each other. It just makes sense.
    She heads up to shower, and I’m about to enter studio C when I remember a little something Eleanor mentioned earlier—that Gigi practices in the old basement studio. I’d stored the information, and now I want to test it out. I want her to know she can’t do anything in this school without me knowing about it. I don’t miss much around here. She’ll learn.
    I pass the nutritionist’s office. I pause at the top of the staircase. I remember being little and sneaking to the edge of these steps with Eleanor and Alec and Will. We’d dare each other to go stand in front of the locked door. Whoever did it the longest always got candy from a secret stash and most important, glory.
    Voices drift up to me. I can see the door is open a hair and I’m nothing if not graceful, so I tiptoe down, dip under the window, and peek in through the slightly open door without being heard or sensed. There she is. Gigi. The Sugar Plum Fairy. Except she’s not dancing. She’s on her back, legs splayed, Henri pressing on her thigh as he stretches her out in semidarkness.
    I