Who Is The Makeup Artists For Tiny Pretty Things

It's being billed at "Pretty Little Liars" meets "Black Swan" -- but "Tiny Pretty Things" is much more various than that. One of the first releases from Block literary -- a bazaar book company that specializes in various books -- this YA novel looks at the many facets of competition, through many eyes.

Co-written by authors Sona Charaipotra and Dhonielle J. Clayton -- who founded CAKE -- "Tiny Pretty Things" tells the tale of Gigi, Bette and June, three ballerinas vying for the top spot in their Manhattan dance academy. The story is told from all of their POVs -- that of an African American dancer, white American dancer and one-half-Korean, one-half-white American ballerina.

"I was 19 and in college when I beginning saw a character like myself in books -- and by that I mean a brown daughter, really," Charaipotra said of their decision to start a diverse company -- and write a diverse book. "My daughter is 5 at present, and not very much has changed. She notwithstanding has a hard time finding herself on the shelves. And everyone wants to be the hero."

"I loved the diverse books I did come beyond, only I craved more," Clayton added. "I wanted more diversity. I wanted something other than the 'overcoming arduousness' tale -- which is important -- but I wanted stories that had brown girls who fell in love or got pulled into a mystery or kissed boys or got embroiled in he said/she said drama or went to outer space."

"Tiny Pretty Things" hits shelves May 26 -- but y'all can get a sneak peek of the beginning down beneath!

Cassie

Information technology e'er feels like death. At least at commencement. Your muscles stretch and burn until they might rip. The bones in your hips threaten to rotate right out of their sockets. Your spine lengthens and twists into impossible shapes. The veins in your arms swell, claret pulsing through them. Your fingers tremble every bit you lot attempt to hold them taut only graceful, just then. Your toes jam into a pretty pinkish box, battering your feet with constellations of blisters and bruises.

But it all looks effortless and beautiful. I hope. Considering that's all that really matters.

Studio B is a fishbowl today, and I wish the three glass walls were blacked out or covered upward. I tin can feel Liz's glare hot and heavy, her face up pressed upwards against the glass. I knew she wanted this -- maybe even more than me -- but that doesn't mean she deserved it. She'll claim that I got lucky, that it was nepotism, that beingness Mr. Lucas's niece has its perks. I mean, Bette told me she said as much in her drunken babblings last dark. But I know better. I earned this.

Morkie barks orders at the corps girls, then turns to the pianist to nitpick a chord pace for the spring ballet, "La Sylphide." I'm the only Level half-dozen girl bandage as a soloist, and while the others pretend to be happy for me -- well, most of them anyhow -- I know they're hoping to run across me fail. But I won't give them the satisfaction. Even though it's difficult being the youngest one in hither. And before, when i of them asked me if I was 15, I wanted to lie and say I was 17 or 18 like them. Equally I watch the other dancers spin beyond the floor in a serial of pirouettes, I keep my smile plastered across my face. I won't stammer. I can't permit them know how hard this is. My muscles anguish and my stomach churns, empty from a morn spent reliving last night'due south revelries. I never should have permit Bette talk me into drinking. I'm definitely paying the price at present.

The music stops abruptly, and Morkie towers over Sarah Takahashi, making her do the turn over and over again, yelling corrections in Russian like Sarah understands her. Sarah bows, and it seems to infuriate Morkie even more. She'due south my understudy and a Level 8 girl. An 8 girl should've had the lead -- an opportunity for the company masters to see her talent and offer her a spot.

I take every 2d of this interruption to review the variation in my caput, to think through the music. Morkie does the steps one by one, stamping her little heeled ballet slippers. Even nearing seventy, she's still a strong portrait of grace -- a true danseuse russe.

Bette slips through the door. And she lets it blindside closed so I know she's here. I detest how she ever finds a way to announce herself, simply I could never tell her that. Everyone watches -- her halo of blond hair pulled taut in its bun, her designer dance skirt floating around her like cotton candy, her pink lipstick expertly practical.

She's told to observe a spot in the back, and plops downward right near the dance bags. At that place were rumors that a fat check from her mom secured her a seat in the studio to learn the role, too, simply I didn't dare ask her. She's been so gracious and helpful. Defending me to Liz and the others when I commencement got here, showing me the ropes, threatening the other girls if they didn't terminate messing with me.

Will enters a few moments after. His blood-red hair is gelled up, and he's wearing a confront total of makeup. He blows me a kiss and waves. It was announced this morn that he'd be my pas partner'south understudy. He sits in the back with Bette.

Morkie calls me to the center. The music starts, light and fluttery and serene. Usually I allow it take me, the notes lifting me abroad so I'm no longer myself, the movements of my artillery and legs transforming, assuasive me to go the forest fairy romancing the Scotsman. Merely today I'm very much anchored in my too tall, lumbering body. I can feel the pull in each muscle as I glide across the floor, trying to make sure I land every step in the right spot.

I grab myself looking down at the record marking the stage placements, focusing on the counts in the music. I attempt not to think of each precise move making upward the variation. Old habits.

Bad habits. I should know this by heart at present. I tell myself I'g as light every bit air. Just my feet are a second too deadening, my arm movements too heavy.

"More! More!" Morkie yells, her vocalism billowy off the mirrors. I feel my smile stammer. I'grand totally graceless in her presence. My confidence seeps out of me with my sweat. Scott waits for me stage left. I flitter over to him, presenting my mitt. He pulls me into his chest.

Morkie yells over the music. "Smile. You're in love with him."

My grin looks pained in the mirror. My breadbasket muscles clench when his hands squeeze my waist as he prepares to elevator me.

Morkie waves her easily in the air. Nosotros end midlift.

"You lot're supposed to be in love. Where is it? Where is it?" she says, motioning me out of the eye. "Did nosotros make mistake in casting, Cassandra?" Her Russian emphasis makes the words sharp, tiny knives that tear at my insides. "Find it! Detect the reason we picked you." She waves me abroad with one skinny arm.

Sarah takes my place with Scott to practice the flying shoulder lift I couldn't practice. I tell myself that it'southward fine. Necessary. Both boys accept to learn how to lift Sarah, then me. Just in case. Frustrated, I head to the back corner, toward Bette and Will.

"You've got to," I hear her whisper, but he shushes her as he watches me approach.

"Hey." He grins, patting the flooring next to him. "Rough start, huh?"

I catch my breath, wiping away the little beads of sweat on my top lip. As Bette'south ice-blue gaze settles over me, I experience icky and heavy and off. Will gives me a sad frown, like I'm a puppy who's only been kicked. "Don't accept information technology to heart," he whispers once more. "Morkie's a beast."

"You okay?" Bette asks, offering a smile that's half grimace.

"I don't know where it all went," I say, closing my eyes. I stretch my limbs out every which way. "I was fine yesterday. You saw me."

"You looked scared of him," Will says, his eyes on Scott, tracing his every movement.

"Have a little crush?"

"I have a boyfriend," I snap without meaning to. I wish I was partnering with Henri, but he'southward at the Paris Opera School. I trust his hands. "Sorry, I can't effigy out what's incorrect with me."

"Hmm," Bette says, noncommittal. "Likewise much alcohol is my gauge." And it makes me think how she kept filling my cup with the expensive wine she'd taken from her mother's collection, despite my protests.

I nod my head, eager for an excuse. "I should've gone directly to bed after we hung out."

"Yous didn't?" Her forehead crinkles with surprise.

"Sometimes I trip the light fantastic belatedly at night, so it can all stick in my head when I finally sleep." I put a hand on my forehead, not certain why everything is coming out of me correct now. Simply I can trust her. Alec told me so, even when I doubted Bette at first. And Will is Alec's all-time friend. "My legs are a mess."

I scoot over a little, pressing my back against the glass wall that faces out onto the street. The warmth of sunbeams erases the cold that's settled in my stomach. Even though it'due south spring, I'm shivering. "What should I do?"

Bette and Will share glances. They know what Morkie wants. They've been here forever. They know how to please her.

"You lot need to get it together," Bette says, picking invisible lint off her impeccable sweater. "Morkie doesn't exercise drama or excuses." She leans into a stretch, warming up as if she'll be chosen to the center any second. As if she's here for a reason. "And you demand to not drink so much."

"Ouch, Bette," Volition says.

I try to go along the daze off my face. "I actually never drank before," I tell her in a whisper. If Bette is surprised, she doesn't let it show. Only it'south humiliating to say it. Before I came to New York and moved in with my cousin Alec and his family to go to the solarium, my whole earth was but dance class and school and sitting on the burrow with my British host female parent, waiting for a call or text from Henri. New York is totally dissimilar from London. "I didn't know it would hit me that difficult."

I want to phone call Bette out for pushing the wine on me, but I don't. She'due south pretty much the only existent friend I've made since I've got to New York, and I'm not about to mess that upwardly.

"Some days nosotros're just off," Volition says, and pets my leg similar that will assist.

I feel my eyes get watery. I lick the strawberry gloss off my lips, hearing my mom's scolding voice in my head every bit I do it. She says it's totally unladylike. I look over my shoulder and sentinel Sarah Takahashi nail the lift with Scott that I couldn't. Morkie beams at her.

"Don't worry, Cassie," Bette says. "Volition can help you look good out at that place. He'll rescue yous like he's always done for me." The word rescue lands difficult. Volition's optics sprint around the studio, similar he'south watching a fly.

Bette flashes me a smile that's so big I tin can meet all her teeth.

Perfect, simply like the residual of her. I'm called back to the heart, and now Will is too. I can feel Bette'due south gaze post-obit Will as Morkie shows Volition and me the next office of the pas. Nosotros mark the movements one at a time, with painful precision. Information technology takes me almost an hour to perfect them the fashion Morkie wants them earlier she lets us endeavor on our own. And then, finally, I stand in the center, ready to prove her what I've learned.

I prepare to dance, waiting for the chord of music to kickoff moving. My mind quiets: the worries, the criticisms, the faces in the glass all drift away. I see Will ahead waiting for me. I pretend that it'south Henri. I pace into my first movement, folding myself into the music, each arm movement embodying the cadence. I leap and turn and leap and glide. I flutter over to Will.

"Right on the melody," Morkie yells.

Will's easily discover my waist. He lifts me up into a flight shoulder lift. His right shoulder presses into my butt, carrying my weight, effortless.

"She'south not a box, William," Morkie says. "She'southward a jewel. Carry her similar 1. And then pretty. So light."

His fingers press into my hipbones as he struggles to concur me there.

"Beautiful, beautiful," Morkie yells over the music. "Smile, Cassandra."

I smiling as hard as I can. I go on my eyes on the mirror and focus on Morkie's instructions. Hither comes the fish dive, wearisome, svelte, deliberate. Except it'south not. Will's not supporting my weight anymore, and I wobble, trying to counterbalance, but it's too late. His fingers experience like they've disappeared. Not at all like we've expert. With his support gone, my correct leg drops.

I topple, like I've fallen off the edge of a cliff. The flooring feels

so far away until I hit information technology.

Bette

They say anticipation is sometimes sweeter than the bodily event, and so I'm going to relish every moment of the waiting. Mr. Thousand certainly loves dragging it out. We swarm around him in the American Ballet Conservatory lobby, waiting for his annual speech on "The Nutcracker." Then he'll reveal the student bandage list. Twice a year, in the fall and the spring, students get to replace the company dancers for a night at Lincoln Heart, a examination of our mettle. A taste of our future.

That piece of paper basically sums upward your worth in our school, the American Ballet Company feeder university. And I'm worth a lot. Alec and I agree hands and I tin't incorporate my smiling. In only a few moments, my proper name is going to be on the wall next to the function of the Saccharide Plum Fairy, and the rest of my life can finally begin.

I saw my older sister, Adele, trip the light fantastic toe the role six years ago, when I was bandage in the office of a cherub and bouncing around in gilt wings and my mother's lipstick. Back and then, the anticipation wasn't the all-time office. Back then, the all-time function was the oestrus of the lights on my pare and the presence of the audience before us, and dancing in perfect time with my little ballet girlfriends. The best part was the scratchy tights and the sweet metallic smell of hairspray and the sparkling tiara pinned into my baby-fine hair. The glitter dusted onto my cheeks.

The best part was the hole of nervousness in my stomach earlier getting onstage and the rush of joy subsequently nosotros pranced off. The best function was bouquets of flowers and kisses on both cheeks from my female parent and my begetter lifting me in the air and calling me a princess.

Back so, it was all the best part.

The schoolhouse's forepart doors are closed and locked. Mr. Thousand's speech is that important. I glance over my shoulder through the big lobby windows and see a few people with ruby-red noses, bundled upward to fight the October air. They're stuck on the stairs and in the Rose Abney Plaza, named after my grandmother. That door won't open again until he's finished. They'll just have to freeze.

Mr. K rubs his well-groomed beard, and I know he'south ready to start. I know these little things about him, thank you to Adele, a company soloist. I straighten up a bit more and wrap my manus around Alec's neck, tickling the identify where his buzzed blond hair meets his skin. He grins, also, both of us perfectly poised to finally take our places as the leads in the winter ballet.

"This is it," I whisper in his ear. He smiles dorsum and kisses my forehead. He'southward flushed with excitement, as well, and I just know that from hither on out I will honey everything nearly ballet again. Both of our auditions went well. I remember how ridiculously happy Adele looked when she was dancing the Sugar Plum Fairy, and how the role got her plucked straight out of the school and given a spot in the company, and I simply dream of feeling that full. There's no one standing in my way. Even Liz is struggling a little bit this twelvemonth. And no one else can exercise what I can.

I drop my hand down to his and squeeze Alec a little tighter. Alec's all-time friend -- my ex-friend -- Will glares at me. Jealous.

Parents and siblings grow tranquility, standing behind the expanse of black leotards. "Casting each of you in The Nutcracker isn't just an do in technique," Mr. K begins. Our ballet master speaks slowly, like he's simply deciding on the words right now, even though he gives some version of this oral communication every yr. All the same I cling to every word every bit if I've never heard information technology before. Mr. K is the unmarried well-nigh deliberate human I've ever met. He makes eye contact with me, and I know my fate is cemented in that quick connection. That look my way is purposeful. Information technology has to be. I bow my head a scrap with respect, but tin't stop the edges of my mouth from doing their own little upward pull.

"Technique is the foundation of ballet, only personality is where the dance comes to life. In 'The Nutcracker,' each grapheme serves an important purpose to the ballet as a whole, and that is why we have such care in assigning each of you the perfect part. Who you are comes across in how yous dance. I'one thousand certain nosotros all think when Gerard Celling danced the Rat King concluding winter, or when Adele Abney danced the Saccharide Plum Fairy. These were seminal performances that displayed unbelievable technique likewise every bit exquisite joy and beauty. The students stopped beingness students and transformed into artists, like a caterpillar leaves its chrysalis and becomes what it was designed to be -- a butterfly."

Mr. K calls us his collywobbles. We're never his students, dancers, athletes, or ballerinas. When we graduate, he'll give the all-time dancer a diamond butterfly pendant -- Adele still only takes hers off for performances.

"It is because of Adele'southward and Gerard's relationships to the roles of Saccharide Plum Fairy and Rat Rex that they experienced such success," he adds. "It was the connection they forged with the part."

I bow my head fifty-fifty farther. Mr. K talking about my sis is some other deliberate nod to me, I'chiliad certain of it. Adele'south performance as the Carbohydrate Plum Fairy has been a topic of chat since the first night she'd performed it six years agone. She was only in Level half dozen ballet and hadn't even turned 15 yet. It was unheard of for such a young dancer to be given such a role over the older Level 8 girls. And when I was that seven-year-one-time cherub hugging my sister with my fiercest pride and congratulations, Mr. Thou approached us both with a confident smile.

"Adele, you lot are luminous," he'd said. Information technology'southward a word I have been itching for him to call me ever since. He still hasn't. Not even so. "And darling little Bette, I tin can tell from your lovely dancing this evening that, in no time at all, you will be following in your sister'due south footsteps. A Saccharide Plum Fairy in the making." He'd winked, and Adele had beamed at me with understanding.

He is surely referring to that moment now. He is letting me think his prediction and assuring me that he had been right all those years ago.

I shift onto my tiptoes, unable to suppress that bit of excitement. Alec squeezes my hand.

Mr. G's voice softens. "Young Clara, for case, must be sweet and invoke the wonder of Christmas with every step and glance." His gaze drifts to a pretty petit rat in a pale bluish leotard, her dark hair in a perfect bun. She blushes from the attending, and I'm happy for tiny Maura'southward moment of joy. I played Clara when I was 11. I know the thrill, and she deserves to experience every second of it.

Years later, I even so recollect of that performance equally the most fun I've always had. Information technology was right after the Christmas season that my mother started showing me old videos of Adele and asking me to compare my technique to hers. Information technology was that Christmas when everything betwixt my mother, Adele, and me shifted beyond recognition, distorting into a bad TV drama. I get a little lightheaded just thinking about information technology. I can yet hear the whir of the X-ray camera like information technology was yesterday. Looking besides difficult at those memories isn't a good thought, so I shut my eyes for an instant to make the thoughts disappear, as I always do. I give Alec's hand some other squeeze and try to focus. This is my large moment.

"Uncle Drosselmeyer must be mysterious and clouded -- a homo with a clandestine," Mr. M says. "The Nutcracker Prince should be majestic and full of confidence. Untouchable and elegant, only still masculine." Mr. Grand looks and so at Alec, who breaks out into a fully dimpled grinning. He is describing Alec to a tee, and I lean against him a bit. He lets become of my manus and wraps his arm around my shoulders.

As if this moment weren't wonderful plenty, Alec's affection has me soaring fifty-fifty college. Mr. K lists off a few more characters and the necessary qualities the dancers must bring to them. I smooth my hair to brand sure I look perfect for my big moment.

"And the Sugar Plum Fairy," Mr. K continues, his optics searching the crowd. "She must exist not only cute but kind, joyful, mysterious, and playful." His eyes are still searching the crowd, which is foreign, since he knows exactly where I am. I try to dismiss it as a bit of Mr. K playing around, as he'southward known to exercise.

The Carbohydrate Plum Fairy's ideal qualities -- they're not mine. They are non words anyone has ever used to depict me.

But the function is mine. I know it is because of the manner Mr. K finishes his spoken language.

"To a higher place all else," he says, "the Carbohydrate Plum Fairy must be luminous."

I squeeze Alec's hand again.

That is me.

I am luminous, like Adele. It is me. It has always been me.

Just still, Mr. G's eyes do not find their manner to mine.

Excerpted from the volume TINY PRETTY THINGS by Sona Charaipotra and Dhonielle Clayton. Copyright © 2015 by Sona Charaipotra and Dhonielle Clayton. Reprinted with permission of HarperCollins.

Source: http://www.mtv.com/news/2148223/tiny-pretty-things-excerpt/

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