Page 1 of Healing Eleanor

1

Spiral on Your Own Time

APRIL

Eleanor

My corset is too tight.

Every breath I take, the stiff and unforgiving fabric presses cruelly into my ribs. To make matters worse, the air is thick, sticking to my lungs, making it unbearable to breathe. Sweltering stage lights shine above me, and I can feel the sweat clinging to the nape of my neck, sending my anxiety into overdrive with each passing second.

My rebellious stomach twists in protest, reminding me that I shouldn’t have skipped breakfast this morning. If it wasn’t for my alarm clock going on the fritz, I could’ve eaten my breakfast sandwich. Instead, I’m clinging to the small threads of my mind that haven’t completely frayed yet. I don’t think overstimulation can describe how deranged I feel right now.

The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m dancing as Giselle, who in fact, is a madwoman. How fitting I must look for the role right now. What better way to portray the unraveling of a woman than to feel it for yourself?

“Eleanor, you are running the wrong way!” Margaux Lefevre’s thick French accent bellows from the front row, pulling me out of my mental spiral.

My heart leaps out of my chest at the sound of my name coming from Margaux’s mouth. I freeze mid-step, my corset squeezing harshly against my ribs, panic rising in my chest, as I assess the situation. I am running the wrong way.

“It’s opening night!” Margaux’s voice rings out again, her disapproval palpable in the silence that follows. “You should not be making these types of mistakes!”

The heat rises to my cheeks when I realize everyone is staring at me. The heat of their stares could burn a hole right through me.

This is my fifth season as a soloist with the Metropolitan Theatre of Ballet. To kick off the spring season, we are opening the night with the variation, Giselle. I understand the privilege I’ve been handed considering my role is usually reserved for a principal dancer. This is basically the highlight of my career, and it really should feel that way, but I can’t stop thinking about how I am meant to portray some young, pure, and naive peasant girl who is basically manic, and that’s putting it nicely.

Am I truly that chaotic of a dancer that Soren thinks it’s okay to cast me as crazy? Don’t get me wrong, Giselle is an honor to perform. But, being asked to unravel myself on stage leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Year after year I’ve driven myself into the ground to prove that I’m good enough for the better roles. Yet, I didn’t land Clara in the Nutcracker or even The Swan Queen in Swan Lake. I got stuck with the one character that wouldn’t do me any favors. I can only imagine how my mother will react when she finds out.

“Again!” Margaux roars, staring directly at me.

My heart beats wildly in my chest, and my pulse pounds at an uncontrollable rate. I hate being singled out. Even more so, when I feel like it wasn’t my fault in the first place. I didn’t tighten this corset myself.

My frustration brews in me like a rancid coffee. I’ve had enough.

“My corset is too tight!” I blurt, the words escaping from my lips before I can stop them. I quickly realize my mistake, wishing I could shove the words back into my mouth. No one talks back to Margaux. You simply take her punches, and move on with a smile.

Her black and gray peppered hair is in a tight, slick bun, and her frown lines deepen as her umber eyes bore into me. She is definitely furious.

From where I stand, I can tell she’s out for blood, and I am right in her line of fire.

When she goes to speak, none other than Julian Ashford beats her to it. “And that somehow makes you unable to think?” A knowing smirk touches his lips.

My eyes snap to him. There he is—the perfect Albrecht, with his flawless technique, and polished arrogance. He truly makes it all look so effortless. The same arrogance he carries off stage is the same entitlement that seems to follow him everywhere. Julian is the epitome of everything I resent. Cowardly, manipulative, and above all else, incredibly immature.

I curse Soren under my breath for casting me alongside someone like him.

As much as I would love to stay mad at Julian, I simply can’t. Julian may be insufferable, but there’s no denying his talent. At nineteen, he’s already on the fast track to becoming a principal dancer at the Metropolitan Theatre of Ballet, only after one year of being a soloist. Margaux adores him, not just for his exceptional dancing, but because of the financial weight his family carries inside of the company. Money paves his way. He doesn’t have to fight for his place because it’s already guaranteed, bought and paid for, while I have to fight tooth and nail for every inch of ground I gain.

I work myself to the bone. Every hour I spend at the barre, every injury I ignore, and every meal I skip won’t land me a promotion. Three years of relentless effort just to be noticed. It makes me physically ill thinking how Julian just waltzes right in, using his family’s connections and financial power to secure a spot at the top.

At this moment I can’t help but think of the ballet world as a venomous snake. If you don’t strike first, you will be struck down. For five years I’ve danced mediocre soloist variations, pushing myself beyond the limits, only to feel further away from the promotion of becoming principal. Now here I am, stuck with a nepo baby who has a chip on his shoulder, and a corset that’s grinding against my ribcage.

Soren crosses the stage in one smooth motion, and stops right in front of Julian with a look that sends chills down my spine.“Tell you what Julian. Let’s lace you into a corset, spin you through three piqués, and see how clearly you’re thinking.”

Julian visibly gulps, his mouth opening, but no words coming out. Good. While he may get a slap on the wrist with Margaux, he knows better than to argue with Soren at a moment like this.

Soren turns away from Julian, and crosses the stage toward me. “It’s opening night, Eleanor,” he snaps. “This is not the time to fall apart over a corset and stage directions. Get your head in the scene.” He pauses for a moment, his voice dropping. “Spiral on your own time.”

Sometimes Soren can be such an—