Page 13 of Healing Eleanor

My stomach twisted. “I didn’t sleep in.”

“You didn’t drink enough water yesterday. That’s why your face looks like that.”

I stayed quiet.

My mother tugged the elastic one more time, then jabbed in a bobby pin through my hair. I winced.

“Stop flinching,” she snapped. “If you react like that on stage, they’ll think you’re fragile.”

She moved behind me again and inspected me in the mirror. Her eyes scanned me like a judge at a dog show. My leotard was navy blue, new from Discount Dance, but already slightly too tight. I could see my ribs, but she was still frowning.

“What did you eat last night?” she asked.

“Just the salad you made.”

“Did you sneak anything after I went to bed?”

“No,” I blurted, a little too fast.

She sighed like she didn’t believe me. “Ballet is for the disciplined, Eleanor. If you want this, you have to act like it. No second chances in this world.”

I stared at the girl in the mirror. Thin arms. A line of bruises down one shin. Hair like a scraped-back doll. She didn’t look like someone who was about to be great. She just looked… scared.

My mother’s voice softened then, which was somehow worse.

“Pretty girls get picked,” she said, smoothing the front of my leotard like it might flatten the shame under my skin. “So suck it in and keep your arms soft. No one wants to see you struggle.”

The blast of a boat horn jolts me back to reality.

The almonds lie scattered on the cold concrete, and tears stream down my face in quiet rivulets. When did I start crying?

I quickly wipe them away, just like I did as a child, before my mother can notice.

I stand from the bench, adjusting the waistband of my leggings, too aware of how they press into my skin. I haven’t eaten much today, but somehow it already felt like too much. I haven’t counted calories since I moved out of my mother’s house when I turned eighteen.

I used to think that her teaching me how to count calories was her way of caring. Now, I’m not so sure. Especially since Soren seems to think I’m too heavy to promote.

Throughout my childhood, I never had control over my life. It started with my mother, a hawk that hovered over everything I did. Then came ballet, which took up ninety percent of my existence. Every part of my day came with rules. Everything I did served a purpose. Whether it be structure, precision, but never freedom. I was as good as a caged animal.

I didn’t have my first kiss until I was seventeen, which was humiliating at the time. It only happened because Micah went to my ballet school. He was the closest thing I had to a relationship, if you could even call it that. We only saw each other during practice and barely spoke unless it was about our technique or giving corrections. We were both focused and driven by what we wanted out of ballet. And it wasn’t each other.

I wasn’t even sad when he got accepted into Coastal Pointe Ballet in San Francisco. It wasn’t like we were in love, which is something I don’t believe in anyway. Love is just a lie people tell themselves to make their loneliness feel more justified. Their selfishness wrapped up in the guise of romance. In the end, everyone just looks out for themselves.

The only love I’ve known since childhood is ballet. Just once, I want to come out on top and prove I’m worth something.

I pull my phone from my sweater pocket and call a cab. When it arrives, I slide into the backseat and give the driver my address. The leather seats are cold against my leggings, the air inside carrying traces of stale coffee and mint gum. I lean my head back and watch as the city blurs by in streaks of light and shadow. Restaurant signs flicker on. Couples drift in and out of doorways, hands intertwined, laughing like the world has never disappointed them.

When the cab drops me off, I drag myself up the stairs to my apartment, the weight of the world heavy on my shoulders. My keys are heavy in my hand as I unlock the door and step inside.

It feels like years have passed since I’d last been here, but in reality it’s only been a handful of hours.

I toss my bag onto the couch and stand in the middle of the kitchen, unsure of what to do with myself.

I open the fridge, and cool air spills out in a rush. Containers of pre-planned meals—courtesy of my mom—a sleeve of rice cakes, a half-used carton of almond milk, and a jar of peanut butter I made a few nights ago stare at me. Everything looks disorganized, like a reflection of the mess inside my head.

I close it, shuddering from the chill.

I head to the bathroom, ready to wash the entirety of today. I peel off my sweater and toss it into the hamper.