Page 2 of Healing Eleanor

“Natalia, come here would you?” Soren interrupts my inner colorful insults of him.

The short Italian seamstress with long wavy brown hair walks with her head down, quietly making her way to where I’m standing.

Soren roughly grabs the top of her shoulder, startling her. Her chocolate brown eyes hold fear when she looks up at him. “Would you please assist Eleanor with her corset? She needs every ounce of oxygen to her brain if she’s going to figure out which direction she’s supposed to run.”

Natalia nods solemnly and goes straight to unlacing my strings.

Soren strolls back downstairs, and shoots Margaux a quick, almost teasing glance. “Apologies Margaux,” he starts, seemingly holding back a laugh. “I guess we shouldn’t be surprised with Eleanor and her antics.”

Margaux gives a tight, almost playful nod. “It’s not your fault, mon cher. Our Eleanor can be quite an abrutie at times, am I right?”

Out of all the artistic directors I’ve met, Margaux is the only one who isn’t afraid to insult or curse us out in French. Many of us are used to it by now, but watching Soren agree makes the heat in my cheeks amplify.

Soren is a mediocre coach with high expectations. Margaux only keeps him close because of their long history together. There are rumors that surround him like flies attracted to rotten fruit, but Margaux still allows him to hold every ounce of power when it comes to coaching and promoting dancers.

It isn’t uncommon for this world to be full of rumors, rage, and spite. It’s the price you pay to be on top. But the way he so casually agrees with whatever insult Margaux just threw my way, I wouldn’t be surprised if the rumors of his countless affairs are true.

Ballet, I realize, isn’t just poisonous. It is a beauty wrapped in layers of masked toxicity, each layer more suffocating than the last.

When Natalia finishes readjusting my corset, I’m finally able to breathe.

I step backstage so we can reset, and we rehearse the scene again, and again, and again. Seven times, each more grueling than the last. If I think the corset is my biggest setback of the afternoon, Soren makes it known that there’s plenty more to critique me on.

“Eleanor, you need to be more fluid in your movements.” or “Eleanor, I know how much you love Julian, but if you can’t put your personal feelings aside and show him your anguish, you will never bring the drama to life. Let your frustration fuel Giselle’s madness, not your own.” or my personal favorite, “Giselle doesn’t have the luxury of holding a grudge. You need to let the character’s pain take over, not your personal feelings.”

After each annoying jab Soren makes in my direction, Julian’s smile only grows. He thrives off of my discomfort, and my blood is at its boiling point. If I don’t get out of here soon, I’m going to snap like a twig.

“The final run-through is complete! Give yourselves a hand.” Soren claps, along with the rest of the dancers. “Get lunch, rest, and be back here by three sharp. You’ve got hair, makeup, and last minute fittings before the show opening tonight. Let’s make sure we’re looking as good as we dance!” He gives a contemptuous bow before making his way backstage.

The curtains haven’t even risen, and I’m already longing for them to fall.

I let go of a sigh of relief while rolling the kinks out of my neck as I make my way backstage to the dressing rooms. Reaching behind me, my fingers fumble for the corset strings, desperate to peel this intolerable thing off. Even after Natalia’s adjustments, this dreadful contraption still feels like a vice wrapped around my ribs.

With my focus narrowed on untying the strings, I don’t see him until it’s too late.

Julian

The collision is sudden and jarring. Before I can take a step back, his hazel eyes latch onto mine. His tanned arm extends to steady me before I tumble to the ground, while his sandy brown hair remains locked into place with the pounds of gel lathered into it. A crease forms between his thick eyebrows as he registers who he’s staring at. For a moment I swear I see a flash of confusion cross his face. As if he’s trying to figure out why I of all people ran into him.

“Watch it, Montgomery,” he spits. He runs a hand along his hair, probably making sure I didn’t mess it up, preemptively dismissing me.

From the first moment I learned to dance, it was drilled into my brain to never poke the bear, because in doing so, it had the possibility of destroying my reputation. As my mother likes to say, accept the criticism and shut your mouth with a smile.

I can’t help myself though, I already know what I’m setting myself up for when I say it. “You know, Julian, I don’t know how they expect me to keep improvising around your mess all night.”

Julian halts mid-step, spinning around so fast, I’m surprised he doesn’t trip over himself. His face twists into a grimace, and his lip curls between something like frustration and amusement. “You know, bold choice running the wrong way like you were choreographing a new ending. Avant-garde, really.”

Nearby, a few dancers snicker.

Julian continues, shrugging. “Some of us bleed for the art. Others just… sprint I guess.” With one last smirk, he turns and disappears backstage like he’s the crowned prince of cruelty.

On a shaky exhale, I fully loosen my corset, weaving my way through the cluster of dancers to the dressing rooms, slamming the door behind me.

I collapse on the bench in front of my vanity and squeeze my eyes shut. I won’t cry, I tell myself over, and over. Just as I’m about to spiral for the millionth time today, a soft hand lands on my shoulder. My back stiffens, not wanting to deal with anyone until it’s show time.

A familiar voice sounds above me, “It’s me.”

Sofia Delgado. The only true friend I’ve had since getting hired in the corps de ballet. Five years ago we were the only girls hired for the corps, so naturally, we stayed close, and formed a rare friendship.