Page 3 of Healing Eleanor

It’s well known that it’s highly uncommon to form friendships in this industry. When one starts to bloom, the other dancer has a way of using you every single time. They learn your weaknesses, exploit them, and pretend to be a confidant, before going behind your back and spreading rumors that have had girls in the past fired. It’s risky business and I mostly stay away from it.

I turn slightly to see Sofia standing there, her dark eyes unreadable and her full lips curved into a frown. Her arms are crossed, ballet slippers hanging from her fingertips, and not a single curl out of place in her bun. She’s different, and proved over time that she’s not like the other girls. While everyone else claws for roles and practically celebrates your failures, Sofia stays after rehearsals to help me practice and celebrates my wins like they’re her own. We have each other’s backs, and that’s more than I expected when I got hired here in the first place.

“I saw what happened… with Julian.” She sighs. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

I pick up a stray powder and start applying it to my face. “Didn’t you see that I started it?” A spiteful laugh bubbles out of me. “I should’ve seen it coming, really.”

She takes a seat next to me and grabs an eyeshadow palette, deepening the shades already there. “You know, maybe there’s a way I could actually cause him to dance until his death.” A sly smile tilts one corner of her mouth. “I am Myrtha, after all.”

I set the powder down and turn toward her. “Julian’s just a jerk.” I shrug, flicking on my curling iron. “He gets away with everything because of who his father is, and I think everyone knows that.”

“Maybe,” she says, focusing on her eye makeup. She sets the palette down and catches my eye in the mirror. “I am proud of you for standing up to him, though. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that before. You’re always so… passive.”

I grab a makeup brush and toss it at her, laughing. “I am not passive. I’m just hungry.” On cue, my stomach grumbles furiously. “I had to skip breakfast this morning.”

Sofia laughs. “Well,” she says, standing abruptly, “let’s go get lunch.”

I stand and follow her lead. “You don’t need to tell me twice.”

If food can’t fix my problems, at least it will shut my stomach up for a while.

2

Tragically Obedient

Eleanor

The theater buzzes around me with the anticipation of opening night. Costumes rustle behind me, distant music bleeds through studio walls, and the sharp scent of rosin clings to the air. Feet thud across the floors, each sound tightening the knot in my chest. As I wait for Natalia to make her rounds and lace my corset, I reach for my gloss one last time. My lips, though full and carefully painted, rarely smile. Not because I don’t want to, but because somewhere along the way, I learned that smiling felt like something I needed permission to do.

I freeze in front of my vanity, my reflection staring back at me like a stranger. Am I real? Golden-blonde hair falls in loose curls, a few flower pins pulling back the front strands. Honey-brown eyes shadowed at the corners from too many late nights chasing perfection stare at me. My palms dampen with sweat at the thought of stepping onstage to perform a role that will either make or break me.

I stare at myself like I’m trying to read the lines between my face. I don’t know what I’m looking for, only that something deep in my gut stirs with the need to believe that I’m worth it.

After Natalia greets me with a quiet hello, she gestures for me to stand and turn so she can tighten the corset laces.

Tonight I decided I would dance my part, and give it my all. But once the curtains fell, I’d have to prove to my mother I was actually making progress at this company.

Just as she finishes tying the final knot, a sharp knock sounds at the door, jolting me from my thoughts.

“Montgomery, you’re up!” a stagehand calls from the hallway.

I smooth my dress over my ribs, my fingers trembling despite the practiced motion. My heart hammers against my chest as I take one last breath before stepping into the light.

A faint smile curls at the corner of Natalia’s mouth.

“You look beautiful, Eleanor,” she says shyly.

My breath catches as I instinctively bring a hand to my collarbone, half-expecting to feel the flutter of my pulse there. Natalia is always quiet—happy to be invisible, really. I can’t remember the last time she offered a compliment to anyone. Most days, the seamstress’ are all business: measurements, fittings, and notes.

Her words land heavier than I expect. When’s the last time I’ve been called beautiful before performing?

I turn to face her, a smile of genuine gratitude on my lips. “Thank you, Natalia. This dress is stunning.”

She looks down, her cheeks blooming pink as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the hint of a smirk betraying her pride.

With a breath deep enough to anchor me, I turn away from the mirror and open the door. Backstage is chaos softened by reverence. Stagehands whisper and shout in equal measure, shoes squeak against the floors, and the orchestra tunes with restless impatience. The velvet curtain looms ahead, seconds from rising.

Dancers rush past in a blur of chiffon, satin, and nervous energy. I slip into place in the wings, muscles drawn tight, spine lifted, chin high. My pulse thunders in my ears as the house lights dim.