Page 33 of Healing Eleanor

The sight steals the breath from my lungs. The lobby isn’t like the sterile, modern studios I’ve grown used to in the city. The air is cool, carrying the faint scent of bergamot, varnished wood, and old pointe shoes.

Everything here has a well-loved elegance. The worn stone floors gleam softly under my feet. Tall windows let in buttery morning light, and the high ceilings are framed with exposed wooden beams that speak to the building’s age and history.

My footsteps echo softly as I move toward the reception desk. A woman in her early fifties sits behind it, caramel hair swept into a neat twist as she studies a clipboard, tiny glasses perched on the bridge of her nose.

She raises her eyes as I approach, and offers a warm, welcoming smile.

“You must be Eleanor Montgomery,” she greets, standing slightly from her seat. Her voice is soft and melodic. “We’re so happy to have you here today.”

I manage a small smile, my nerves pinching at the corners of my mouth. “Thank you.”

How does she know I’m Eleanor?

She extends her hand across the desk, and must read the look on my face. “I’m Robin. I handle reception, and scheduling. We don’t get many new people walking through these doors. Don’t worry, love, we’ll take good care of you.”

Something about her—maybe the way she calls me ‘love’—eases some of the tension in my chest.

Robin points down the hallway to the right. “You’ll find changing rooms down this corridor. There’s a studio adjacent for warm-ups, and auditions will be held in Studio B—past the atrium, first door on your left. If you need anything, just come find me. I’ll be here.”

“Thank you,” I say again, a little more sincerely this time.

“Of course,” she smiles, then winks. “You’ve got time. Don’t rush.”

I re-adjust my bag on my shoulder, and head down the hallway. The walls are lined with framed photographs. Sepia portraits of dancers from decades past, black and white rehearsal stills, a few color shots from what looks like more recent seasons.

Each photo screams legacy. One day, maybe I’ll earn a place among them. A framed reminder that I made it, a small victory solidified in glass and wood.

The changing room is quiet when I enter—just one other girl finishing her bun in the mirror. I nod politely, then move to an empty bench and begin to change.

As I pull on my leotard and tights, Robin’s voice still rings in my ears.

We’ll take good care of you.

I don’t know if that will prove true. But for just a moment, inside these warm, storied walls, I allow myself to believe it might.

I slip into my ballet shoes, and pull my warm-up shrug snug around my shoulders. I give my reflection one last glance. Bun secure, tights smooth, leotard neat, I zip my bag and step back into the hallway.

The company is quiet this early in the morning. Like the stillness is sacred. I follow the signs toward Studio B, the soft thud of my slippers muffled by the old wood floors. I turn the corner toward the atrium, only to collide with a flash of red hair.

“OhmygoshI’msosorry!”

The girl stumbles back a step, arms flailing slightly, wavy auburn hair swishing as she comes to a stop. Her eyes are wide, glaucous, and so expressive it almost feels like they’re too much to look at straight on. She’s wearing a Hollingford warm-up jacket over her leotard, with pink leg warmers scrunched at the ankles like she’s been mid-warmup.

“It’s okay,” I blurt in a rush, stepping back to give her space.

“I was looking for Nik,” she says breathlessly, already glancing over her shoulder as if he might magically appear behind her. “He said he’d be in the smaller studio but now I can’t find him, and I’m going to be late for—” She stops and blinks at me. “Wait. Are you new? I haven’t seen you here before.”

“I—sort of. I’m here for the audition.”

“Wait, wait, wait. The audition?” Her face lights up like someone’s reminded her it’s her birthday. “That’s so exciting! Oh my gosh, don’t be nervous. Everyone totally freaks out before, but the panel here is actually super nice, that must be where Nik is, and Studio B has the best floors and—wait, shoot, I’m doing it again.”

She blows out a breath and giggles, brushing a hand over her forehead.

“I forget to introduce myself when I get excited,” she admits, then sticks out her hand. “I’m Lillian Ruth Ellis. But, you can call me Lily, everyone else does.”

“Eleanor,” I respond, shaking her hand, a little stunned by the sheer volume of her personality. It’s like someone dumped a whole bottle of sunshine on this girl. I can’t tell if it’s endearing or slightly overwhelming. “Everyone calls me… Eleanor,” I add awkwardly. This is why I don’t joke. ‘Serious’ is practically my middle name.

Lily tilts her head, then brightly says, “Pretty name! It suits you. You’re doing principal track, right?”