Page 45 of Healing Eleanor

10

Not a Soloist

Eleanor

My chest heaves as I struggle to fill my lungs with air. Sweat trickles down my temples and along my neck as I clutch the edge of the metal stair railing trying not to collapse. A light breeze rustles the trees around Arnon Park, and I tilt my head up, letting the wind brush over my face, cooling me just enough to stay upright.

I usually don’t go for a second run in a day, but it’s been nine days since my audition at Hollingford Ballet Company, and my mind is a complete wreck. I understand a few days of silence. But nine? No email. No call. Nothing. I deserve at least a polite rejection.

I pull my phone from the pocket of my running shorts and check the screen.

7:18 p.m.

It’s well past dinner time, but I don’t care. I stick to my normal post-audition routine—breakfast, work, lunch, a workout, home, and, on a good day, dinner—followed by a bath, journaling, and bed. But the silence from Hollingford turns everything upside down. I’ve become impatient, agitated, and dare I say bitter. If they aren’t going to offer me a contract, the least they can do is have the decency to tell me.

Just as I start to slip my phone back into my pocket, it buzzes in my hand.

Mom.

A sigh escapes before I can stop it. She’s called every day since I told her about the audition. I didn’t tell her where I auditioned, just that I had one. The last thing I need is her judgment about my next career move.

But in a strange, messed-up way, I need her approval. So I answer the call.

“Hey, Mom.”

“It took you long enough to answer,” she responds caustically. The blare of car horns echoes faintly in the background. “Any update?”

I swallow another sigh. “Nope. Not yet.”

She scoffs. “Of course not. Why don’t you just tell me where you auditioned? I have connections everywhere. I’ll call them myself.”

There it is. Another reminder of why I keep her far away from it. “No, it’s fine. If they want me, they’ll call.”

“So what, you’re just giving up now? I thought I raised you better than that.”

I nearly laugh. If only she had raised me the way a mother should. “I’m not giving up,” I say, forcing myself to remain calm. “But demanding answers won’t do me any favors.”

A sharp, sardonic bark escapes her lips. “Please, Eleanor. If you actually cared about your reputation, you would’ve taken Soren’s offer. You’d still be employed.”

I clench my jaw. “Right.” This again. “Well, if that’s all you wanted to say—”

“It isn’t,” she cuts in. “Edward will be in town Wednesday. We’re going out to dinner. You’re coming.” There’s no room for arguing. “Do you remember that Supreme Court nomination I told you about? It was approved. We’re celebrating.”

For a second, I wonder if she’d ever throw a celebration dinner for me—if I got into Hollingford. Probably not.

“Wow. That’s great,” I say numbly, already starting the walk back toward my apartment. The streetlights begin to flicker on. “Just let me know when and where.”

A car door slams in the background. “Please, don’t be ludicrous. I’ll pick you up Wednesday. Six sharp. Be ready.” Then she hangs up, leaving me no chance to respond.

On my walk home, I watch people pass me by. Couples with their fingers laced together as if nothing in the world can separate them. Parents with strollers and toddlers skipping at their sides. Runners lost in their own rhythm and purpose.

Despite my best efforts, Sofia worms her way into my thoughts. I hate giving her even a fraction of space in my head.

Theoretically, I know I’m lucky just to have an audition at all.

I’m sure the dancers and staff at the Metropolitan couldn’t care less about Soren’s actions. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were fully aware of them and simply assumed I’d find somewhere else to dance, as if it were that easy. Or maybe they all knew and were afraid of him, choosing to turn their heads and let it be someone else’s problem.

Either way, my life is in ruins.