Page 51 of Healing Eleanor

“Hello, this is Eleanor,” I say, sinking into a very elegant—and probably absurdly expensive—leather chair.

“Eleanor, hello. This is Kasper Pedersen from Hollingford Ballet Company. How are you? I hope I’m not interrupting. I know it’s late.”

I shoot up so fast I nearly drop my phone. My heart slams against my ribs as I tighten my grip and try to rein in the excitement bubbling to the surface. “Mr. Pedersen, hi. Yes, I’m doing great. Not an interruption at all. How are you?”

Smooth. Real smooth, Eleanor.

He chuckles. “I’m well. I was calling to offer you a position as one of our principal dancers for the upcoming fall season. You’re still available, I hope?”

My pulse flutters like the wings of a trapped bird. “Yes! Yes, I’m still available.” I begin pacing across the plush rug. “Thank you so much for this opportunity, Mr. Pedersen. I promise, I won’t let you down.”

“I’m sure you won’t, Eleanor. And please, Kasper is fine.” Papers shuffle in the background. “This is short notice, but would you be able to arrive by Monday the fifteenth? That’s the start of our season. If you need help with housing or moving expenses, we’ll take care of you.”

“Wow—thank you. I think I may have found a studio, if it’s still available. But I’ll definitely need help with the move.”

“Just let me know what you need. I’ll be emailing over some paperwork shortly. Please have everything filled out before Monday morning.”

“Absolutely. That won’t be a problem.”

“Excellent. I look forward to seeing you soon. Welcome aboard, Eleanor.” He ends the call.

I stand there in the overly beige, perfectly coordinated room, still clutching my phone, wondering what just happened. I drop my eyes to the screen, half expecting it to disappear, but it doesn’t. It’s real. It’s actually real. I’ve just been offered a contract as a principal dancer. Not a soloist. Not a second choice. Principal.

I squeal and do a small happy dance before heading back into the wolf den. I reenter with an uncontained smile and a boldness I haven’t had in a long time. I take my seat and place my phone face down on the table, just like Mom.

Let her comment on it, I silently dare her. I’d love to see her try and tear me down right now. I bet she can’t.

“Must’ve been a good call?” Scarlett asks, smiling warmly. “You look as happy as ever.”

“Right. Who was that?” Mom adds, her tone tight and already suspicious.

I can’t contain it even if I tried. “That was Kasper Pedersen. He’s the Artistic Director of Hollingford Ballet Company. He just offered me a position as a principal dancer.”

“What?” Mom asks, her voice sharp, confusion laced with something dangerously close to anger.

“Wow! That’s wonderful, Eleanor. I’m happy for you,” Scarlett says sincerely.

“What luck, huh?” Edward adds with a smirk. “That we were just sitting here discussing your future, and you got an offer mid-dinner. Bravo.”

I open my mouth to thank them, but Mom cuts in before I can.

“Bravo? Wonderful?” she scoffs, setting her fork down with a loud clang. “Eleanor, that’s a company out in the middle of nowhere. There’s nothing reputable about it. It might as well be Hudson Edge.” Her eyes lock onto mine like lasers. “This is why you didn’t tell me where you auditioned. Because you knew how disappointed I’d be.”

“Mom—” Scarlett reaches over, placing a gentle hand on Mom’s arm.

“Not now, Scarlett.” She brushes her hand off like it’s dirt.

She whips back to me. “That is why, isn’t it? You knew. You will never become a real principal or prima there, Eleanor. Hello—do you realize who I am? I could have helped you.” She shakes her head slowly, the disgust curling in her mouth. “Such a disappointment,” she mutters under her breath.

I don’t cry. Not here. Not in front of her. “They are a real company and hold performances just like any other professional troupe, right?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm. “Sure, it’s in a small town, but that doesn’t make them any less reputable—”

She lets out a cruel laugh. “Please. You’ve got a lot to learn. You’ll go nowhere dancing there. You’ll either age out or end up teaching. You won’t become a household name. You’ll be forgotten.” She pins me with her gaze. “You’ll be nothing.”

“Mom—” Scarlett tries again, more firmly this time.

But it doesn’t stop her.

“People who end up in small companies like that are either late to the game, overpromoted students, injured dancers, or those easing into retirement. There’s no growth. No visibility.” She wrinkles her nose. “And Hollingford? A town that small has no chance of viewings. No chance of anything. This is the worst possible position you could be in.”