Eleanor's Healing in God

1. Spiral on Your Own Time

Spiral on Your Own Time

APRIL

Eleanor

My corset is too tight.

Every breath I take, the stiff and unforgiving fabric presses cruelly into my ribs.

To make matters worse, the air is thick, sticking to my lungs, making it unbearable to breathe.

Sweltering stage lights shine above me, and I can feel the sweat clinging to the nape of my neck, sending my anxiety into overdrive with each passing second.

My rebellious stomach twists in protest, reminding me that I shouldn’t have skipped breakfast this morning.

If it wasn’t for my alarm clock going on the fritz, I could’ve eaten my breakfast sandwich.

Instead, I’m clinging to the small threads of my mind that haven’t completely frayed yet.

I don’t think overstimulation can describe how deranged I feel right now.

The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m dancing as Giselle, who in fact, is a madwoman. How fitting I must look for the role right now. What better way to portray the unraveling of a woman than to feel it for yourself?

“Eleanor, you are running the wrong way!” Margaux Lefevre’s thick French accent bellows from the front row, pulling me out of my mental spiral.

My heart leaps out of my chest at the sound of my name coming from Margaux’s mouth. I freeze mid-step, my corset squeezing harshly against my ribs, panic rising in my chest, as I assess the situation. I am running the wrong way.

“It’s opening night!” Margaux’s voice rings out again, her disapproval palpable in the silence that follows. “You should not be making these types of mistakes!”

The heat rises to my cheeks when I realize everyone is staring at me. The heat of their stares could burn a hole right through me.

This is my fifth season as a soloist with the Metropolitan Theatre of Ballet.

To kick off the spring season, we are opening the night with the variation, Giselle.

I understand the privilege I’ve been handed considering my role is usually reserved for a principal dancer.

This is basically the highlight of my career, and it really should feel that way, but I can’t stop thinking about how I am meant to portray some young, pure, and naive peasant girl who is basically manic, and that’s putting it nicely.

Am I truly that chaotic of a dancer that Soren thinks it’s okay to cast me as crazy?

Don’t get me wrong, Giselle is an honor to perform.

But, being asked to unravel myself on stage leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

Year after year I’ve driven myself into the ground to prove that I’m good enough for the better roles.

Yet, I didn’t land Clara in the Nutcracker or even The Swan Queen in Swan Lake.

I got stuck with the one character that wouldn’t do me any favors.

I can only imagine how my mother will react when she finds out.

“Again!” Margaux roars, staring directly at me.

My heart beats wildly in my chest, and my pulse pounds at an uncontrollable rate. I hate being singled out. Even more so, when I feel like it wasn’t my fault in the first place. I didn’t tighten this corset myself.

My frustration brews in me like a rancid coffee. I’ve had enough.

“My corset is too tight!” I blurt, the words escaping from my lips before I can stop them. I quickly realize my mistake, wishing I could shove the words back into my mouth. No one talks back to Margaux. You simply take her punches, and move on with a smile.

Her black and gray peppered hair is in a tight, slick bun, and her frown lines deepen as her umber eyes bore into me. She is definitely furious.

From where I stand, I can tell she’s out for blood, and I am right in her line of fire.

When she goes to speak, none other than Julian Ashford beats her to it. “And that somehow makes you unable to think?” A knowing smirk touches his lips.

My eyes snap to him. There he is—the perfect Albrecht, with his flawless technique, and polished arrogance.

He truly makes it all look so effortless.

The same arrogance he carries off stage is the same entitlement that seems to follow him everywhere.

Julian is the epitome of everything I resent.

Cowardly, manipulative, and above all else, incredibly immature.

I curse Soren under my breath for casting me alongside someone like him.

As much as I would love to stay mad at Julian, I simply can’t.

Julian may be insufferable, but there’s no denying his talent.

At nineteen, he’s already on the fast track to becoming a principal dancer at the Metropolitan Theatre of Ballet, only after one year of being a soloist. Margaux adores him, not just for his exceptional dancing, but because of the financial weight his family carries inside of the company.

Money paves his way. He doesn’t have to fight for his place because it’s already guaranteed, bought and paid for, while I have to fight tooth and nail for every inch of ground I gain.

I work myself to the bone. Every hour I spend at the barre, every injury I ignore, and every meal I skip won’t land me a promotion.

Three years of relentless effort just to be noticed.

It makes me physically ill thinking how Julian just waltzes right in, using his family’s connections and financial power to secure a spot at the top.

At this moment I can’t help but think of the ballet world as a venomous snake.

If you don’t strike first, you will be struck down.

For five years I’ve danced mediocre soloist variations, pushing myself beyond the limits, only to feel further away from the promotion of becoming principal.

Now here I am, stuck with a nepo baby who has a chip on his shoulder, and a corset that’s grinding against my ribcage.

Soren crosses the stage in one smooth motion, and stops right in front of Julian with a look that sends chills down my spine.“Tell you what Julian. Let’s lace you into a corset, spin you through three piqués, and see how clearly you’re thinking.”

Julian visibly gulps, his mouth opening, but no words coming out. Good. While he may get a slap on the wrist with Margaux, he knows better than to argue with Soren at a moment like this.

Soren turns away from Julian, and crosses the stage toward me. “It’s opening night, Eleanor,” he snaps. “This is not the time to fall apart over a corset and stage directions. Get your head in the scene.” He pauses for a moment, his voice dropping. “Spiral on your own time.”

Sometimes Soren can be such an—

“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.

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.