6. On Pointe
On Pointe
Eleanor
Straps dig softly into my wrists as I flow through another spinal wave. When I extend my leg, I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, pretending I don’t hear the laughter behind me.
It’s not unusual to hear giggling or hushed conversations in Adrian’s classes. His sessions always carry a loose, easy energy. Most of the dancers here also work part-time at Forma, which gives the class a kind of built-in camaraderie.
But today, the laughter feels different.
Maybe it’s paranoia, or maybe it’s just pattern recognition.
Adrian makes his way down the rows, correcting posture and breath cues. His hands are gentle but firm when he reaches me.
“Eleanor, draw in your ribs a bit more, and soften your shoulders.”
I nod, adjusting. He’s given me that same note a dozen times before. My body is tired and achy, and I’ve been nursing the same dull headache for three days.
As soon as he moves on, Courtney’s voice rings out from the opposite side of the room.
“Oh no,” she gasps in exaggerated horror. “My ribs are out! I better fix that before someone thinks I’m trying too hard for attention.”
She mimics Adrian’s correction and locks eyes with me through the mirror. Her brows rising; a saccharine smile curving her lips.
A few people stifle their giggles. One of them, Max, leans toward the girl next to him and whispers something behind his hand.
Though, of course, Adrian doesn’t hear any of it.
I lower my gaze, trying to focus on my breath. But instead of lengthening, my spine tightens.
And Courtney decides she’s not finished.
During a rotation, as we all stand at the tower and adjust our settings, she leans in just loud enough for me and a few bystanders to hear.
“Careful,” she murmurs, “Don’t get too cozy with Adrian. You might end up in a private conference again… like you did with Soren.”
Her words punch me in the sternum, and bile rises at the back of my throat.
Not because it’s true, because it obviously isn’t. How someone can’t see the truth is beyond me. It’s not like I’m the poster girl for being propositioned by her coach for the first time in history. It’s because the truth shouldn’t matter here.
Not a single person in this room knows how Soren spoke to me in his office that day.
The way he caged me in. How he called me a whale and told me the only way to earn a promotion was to give myself to him.
How his voice dropped as his hand skimmed my arm, and how I was the one who walked away ashamed.
How he dangled that promotion in front of me like I was a dog begging for a treat.
None of it was empowering. I didn’t feel wanted or special. Just… cheapened.
Because why would anyone believe a lowly dancer over management?
I blink rapidly, curling my trembling hands into fists. Courtney doesn’t deserve my tears or my anger, so I won’t give her the satisfaction.
Adrian calls for the next rotation and I move into place without a word, pretending the pounding in my chest isn’t audible.
When I slip my hands back into the straps again, Courtney lets out a dreamy sigh.
“You know,” she says to no one in particular, “some of us still earn our roles the hard way.”
Laughter bubbles up around us.
I want to snap back, Okay, you washed-up Hudson Edge reject, but the words die before they leave my mouth… because they rejected me too.
It’s not her fault people are spreading lies. It’s my responsibility in how I respond. So this time I don’t poke the bear. I choose to let it hurt instead of starting another fire I’ll have to dance through later.
Later that day, I stand under the warm water as it washes away the laughter and sneers. No matter how hot it runs, their voices rattle around my mind. I stay under the spray until the mirror fogs and the water loses its bite, turning tepid around me.
Eventually, I step out and wrap myself in a towel before pulling on an old pair of pajamas. My hair’s still damp, my skin warm from the steam. I climb into bed, the sheets cool against me.
I glance toward my nightstand drawer where my journal waits. I can’t bring myself to open it, because what will I even write?
That Courtney’s a manipulative brat? That I’m one step away from becoming Forma’s official pariah? Or that I still haven’t gotten into a company, and my self-worth is hanging by a frayed thread?
There isn’t much to log in terms of food, either.
Yogurt, coffee, fruit, fish, steamed veggies, and chicken don’t make for a compelling read.
Plus, I don’t want to weigh myself and be disappointed at the number staring back at me.
Losing weight is much harder than I imagined, and I can’t pinpoint what I’m doing wrong.
Everything feels heavy. My skin. My thoughts. The silence.
I turn onto my side, curling my knees to my chest, like I can somehow fold myself small enough to disappear.
Everything I’ve worked for—every long hour, every blister, every calorie skipped, every ache and pain I ignore—all lead here. To this. Unwanted and discarded.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
By now, I should be preparing for the start of the season. I should be attending conditioning classes, slipping into familiar studios, gearing up to fight for a role in the next showcase.
Instead, I’m fighting for my own reputation. Alone.
Panic is a quiet, fickle thing. It isn’t loud or dramatic. Just a slow, creeping weight pressing into my chest, like gravity has doubled and decided I’m the one it wants to crush.
My phone lights up on the nightstand, interrupting my thoughts.
I glance over at my alarm clock, 1:04 a.m.
The only person who ever contacts me at this hour is my mother, and I’m in no emotional shape to deal with her tonight.
We haven’t talked since last week—after she decided it was the perfect time to remind me, yet again, that I still haven’t secured a ‘reputable’ company.
She’s even less impressed when I told her I didn’t get into Hudson Edge.
Apparently, in her mind, even a charity company would’ve been better than nothing.
Still… What if it is an emergency?
The thought pulls a reluctant breath from my lungs as I reach for my phone. The screen is blinding, and I squint until my eyes adjust.
It isn’t a text.
It isn’t my mother.
It’s an email.
Subject: Private Audition Invitation: Eleanor Montgomery.
I sit up so fast that I knock half my pillows to the floor.
My heart thunders in my chest, and my hands tremble as I hastily open the email.
It’s from Kasper Pedersen. The Artistic Director of Hollingford Ballet Company.
Dear Ms. Montgomery,
I’ve had the opportunity to review your submission and would like to invite you to a private audition at Hollingford Ballet Company.
We are currently considering dancers for an immediate opening for a principal position. Should your audition go well, you may be eligible for a contract starting this fall season.
Please reply at your earliest convenience. I’d be happy to schedule you as soon as this week.
Warmly,
Kasper Pedersen
Artistic Director, Hollingford Ballet Company
My jaw hits the floor. I read it again—and then a third time— just to be sure I’m not hallucinating from exhaustion, hunger, or blind hope.
A private audition. This week. An actual chance. A lifeline, thrown straight through my dark ceiling.
My ribs are too fragile to hold the way my heart slams against them. I clutch the phone to my chest, a soft, breathless laugh escaping before I can stop it.
I’m not finished. There’s at least one other person out there who sees potential in me. That tiny flicker of hope catches like dry kindling, and flares up so suddenly it almost burns.
I swing my legs out of bed and pad to the living room, grabbing my laptop from the coffee table. The cushions dip beneath me as I curl onto the couch, balancing the laptop across my knees. If I’m going to move to Hollingford, I need to act fast.
I type into the search bar: apartments near Hollingford Ballet Company.
Most of the listings are either way out of my budget or too far from the studio to be practical. Still, I keep scrolling, chewing my thumbnail, scanning every square foot and rental price like my future depends on it. Because well… it technically does.
After an hour of searching, I find one.
A small studio in the historic district. About twenty minutes from the company by car. The photos show a warm space with exposed brick and old hardwood floors that look like they have stories to tell. It’s definitely smaller than my current place, but it’s clean, and I can make it work.
A small smile forms on my cheeks as I let myself picture it. A new city. A clean slate. No rumors following me, no whispered conversations when I walk into a room. Just dancing and the quiet, stubborn hope that maybe, this time, I can prove I’m enough.
A familiar voice creeps into my mind, soft but prominent.
You need to be on point. You need to be perfect. How can you do that when you’re still the size of a whale?
The voice isn’t wrong. This will most likely be the only chance I get, and I can’t afford to mess it up. No softness, no indulgence, no room for anything less than precision.
Tomorrow will be different. I’ll stick to the necessities only, cut the extras, add more cardio, and finally get some real sleep.
I’ll show up to that audition so lean, so controlled, so poised that they’ll see it in me the moment I step into the studio—discipline, carved into every line of my body.
I click ‘Reply’ to Kasper’s email and type out my response. Polite, professional, practiced, and poised, just like my mother taught me.
I hold my breath, fingers trembling as I hit send.
Hope and hunger knot inside me, equal parts promise and poison.
The next morning I don’t need an alarm.
My body jolts awake before the sun has even decided to grace the sky with its presence. The adrenaline from last night hasn’t faded, and after four hours of sleep, I calcified it into purpose. My heart is already beating faster than it should be.