7. Break a Leg #2
“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?”
I blink. “I—yes, I think so.”
“Ooh, that’s where I am!” she beams, then looks down the hallway again. “Ugh, Nik, he’s always busy when you need him most, I swear. Anyway, I better go. Break a leg! Or wait, no, don’t actually break a leg. Forget I said that. You’ll be amazing.”
Before I can respond, she turns and half-jogs in the opposite direction.
I stand there for a second, completely thrown off my mental track. That was… a lot.
But in a strange way, it helped. For a split second, she let me escape my thoughts. Like a tiny, sweet mental reprieve.
I straighten my shrug, exhale slowly, and walk the rest of the way down the hall.
The door to Studio B is slightly ajar. I pause for a moment, hand resting on the cool knob. This is it. Then, with a deep breath, I push it open.
The studio’s beautiful. Not in the grand, towering way of the Metropolitan, but in a way that feels well loved.
The floors are honeyed wood, worn soft with age yet perfectly sprung.
Tall windows line the back wall, pouring golden light into the room and streaking the floors with a delicate glow.
To my left, an entire wall of mirrors, and above, a vintage chandelier hanging from the ceiling, its crystals refracting tiny rainbows across the walls.
At the front, near the mirrored wall, three men stand, quietly speaking among themselves. They turn as I step into the room.
“Eleanor Montgomery?” the man in the center asks. Tall, with dirty blonde hair, glasses, and impeccable posture, his soft but steely eyes study me. His voice is smooth, confident—European, maybe Swedish, though I can’t say for sure.
“Yes, sir,” I reply, my voice steadier than I expect.
He offers a polite nod. “I’m Kasper Pedersen, Artistic Director of Hollingford Ballet Company.”
“Thank you for having me,” I reply hastily.
To his left is another man, maybe around the same age as Kasper. His greige hair feathers around his neck, his gangly limbs at odds with the ease in the way he carries himself, something unshakeable about him. His expression is focused, but not unkind. He gives me a small nod of greeting.
“This is Russell Clarke,” Kasper continues. “Our in-house choreographer.”
Russell’s mouth twitches. “Looking forward to seeing what you’ve got.”
“And,” Kasper says, gesturing to his right, “this is Nikolai Kozlov, one of our principal ballet coaches.”
My breath catches. He’s tall—easily well over six feet—with broad shoulders, a sharp jaw framed by a neat beard, and striking features.
His dark hair is cropped short on the sides, a bit longer on top so a single strand falls against his forehead.
Dark brows hover over crystal-blue eyes that don’t just look at you, but see right through you, too.
His hands are clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable, yet his gaze remains intense.
I pull at the bottom of my leotard, self-conscious in his presence.
“Nice to meet you,” I murmur, offering a shy wave.
He dips his chin. “Welcome to Hollingford,” he says. His voice is lower than I was expecting and laced with the faintest trace of a Russian accent.
Kasper steps forward, waving toward the center of the room. “You’ll begin with a brief warm-up at barre, and then we’d like to see one of the combinations you submitted in your reel—your choice. After that, Russell may give you something new, depending on time.”
I nod once. “Yes, sir.”
I walk to the barre, heart thudding against my ribs like a ticking time bomb. As I place my hand lightly against the wood, I catch a brief glimpse of myself in the mirror. My eyes are wide and alert. My chin’s lifted, though my fingers quiver slightly.
This is it. No rumors. No favoritism. No distractions.
Just me and the barre. How it’s been since the time I could remember. I close my eyes, take a long, anchoring breath, and find my center.
When the piano chords I’d practiced for years start playing, I launch into warm-ups.
Hands poised, back tall, and legs stretching through each tendu with precision.
I keep my lines clean, sharp, but fluid, just like I’ve done a million times before.
I’m controlled enough to give them no reason to doubt my technique.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Nikolai—or Nik, as I hear the others call him—not just watching me… but studying me.
His arms are folded across his chest, and his expression is still unreadable.
But there’s something about his gaze that makes my skin buzz, like I’m standing too close to a live wire.
It isn’t a critical look… it’s more intentional than that.
Like he’s trying to understand something about me that I don’t even know myself.
I try to ignore it and focus on my combination instead, but the weight of his stare follows me into every movement.
Why is he looking at me like that?
I push the thought down, pull my shoulders back, and move through the final plié.
Kasper gives a short nod. “You may begin your variation when you’re ready.”
I step into the center. The air settles around me, like every bad thing I’ve endured up until this point in my life has been washed away.
The track begins—the same solo I sent in on my reel. It isn’t flashy, or packed with a hundred turns or sky-high extensions. It’s lyrical, controlled, soulful, and one that tells one heck of a story.
I pour myself into it. Every tear I shed, every embarrassing remark I endured, every time my mother compared me to a stray dog with no one to belong to. I let all that anguish take over my movements.
I finish in an arabesque, chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut. That’s it. Unless Russell gives me another variation to perform, I’m done.
The final note from the piano drifts softly through the air, and I open my eyes slowly, daring to look up. I’m not sure what to expect, but it definitely isn’t three men staring directly at me.
They aren’t smiling, but at least they aren’t frowning either. Their expressions are unreadable. Almost like they’re stunned into a trance.
Thankfully, Kasper breaks the silence. “Very well, that will be all. We’ll call you and let you know what we decide. Thank you for coming.” He crosses the room and offers me his hand.
I’m… done? That’s it? It doesn’t feel like I’ve done enough.
Especially given the fact that Kasper said that Russell may give me something else to dance. Surely they wanted to see more?
“Um, is that all? Should I not perform a variation of Mr. Clarke’s choice?” I ask, my voice smaller than I intend.
“We’ve seen enough for today. Have a safe drive home.”
Kasper lets go of my hand, then turns and walks back to join the other two men. Nik’s eyes remain glued to me.
I offer a shy smile in his direction. “Thank you for your time.” I dip my head and start walking toward the door.
The thud of sneakers approaches behind me, followed by a hand resting gently on my shoulder.
“It was nice to meet you Ms. Montgomery, you did well today,” Russell says kindly.
If his words weren’t so soft, I might’ve jumped out of my skin. Everyone here is… friendly in a way I’m not used to.
“Nice to meet you as well,” I manage.
He nods and heads for the door. “Nik, I’ll be in Studio A working with the corps. If you need me later, you know where to find me.”
Nik tilts his chin upward in acknowledgement. “Thanks, Russell.”
With that, Russell exits, leaving me alone with Nik and Kasper. The two of them stand in the corner, speaking quietly. No doubt discussing the variation I just performed.
Their faces are close, both nodding at whatever the other says. I try my best not to eavesdrop, even though I want to know what they’re saying. But I don’t want to kill my chances, so I continue toward the door.
I thought I did well. I was certain they’d ask me to dance again.
But there’s no use in overthinking it.
What I gave was already out there, and I couldn’t take it back. I just had to hope like heck it was good enough. That I was enough.
When I get back to the dressing room, I slip off my ballet slippers, rub my sore feet, then tuck my shoes neatly into my bag. I pull out my leg warmers and Converse. There’s no point in changing again. I’m just going to sit in Scarlett’s car, go home, and take a bubble bath.
Back in the lobby, Robin’s scribbling down something on a piece of paper but looks up when I start heading toward the exit.
“Eleanor, how did it go, love?” Her smile is warm. She reminds me of a sweet grandma who would bake you cookies and read you bedtime stories.
I hug my bag to my side, using it like my own personal armor. “I… I think it went well?” I question. I’m not sure how it went and that part unsettles me.
She smiles empathetically, “I’m sure it went just fine. Kasper can be a bit intimidating when you first meet him, but really, he’s just a big ole’ goldendoodle.” She picks up the paper she’s writing on, and adds it to a large stack.
Hopefully it’s not paperwork for other auditions. If it is, I may be toast. “Not too intimidating,” I answer. “I’ve definitely seen worse.” When I auditioned for the Metropolitain, I was with a group of thirty other girls, and it lasted for hours.
She chuckles softly. “Oh, I’m sure, given you’re coming from the city.” She continues to rustle with the stack of papers. “Would you like for me to call someone to pick you up, love? Or do you already have a ride?” She asks, already picking up the landline.