13. You’re Just in the Vinegar #4
“True,” she murmurs, the knife tapping against the cutting board in a steady rhythm.
“Compared to Lily, the poor girl was like a mouse—shy as ever.” She stops abruptly, like a thought hit her.
“You know, she was wearing a sweater. And then Dillon’s hoodie on top of that.
” Her brow creases. “In seventy-eight degree weather. I thought that was a bit strange.”
My stomach lurches.
“And,” Evelyn continues, setting the knife down, “she didn’t get any snacks while we were there. No matter how many times Lily or Dillon offered. She declined every single time.”
Her words sink like stones in my chest. It’s small stuff, like clothes and food, but all together it paints a picture I’m not sure I want to see. And Dillon’s hoodie? I don’t even want to think about what that can mean.
I force a swallow. It feels like nails scraping down my throat. “What do you think that means?”
Evelyn’s knife pauses midair. “Well… it could mean a lot of different things.”
The oven timer cuts the silence, sharp and jarring. She pulls the sandwiches out, setting the pan carefully on the stove. The warm smell of toasted bread fills the room, but it does nothing to ground me.
“These are just theories,” she states. “I don’t know her well enough to diagnose her—so remember that.”
I bob my head a little too quickly. “Okay. Just… tell me. Hypothetically.”
“On the lower end… hypothetically,” she begins, her hands fussing with a stack of plates, “it could be an anxiety disorder. Or OCPD—kind of like high-functioning anxiety rooted in perfection and control.”
My stomach twists. That sounds like her.
“Is that it?” My voice comes out quieter than I want
Evelyn comes to a halt. Her gaze softens, though there’s a quiet seriousness behind it. “No.” She draws in a breath. “There are also more serious possibilities.”
The room starts to spin, blurring around the edges.
“It could be a trauma response. PTSD. Or…” She exhales, like she hates saying it out loud. “It could be linked to an eating disorder. Anorexia. Bulimia. Something along those lines.”
A wave of dread washes over me. Eating disorder. The words reverberate through my head. Something about the way they sound clicks, like the last jagged piece of a puzzle finally falling into place.
“I’ve never seen her eat snacks, or lunch for that matter, at the studio,” I say, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. “When I was helping her with her movements today… she did feel pretty thin.” My heart starts pounding faster and faster, the memory of my hands on her hip sharper.
“Hold on now,” Evelyn says, gently cutting through the spiral forming in my head. “We don’t know if it’s an eating disorder. Many girls in ballet are small—”
“But eating disorders run rampant in ballet too,” I interject, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
“Yes, they do.” She meets my eyes for a beat before returning to plating dinner. “But you can’t go up to her and demand to know if she eats or not. This is all hypothetical, remember?”
I release a frustrated breath. “Yeah… hypothetical.” The helplessness settles in like lead. “Well theoretically… what should I do then? I can’t just sit back and do nothing.”
It feels like Daria all over again. Only this time, I’m old enough to do something about it.
Maybe this is what Mama is talking about.
This is my chance at redemption. What I couldn’t do for Daria, I could do for Eleanor.
Though… I have no idea how that would even work.
There’s only so much a coach can do to help an athlete without crossing serious lines.
“You don’t have to do ‘nothing’,” she says, her tone calm.
“But you can’t fix her either, Nik. I can tell what’s going through your mind right now, and I’m serious, bulldozing her will do nothing but drive her away.
If an eating disorder is what she’s truly experiencing, then your role is to be a safe and loving presence for her.
” She slides a plate in front of me, warm sandwiches and a bright salad.
“What she’s dealing with is between her and God, and a trained professional if she seeks one.
You can’t force her to get better, but you can be there for her.
Show her God’s love. Lead her toward Him.
And if one day she trusts you enough to confide in you, then you can speak truth to her in love.
” Her voice softens as she meets my eyes again.
“But for now? Just show her kindness. Because right now, she probably just needs a friend.”
I nod, processing her words.
Her eyes crinkle at the edges, a sad smile softening her face before she calls for Richard, Lily, and Grace to come to dinner. Soon the kitchen fills with voices and laughter as they recount the football game, trading stories over plates of food.
But I barely hear them. Each bite I take sits heavy in my stomach, my thoughts circling back to Eleanor and the possibility that she isn’t eating at all. With every chew, my appetite fades a little more.
On my drive home later that night, the hum of the tires on the asphalt becomes a rhythm to my prayers. Because now it isn’t just a concern. It isn’t just a hunch. It feels personal.
And I know one thing with absolute certainty: I can’t watch history repeat itself. Not if I can help it.