14. Food for Thought
Food for Thought
Nikolai
Kasper’s office looks like a hurricane ripped through it when I step inside Monday morning. Papers are stacked in uneven towers, a coffee cup teeters dangerously close to the edge of his desk, and his hair looks like he’s run his hands through it all morning.
I sat in my apartment all weekend trying to shake Eleanor from my mind. Cooking, baking, fishing—even going to church on Sunday—didn’t work.
She lingers in every moment, and I’m annoyed by it all. Even if she reminds me of Daria, I keep coming to the conclusion that I don’t have time for this. But every time I think that, nausea wells in the back of my throat, leaving me utterly screwed.
“Nik,” Kasper says, letting out a long breath, like I just saved him from drowning. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see you.”
“Thanks… I think?” I lower myself into the chair opposite his desk, studying the chaos around him. When he told me to come straight to his office first thing this morning, I wasn’t expecting him to look this frazzled.
“You’re familiar with the Rêverie Ballet Ensemble, correct?” Kasper asks, rifling through a dubious stack of papers.
“I am.”
Rêverie is a company in the next-town-over. Hollingford’s unofficial rival. Kasper swears their artistic director has it out for him personally. Honestly, with the stunts she’s pulled over the years, I can’t blame him.
He claims our low audience numbers were thanks to Rêverie ‘poaching’ our viewers.
They have a habit of releasing variations suspiciously similar to ours and plastering our town with their flyers, practically begging people to skip Hollingford’s shows for theirs.
Kasper hasn’t mentioned them in a while, which means whatever’s coming next isn’t going to be good.
“Those Fisforn?m’s had the audacity to showcase Coppélia!” Kasper slams his fist on the desk so hard the coffee mug teeters then topples over.
Before I can grab it, it hits the floor and splatters across the rug.
“Well, isn’t that just perfect,” he mutters.
I stand, heading to the supply closet in the hall and grab a handful of towels. Dropping to my knees, I start blotting the dark stain. “So, why exactly are you upset about them doing Coppélia?”
Kasper kneels beside me with another towel, dabbing at the mess as if the rug personally offends him.
“Because that’s the variation I chose for our winter showcase.
Somehow that Skitstovel—no-good Eliza Renegald—found out and blasted it all over social media before I could announce it.
” His hands jabs sharply at the carpet, irritation radiating from every movement.
“Now I have to scrap everything and pick a new variation. Russell should be here any minute. I want both of you here to see if you have any ideas.”
“Wow, what did I miss?” Russell’s voice chimes from the doorway.
Kasper huffs without looking up from the ruined rug. “Just our downfall.”
Russell gawks at us. “What?”
“The coffee spilled on the rug,” I clarify, tossing a soiled towel onto the growing pile. “We’re not going out of business.” I shoot Kasper a look. “Get a grip. We can pick another variation.”
“I know, I know.” Kasper groans and pushes himself to his feet. “Don’t worry about the rest, Nik. I’ll have the cleaning crew deal with it before they scold me for grinding in the stain any worse.” He waves Russell in. “Come on, Russ. We’ve got work to do.”
Russell steps over the dark spot on the rug and drops into the chair across from us. “So we’re scrapping Coppélia? Because I finally got the choreography locked in.”
Kasper looks like he might cry. “We have to. You can thank Eliza for that.”
Russell’s brow shoots up as he glances at me.
I shake my head, silently warning him not to ask.
He holds up his hands in surrender and leans back in the chair.
After thirty minutes of tossing ideas back and forth, the room goes quiet.
We hit a wall. Hollingford prides itself on preserving the historical, the artistic, and the forgotten gems of ballet.
Variations that deserve more than dust in an archive.
We want audiences to see more than The Nutcracker and Giselle. Those are fine, but they aren’t us.
But now we’re out of time and out of options.
Starting an entirely new piece from scratch is impossible to teach every dancer in just a few short months.
We need something familiar enough to save rehearsal time, yet rare enough to still feel like us.
And that perfect middle ground is nowhere in sight.
Russell drums his fingers against the arm of his chair, the sound filling the stale air of Kasper’s office.
Kasper’s face is buried in his hands like the world is ending.
In ballet terms, maybe it is. We have fifteen minutes until rehearsals start, and if we don’t lock this down, we may not even have a winter showcase.
“Casting has to go out next week,” Kasper mutters into his palms, voice muffled but heavy with panic.
“Well aware,” I state, rubbing the back of my neck. My brain is mush. At this point, I don’t care if we perform The Hokey Pokey in pointe shoes, as long as we do something.
Beside me, Russell grows quiet. His eyes are distant, the kind of look he gets when he’s running choreography in his head. If anyone is going to pull a miracle out of thin air, it’s him.
He sits up straighter, his whole expression lighting. “Swan Lake,” he exclaims, the words sharp and decisive. A spark of excitement shimmers across his face. “We do Swan Lake.”
Kasper lifts his head from his hands, eyes narrowing. “What? That’s… that’s a typical winter showcase.”
“It is,” Russell admits without missing a beat.
“But most companies run it in January or February. We hit it early. I’m sure most of the group already knows the base choreography.
With our time crunch, I can set the steps, Nik can start creating a cast list, and…
” He leans forward, voice sharp with conviction.
“What better way to stick it to Eliza than stealing her thunder first?” He looks between us, daring either of us to shoot him down. “It’s the best option we’ve got.”
Kasper sits back in his chair, studying Russell like he’s seeing him for the first time. “You know… you might actually have a point.”
“Uh huh.” Russell crosses his arms, already looking smug. “So? What do you say?”
Kasper exhales a long, defeated sigh. “Fine. We’ll run it.”
Russell’s grin is instant. He claps once and lets out a quiet, triumphant, yes. Popping to his feet, he adds, “I’ll get working on it now.” Then he bolts for the door.
As soon as he’s gone, Kasper rotates his chair toward me. “Do you think Irina’s going to kill me? She’s already had the girls working on the costumes.”
I smirk, pushing up from my chair. “Kill might be a stretch. You’ll probably just come back with a few scrapes and bruises.”
“Geez,” he mutters.
I chuckle on my way to the door. “Yeah, good luck with that.”
The hallway is already bustling with voices as I leave his office and brace myself for the next battle of the day.
When I step into Studio B, the freestanding barres are already set out. I thank God for whoever saved me a few precious minutes. The room buzzes with laughter and hushed conversations, the kind of easy energy that fills the space before rehearsals officially begin.
Then my eyes move to the corner of the room near the window. Dillon and Eleanor kneel with their heads close together, laughing. The way he looks at her makes something coil tight in my gut.
She shrugs off an oversized black hoodie, and hands it to him. His grin spreads wide, and her soft smile mirrors it.
I have no idea what’s happening with me, but for some reason, I loathe the sight of them together. I’m not the jealous type. Yet watching those smiles pass between them, I realize a part of me simply can’t bear it.
Dillon is a great guy, an even better friend, and probably a better option for Eleanor—despite what Mama and Evelyn believe.
I recognize that look of longing when I see it, and I can’t help feeling a flicker of irrational anger at Dillon for it.
Eleanor isn’t mine. I don’t even want her that way.
But every time I see her, an invisible string pulls me toward her, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t sever it.
Not able to watch them a second longer, I set my things down and clap loudly, cutting through the murmur of conversation.
“Sorry I’m late,” I start, my voice carrying across the room.
Everyone quiets, eyes shifting toward me.
“We had quite the mix-up this morning. Next week we’ll be announcing the winter variation and the cast list. I know it’s a bit unconventional, but consider this week your audition.
Give this class your all. Show me what you’ve got. ”
My gaze drifts across the dancers until it lands on Eleanor. She’s already staring at me, her eyes holding the same fierce determination I’ve seen in her reels. It’s magnetic.
“Let’s pray.”
Everyone bows their heads except for her. She never does. Every time I pray before class, she keeps her head up like she doesn’t know what to do with herself. While the rest of the room bends in quiet reverence, her wide eyes stay locked on mine. A faint blush touches her cheeks.
I offer the smallest smile before bowing my head, praying, and getting to work.
Class passes in a blur of combinations, the sound of pointe shoes and the echo of the piano filling the studio. Everyone’s movement is sharper today, their technique more alive than I’ve seen in weeks.
But my focus kept drifting toward Eleanor.
I watched the way she moved and how for the briefest of moments, she’d let herself go. Her body would melt into the music, free and weightless, and then just as quickly she’d pull herself back in, every line precise, every step locked into control.
I didn’t have the heart to correct her.
The thought of what Evelyn said lingered like a shadow in the back of my mind. Eating disorder. It clung to her image in a way I didn’t want.