Chapter 5 Eleanor
ELEANOR
The wipers squeaked across the windshield, pushing away a thin drizzle that made the world look blurred and uncertain, which felt about right for how I was feeling.
From the passenger seat, Ava fiddled with her headphones, twisting the cord of her hoodie between her fingers.
Her backpack sat in her lap, the top just barely unzipped so she could reach the tiny bat keychain clipped to the zipper.
She squeezed it over and over like a talisman.
“You sure you don’t want to listen to music?” I asked.
She shook her head. “It’ll be too loud in there.”
“Okay.” I tried for lightness. “We’ll keep the calm before the storm.”
Her eyes flicked toward me. “Do we have to go?”
The words hit like a tiny punch to the chest. “We don’t have to,” I said carefully. “But remember how Belle said the Penguin Project is a place where everyone gets to be exactly who they are?”
Ava didn’t answer. She just pressed her knees together, staring out the window. “What if they don’t like me?”
I smiled, even though my throat felt tight. “Then that’s their loss. But I have a feeling they will.”
She gave me a skeptical look, pure ten-year-old disbelief with a side of existential dread.
“I already signed you up,” I said softly. “But we can go in, take a look, and if you don’t like it, we leave. No pressure.”
“Like at the dentist,” she muttered.
“Hopefully with less fluoride,” I said, and her mouth twitched just enough to count as a smile.
We pulled into the parking lot behind the community center. The banner from the derby bout was still fluttering near the entrance, faded now from rain and sun. The Grimm Reapers Support the Penguin Project!
My stomach fluttered in sympathy. This wasn’t just new for her. It was new for me too. It was a world full of loudness and color and people who didn’t make themselves smaller to fit.
Ava unbuckled her seat belt but didn’t move to open the door. “Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you come in with me?”
“Of course.” I reached over and squeezed her hand. “We’ll go together.”
Outside, the rain had turned to mist, soft and silver in the afternoon light. We walked side by side toward the building, her small fingers tightening around mine.
And as the doors opened to the sound of laughter and music spilling out, I thought about Belle’s grin, about the roar of the derby, about how it had felt to step into something wild and alive.
That same feeling brushed against me now, a world shifting under my feet, daring me to believe things could be different.
The air was thick with music and chatter as we stepped in. A warm sound that can only come from too many people talking and laughing at once. A dozen conversations overlapped, a hundred tiny stories in motion, all of them bright.
Kids darted everywhere, some on their feet, some in wheelchairs, some moving with canes or walkers, but every one of them moving.
There was a girl twirling in sparkly sneakers, a boy flapping his hands in rhythm with the music, and another shouting “Hi!” at everyone who came through the door like it was his job to make them feel welcome.
And somehow, it worked.
Everywhere I looked, someone was smiling, whether it was teachers, volunteers, teenagers in colorful shirts that read Mentor Squad, or even the parents perched along the back wall with coffee cups and soft eyes.
It wasn’t quiet, or neat, or orderly.
It was alive.
Ava froze beside me, eyes wide. I waited for her to retreat, to tug at my sleeve and whisper that it was too loud, too bright, too much, but she didn’t.
She just stood there, taking it all in.
Across the room, Belle spotted us and waved, her smile so big it could light a stadium. She was in leggings and a Penguin Project tee, hair piled on top of her head, a glittering feather earring swinging when she moved.
“Eleanor! Ava!” she called over the music. “You made it!”
Ava blinked, startled, and looked up at me. “She’s loud,” she said softly.
“Yeah,” I murmured, smiling. “But in a good way.”
Belle jogged over, her energy buzzing like electricity. “We’re just getting started with intros and warm-ups.”
Ava nodded, though her grip on my hand tightened.
“Don’t worry,” Belle said gently, crouching so she was eye level with her. “You don’t have to do anything yet. You can just watch for a bit, if you want. It’s a whole lot of chaos, but the fun kind.”
Ava studied her, then nodded slowly. “Okay.”
Belle’s smile softened. “We’ve got some awesome kids this year. Everyone’s different, that’s kind of the point. You’ll see.”
She stood and gestured for us to follow. As we stepped further in, I felt that same jolt I’d had at the derby, the way my chest expanded, and something deep inside me whispered, This. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.
No one stared when someone flapped their hands or squealed or hummed. No one whispered or rolled their eyes. Every sound, every motion was met with warmth, patience, and love.
Ava tugged on my sleeve. “Mom,” she whispered. “They’re all . . . happy.”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice thick. “They really are.”
She nodded slowly, eyes still scanning the room, her expression softened. She was not overwhelmed anymore, just curious.
And for a fleeting second, I thought maybe, just maybe, she could belong here too.
The rehearsal began with a whirl of motion.
The director clapped her hands, and the noise settled . . . somewhat. “Okay, Penguins! Time to warm up those voices and stretch those muscles!”
Music burst from a small speaker, cheerful and chaotic. Kids clapped, hummed, and giggled through half-remembered lyrics. Teen mentors cheered them on, a teacher played the opening chords on an old upright piano, and the whole room swelled with life.
Ava hovered near my side at first, half-hidden behind me, watching everything like a cautious scientist studying an unfamiliar species.
A little boy called to Ava. “Wanna sit by me?”
Ava hesitated, chewing her sleeve. “You can sit and just watch,” he said kindly, scooting over to make room.
And just like that, she did.
Little by little, I watched my daughter’s walls start to crack. Her hands fidgeted less. Her eyes followed the songs instead of the exit. By the time the rehearsal hit its stride, she was clapping offbeat and hesitant, but clapping.
It was such a small thing. But it gutted me.
She was in it.
Not just surviving. Participating.
The sound of all those kids singing, shouting, laughing filled the air like sunlight through glass. Bright. Warm. Impossible.
I felt my throat close up.
Everyone in that room was different, some with wheelchairs, walkers, stims, giggles, noise, but together, they were a chorus of joy. No one tried to fix them. No one told them to quiet down.
And Ava, my Ava, fit.
The realization hit so hard that I had to sit down. My chest ached with something that wasn’t quite pain, but close. A mix of relief and grief, tangled together.
Ethan should’ve seen this. He would’ve loved this.
I tried to blink away the tears, but they came anyway, hot, silent, relentless.
Belle caught my eye across the room, concern flickering in her expression. I smiled, mouthed I’m okay, and slipped quietly toward the door.
Outside, the early evening light slanted through the trees, turning everything gold. I leaned against the brick wall and took a shaky breath, pressing a hand to my chest like I could steady my heart that way.
The door creaked open behind me.
“Hey,” a voice said gently.
I turned.
A man stood there, holding a paper cup, his expression open and kind. He was tall, with broad shoulders and that same slightly rumpled look of someone who’d rushed but didn’t mind it. It was him. The man from the roller derby.
“I saw you step out,” he said. “You okay?”
I nodded, wiping quickly at my cheeks. “Yeah. Just . . . a lot. It’s her first rehearsal.”
He smiled, understanding instantly. “My son’s been in the program for two years. The first rehearsal wrecked me, too.”
That made me laugh, even as my eyes stung again. “It’s overwhelming. In a good way.”
“The best kind,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “I’m Alex, by the way.”
“Eleanor.”
He nodded toward the door. “They’re good in there, you know. They build each other up in ways most adults still haven’t figured out.”
“I noticed,” I said softly. “It’s . . . beautiful.”
“Yeah,” he said with a small smile. “That’s the right word for it.”
For a moment, we just stood there, two strangers with hearts cracked open by the same kind of love.
The muffled sound of laughter and song drifted through the door behind us, warm and alive.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel quite so alone.
"Well, I'm going to get back in there, but maybe I'll see you next week?"
A small smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. I have been dreading moving back here. Moving in with my mom and into the whole world I'd left behind, but maybe I could find my place here.
"Hopefully, it's really up to Ava."
He smirked and nodded. "I'm sure she'll fit right in," he said as he slipped back inside.
When all the singing and dancing were done, we were in the car as the parking lot emptied. Ava sat with her headphones on, expression unreadable.
"So, what do you think?"
She just shrugged, but there was a small glint in her eye.
"Do you want to come back next week?"
"Sure," she said before looking out the window.
I had to bite back the grin that wanted to spread across my face. I didn't want to spook her, but this felt like a first step. It was the same feeling I had when I happened upon the roller derby.
Part of me wondered what it would be like to be a part of that community as well. Then an image hit me. An image of a little girl with skinned knees and a pink helmet learning to skate in the park so she could be a part of a team someday.
I had to close my eyes. The feeling, this creative spark, hadn't been here since he'd passed. My editor had stopped calling because I'd told her I wasn't sure when I would be able to get another book for her. But I had an idea . . . and that was a start.