2. Tragically Obedient
Tragically Obedient
Eleanor
The theater buzzes around me with the anticipation of opening night.
Costumes rustle behind me, distant music bleeds through studio walls, and the sharp scent of rosin clings to the air.
Feet thud across the floors, each sound tightening the knot in my chest. As I wait for Natalia to make her rounds and lace my corset, I reach for my gloss one last time.
My lips, though full and carefully painted, rarely smile.
Not because I don’t want to, but because somewhere along the way, I learned that smiling felt like something I needed permission to do.
I freeze in front of my vanity, my reflection staring back at me like a stranger.
Am I real? Golden-blonde hair falls in loose curls, a few flower pins pulling back the front strands.
Honey-brown eyes shadowed at the corners from too many late nights chasing perfection stare at me.
My palms dampen with sweat at the thought of stepping onstage to perform a role that will either make or break me.
I stare at myself like I’m trying to read the lines between my face. I don’t know what I’m looking for, only that something deep in my gut stirs with the need to believe that I’m worth it.
After Natalia greets me with a quiet hello, she gestures for me to stand and turn so she can tighten the corset laces.
Tonight I decided I would dance my part, and give it my all. But once the curtains fell, I’d have to prove to my mother I was actually making progress at this company.
Just as she finishes tying the final knot, a sharp knock sounds at the door, jolting me from my thoughts.
“Montgomery, you’re up!” a stagehand calls from the hallway.
I smooth my dress over my ribs, my fingers trembling despite the practiced motion. My heart hammers against my chest as I take one last breath before stepping into the light.
A faint smile curls at the corner of Natalia’s mouth.
“You look beautiful, Eleanor,” she says shyly.
My breath catches as I instinctively bring a hand to my collarbone, half-expecting to feel the flutter of my pulse there.
Natalia is always quiet—happy to be invisible, really.
I can’t remember the last time she offered a compliment to anyone.
Most days, the seamstress’ are all business: measurements, fittings, and notes.
Her words land heavier than I expect. When’s the last time I’ve been called beautiful before performing?
I turn to face her, a smile of genuine gratitude on my lips. “Thank you, Natalia. This dress is stunning.”
She looks down, her cheeks blooming pink as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the hint of a smirk betraying her pride.
With a breath deep enough to anchor me, I turn away from the mirror and open the door.
Backstage is chaos softened by reverence.
Stagehands whisper and shout in equal measure, shoes squeak against the floors, and the orchestra tunes with restless impatience.
The velvet curtain looms ahead, seconds from rising.
Dancers rush past in a blur of chiffon, satin, and nervous energy. I slip into place in the wings, muscles drawn tight, spine lifted, chin high. My pulse thunders in my ears as the house lights dim.
The first notes of music swell through the theater.
There’s no turning back now.
The second I step into the wings, the noise of the audience dulls behind the curtain.
Sweat clings to my skin, and my muscles tremble with leftover adrenaline.
Dancers clap me on the back and offer smiles, but their faces are a blur.
I just need a moment alone. I weave through the hallway that leads toward the dressing rooms, but stop dead in my tracks.
She’s here.
Standing near the corner in her stiletto heels and a coat tailored for the spring weather, her salon-blonde hair is styled in a sleek bob, not a strand out of place. My mother watches me like a judge waiting to deliver a verdict. I wonder if she’s been hanging out with my brother Edward lately.
Bile creeps up the back of my throat. “What… what are you doing back here?”
Her blood red lips curl into a small, practiced smile. “You knew I was coming tonight Eleanor, I came back here to see you.”
“I know, but how did you even get backstage?”
She holds up a laminated badge between perfectly polished nails. “Connections. Don’t tell me you forgot that I coach many of your colleagues here.”
I swallow into silence. Of course. How could I forget that the great Catherine Montgomery only coaches the wealthy and the worthy?
Before I can respond, the familiar creak of the backstage bathroom door sounds, and out walks my older sister Scarlett.
She’s still in her nurse scrubs, dirty blonde hair settling in a high ponytail.
Her green eyes land on me and light up just enough to make my chest tighten. I certainly didn’t know she was coming.
“Eleanor! That was incredible,” she says, walking toward me. “You looked like a real ballerina up there.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, my voice a little hoarse.
I mean it, I think. There’s always something about Scarlett’s compliments that make them feel just slightly off. It’s as if they’re rehearsed or maybe just obligated since our mother’s standing right there. Not that she cares if Scarlett pays me a compliment or not.
Her gaze softens as her lips curl upward, then glances toward our mother before eyeing me again. “You really were amazing, El.” She sounds slightly out of breath, like this conversation’s just as awkward for her as she knows it is for me.
Scarlett is the designated peacemaker in our family. Our relationship has never been particularly strong, but she’s always willing to play the fragile buffer between me and our mother.
I love my sister, truly. Even though her loyalty has always belonged to Mom and Edward. Ever since Dad left after I was born, it felt like Scarlett, Edward, even Mom, quietly agreed on one thing: I was the fracture that splintered our family apart.
Mom turns toward me with her arms crossed. “We’re going to dinner. A place Scarlett wants to try out. You’re coming.”
It isn’t a question. It never is with her.
My mouth opens, but nothing falls from my lips. I’m still damp with sweat and still in my costume. My stomach feels like a hollow knot, and I want to be anywhere but here—preferably alone, or with quite literally anyone else.
“I need to change,” I finally say, deflecting.
“We’ll wait,” she replies, and her voice falls flat: Don’t test me, Eleanor Odette Montgomery.
I’d known back then that she was serious when my middle name was used.
Growing up, I loathed my middle name. Mom is obsessed with Swan Lake, and her favorite character is Odette.
She is pure, perfect, graceful, and tragically obedient. Everything my mother expects me to be.
There is no doubt in my mind that the name is sitting on the tip of her tongue, waiting to spill out and humiliate me.
Scarlett shifts beside her, trying to smile, though her fingers are wound tightly around the strap of her purse.
I nod slowly, not because I want to, but because it’s easier.
“I’ll be out in a few minutes.” As I turn toward the dressing room, the echo of my mother’s stilettos behind me makes the hallway feel smaller than ever. Tonight can’t go by quick enough.
Scarlett chooses Rue 75, an upscale French bistro tucked into the heart of the city.
I step out of my mother’s car and sling my dance bag over my shoulder.
In an effort to get this night over with faster, I left my stage makeup on and threw a pair of sweats over my leotard.
Terrible idea.
Fairy lights hang just above the entryway, while glass chandeliers shimmer on the ceiling inside.
Crisp white table cloths are draped over the tables, and the velvet chairs look too fragile to sit in.
The smell of butter and roasted garlic hit my nose, but it doesn’t make me feel hungry. It’s nauseating.
A hostess motions for us to follow, and I trail behind Mom and Scarlett, unexpectedly feeling like a kid again. My oversized dance bag bumps against my side as I try to make myself as small as possible, careful not to hit anyone as we weave through the narrow space.
Only Scarlett would pick a place like this when she isn’t paying.
Growing up, going out to dinner after opening night was rare. Mom was a broke, single mother, raising three kids and didn’t waste the money on our accomplishments. Instead, I got a car ride full of corrections. On the rare occasion we did eat out, it was never somewhere this fancy.
Mom doesn’t say a word as we’re seated. She waves off the server’s offer of wine, then reaches across the table to snatch my menu before I even look up.
“She’ll have the Nicoise salad—no dressing,” she says, pointing at me like I’m not even here.
“Actually I—” I begin, but let it go when Mom raises a single brow in my direction.
The waitress glances between us, fiddling with her apron.
I swallow. “That’s fine,” I murmur, knowing I’m not going to win this fight.
As a child, it was routine for Mom to pick out my meals.
She was a strict dance teacher, determined to shape my success.
Even now, she sends pre-made dishes to my door so I don’t have to worry about tracking my calories—even if I do indulge here and there.
Sugar is for Scarlett. Pasta is for Edward. All I get are numbers on a scale.
“I’ll have the Coq au vin,” Mom says, then turns to Scarlett. “And for you, honey?”
Scarlett shoots me an apologetic look before glancing up at the waitress. “I’ll have the Ravioles de royans, please,” she says softly, and closes her menu.
“I’ll be back shortly with your order, and a round of water for the table,” our waitress says with a smile, then turns and walks toward the kitchen.
Once we’re alone, Mom folds her hands neatly on the table. Her eyes land on mine.
“Well,” she begins, “the choreography was much cleaner than I expected. You were sharp—for the most part. Still, your arms… Your épaulement isn’t where it should be.”