3. Principal at a Price #3
I strip off my dress and lay it neatly over the bench, like it matters. I grab a few cotton rounds drenched in make-up remover and wipe my makeup off in slow circles, watching the girl in the mirror vanish with every pass. Just as Giselle was erased from her lover’s life.
Bare-faced and aching, my stomach twists into a knot I refuse to acknowledge. I haven’t eaten since breakfast; my snack has been dutifully forgotten since the ‘conversation’ with Soren—if you can even call it that.
The very thought of food makes bile rise to my throat.
Whale. That’s what Soren called me. There was no way I was going to earn that promotion naturally. I wasn’t thin enough to meet his ideal of perfection… and yet too principled to do what he wanted. Either way, I was losing.
I try to shake the thought, but it lingers like a perfume I can’t wash off.
At the reception desk, I hand over my keycard. Realization washes over me: I’m no longer a dancer here.
Outside, the city lights are harsh, and the sounds of traffic, laughter, and distant sirens don’t feel real. People pass me on the sidewalk without looking. I could’ve been anyone. I could’ve been no one.
I don’t know where I’m going. Only that I can’t stay here.
I’ve been sitting by the river at Arnon Park for what feels like hours, watching the boats drift past and wishing one of them would take me with it. A small, bitter part of me even wishes that some mythical creature would rise from the depths and swallow me whole. But, of course, neither happens.
I can’t go home yet. If I do, everything will become too real. I’ll have to face the fact that I’m officially unemployed.
The spring season just started, which means that no reputable company will even consider auditions until late summer. I won’t be attending the fall gala either, which is going to send my mother into a full-blown meltdown.
My mother.
I can’t even begin to unpack that can of worms.
I don’t know what’s worse—facing my mother’s wrath or trying to find a job before another company will take me. If another company will take me.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I pull the bag of almonds from my bag and stare at them.
Whale, Soren’s voice hums at the edge of my thoughts.
My hands tremble, and for a moment they don’t feel like mine. A wave crashes over me and I’m ten years old again.
It was a Saturday morning in late spring, but it might as well have been winter. The windows were open in the kitchen, and the breeze wafting through stung against my bare arms. I stood in front of the mirror as my mother yanked my hair into a bun so tight it pulled the skin at my temples.
“You should’ve gone to bed earlier,” she muttered, voice clipped as always. “You look puffy.”
My stomach twisted. “I didn’t sleep in.”
“You didn’t drink enough water yesterday. That’s why your face looks like that.”
I stayed quiet.
My mother tugged the elastic one more time, then jabbed in a bobby pin through my hair. I winced.
“Stop flinching,” she snapped. “If you react like that on stage, they’ll think you’re fragile.”
She moved behind me again and inspected me in the mirror. Her eyes scanned me like a judge at a dog show. My leotard was navy blue, new from Discount Dance, but already slightly too tight. I could see my ribs, but she was still frowning.
“What did you eat last night?” she asked.
“Just the salad you made.”
“Did you sneak anything after I went to bed?”
“No,” I blurted, a little too fast.
She sighed like she didn’t believe me. “Ballet is for the disciplined, Eleanor. If you want this, you have to act like it. No second chances in this world.”
I stared at the girl in the mirror. Thin arms. A line of bruises down one shin. Hair like a scraped-back doll. She didn’t look like someone who was about to be great. She just looked… scared.
My mother’s voice softened then, which was somehow worse.
“Pretty girls get picked,” she said, smoothing the front of my leotard like it might flatten the shame under my skin. “So suck it in and keep your arms soft. No one wants to see you struggle.”
The blast of a boat horn jolts me back to reality.
The almonds lie scattered on the cold concrete, and tears stream down my face in quiet rivulets. When did I start crying?
I quickly wipe them away, just like I did as a child, before my mother can notice.
I stand from the bench, adjusting the waistband of my leggings, too aware of how they press into my skin. I haven’t eaten much today, but somehow it already felt like too much. I haven’t counted calories since I moved out of my mother’s house when I turned eighteen.
I used to think that her teaching me how to count calories was her way of caring. Now, I’m not so sure. Especially since Soren seems to think I’m too heavy to promote.
Throughout my childhood, I never had control over my life.
It started with my mother, a hawk that hovered over everything I did.
Then came ballet, which took up ninety percent of my existence.
Every part of my day came with rules. Everything I did served a purpose.
Whether it be structure, precision, but never freedom. I was as good as a caged animal.
I didn’t have my first kiss until I was seventeen, which was humiliating at the time.
It only happened because Micah went to my ballet school.
He was the closest thing I had to a relationship, if you could even call it that.
We only saw each other during practice and barely spoke unless it was about our technique or giving corrections.
We were both focused and driven by what we wanted out of ballet. And it wasn’t each other.
I wasn’t even sad when he got accepted into Coastal Pointe Ballet in San Francisco.
It wasn’t like we were in love, which is something I don’t believe in anyway.
Love is just a lie people tell themselves to make their loneliness feel more justified.
Their selfishness wrapped up in the guise of romance.
In the end, everyone just looks out for themselves.
The only love I’ve known since childhood is ballet. Just once, I want to come out on top and prove I’m worth something.
I pull my phone from my sweater pocket and call a cab.
When it arrives, I slide into the backseat and give the driver my address.
The leather seats are cold against my leggings, the air inside carrying traces of stale coffee and mint gum.
I lean my head back and watch as the city blurs by in streaks of light and shadow.
Restaurant signs flicker on. Couples drift in and out of doorways, hands intertwined, laughing like the world has never disappointed them.
When the cab drops me off, I drag myself up the stairs to my apartment, the weight of the world heavy on my shoulders. My keys are heavy in my hand as I unlock the door and step inside.
It feels like years have passed since I’d last been here, but in reality it’s only been a handful of hours.
I toss my bag onto the couch and stand in the middle of the kitchen, unsure of what to do with myself.
I open the fridge, and cool air spills out in a rush.
Containers of pre-planned meals—courtesy of my mom—a sleeve of rice cakes, a half-used carton of almond milk, and a jar of peanut butter I made a few nights ago stare at me.
Everything looks disorganized, like a reflection of the mess inside my head.
I close it, shuddering from the chill.
I head to the bathroom, ready to wash the entirety of today. I peel off my sweater and toss it into the hamper.
Red marks on my shoulders catch my eye. The leotard I wore beneath my dress left them behind, a faint reminder of what I just lost. I brush my fingers over the lines, tracing them until they stop at my collarbones. They look fuller than I remember.
Or maybe I’m finally seeing myself clearly for the first time.
I straighten, lifting my chin.
I can fix this. I just need to be disciplined, focused. Eat cleaner, no distractions. That’s what it takes.
It feels like clarity, like I’m finally forming a plan.
It feels like control.