5. Prove You’re a Man
Prove You’re a Man
Nikolai
Early morning light spills across the worn marley floors, catching dust in its beams. In the corner of the room, Simon warms up the piano, his music filling the studio.
The quiet melodies give me a few peaceful moments before the rush begins.
Early August is always the busiest: meetings, new schedules, onboarding hires if we have any, and, of course, conditioning classes before auditions. Starting today.
I hold the barre and pull my leg into my hand, stretching out my calves and welcoming the burn. I’m grateful to be in Studio B again. The familiar creak of wood beneath my feet, the smell of old sweat, and the varnished floors ground me more than my morning coffee ever could.
Ten minutes before my class starts, a quick knock sounds from the door. Before I can answer, Kasper’s head pokes through.
“Nikolai,” he says, slightly out of breath, his Swedish accent thick, like he’s run down the stairs. “Can you come to my office for a moment, please?”
I let go of the barre and head for the door. Kasper Pedersen is many things, but hurried is not one of them.
“Yeah, sure,” I reply, grabbing my water bottle and following him.
Three flights of stairs later, we enter his modern, overly neat office. A full wall of windows let in the morning light, and Hollingford Ballet Company posters line the walls: The Bolt from 1998, Sleeping Beauty from before I was even born. It’s like a museum of memories.
Kasper sits in his worn leather chair, turns on his computer, and crosses his arms, looking like he hasn’t slept in a decade.
“Close the door Nik,” he rubs the back of his neck.
I do, my fingers curling into my palms. “Is something wrong?”
He nods slowly, like he’s bracing himself. “We’ve made some last minute cuts.”
I knit my brows. “This close to the start of the season?”
“Elysia was injured over the summer. Jana and Cleo decided not to renew their contracts. Told me after the gala last weekend.” He scoffs. “And somehow, I missed the fact that we’re short in the corps department. We can’t afford to delay.”
I cross my arms. “So, what’s the plan?”
“We’ve had a lot of submissions over the summer.
” He nods at the computer. “We don’t have time to hold live auditions now—not with rehearsals starting soon.
” His eyes settle on mine. “I want you to take a look at these submissions, tell me if you like anyone you see. We can invite them for a private audition.”
I circle behind his desk and scan the screen. His inbox is full. Dozens of headshots, résumés, and links to reels. Some are starred. Some unopened.
Kasper raises a brow at me. “I need your eye. Help me find someone who’s ready.”
I pull up a chair and nod. “Alright, let’s see what we’ve got.”
He clicks open the first email, and I lean in. We begin sorting through them: maybes, not-yets, and almosts.
After an hour of filtering through messages, we’re still deep in it. Thankfully Anton’s able to lead my morning class, because I have a feeling I’m going to be here for a few more hours.
Kasper clicks through the submissions in silence. Standard head-shots, pristine résumés, technically solid but emotionally flat reels. I half-listen as he mutters under his breath:
“This one’s clean… for the most part. Her grand jeté looks like it’s filing for early retirement.”
“This one makes me feel… green. I can’t explain it. I just don’t trust her energy.”
“Beautiful feet, but no personality. I’ve met livelier mannequins at Macy’s.”
Most of the dancers are trained well enough, but very few make you feel something. I guess that’s the curse of running a ballet company just outside New York City. We always have to settle for ‘good enough.’
I take a sip of water, and lean in again as he opens the next email.
Subject: Audition Submission - Eleanor Montgomery
Kasper clicks on the email, and when her picture fills the screen, something strange washes over me. A tug low in my chest. Like someone leaning in close and whispering directly into my ear: her.
He hits play on the video while I skim through the text.
Recent company experience. Strong training. Left the Metropolitan Theatre of Ballet in the spring.
Her reel is simple, filmed in a studio, the footage slightly grainy, like someone’s phone trying its best. But the moment she moves, the air shifts. My breath hitches, and my fingers tighten around the edge of the desk before I even realize I reached for it.
Every gesture she makes strikes something deep in me. A tilt of her head. The way she reaches through her lines.
She reminds me so much of Daria. Not in a literal sense, but in the way she feels her dancing. Like every step matters, and it’s her last chance.
Precise, controlled, but never cold.
When the music stops, I suck in a breath I don’t know I’m missing.
Kasper exhales through his nose. “She’s got something.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “She’s got something.”
Kasper glances at me, then the screen again. “She’s not local, but not far. Says she’s in the city.”
I dip my chin briefly. “Maybe you should call her in.”
“I thought you didn’t want another project this year,” he teases. “She’s from MTB. You know how they train them there. It could take weeks to undo.”
“I know,” I say, “but I think she could be worth it.”
That strange feeling washes over me again. I try to chalk it up to the way she reminds me of Daria, but deep down it feels like something more, something I can’t quite name.
Kasper raises an eyebrow but doesn’t question me. He flags the email. “I’ll send her an invitation today.”
I stand, ready to relieve Anton of my duties, but my gaze remains on the screen.
Eleanor Montgomery.
Her name lingers there, and for reasons I can’t explain, it feels like it settles into my life with the weight of permanence.
God, I don’t know your plan, but I trust you.
Yet even then, something in my spirit shifts, whispering that she’s going to matter more than I will understand.
Well, Eleanor... let’s see what you’re made of.
The sun barely dips below the skyline by the time I turn off onto my parents’ street.
The neighborhood is lined with small brick homes and run down fences.
My parents’ house sits near the end, tucked beneath the shade of an old maple tree that always turns red early in the fall.
The lawn’s slightly overgrown, weeds sprouting around the driveway.
My father will never admit he needs help keeping up with it.
My limbs ache from class and the hours I spent hunched over Kasper’s desk, watching reels until they started to blur.
Normally, I drive straight home after a day like this. But Mama texted me after my afternoon class. It’s a simple, ‘can you come by tonight?’ No explanation. But I don’t need one.
When she didn’t show up for work today, I knew something had to be going on. There’s not a day where Mama isn’t seen with a measuring tape, needle in hand, sewing to her heart’s content.
I park along the curb and stare at the house for a moment. The shutters are sun-bleached and hanging crooked. The creaky porch step is warped and worn, the flickering light overhead casting a pale halo over the welcome mat that has long since faded to gray.
Someone needs to fix the light, and that person is probably going to be me.
I can already hear the TV blasting inside—some Russian newscast my father insists on watching every evening, claiming American news is too soft.
The moment I open the door, the scent hits me. Borscht, old pine cleaner, and something faintly floral. My mother’s touch lingers in every part of this house.
The living room is dim, the only light coming from a small table lamp in the corner and the soft glow of the television.
The furniture is the same as it’s always been.
Overstuffed, a little sagged in the middle, doilies on the arms, a crochet blanket folded neatly over the back of the couch.
Family photos hang crooked on the walls.
A framed cross-stitch with the Russian words С Богом—Go with God—hangs above the threshold.
Sitting in his usual recliner, beer bottles scattered around his feet, my father doesn’t even glance up from the screen. His arms are crossed, eyes fixed on the Russian news with that familiar intensity. “Why are you here? It’s late,” he grunts.
I don’t answer. I’ve learned years ago that simply talking to him only adds fuel to his fire.
My dad hasn’t always been like this. I remember a time when he laughed, and when he would toss Daria and I into the lake during summer afternoons. He grilled fish over an open flame, humming old Russian hymns. But over the years, something inside him hardened. Grief did that. Pride did that, too.
He lost a daughter and decided to lose the rest of us.
Before the silence can stretch too long, my mother steps out of the kitchen, wiping her damp hands on a towel, apron still tied around her waist, her once black hair, now streaked with gray, piled in a messy updo.
She’s been sick before. Sick enough that we weren’t sure she’d survive it.
I remember lying awake at night, praying and begging God to spare her.
When the chemo started working, it felt like a miracle.
She recovered. Kasper gave her a job as the company seamstress—something to anchor her again, especially after Daria.
So getting a text like the one she sent earlier has been pressing on me like a boulder.
“Nikusha,” she greets softly, a tired smile tugging at her lips. Her cardigan slips off one shoulder, and her arctic-blue eyes have lost their usual light. She hugs me gently, her chill seeping through my shirt, too cold for my liking.
“Come. I made tea.”
I follow her into the kitchen, where the linoleum floor curls at the edges and the floral wallpaper peels near the window. Everything is clean, tidy, and lived in.
The kettle clicks off just as we sit down at the table, a small ceramic thing that has seen thousands of meals, arguments, and silent mornings. She sets out two mugs and a plate of pryaniki—my favorite.