6. On Pointe #2
The floor is cold under my feet. I roll my neck, my muscles stiff, like they’ve been bracing for impact all night.
I never thought twenty-four was particularly old, but maybe I need to start stretching before bed.
I take a few sips of water, then pull on leggings, a worn sports bra, and runners, and tie my hair into a high ponytail before getting to work.
I start with a light jog, letting my muscles warm up. When I get back to my apartment, I don’t let myself rest for long, just enough to stretch my quads and change into tights and a leotard.
Next comes center work.
I drag my old portable barre into the middle of my tiny living room and turn on a mix of soft piano and contemporary ballet tracks.
I don’t have a mirror, just the dark reflection of my television. My eyes bore into it, adjusting lines, hyper-aware of my turnout, posture, the way my rib cage moves with every breath. I hold balances longer than necessary, willing myself to feel steady.
I need to be perfect, controlled, deserving.
Eventually, I stop at eleven-thirty in the morning, my hands trembling from overexertion. I make green tea and sit on the floor with my legs stretched out in front of me. My knees are slightly swollen, but that’s normal. I’ll ice them later.
I’m done being lazy. With a real opportunity around the corner, I need to take my food logs more seriously and structure my workouts around my schedule at Forma.
I’m thankful I’m only working part-time.
I can add jogs to my routine and restart my center work at home.
My fresh start is so close I can almost taste it.
Later that afternoon, I walk into Forma with my hoodie pulled over my head, and my dance bag slung over my shoulder.
I usually don’t work the night shift, but lucky for me, I got scheduled because Claire caught a stomach bug. At least I won’t be working here much longer. Well, hopefully.
I’ve already done most of my training for the day, but when Paul asked me to cover Claire’s shift, I signed up for Adrian’s class that’s scheduled an hour from now. It’s an open movement class that’s less structured, has more freedom, and provides a good excuse to stay limber.
After a couple sign-ins, and finishing up some schedules for next week, I step inside the quiet studio. Most dancers have filtered out, and are heading home for the day, leaving only a few people who work day jobs. The late afternoon light casts long, gold edged shadows across the studio floor.
“Hey,” I say, tugging my hoodie off, leaving me in a cropped tank top and leggings. “Is it okay if I still join?”
Adrian lifts his gaze, a soft smile crossing his face. “Always.”
As I walk past, he glances down at the check-in sheet, then back at me. “You didn’t have to sign up today. This time slot is never full.”
I shrug, sitting down to warm up my spine, even though it’s screaming in protest. “Just wanted to keep my body moving.”
He doesn’t respond, but I catch the quick flash of concern in his eyes. He’s unnervingly perceptive. That’s what makes him good at what he does.
A few minutes pass before I break the silence. “Hey, Adrian?”
“Mm?” He’s stacking a set of weights back onto the rack, towel over one shoulder.
“If you had an audition coming up… one that could change everything… How would you prepare?”
He pauses, brow furrowing slightly as he looks at me. “Is this a hypothetical?”
“No.” I press my palms flat behind me and lean into a backbend, holding the stretch as I add, “I got an email late last night. From Hollingford.”
His brows lift. “As in ‘Hollingford Ballet Company’ Hollingford?”
I dip my head. “They’re inviting me to a private audition. There’s an opening for the principal position.”
He lets out a low whistle and walks over, sitting criss-cross applesauce beside me. “That’s huge.”
“I know.” I sit back up, mimicking my legs to his, nerves twisting again in my stomach. “It feels unreal. Like I’ve been crawling my way through darkness for months and suddenly someone lit a match.”
Adrian gives a small tilt of his head. He’s seen me here for months, moping around the place, just going through the motions.
He rests his elbows on his knees. “And now you’re trying not to blow it out.”
“Exactly.” I sigh.
There’s a long pause. His eyes bore into mine, before he says, “Okay. Here’s my advice. Prepare, but don’t perform for ghosts.”
I blink, confused. “What?”
“You’re not walking into that studio to prove something to the people who left bruises on your career. You’re going to dance, and you’re going to offer them what’s true. That’s all you need to do.”
My throat works as I swallow. “What if what’s true isn’t good enough?”
“It is,” he says without hesitation. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it.”
My gaze drifts to the floor. It’s not just my body that’s sore.
My heart is, too. I don’t think I’ll be able to handle another rejection.
Especially one in person. I’ve never been to a private audition before.
I’m not sure if I’ll get my answer then and there, or if I’ll be getting an email a few days later.
The ambiguity slowly erodes my peace of mind.
Adrian stands slowly, adjusting the towel on his shoulder. “Also… eat something decent the night before. Carbs. Salt. Hydrate. You know the drill.” He winks.
That draws a small laugh out of me. “You always say that like you’re not talking to a room full of dancers with weird food habits.”
“Because I am,” he responds dryly. “And I’m gonna keep saying it. You dancers act like food will make or break you.”
I reach for my water bottle, tipping my head in agreement. “Thanks, Adrian.”
“Anytime,” he says, making his way to the stereo where his phone rests. “You’re a good dancer, Eleanor. But more than that, you’re a good soul. Don’t lose sight of that trying to prove your worth to people who already made up their minds.”
He picks up his phone and turns on one of his many playlists, signaling the start of class.
The next few days pass in a blur. Now it’s the night before the audition, and my apartment’s turned into a sanctuary of sorts.
Earlier this morning I cleaned my apartment from top to bottom—sweeping, mopping, and wiping down every counter. Everything is in its place. My diffuser fills the room with lavender-scented steam that curls softly in the air, and the lights are dimmed, warm and low.
In the living room, I push the coffee table aside, roll out my yoga mat near the window, and move through familiar stretches. I let my limbs extend and lengthen, and for once, I try not to think about how many calories I’m burning.
I’m not training tonight. I’m preparing.
I hold each stretch for a few counts longer, eyes closed, imagining the studio space I’ll be stepping into tomorrow. I picture the audition panel, visualizing how it will feel to walk in and take my place at center, letting everything else fall away.
Nerves flood my veins. I haven’t had a serious audition like this since the Metropolitan Theatre of Ballet.
Once I feel warm and grounded, I move into breath-focused, gyro-inspired flows. Nothing too demanding, just enough to stay fluid, and keep my rising panic at bay.
After I finish, I cross into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. I stare into the cabinet where I keep a small stash of protein bars, soup packets, and unopened rice cakes. The thought of eating makes something coil inside my chest. But Adrian’s words echo in the back of my mind.
“Eat something decent the night before. Carbs. Salt.”
I know he’s right, but there’s no way I’m eating too many carbs or unnecessary sodium tonight. I haven’t tracked my intake as carefully as I should’ve for the past few days. I’ve been so preoccupied with the audition, I let my focus slip. That won’t happen again.
I’ll take Adrian’s advice… well my version of it, at least. Then once the audition’s over, I’ll be back to logging every bite.
I finally settle for a bowl of egg whites with a few thin slices of bell pepper on the side. I eat slowly, mechanically, chewing until the last spoonful is gone.
Once I finish dinner, I lay out my audition wear on the armchair of the couch: black leotard, pink tights, warm-up shrug, and sweats to wear home. I fold everything neatly into my dance bag, careful not to let a single item wrinkle.
I roll up my yoga mat, move the coffee table back, and then climb into bed with my journal.
Starting weight: 135.8 lbs
Current weight: 128.2 lbs
Goal: 115 lbs
Date: 8/20/25
Food log:
Breakfast:
Black coffee (no cream): 0 cals
Greek yogurt (⒈／⒉ cup): 50 cals
Strawberries (⒈／⒉ cup): 25 cals
Almonds (⒈／⒋ cup): 170 cals
Lunch:
Tuna (in water): 70 cals
Mixed greens (no dressing): 15 cals
Avocado (⒈／⒋ slice): 60 cals
Cucumber slices: 20 cals
Lentil soup (1 cup): 139 cals
Water: 0 cals
Dinner:
Egg whites (3): 51 cals
Bell peppers (2 cups): 77 cals
Water: 0 cals
Total calories: 677 cals
All I want tomorrow is to be seen. Not from the rumors, but… for me. Who I really am. Even though I’ve prepared, it still doesn’t feel like enough.
I ate more carbs, just like Adrian suggested. Though I should’ve tracked my calories better this week. What if I’ve gained weight and it ruins everything? Gosh… one more thing for Mom to complain about.
Everything has to go well tomorrow… please.
I close the journal and slip it back into the drawer.
I have to get up early tomorrow. Hollingford is an hour from Manhattan, and with traffic, that one hour easily turns into four.
Thankfully, Paul gave me the day off, and Scarlett offered to drive me so I wouldn’t have to pay for a taxi.
At eight tomorrow morning, everything could change.
I pull the covers up and curl on my side, drawing my knees up slightly. I whisper a silent plea into the dark.
Please, let tomorrow be the start of something new.
I let the silence fall around me like a blanket and finally allow sleep to come.