10. Not a Soloist
Not a Soloist
Eleanor
My chest heaves as I struggle to fill my lungs with air.
Sweat trickles down my temples and along my neck as I clutch the edge of the metal stair railing trying not to collapse.
A light breeze rustles the trees around Arnon Park, and I tilt my head up, letting the wind brush over my face, cooling me just enough to stay upright.
I usually don’t go for a second run in a day, but it’s been nine days since my audition at Hollingford Ballet Company, and my mind is a complete wreck. I understand a few days of silence. But nine? No email. No call. Nothing. I deserve at least a polite rejection.
I pull my phone from the pocket of my running shorts and check the screen.
7:18 p.m.
It’s well past dinner time, but I don’t care.
I stick to my normal post-audition routine—breakfast, work, lunch, a workout, home, and, on a good day, dinner—followed by a bath, journaling, and bed.
But the silence from Hollingford turns everything upside down.
I’ve become impatient, agitated, and dare I say bitter.
If they aren’t going to offer me a contract, the least they can do is have the decency to tell me.
Just as I start to slip my phone back into my pocket, it buzzes in my hand.
Mom.
A sigh escapes before I can stop it. She’s called every day since I told her about the audition. I didn’t tell her where I auditioned, just that I had one. The last thing I need is her judgment about my next career move.
But in a strange, messed-up way, I need her approval. So I answer the call.
“Hey, Mom.”
“It took you long enough to answer,” she responds caustically. The blare of car horns echoes faintly in the background. “Any update?”
I swallow another sigh. “Nope. Not yet.”
She scoffs. “Of course not. Why don’t you just tell me where you auditioned? I have connections everywhere. I’ll call them myself.”
There it is. Another reminder of why I keep her far away from it. “No, it’s fine. If they want me, they’ll call.”
“So what, you’re just giving up now? I thought I raised you better than that.”
I nearly laugh. If only she had raised me the way a mother should. “I’m not giving up,” I say, forcing myself to remain calm. “But demanding answers won’t do me any favors.”
A sharp, sardonic bark escapes her lips. “Please, Eleanor. If you actually cared about your reputation, you would’ve taken Soren’s offer. You’d still be employed.”
I clench my jaw. “Right.” This again. “Well, if that’s all you wanted to say—”
“It isn’t,” she cuts in. “Edward will be in town Wednesday. We’re going out to dinner. You’re coming.” There’s no room for arguing. “Do you remember that Supreme Court nomination I told you about? It was approved. We’re celebrating.”
For a second, I wonder if she’d ever throw a celebration dinner for me—if I got into Hollingford. Probably not.
“Wow. That’s great,” I say numbly, already starting the walk back toward my apartment. The streetlights begin to flicker on. “Just let me know when and where.”
A car door slams in the background. “Please, don’t be ludicrous. I’ll pick you up Wednesday. Six sharp. Be ready.” Then she hangs up, leaving me no chance to respond.
On my walk home, I watch people pass me by. Couples with their fingers laced together as if nothing in the world can separate them. Parents with strollers and toddlers skipping at their sides. Runners lost in their own rhythm and purpose.
Despite my best efforts, Sofia worms her way into my thoughts. I hate giving her even a fraction of space in my head.
Theoretically, I know I’m lucky just to have an audition at all.
I’m sure the dancers and staff at the Metropolitan couldn’t care less about Soren’s actions.
I wouldn’t be surprised if they were fully aware of them and simply assumed I’d find somewhere else to dance, as if it were that easy.
Or maybe they all knew and were afraid of him, choosing to turn their heads and let it be someone else’s problem.
Either way, my life is in ruins.
I clench my fists, fingers curling tight into the thin fabric of my shirt.
And somehow, it all leads back to her.
There are many versions of Sofia, just like there are many versions of most dancers. There’s the one she shows to Margaux, the coaches, and the company—gracious, poised, impossibly sweet. And then there’s the one she keeps hidden beneath a facade of grace—condescending, competitive, and cruel.
Two sides of the same coin. And I didn’t see it coming.
Maybe she saw me as a threat all along.
Every dancer feels some form of competition with the others, but Sofia hid hers so well. There’s no other reason she’d tell on me if it wasn’t for her own gain.
Fatigue sweeps over me the second I step into the apartment.
I place my keys on the hook, and I wander into the kitchen to pour myself the biggest glass of ice water I can manage.
I chug the water, and place the empty glass in the sink.
The thought of making dinner is too much of a task, so I grab a protein bar from the cabinet.
After a quick shower, I change into a pair of pajamas and plop onto my bed, grabbing my journal from my nightstand.
Starting weight: 135.8 lbs
Current weight: 124.4 lbs
Goal: 115 lbs
Date: 8/30/25
Food log:
Breakfast:
Black coffee (no cream): 0 cals
Egg whites (2): 34 cals
Spinach (⒈／⒉ cup): 5 cals
Cherry tomatoes (⒈／⒉ cup): 17 cals
Lunch:
Green tea: 0 cals
Tuna - in water (2 oz): 60 cals
Romaine leaves (2): 10 cals
Cucumber slices (⒈／⒉ cup): 8 cals
Lentil soup (? cup): 160 cals
Dinner:
Protein bar: 120 cals
Total calories: 414 cals
It’s been nine days, and I still haven’t heard back from Hollingford.
I’m trying not to worry, but my stomach is in knots.
After my second run of the day, Mom called…
hounding me for answers, then demanding I go to a celebratory dinner for Edward.
It’s not that I don’t want to go… I just don’t want the humiliation that comes with it.
Basically, Mom micromanaging me in front of my siblings, again.
Just once, it would be nice if she approved of my choices.
On my walk home, I saw a couple holding hands.
The girl laughed into her boyfriend’s shoulder like he’d just told her the funniest joke in the world, and it made me want to throw up.
I thought of all the effort I’ve put into making people like me.
But here I am with no real friends, no one to call mine.
Just me. Myself. I. And I can’t help but feel sick of it.
Tomorrow is a new day. Maybe Hollingford will call. For my sake, I hope they do.
Shoes clatter across the floor as I hurl them out of my closet. My black heels have to be in here somewhere. Where exactly? No clue. But if I have any hope of looking even remotely presentable tonight, they need to be on my feet pronto.
Thankfully, the black dress from my first company gala six years ago still fits…
mostly. The sleeves pinch my arms, and the fabric hugs my hips and thighs more than I remember.
If I were richer, I’d just buy a new dress.
But no surprise here, I’m not. So if I can just find those strappy heels, maybe I’ll at least appease my mother.
Like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, my hand lands on the familiar strap. I yank them up, practically kissing them. I strap the heels onto my feet and stand. For not wearing them in six years, they’re surprisingly not too uncomfortable.
I check the time on my phone.
5:52 p.m.
Mom should be here any minute.
I run a brush through my waves one last time and swipe on another layer of my favorite mauve lipstick. Then I toss a few bobby pins, a couple of ponytail holders, my lipstick, and my phone into a small black purse.
I take one final glance in the bathroom mirror.
Presentable enough. The black dress isn’t terrible.
A little tight, yes, but manageable. And even if it’s not something I would’ve picked originally, part of me feels a little bit of pride.
I’ve lost enough weight to zip it up, and that has to count for something.
The dress has a high neckline, sheer cap sleeves that puff slightly at the shoulders, and a hem that lands mid-thigh with a subtle slit along the side.
Paired with my strappy black sandals, I almost look like I belong somewhere important.
Mom didn’t tell me where we’re going, just that it’s a dinner for Edward.
So whatever this outfit says about me… it’ll have to be enough.
My phone buzzes in my purse—six sharp. Of course, it’s Mom.
“Hello,” I answer, careful not to hold the phone too close and risk smearing my makeup.
“I’m here,” she says, and hangs up in the same breath.
I ground myself with a slow exhale, rolling my shoulders back. You can do this. I repeat the words over and over again before slipping out the front door.
As promised, Mom is waiting in her car with Scarlett riding shotgun. They must be deep in conversation because when I open the back door and slide in, both of them jump.
“Goodness, Eleanor,” Mom snaps, clutching her chest. “You shouldn’t sneak up on someone like that.”
I resist the urge to walk straight back into my apartment. “You literally just called me…”
She tucks a stray hair behind her ear. “Yes, well, you’re usually late.”
My hands curl into fists. I go out of my way to be on time for everything. Even with New York traffic. Even when I’m running on fumes. And she knows that.
“It’s good to see you,” Scarlett intervenes, smoothly changing the subject.
“Yeah, you too,” I reply dryly.
Her bright smile falters, and I try not to feel guilty. It isn’t a lie. Maybe I could’ve said it with more enthusiasm, but lately, my kindness is in short supply.
“Let’s not have an attitude tonight, Eleanor,” Mom says as she pulls away from the curb. “The last thing anyone wants is for you to ruin Edward’s night.” She glances at Scarlett with a tight smile. “Right, dear?”