12. Bracing for Failure
Bracing for Failure
Eleanor
The week passes in a shroud of aching muscles and silent humiliation.
Ironically, everything I do is either too perfect or too rehearsed.
Personally, I think my movements are exceptional.
Flawless even. Not to brag, but my mother would’ve wept with pride.
I pour blood, sweat, and tears into perfecting my technique.
I move with purpose and poise, exactly how a ballerina should. Or so I thought.
For some reason I can’t name, it feels like Nik makes it his personal mission to break me.
He corrects me again and again and again.
It’s always public and with immense precision.
No one else gets this kind of treatment.
Not even Paloma and Emi, the two new girls fresh out of nowhere, who should be the ones getting grilled.
It’s their first time in a real company after all.
So why me? Why am I, a former Metropolitan Theatre of Ballet dancer, being picked apart like I don’t even know how to point my own toes?
It makes a very small, but prominent, part of me want to march right up to him and ask if he has a problem with me.
Maybe even scream it. If it wasn’t for Lily, or even Dillon and Gabriel keeping me afloat, I might’ve already lost it.
As it stands, my confidence is buried somewhere six feet underground, and I’m not sure I have the strength to dig it back up.
Thankfully, Lily has been there for me this week way more than I ever expected, and more than I ever thought I’d need.
Because of her, I don’t spiral into obsessing over the problem that is Nik.
And honestly, I can’t believe I’m even saying that.
This week, Lily has treated me better than my own brother and sister.
She helped me unpack every single box, hung photos with me like it actually mattered to her, and the part that still gets me is that she brought me a plant.
Lilies, to be specific. One she said she grew herself.
She’s selfless, caring, effortlessly funny, and just easy to be around.
Maybe if I spend enough time with her, some of that sunshine will rub off on me.
But who am I kidding? I’m not made for sunshine and rainbows. I’m a product. A blueprint crafted to fulfill my mother’s dream. And if I’m being honest, I don’t even know if that dream is mine anymore.
It’s Friday morning, and I’m already dreading stepping into Studio B. I just know Nik is in there plotting new ways to criticize me.
But when I walk in, it’s empty. Just like it’s been all week.
The taxi service has been wildly unpredictable, and I’d rather be painfully early than suffer another one of Nik’s verbal lashings.
Still, I don’t really mind the solitude.
The studio is peaceful in its stillness.
Golden light spills across the floor like a lake, the wood creaks gently beneath my feet, and I can twirl in lazy circles if I feel like it.
For a moment, it’s just me and the quiet.
Slipping off my ballet shoes and leg warmers, I set them neatly beside the freestanding barres and step onto the studio floor barefoot.
I begin to twirl slowly, eyes closed, letting movement take over.
I don’t care if my épaulement is lazy or if my wrist isn’t held at the perfect angle. None of it matters.
Right now, all I care about is freedom, something I rarely experience. Not real freedom, at least. I don’t even know if this counts. But whatever it is, it feels good. Like something I can almost believe belongs to me. The room can be burning down, and I still won’t stop.
Clapping echoes from the corner of the room. My heart slams into my chest as my eyes fly open, and I spin toward the sound.
Nik stands near the door, leaning casually against the frame. A bright smile plays on his lips, and his warm and unguarded eyes are fixed on me. He keeps clapping, slow and deliberate, sending a fresh wave of heat crawling up my neck.
Once he stops, he makes his way toward the podium. “Beautiful,” he comments, his eyes still on me. “And here I was beginning to think you were a bisto.”
“You scared me,” I say, pressing a hand to my chest as my heart knocks against my ribs. I know bisto is Russian ballet slang for a worthless dancer, but I hope he’s joking.
He has the gall to laugh. “Sorry. I thought you would’ve heard me come in, but you kept dancing... so I stayed and watched.” He drops his bag on the floor and walks over to the freestanding barres. “Your dancing—it was beautiful.”
I look away for a moment, too focused on catching my breath, or maybe calming the flush in my cheeks. “What, that?” I ask. “I wasn’t even trying.”
“Exactly,” he says, lifting one of the barres and moving it toward the center of the room.
Wait—what? What is that supposed to mean?
I can’t help myself. After a week of corrections and clipped comments, I have to ask. “What do you mean by that?”
He adjusts the barre, then stands to his full height and takes a few steps toward me. I’m just noticing how tall he really is.
“I mean,” he says, voice low but certain, “you dance beautifully... when you finally shut that brain of yours off.”
If my face isn’t already the color of a tomato, it has to be now. “But… but you’ve been correcting me all week. And that’s what you call beautiful?” I ask, completely thrown. I mean, if Margaux ever caught me dancing like that, she’d probably ship me off to some kind of ballet boot camp.
Nik squares his shoulders, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do you want to know why I’ve been correcting you, Eleanor?”
I bob my head a little too quickly, my eyes bugging out of my head.
“It’s because I can’t figure you out,” he says simply, moving to grab the next barre.
That only confuses me more. “Figure me out?”
“Correct.” He lifts the barre with ease. “I can’t understand why a girl who dances as exceptionally as you does everything but let go.”
He sets the barre down, not bothering to adjust the height, and keeps his eyes locked on me.
“Just now,” he starts gesturing to the open space where I was dancing, “you didn’t care who was watching. You were dancing for you. Completely free. And it was stunning.”
I pinch my lips together, unsure what to say.
He continues, voice gentler now. “Most dancers either perform because their parents forced them to, or because it’s an outlet.
A way to say what words never could. But you…
” He trails off for a beat, eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to read me.
“You’re different. Your body speaks one language, but your face—your eyes—they say something else entirely.
You’re holding back. And I can’t tell why. ”
I scoff. “What makes you think I’m holding back?” My voice sharpens despite myself, but I don’t take it back. “What’s so wrong with having precise movements? Most companies would kill to have someone with technique like mine.”
Maybe I am taking it too personally, but something about the way he looks at me makes the outer shell of my walls begin to crack, and that terrifies me.
Nik doesn’t flinch. “Well, let’s see,” he says, holding up a finger. “One. You hold on to too much control. You’re so afraid to mess up that it chokes the life out of your movement.”
A second finger. “Two. You don’t trust yourself. I see it in your eyes every time you double-check your arms or your legs, like you’re waiting for someone to tell you it’s okay.”
A third finger. “And three. Overemphasizing precision will damage your growth. Technique without artistry is just… math. Factual and utterly forgettable.”
He drops his hand. “Your eyes may carry all the emotion, but the rest of you is too afraid to let it out.”
He turns back and adjusts the barre without waiting for a response.
My throat goes dry. “You’re wrong,” I respond, though my voice cracks at the edges. Because in truth, he isn’t wrong at all. He’s terrifyingly accurate.
He continues to adjust the barre without meeting my eyes. “Then prove it.”
Just as Nik finishes setting up the last barre, dancers begin filtering into the studio. Some enter silently and focused. Others giggle in clusters, their laughter reverberating off the walls. I stay rooted in the same spot where he left me, and the floor feels like it tilts beneath me.
Nik has only known me a week, and somehow, he’s read me more clearly than my own mother ever has. And that alarms me. Why does he see me so clearly? Why does he care? Who am I to him?
“Good morning, Eleanor,” Dillon sounds, startling me. I didn’t notice him beside me. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Is everything alright?”
I glance up at him and attempt a small smile. “Uh, yeah. I’m okay. Just… a weird morning.” And that’s putting it mildly.
He studies me for a second, then gives a crooked grin. “Weird isn’t always bad.” He winks.
That earns a real smile from me.
But as my gaze moves across the room, my smile falters. Lily’s talking to Nik, hands animated the way they always are, but he isn’t paying attention. His eyes are on me. Or more accurately, on me and Dillon.
There’s a slight furrow between his brows.
He doesn’t glance away when he notices me looking. He holds my gaze for a second longer than necessary… then turns back to Lily like nothing happened.
Okay? Not strange at all.
Beside Dillon, Gabriel appears looking more irritated than usual. He’s quiet, a little brooding, and mostly keeps to himself. A kindred soul, if you will.
Dillon slaps him on the back in greeting. “Hey, man. What’s up?”
Gabriel shrugs Dillon’s hand off like it’s personally offended him. “Nothing’s up. Everything is going down, south, and sideways.”
I frown. “Yikes. That doesn’t sound good.”
He snaps his fingers toward me, like I’ve nailed it. “You got that right.”
“What’s going on?” Dillon asks, already wincing like he knows what’s coming.
Gabriel rolls his shoulders back. “My parents are trying to sell me off again.”
I blink. “Sell you off?”