Eloise kept her eyes cast downward, cold rain seeping into her ballet flats. The firm grasp of her mother’s hand led her onwards, yet she yearned for the independence that charged the atmosphere around her. She saw it in the corporate strut of women with their leather purses and sleek black pantsuits. In the schoolgirls with plaid skirts and the hostesses with swooping v-necks.
It was one of those summer nights where the heat, frustrated from days of suffocating humidity, releases its pent-up energy, and lightning clawed at the horizon as the pair made their way toward Lincoln Center.
Every Labor Day weekend, mother and daughter drove over the George Washington Bridge, let the parking garage men tend to their Suburban, and dined at Serafina before heading to the ballet–the picture of elegance. It was one last hurrah, the last weekend of summer before Eloise started fourth grade. Before she went back to being a pleasure to have in class. Before her voice grew stagnant and croaky as her heart beat out of her chest in the back of the classroom. She yearned for the confidence surrounding her, the anonymity of the city making this wish seem within reach.
As the pair rounded the corner and started down 65th street, Eloise slipped her tiny fingers out of her mother’s warm grasp, the cool surface of a platinum wedding band scraping her palm, and quickened her step. She peeled back her hood, feeling a cool rush of air on her hair gone sweaty from the nylon of her raincoat. Kabaabs, pretzels, chestnuts: the scents filled her nose as she tilted her face skywards. Chin jutted out, she reveled in the clanking of the subway grate upon which she walked with increasing pace. One, two, one, two, the splash from her flats doubled in height. She began to sway her hips back and forth, mimicking the gait of her favorite television lawyer. She locked eyes with passing strangers, boring her innocent irises into their far-away gazes. Faster still she went, the plaza entering her sight. She smiled at a violinist frantically playing Vivaldi and reached into her jacket pocket for cash to put in the case lying face open on the concrete. All she felt was more nylon, her hand instantly growing clammy.
“Eloise!”
Her mother’s swift tug on her arm shattered the illusion. She withdrew her hand from her pocket–it was empty anyway. Retreating into her mother’s grasp, she put her hood back up, refocusing her eyes on her mother’s boots, their heels clacking with all the strength of the character whom they adorned. As her mother held the door for a slew of strangers, Eloise hovered in the background, touching nothing but her mother’s hand. Her mother handed over their tickets, received two stubs back, and led the way up a grand staircase. Eloise’s ballet flats sank silently into the scarlet carpeting, yet her mother’s heels remained defiant, a clack still managing to make itself heard. When they arrived at the mezzanine doors, her mother conversed with the usher and collected the two offered programs. She followed her mother down the softly-lit passage, unfolding her aisle seat, for her mother always bordered the strangers. When their seat-neighbor sat down her mother struck up a conversation:
“Is this your first time seeing the show...we come every year...yes, it is a back-to-school treat...this is Eloise, my daughter, she will be going into fourth grade this year, isn’t that marvelous!”
Eloise remained silent, further withdrawing into her haven of plush red velvet, as the lights dimmed and her mother’s palpable presence, straight back and crossed legs, faded from her periphery. Now, it was only Eloise, the corps, and the pit-orchestra.
A spattering of applause began immediately as the prima struck her finishing pose, slender arms raised high, fingers yearning for the sky, and toned legs bending into a deep curtsy. The curtains unfurled, the house lights came on, and the applause rapidly escalated into a roar. Still stuck in her head, having inserted herself into the fantasy before her eyes, Eloise didn’t return to the present until her ears were bombarded with the sound of chairs snapping shut–the prelude to a standing ovation. Eloise followed the audience’s lead, shaky legs rising on the tip toes of her size four ballet flats. She sought out the gaze of the prima, hoping to convey the message that had circulated in her head, stating itself with all the certainty of a piroutter’s spot, I will be you. I will be you. I will be you.
“Come on Eloise, let’s try to get a taxi before the masses start rushing the street.”
Obeying her mother’s words, Eloise followed her brisk walk down the aisle. As they reached the doors, she glanced backward and was greeted by the sight of flowers soaring onto the stage and light radiating from the prima’s smile. Eloise silently departed from her mother’s side and disappeared into the crowd that was now starting to pour down the aisle.
She knew what awaited her had she not followed the lead of this new force: a taxi back to the parking garage, stumbling into the Suburban’s backseat, her head leaning against the cool glass of the window as she watched the lights of the city fade away, further and further until they became synonymous with the stars dotting the sky and the flickering lights of planes.
What she didn’t know was that the prima’s smile would drop as soon as she entered the wings. She would rip off her pointe shoes, revealing black and blue feet, shattered toenails, and fresh blood pooled where her toes had just been, staining the pale satin. She would sob, bony shoulders heaving with all the misery of an abandoned child. She would ignore the hunger pains shooting through her abdomen for the seventh night in a row. No bloating during show week.
Eager to see the rooms where the ballerinas perfected slick updos and red lipstick in their Hollywood-esque mirrors, Eloise crept through the door to the side of the stage, her small frame going unnoticed.
She entered a dank hallway, leaving the glamour of the performance hall as gold turned into gray, crystal chandeliers became flickering LEDs, and cavernous arches were replaced by a low-set popcorn ceiling. A husky voice made her stop cold in her tracks, and she ducked into what looked like a janitorial closet. A few doors down, a wan face peered through the crack in a doorway. A thick-set man, lacking in height but certainly not arrogance, stood on the opposite side of the hall, arms folded across his chest.
“What the fuck was that tonight, huh?”
Eloise had never heard such foul language, only in the TV shows that her mother turned off as soon as she entered the room.
“We need donors, money, funds. Gillian, I swear to God, I will make sure you never dance again. You won’t even see the stage of some third-world country. And no, I don’t give a damn about your sprained foot, I got ten girls coming up through the program, and guess what, they’re skinnier, prettier, and their youth is more than enough to make every audience member forget your name.”
The man shoved the woman, who Eloise had just realized was the prima, and slammed the door with such force that it rebounded open. He was already storming down the corridor, picking up a call on his blackberry, and Eloise crept, unnoticed, to the door. She was not greeted by the comfort of a prima’s suite, but instead a row of tiny vanities with dingy, cracked mirrors, each station separated by a flimsy curtain that was once white but clearly hadn’t been so in years. Other girls seemed to be gathering at a neighboring vanity, whispering as malicious eyes glinted towards the prima, who stared at her pallid reflection in the mirror, silent tears streaming down her dull cheeks. Her eyes slipped to the mousy face peeking through the doorway, and Eloise met her gaze, locking eyes with an image entirely unrecognizable to the prima she had watched on the same stage every year: a lifeless gray.
Stunned, Eloise ran. Down the corridor, up the aisle, through the doors, she didn’t stop until she found herself in the plaza. All the bustle of pre-ballet anticipation was gone as the rain morphed into a penetrating downpour, endlessly streaming from the jet-black sky. Chilled to the bone and panic setting in, Eloise prayed that muscle memory would guide her back to their parking garage. She burrowed herself in her raincoat, and ran, nearly slipping on the subway grate as it hissed steam. The violinist of earlier had gone home, in his place, a tired man asleep on the sidewalk, rain pooling in his cup for change. She averted her eyes from the gaze of all she passed. Block after block, corner after corner, she walked straight, no flamboyancy, no pretending, just a silent girl attempting to quell her terror and walk somewhere, alone.
“Eloise!”
It took a beat for Eloise to register the uncharacteristically terror-stricken voice as her mother’s. But there she was, rushing down the avenue, the frantic staccato of her boots instantly pulling Eloise from her nightmare.
“Mommy! I love you so much, I don’t know what came over me, I just...”
Eloise broke down, relief flowing from her eyes in saltwater form as she collapsed into her mother’s arms. She was surprised to feel the front of her mother’s dress soaked through, yet the pair’s embrace generated enough warmth to cease their shivering. As the wind picked up, her mother’s unzipped coat flapping in the wind, Eloise unfolded herself and took her mother’s hand. Stride for stride, they walked towards the parking garage.