Miss Eleanora moves quietly around the room. "Okay, now plié. Keep your back straight. Watch your turnout. Arms above the head, and straighten," she instructs.

The girls follow her commands with precision. Miss Eleanora makes small corrections — adjusting elbows, tapping backs, pointing at delicately arched feet — but she notices the occasional roll of an eye. She does not respond.

"Hands on the barre and arabesque! Hold that line, girls. Steady. Now, hands off the barre and extend your arms. Beautiful."

When the bell rings, the girls pack up and leave. As always, Miss Eleanora stays by the door, bidding each ballerina goodbye. And, as has become routine, whispers follow her out. Harsh judgments of her ability, delivered without care. They leave with snickers, lithe and untouchable.

Miss Eleanora turns toward the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. She stares at her slim legs, imagining them moving freely, imagining her entire body dancing. Jumping, kicking, extending. As if the accident had never happened. Her arms move flawlessly, but the rest of her remains imprisoned in memory.

"Now plié. Arms above the head, and straighten..." she whispers to herself, a mantra, a thread connecting her to the dance she can no longer fully inhabit.

A lone tear slides down her right cheek. She steels herself and wheels back to the door, ready to greet the next class of ballerinas, to guide them through their routine, even as a part of her still dances in the mirror.