Finding Paris

Prologue

Finding Paris 

Prologue

 Arabesque, Assemble, Arabesque, Assemble... and Big Finish.

The music stops right on cue.

My timing was perfect. I resist smiling, having to keep a serious expression on my face. That was some difficult routine and I am quite proud of how I maneuvered it. I try not to breathe so heavily as I stared at myself in my final pose in the mirrored wall. 

Then, I instantly regretted it because I lost all sense of confidence in myself immediately. I looked horrible despite my perfect pose, my not so flat belly evident in the mirror and my flabby arms exposed and emphasized by my arm position. Almost cringing at my reflection, I felt myself wobble on my feet. 

A chubby girl with light brown eyes the color of milk chocolate, a natural blush, and wavy dark hair sloppily arranged in a chignon, who looked like a wannabe ballerina in ridiculous skin tight clothing and a wannabe ballerina pose stared back at me. I wasn't the stereotype ballerina with the natural grace, the petitte frame, and the delicate features. And the other girls never failed to remind me of it, but it was no wonder, seeing what I saw now.

I looked at Madame Devereux, my instructor, instead. 

But I regretted that, too. 

She pursed her lips, having probably seen my little wobbly blunder. Lip-pursing was never a good sign. I waited for a second more before unfreezing from my ridiculous pose, finally letting myself breathe. My ballet instructor had to be the most intimidating woman in the world. She had delicately beautiful features for an old crone -I mean, a mature woman - and an elegant lithe frame, the epitome of a ballerina. Her graying brown hair was neatly and severely pulled back in a perffect little bun, which only seemed to make her eyebrows scarier, and her eyes which was the color of liquid amber could burn holes right through our bones. 

"Okay, next!" she shouted, writing something down on her clipboard.

Uh-oh. Not good.

Not good at all.