My Dance Tutor (NEW)

CH 3: Enter The Ballet School

For those who thinks I am racist to the Russian Moustache Man, I am not. He is just a funny weird man like in any other stories. Russians are actually pretty cool and their accents sounds great. :) Hope you enjoy this chapter!

_____________________________________________________________________________

'Westenstire Royal School Of Ballet'. The five golden words gleamed in the sun. 

There had been tons of fussing and preparing and rushing, before I came before these words. First, I had to try fitting books, forms, bathroom supplies, and all those new clothes Sheily bought for me into my luggage bag. After finally zipping the stubborn zipper, I took a ride in my dad's taxi, since I told Sheily not to pick me up with her limousine. When I reached the railway station, I found out that I missed the first subway train. Fortunately, another subway train goes to a nearby station, and all I have to do is to walk for 10 minutes.  But then I over-slept in train and only woke in the station after the station I'm supposed to go. So now I have 30 thirty minutes' walk ahead of me. I knew I was going to be late, so I ran 20 minutes straight, and when I was completely winded, a cab arrived. From the cab I came before my school...finally. Well, that wasn't so hard.

School has already started two and a half month for them, so I might be a bit behind. However, excitement bubbled in my heart as I entered the tall, iron gates. The academy was both vintage and modern, reminding me of Hogswarts. Uh, not really, but you know my metaphorability.

This is my dream come true. Grey lockers lined the clean hallway, note boards, posters and sign up tables appearing at every 10 steps. I really hope I can immediately start classes and see the students! But first things first: the assistant principle. 

I knocked on his office door. 'Mr. Sherwood', it says.  

"Enter."

I turned the handle and stepped in. All you can see in an ordinary principal's office, with a brown desk, carpet, and shelves. But the only difference is that his shelves were full of ballet medals, ballet certificate, ballet mini glass sculpture, ballet trophies, ballet photographs...no surprise for a ballet school, though.  

Mr. Sherwood clapped his hands together, eagerly leaning forward. "Miss Amélie?"

I took off my sunglasses. "Good morning, Mr. Sherwood."

"Take a seat, please."

Mr. Sherwood was a round-faced, balding man, his pate shiny. Grinning giddily, he said, "Miss Amélie! You have no idea how honored you chose to attend our school!"

"I am only glad that this school accepted me despite my injured condition," I said modestly.

"What are you saying! Please, Miss Amélie! We should be thanking you!"

"Oh, that's...very kind of you all." I wasn't sure how to reply to this man.

"You are very kind, Miss Amélie."

I smiled, uneasy.

"I wish the best for your injury, Miss Amélie. The teachers agreed that you should rest during dance lessons." 

"So I've heard. Please help me thank them for their consideration."  My polite tone is maybe a bit bit too polite. This conversation is getting a little awkward. At least on my side.

"Ah, such a good heart and good talents! Well, here a folder containing your schedule, information, map, and dorm key.  Some of the other things are in your assigned locker, and your ballet costume is in your locker room locker. I believe your books have been received?"