Balletomane

Wake up, Mr. Fredrick

Weekends were never good for me. Back when I was in high school, most everyone pined for the freedom of those two days, yet I dreaded them. Well, not DREADED them exactly, but I wasn't so enthusiastic for drowsy days spent alone doing chores. Now, I was older, out of college with a stable job... yet my childhood habits still stuck. Though I usually spent my weekends window shopping, going on dates, and using up my luxurious free time, I still groaned at the thought of Saturdays and Sundays. There wasn't usually any reason too nowadays, but that continuous unease still lingered in the back of my mind. Old habits die hard, I guess.

And just my luck, it was a Saturday. And, as usual, I woke up with a frown on my face with the knowledge that the horrible duo of days had arrived. However, this time I actually had a reason to wallow in self pity. My schedule for the day was packed with work, since the competition board for the Gracieux (a worldwide dance competition) finally decided to start preparations, which meant a three hour meeting to sit through. And then another meeting. And then an introduction ceremony. And then a days worth of judging less then a month from now... God help me.

Luckily, I wasn't one of the dancers. I could only imagine the stress they would have to go through for this competition, it being as important as it is. It's like the olympics, only for dance, so that meant representing your whole country in front of millions of viewers. But, to be fair, they didn't have to waste a whole month of their time sitting through useless meetings, lectures, and instruction rallies*. Though, I didn't have to work my butt off in a studio for who knows how long.

I was a professional dance choreographer, though I spent a lot of my time doing work other than that. I didn't like the idea of hosting classes, so most of the time studios or competitors paid me to choreograph and coach them, which was much better than instructing a bunch of noobs on how to point their toes. I had prepped dancers and ice skaters for many important events, and I ended up rolling in dough. It pays off to be as good a coach as I am. However, when you're popular in the dance industry, you usually end up being a judge at some competition, which in my case is the Bonne Gracieux. And, even if you don't want to do it, you can't really turn down an offer. It's kind of socially unacceptable, much to my dismay.

Once my eyes snapped open at the crack of dawn, all I wanted to do was curl up in my blankets and go back to sleep. And, I would've, if my annoying neighbor hadn't come knocking on my door.

"Mr. Fredrick! Mr. Fredrick! You have judging today! Wake up Mr. Fredrick, you have judging!"

I was just about to scream. She did this almost every day, and it seemed to be routine for her by now. But no matter how many times I demanded (or pleaded, in some cases) for her to stay ten feet away from my home at all times, she just waltzed right back to my doorstep next time I had something on my schedule. Despite her Vietnamese origin, I was pretty sure the girl could speak fluent English, so I didn't see what part of "stop interacting with me" she didn't understand. Heck, I think English was her first language anyway!

I reluctantly crawled out of my king-size bed and made my way down the stairs to get the door and tell her to go away yet again. I lived in a modern, expensive apartment on the 68th floor of one of the classic skyscrapers in New York, so it gave me a pretty good view. One of the whole sides of the place was made of glass, so I was constantly overlooking the city. Though most of the time it was a plus to have such a gigantic window, once in a while a dumb bird would come crashing into the clear wall. If I had a quarter for every time I woke up to a bang and a red stain, I would be richer than I already am. And that's saying a lot.

I ran a hand through my short blonde hair, preparing myself to tell the short asian high schooler girl off again. I opened the door slowly, trying to contain my anger and not damaging the walls again by slamming it open. I had already done that ten too many times, and the fee for fixing walls and doors wasn't cheap. I was greeted by Goldia, who had decided to bring along some of her contraptions she put together in her kitchen. "Mr. Fredrick! You will be late!" She scolded, wagging her finger. "Breakfast!" She continued, shoving a box of bread rolls in my not-so-pleased face. "Buns! I name them man buns, because I know you don't like women buns," ah, how nice. My morning just isn't complete without my young neighbor making some sexual reference.