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"Relevé! Plié! Échappé sauté!"

A lanky boy made his way across the studio, his choreographer scanning his every move. His motions graceful and delicate, fast yet smooth. The black ballet shoes that held his trained feet were torn with the hours of practice and effort spent in them. Classical music softly played through the speakers and the dancer matched his exemplary steps to the beautiful rhythm in the piece. Nothing could break him.
With a finishing grande jeté, he took off to the side of the yellow-walled studio, the piano chords ending with a gracious note. Panting, he walked to his teacher, who looked at him, eyes full of critique.

"Phil, you know better than to sickle your foot during arabesque! At competition tomorrow you better have it perfect!" She criticized while tucking her blonde hair into her bun.
"Okay Miss Taylor, I will get it tomorrow I promise," Phil mumbled.

"I need you at the theatre tomorrow at 7, no later." The short lady added as she ushered Phil out of the studio.

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