Thread: All the Right Moves | ockeroid and colada

As the child of a retired prominent danseuse and a choreographer, it was only natural that Charlotte Konstantinov took to ballet at the tender age of eight even younger, in fact, though pre-ballet classes were not an impressive addition to any rsum. Her father, foreseeing a future of great success in the way his four-year-old daughter twirled around the house with such grace, had made an attempt to enroll her in a professional program when she was still convinced that a goblin named Kog was living under her bed. Her mother, furious that her husband would consider enrolling their daughter in professional level classes when she was so young her bones are too soft for that kind of physical exercise, she had angrily told him, had suggested pre-ballet classes as an alternative option until she was older. Not that she remembered such a conversation, of course. It had been fourteen years since her father picked up on what would become her walk of life. She lived and breathed dancing as she progressed from an imaginative four-year-old to a modest and mature eighteen-year-old, and at the suggestion of her former high school dance instructor she had put in an application at the Marinsky Ballet Academy. Charlotte was almost positive that her application would be shot down based on her less-than-adequate rsum. There was nothing in specific wrong with her rsum, save for the fact she had limited experience in what her mother deemed professional work the most experience she had with professional work was when she scored the lead role in Polovstian Dances as a sophomore in high school. Aside from that, her experiences were as basic as they came. She was a recent high school graduate, having been in dance classes through the entire length of her education. She was a former student of a local junior dance company. Height five-feet, six-inches. Weight one hundred and eleven pounds. When she received a letter stating that the company had accepted her, Charlotte wondered if her physical appearance had persuaded those in charge of admissions. She had what many considered to be a classic ballerina body long, slender arms and legs a long neck a short torso small hips and small breasts. In fact, her figure was as far as feminine as possible. The mop of short black hair did not help, either. The only thing feminine about her was her face she looked like a doe-eyed girl, with her long eyelashes and large owlish eyes. Regardless, Charlotte was pleased with how the application process had gone. She even went to bed a few hours sooner the previous night, and when she woke up the next morning she felt rejuvenated beyond belief. Today is going to be a great day, she thought to herself as she changed from her sleep attire into a black leotard, a pair of pink tights, and her ballet shoes. She had just enough time to wash her face and brush her teeth before her mother insisted that they would be late unless they left soon. After a few more minutes had passed she was sitting in the passenger seat as her mother drove off to the academy. Hurry or youll be late! her mother hissed in warning as she parked in front of the academy, checking her watch to see that Charlotte had less than a minute to find the class room. I love you too, mother, she replied in a huff, sighing in response to her mothers nagging. It was always the same reaction. Maybe it had something to do with her mother being retired from the dance scene, Charlotte was not entirely sure, and she harbored no desire to find out. Charlotte gave her mother a quick hug before she dashed out of the car, her duffle bag scraping against gravel and pavement. Okay. I can do this. I just need to . . . oh, oh shoot, do I have the map with me? It was quite a comical sight. Charlotte was sprinting up the stairs of the academy while she searched through her duffle bag for a map of the building layer, and fortunately she was able to find the paper before she collided with the main entrance door. What a way to start the day. She unfolded the paper, pausing long enough inside the building to get an idea as to where she was going. The studio for her class was on the first floor to the left. Her grey eyes memorized the layout of the first floor, and with seconds to spare she shoved the map back into her duffle bag and managed to find the right studio. Or so she thought. Charlotte heard a mans voice before she opened the door, yet the moment she opened it and stepped inside silence ensued. She froze in place, wondering if she had picked the wrong studio. God, no, please no . . . please tell me I didnt pick the wrong door . . . how embarrassing. Her cheeks flushed from the mere thought, though she did not lose her composure and sulk in humiliation. She stood with proper posture, her back straight and her head held high. The flush of her cheeks disappeared almost as soon as the man said her name. That meant she found the right room, after all. She gave a small nod of the head, indicating that she was, in fact, the Charlotte who would be joining his class. She did not think twice about the odd way he behaved instead, she put her duffle bag aside and, with an air of elegance, she walked over to the barre and found a spot to herself. She used the wooden bar as support while she stretched, her ears perking up as she listened to Kirov she would refer to him as Mister Antokolsky talk about what sounded to be a performance. The thought of audition did not cross her mind, at least not yet. As the newest member of the class, it would have felt awkward to even dream about landing such a desired role in a short period of time. She merely pondered the thought of a performance, continuing her stretches as she remained quiet and reserved. ooc I hope mine is just as lovely. c