Disclaimer: Although I have been dancing for over two years now, I suck at it and as such will probably get several details wrong in this story. But I do know excellent dancers, and have already milked them for answers. So I hope it turns out okay.
This story is dedicated to all of the people at my dance studio, but mostly to The Boys; Mitchell (my personal Denmark), Peter (my personal Iceland), and Joel (my personal America). They are outnumbered approximately eight to one, but at least they have a sense of humour about it.
"Hey!" Alfred called out for what felt like the millionth time, grabbing onto the nearest passing stranger; a middle-aged man in a three-piece suit. The man glared at him, grey eyes sharp, so Alfred hurried to get down to business.
"Uh, weißt du Zwingli Akademie, wo es ist?" he asked in his terribly broken German. The man raised an eyebrow at him, before spewing something that was probably along the lines of "Get lost; I'm late for my flight," at the boy, and leaving.
He had to bite his tongue to keep from cussing out loud, but on the inside he was calling himself every name he knew.
Idiot. Alfred F. Jones was a goddamned idiot. Why else would he have managed to get into the prestigious Zwingli Dance Academy, save up a ton of money for the tuition and plane ticket, and come all the way to Zurich, (which is a long way from Omaha, thank you very much) only to find out he didn't have a clue where the school was.
He felt like punching a wall, or viciously assaulting someone with his duffle bag, but he wasn't that big of an idiot where he would do that in a public place like an airport.
But that still didn't change anything.
However, Alfred refused to give up, trying one last person who he barely looked at before repeating, "Weißt du Zwingli Akademie, wo es ist?"
The person he asked, a lithe, tanned woman with wavy brown hair, took in his appearance, before smiling kindly. "German isn't your first language, is it?"
He could have kissed her. She was speaking English! Honest to God English! "No, it's not. My German's probably kinda sucky."
"I suppose," the woman shrugged, green eyes twinkling, "But everyone has to start somewhere. Are you a freshman?"
Alfred's spent brain couldn't comprehend. "What?"
"At Zwingli Academy," the woman repeated, "Are you a freshman?"
"Oh, yeah." Alfred furrowed his brows as the gears of his mind washed off the rage and lethargy and slowly started turning again. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I teach there," she said, "I'm Miss Hedervay, by the way. You are?"
"Alfred F. Jones," he said proudly.
"It's nice to meet you, Alfred." Niceties exchanged, Miss Hedervay moved on. "One of the other teachers is coming to pick me up. Would you like to join us?"
"YEAH!" Alfred cried enthusiastically, before the little manners he had kicked in. "I mean, yes, please."
"She won't be here for about a half hour or so, so we have a little bit of time to kill," Miss Hedervay pointed out, "Are you hungry?"
Alfred was about to reply, but his stomach did it for him. (That airplane food was nasty, okay? They didn't even have hamburgers.) Miss Hedervay let out a laugh, before leading the boy to a fast food restaurant, Miss Hedervay ordering for him in German. As they ate, they chatted. He learned that Miss Hedervay was from Hungary, had been dancing all her life, had started teaching at the Zwingli Academy a couple years ago, etc.
"Headmaster Zwingli is a dance genius,*" Miss Hedervay gushed, "He could have made it big time, but then he injured his ankle just before he turned twenty. He still limps a little bit." Miss Hedervay sighed, before continuing, "But he's fantastic. And don't worry," she winked, "He may look like a hard-ass, but he's really all mushy on the inside."
By the time their late lunch was finished, Miss Hedervay had gotten a text from her friend.
"She's outside," she said, grabbing her own suitcase and eyeing Alfred's huge duffle bag, "Do you need any help with that?"
"No way," Alfred smiled his patented Alfred smile, "I've got total Superman strength! I could probably carry two of these and not break a sweat!"
Miss Hedervay merely smiled and nodded, suppressing a peal of laughter. It was wondrous, and almost hilarious, the transformation this boy had undergone simply thanks to a meager meal of grease.
Outside they were met by a green VW bug, driven by a slightly older-looking blond woman who introduced herself as Miss Florinda. As the trunk of the car refused to open, Alfred was squished in the back with his and Miss Hedervay's luggage. A quick drive later, they pulled into a parking lot.
After Alfred managed to tumble out of the car, he was met with a fantastic sight; the stunning campus. Even from his obstructed view on the ground, it was beautiful. The structures were all polished chrome and spotless glass, the sharp angles cutting into the sky, glittering and shining like a brand-new diamond ring. A stone sign was planted in the manicured lawn adjacent to the parking lot, giving the school's name in three different languages.
Zwingli International Akademie Ballett und Tanz für Jungen
Académie internationale Zwingli de ballet et danse pour les gars
Zwingli International Boys' Ballet and Dance Academy
He was here. He was really here.
"Got to take a moment to digest it, hm?" He turned, finding Miss Hedervay standing behind him.
Alfred smiled, but not his usual smile. A real smile, small but true. "Yeah. I'm definitely not in Omaha anymore."
"You'll love it," Miss Hedervay promised, "Don't worry."
Alfred sincerely hoped she was right.
*I have no clue where this headcanon of mine came from. Maybe I was hyper, maybe I was bored, maybe my evil twin got me high, I dunno. But I love it and will never let it go. MWAHAHAHAHA!
Short chapter is short. Meh.
So, this story is purely for fun, and I totally suck so I probably won't be able to update very often. Reviews make me want to keep writing, and please don't be afraid to offer constructive criticism! Plus, I sort of have an idea as to where this story is going, but who knows?