A/N: Warning: this is a muppet fan fiction. even if it doesn't seem like one yet, it is. Just wait until chapter 4. This is Moonray. Read & Review! Moonray out!

"Step leap, glide right, curve run! Straighten your legs! Good, front aerial! Fall into your finish. Ta-da! Uh... good! Now one more time from the top!" Great way to wake up, isn't it. Being yelled at by the melodious voice of my dance coach, or as she likes to be called, Mrs. Oscar Hammer (Does she even have her own identity? This isn't the 1800's, people! Women have names!). We (my fellow dancers and I) call her, Oscar. I think you can tell why.

So, you may be wondering what the hell I'm doing here at 7:30 in the morning. A Sunday morning, no less! Being yelled at by an old lady (O.K, she may be only 40, but she gives off the aura of being a much older, crankier woman). Let me tell you, I have no desire to be here. But does my opinion count? No, but my mother's does. My dream is to be a kick boxer. Well, that and to use that training to kick Oscar's Backside from here to Japan. But my mom's is, guess what? Dancing, uh duh! So, here I am, working my butt of when I should be sleeping in, for what, personal gain? You make me laugh. No, there's a HUGE audition in New York next week for a Julliard Summer workshop. The rules for this audition are simple; dance for the judges, don't swear at the judges, and don't cause physical harm to the judges, yourself, or the stage. That and if I get in, I will be miserable for the next 2 months, and If I don't get in, I'll be disowned. Fun, right!

My legs ache, yet I am forced to turn tour jete after tour jete, leap higher and faster than before, and front aerial until my back pleads for mercy. Oscar's face turns bright red from screaming at me, while the end of our session seemed to never come. Seriously, I saw her eyes turn to the clock every time she thought I wasn't looking. Not that I disagree with her, though. I mean, I hate her, she hates me, I hate dancing, dancing hates me. We all have a mutual relationship going on, not a good one, but hey, it volleys an even better reason for me to outright tell my mother that I don't wanna dance. Or, at least get her to give me private lessons with Ms. Kimbell, the nicest, most amazing dance teacher at our studio (though she likes to be called Latoya. Go figure). She, for one, doesn't hate me, and actually understands my desperate struggle to escape (she knows I hate this place). I mean, personally, I think she's a much better choreographer than Oscar, and gives back much more useful feedback. But do my opinions matter? Like I told you, the only ones that seem to matter are my mom's. But if it's for dancing, then who knows what she'll do.

The end of our lesson at last came, and believe me; neither of us could get out of there fast enough. As my mom came in to pay Oscar, I bolted out of the door, intent on getting out of there. Seeing a water fountain, I meandered over to there to drink my fill. The water surged into my stomach, cooling the burn in my throat and relieving my slight headache. I couldn't get enough of it, and not until I was feeling slightly sloshy did I stop. Satisfied, I stood up and turned around, then there knocking into Latoya. Stumbling, as she turned to face me, I realized I must look ridiculous, what with water dripping down my face and front. My cheeks burned red (Red heads are allegedly known for blushing) as I wiped of my face with my forearm. Grinning in an embarrassed way, I waved hi. "Hello Shae!" she beamed, "I haven't seen you in a while! How's it going?"

"OK, I guess."

"Oscar?" (She's in on the Oscar joke)

"Yeah, kinda. Well that and the Julliard audition."

"Nervous?"

"More like desperately trying to crawl out of the hole my mom has dug me into"

"Shae, if you don't like dancing, why don't you just tell your mother?"

"I actually like living in a house, and not on the streets in a cardboard box, thanks." She giggled. Latoya, I mean.

"Well, see you around!" She calls as she walks out the door, leaving me still damp and desperate to leave, but feeling slightly better. Once she was completely and utterly out of sight, I grudgingly trudged back through the door to Oscar's room, my mom beaming brighter than aluminum foil in the hot sun. This can't be good. "Shae!" she trilled, "Mrs. Hammer, or can I call you Ethster?" Oscar gave a quick nod, clutching her bag, ready to run. I stood up straight, prepared for the worst when I was suddenly caught off guard by surprise. Oscar actually has a name? What is this world coming to?

"It will be oh so wonderful, won't it Shae! Shae? SHAE!" my mother trilled. Well, trilled, then yelled.

"Wait what?" I asked.

"Ethster was just telling me about the new dance routine you will learn for Julliard. It will be oh so perfect, don't you think?"

A new dance routine? Shit, I barley know this one! What is going through their minds? Nothing? Well, I mean, that would explain it! But seriously, it's a freaking week away from Julliard. I can't perfect a routine in a week! I've been working on my current routine for a month at least, and based on Oscar's now-becoming permanent red face color, I am far from perfecting it. And, knowing it's for Julliard, it can't be easier. Seriously, this is not how I dreamed I'd spend this week. Not even in my nightmares.