Disclaimer~ Oh I hate this! *sob* why must my non-ownership be flouted in
my face! ALW~ THANK YOU for creating this man!!! ALW~ DAMN YOU for getting
to him first!!!!! Just kidding. I think.
Chapter One ~Little Lottie~
My father left us when I was quite small. I don't remember much about him, other than the fact that he frightened my mother terribly. He was tall, and dark, and big; a tyrant who spent a lot of money drinking. Mamma told me that several months after he ran off, he was killed in an accident. She never told me anything about it, or spoke of my father after that. I must admit, I do not miss him. Why should I, when he was never anything a father should be? I had no relationship, no special memories, and for that, I confess, I am truly thankful. It would have hurt far too much to have such recollections of him.
My mother and I got along quite well without him, anyways. Maybe, because of our loss, we were closer than the average mother and daughter. We were each other's only family, and personal confidante. She always gave me more respect than most mothers' give to their children, because without someone to tell certain things, it is lonely. Therefore, I grew up knowing the trials of my mother. In exchange, I told her all my tribulations. Indeed, this gave us a friendly togetherness instead of a parental tyranny. I liked it, and I think Mamma did too.
When Mamma and I were on our own, she began teaching again, in order to support us. She also started to teach me. My mother's big dream was for me to become ballerina prima at the same opera as the one she used to dance at. She taught me with all the discipline and coldness of a regular teacher, even to the point where I called her Mme. Giry in the classroom. She also trained me with as much difficulty for a dancer twice my age and level. Luckily, for my sake, I loved dancing and learned quickly. By ten, I had master the art of ballet, almost to a professional grade, which was rather odd for one so young.
The year I turned twelve, Mamma and I returned to Paris and the opera. Recognized as Madame Giry, she was offered a job as the new ballet mistress. Naturally, she accepted. When she heard there were some openings for the corps de ballet, my mother insisted I should audition. I declined, but Mamma was insistent. That was how I found myself in the audition room that hot August morning. ~ I remember the ordeal as if it were yesterday; the hard, uneven boards beneath my slippers; the chilly atmosphere despite the heat as I stretched with seven other girls. I studied them carefully, nervously marking that they all seemed to be at least two years older than me. Mamma had warned me beforehand that I would most likely be the youngest, but I did not think the age difference would be that drastic. Two years is a big contrast when you are twelve and everyone else is not.
Our instructors looked us over; our back had to be straight, our feet turned out, and our posture perfect. I felt like a horse getting inspected before being bid on. Next, we lined up at the barre and performed some warm up exercises. My clammy hand, gripping the barre tightly, gradually relaxed as the familiar movements calmed my nerves.
Finally, we executed various combinations to some music. The movements were not difficult, and I found myself enjoying the soothing flow of music. Smiling, I remembered that I actually loved to dance, and threw myself into Swan Lake.
All of a sudden, we were finished. Returning to the cloakroom, we nervously sat, waiting. A few girls introduced themselves to me; thought to this day I cannot recall who they were. After what seemed like an eternity, someone came in and called three names, asking them to return. With shock, I recognized one name as mine. Numbly I stood up and walked back into the room. Facing the judges, the two other girls and I waited apprehensively for instructions.
Chapter One ~Little Lottie~
My father left us when I was quite small. I don't remember much about him, other than the fact that he frightened my mother terribly. He was tall, and dark, and big; a tyrant who spent a lot of money drinking. Mamma told me that several months after he ran off, he was killed in an accident. She never told me anything about it, or spoke of my father after that. I must admit, I do not miss him. Why should I, when he was never anything a father should be? I had no relationship, no special memories, and for that, I confess, I am truly thankful. It would have hurt far too much to have such recollections of him.
My mother and I got along quite well without him, anyways. Maybe, because of our loss, we were closer than the average mother and daughter. We were each other's only family, and personal confidante. She always gave me more respect than most mothers' give to their children, because without someone to tell certain things, it is lonely. Therefore, I grew up knowing the trials of my mother. In exchange, I told her all my tribulations. Indeed, this gave us a friendly togetherness instead of a parental tyranny. I liked it, and I think Mamma did too.
When Mamma and I were on our own, she began teaching again, in order to support us. She also started to teach me. My mother's big dream was for me to become ballerina prima at the same opera as the one she used to dance at. She taught me with all the discipline and coldness of a regular teacher, even to the point where I called her Mme. Giry in the classroom. She also trained me with as much difficulty for a dancer twice my age and level. Luckily, for my sake, I loved dancing and learned quickly. By ten, I had master the art of ballet, almost to a professional grade, which was rather odd for one so young.
The year I turned twelve, Mamma and I returned to Paris and the opera. Recognized as Madame Giry, she was offered a job as the new ballet mistress. Naturally, she accepted. When she heard there were some openings for the corps de ballet, my mother insisted I should audition. I declined, but Mamma was insistent. That was how I found myself in the audition room that hot August morning. ~ I remember the ordeal as if it were yesterday; the hard, uneven boards beneath my slippers; the chilly atmosphere despite the heat as I stretched with seven other girls. I studied them carefully, nervously marking that they all seemed to be at least two years older than me. Mamma had warned me beforehand that I would most likely be the youngest, but I did not think the age difference would be that drastic. Two years is a big contrast when you are twelve and everyone else is not.
Our instructors looked us over; our back had to be straight, our feet turned out, and our posture perfect. I felt like a horse getting inspected before being bid on. Next, we lined up at the barre and performed some warm up exercises. My clammy hand, gripping the barre tightly, gradually relaxed as the familiar movements calmed my nerves.
Finally, we executed various combinations to some music. The movements were not difficult, and I found myself enjoying the soothing flow of music. Smiling, I remembered that I actually loved to dance, and threw myself into Swan Lake.
All of a sudden, we were finished. Returning to the cloakroom, we nervously sat, waiting. A few girls introduced themselves to me; thought to this day I cannot recall who they were. After what seemed like an eternity, someone came in and called three names, asking them to return. With shock, I recognized one name as mine. Numbly I stood up and walked back into the room. Facing the judges, the two other girls and I waited apprehensively for instructions.