(AN: Thanks to my two reviewers. I'm going to try to type more of the
story, since it's already written, but I'm in college so time is always an
issue.)
Disclaimer: I still own nothing except a small handful of made up characters. Tolkien created the concept and, as such, it belongs to him. I'm just your average broke college student.
"Get up, Emma," called Shannon, one Saturday morning in September, "you're going to be late for ballet class and you know how Spiro gets when people stroll in late."
Getting no visible response, Shannon walked closer to her daughter's bed. She had all intentions of shaking the sleeping child.
"I'm up, mom. I'm up," Emma said, as soon as Shannon reached her bed.
Emma hugged Shannon and gave her the best eight AM, on a Saturday smile she could muster.
"Get dressed, pixie, you don't want to be late," she ordered her daughter.
"I know, mom. I'm getting dressed," Emma said.
The child climbed out of bed and walked over to her dresser. Opening the bottom drawer, she pulled out a well worn black body suit and black tights. She, then, went to go get dressed.
Shannon watched Emma go, a far away expression her face. Still hearing Emma call her "mom" and Mitchell "dad" shocked her. Nearly twelve years had passed since she had found the baby on her doorstep. All of those years, in Shannon's opinion, had been good ones. She had gotten to watch her adopted daughter grow and changed from a tentative baby to a happy pre-teen.
There had been rough moments, like when the children in Emma's preschool made fun of her because she looked somewhat like an elf or a leprechaun or when a family friend let slip that Emma had been adopted.
The adoption fact never really bothered Emma. She never, really, asked about her birth family. Not that Shannon and Mitchell could give her any information about them. According to records, Emma had not been born in any hospital or birthing center anywhere.
Climbing out of her reverie, Shannon woke Mitchell and she, herself, got dressed.
As she was putting her shoes on, she felt a tap on her shoulder.
"Can you put my hair up?" asked Emma.
Shannon had not heard her daughter enter the room.
Startled, she replied, "Of course, pixie."
She took several hair bands and a brush from Emma.
It was easy to see what Emma couldn't put her own hair up--- it was quite long, past her rear end, and silver-white in color.
Five minutes later, Shannon had put Emma's hair up in a complex series of braids and twists all wrapped up on the back of her head.
"Ready?" Shannon asked.
"Yeah," Emma replied, "I just need to get my ballet shoes and coat."
The child darted back to her room to retrieve her missing necessities.
"Morning, pixie," Mitchell called, as Emma and Shannon came downstairs.
"Morning, dad," replied Emma, hugging her father.
Breaking the embrace, the family headed out the front door and down to their car. Mitchell, who was driving, unlocked the doors and the two females entered the car. Soon they were off to the studio where Emma took dance lessons.
"Emma, I don't understand why you dance here. These people are no good, cheating, money grubbing liars," Mitchell griped as he pulled up in front of the studio.
"I know, dad, but there's no other studio that will take a kid like me," Emma explained.
"Leave her alone, Mitch, this makes her happy," Shannon hissed to her husband, as she and Emma exited the car.
Mitchell just shook his head and, with a wave, drove off to work.
"Your father does have a point, pixie. These people are not exactly the most honest on the face of the earth" Shannon said as she and Emma made their way to the back door entrance of the studio.
"I know that but no one wants a 12 year old with 10 years of experience. They'd put me back in baby classes," Emma explained.
Shannon had to agree with Emma there. No other local studio had classes for such a young child with that much experience.
Emma, on the other had, had to agree with her parents. Since she had become a member of the "company" classes, about four years ago she had been completely and utterly ignored. No one on the staff, who made up the rest of the class, wanted any part of the "strange" dancer with the long hair and odd ears.
Emma knew they talked about her behind her back but she had learned to ignore it. She danced because it made her happy. There was just something about dancing they felt right to her.like she was suppose to be doing it.
Disclaimer: I still own nothing except a small handful of made up characters. Tolkien created the concept and, as such, it belongs to him. I'm just your average broke college student.
"Get up, Emma," called Shannon, one Saturday morning in September, "you're going to be late for ballet class and you know how Spiro gets when people stroll in late."
Getting no visible response, Shannon walked closer to her daughter's bed. She had all intentions of shaking the sleeping child.
"I'm up, mom. I'm up," Emma said, as soon as Shannon reached her bed.
Emma hugged Shannon and gave her the best eight AM, on a Saturday smile she could muster.
"Get dressed, pixie, you don't want to be late," she ordered her daughter.
"I know, mom. I'm getting dressed," Emma said.
The child climbed out of bed and walked over to her dresser. Opening the bottom drawer, she pulled out a well worn black body suit and black tights. She, then, went to go get dressed.
Shannon watched Emma go, a far away expression her face. Still hearing Emma call her "mom" and Mitchell "dad" shocked her. Nearly twelve years had passed since she had found the baby on her doorstep. All of those years, in Shannon's opinion, had been good ones. She had gotten to watch her adopted daughter grow and changed from a tentative baby to a happy pre-teen.
There had been rough moments, like when the children in Emma's preschool made fun of her because she looked somewhat like an elf or a leprechaun or when a family friend let slip that Emma had been adopted.
The adoption fact never really bothered Emma. She never, really, asked about her birth family. Not that Shannon and Mitchell could give her any information about them. According to records, Emma had not been born in any hospital or birthing center anywhere.
Climbing out of her reverie, Shannon woke Mitchell and she, herself, got dressed.
As she was putting her shoes on, she felt a tap on her shoulder.
"Can you put my hair up?" asked Emma.
Shannon had not heard her daughter enter the room.
Startled, she replied, "Of course, pixie."
She took several hair bands and a brush from Emma.
It was easy to see what Emma couldn't put her own hair up--- it was quite long, past her rear end, and silver-white in color.
Five minutes later, Shannon had put Emma's hair up in a complex series of braids and twists all wrapped up on the back of her head.
"Ready?" Shannon asked.
"Yeah," Emma replied, "I just need to get my ballet shoes and coat."
The child darted back to her room to retrieve her missing necessities.
"Morning, pixie," Mitchell called, as Emma and Shannon came downstairs.
"Morning, dad," replied Emma, hugging her father.
Breaking the embrace, the family headed out the front door and down to their car. Mitchell, who was driving, unlocked the doors and the two females entered the car. Soon they were off to the studio where Emma took dance lessons.
"Emma, I don't understand why you dance here. These people are no good, cheating, money grubbing liars," Mitchell griped as he pulled up in front of the studio.
"I know, dad, but there's no other studio that will take a kid like me," Emma explained.
"Leave her alone, Mitch, this makes her happy," Shannon hissed to her husband, as she and Emma exited the car.
Mitchell just shook his head and, with a wave, drove off to work.
"Your father does have a point, pixie. These people are not exactly the most honest on the face of the earth" Shannon said as she and Emma made their way to the back door entrance of the studio.
"I know that but no one wants a 12 year old with 10 years of experience. They'd put me back in baby classes," Emma explained.
Shannon had to agree with Emma there. No other local studio had classes for such a young child with that much experience.
Emma, on the other had, had to agree with her parents. Since she had become a member of the "company" classes, about four years ago she had been completely and utterly ignored. No one on the staff, who made up the rest of the class, wanted any part of the "strange" dancer with the long hair and odd ears.
Emma knew they talked about her behind her back but she had learned to ignore it. She danced because it made her happy. There was just something about dancing they felt right to her.like she was suppose to be doing it.