I've written 8 pages, but I'm only going to post 4. So...here it is.

I just c/p'd it, so sorry for poopy format.

Title
Prologue
It had been only two days since Mrs. Trisha had left the dance school, but we already had a new teacher. Her name was Miss…Lara? Lori? Lauren? It was something like that. Too many names start with the letter “L.” Anyway, none of us students knew anything about her, including her name, apparently. From what I’d heard, she was from some foreign country. No one really knew quite where. To be quite honest, I don’t think anyone cared. We were all still busy drying leftover tears from our tired eyes. Mrs. Trisha had been one unique gal with one sweet personality, and we all missed her immensely.
But that’s beside the point. What is the point, you ask? Like I so subtly mentioned earlier, we had a new teacher. And she was nothing of the sweet sort, despite the initial popular opinion. I won’t even compare her to Mrs. Trisha. She was, however, unique. Yeah, unique…that’s one word to describe her.

Chapter 1
Saturday, August 9.
10:15 A.M.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve been teaching for the past five years, non-stop. Dance is my passion. I couldn’t live without it. It’s as important as air.”
“Well that’s good to hear. Because, as you know, Mrs. Trisha is loved by all of us. The whole city, even. She has such a sweet heart, and we all truly miss her.”
“Ah, yes. I’ve heard a lot about her. It’s going to be difficult to teach after her.” She laughed with a soft, melodic tone. Almost like humming, but more sweet. If you could taste it, which I could almost swear you could, you would find your taste buds tingling with something like lemon-sugar frosting. Yes, it had a slight tang mixed in with its sweetness.
My mother chuckled back with a loud snort in-between breaths. “Ah, but I’m sure you’ll do just fine.” With a sigh, my mother playfully spat my rear-end and said “Come on, Kit-Kat, we gotta get movin’ before your brother spasms out thinking we left him. Otherwise, the whole police department will be surrounding his school thinking there’s a murder-scene.” With another chortle, she and I left the dance studio’s Meet-the-Teacher gathering.
Delicately waving her small, strong hand, Miss Liahla (yes, I learned her name) gently sang out with her high, gentle voice, “I can’t wait ‘till class, Kathryn!” I replied with an awkward wave.

Chapter 2
Saturday, August 16.
7:07 P.M.
Class time. And I had just left the house. Good thing we only live about a mile away from the studio. Anyway, I got there. Throwing on a ballet shoe with one hand and holding my legwarmers in the other, I hopped and stumbled over to the center barre, attempting to form coherent apologies for being late.
With a gentle gesture of her hand, Miss Liahla reassured me that it was alright. “But,” she added, “don’t be late next time, okay?” She smiled. Whether it was of forgiveness or a threat, I couldn’t tell. Either way, the shiver that slipped down my spine put enough melancholy in me that I didn’t want to chance being late again. Odd how her casual kindness always has some sort of…tang? to it, I thought to myself. Before I knew it, the complex high and low notes of a recorded piano were drifting through the room, and the intense focus of the dancers stiffened the hot Texas air like murder. Odd choice of words, maybe. But that’s exactly what this feels like. Murder. And then my thoughts shifted into focus, and I danced. Too late to have learned the combination, I had to follow the dancer in front of me, but I danced. And I danced mightily. Who wouldn’t with an angel of confusion gliding through the room, watching your every step, sweetly criticizing your every move with the scurried flicker of her eyes? And yet…there was nothing creepy about it. And yet…everything about it sent warning signals throughout my bones, screaming “CAUTION!” But Miss Liahla was just the new teacher, and I was a paranoid teenager who over-thought everything. I was just over-exaggerating. My thoughts refocused again and I danced, ignoring the feeling that puke was flowing through my bloodstream.


Sunday, August 17.
2:55 A.M.
Oooooh, I thought to my nauseated self. “BLAGH!” Throwing up in the toilet, I shoved my long hair out of the way. Stupid virus. Why can’t you just stay in one place? MUST you be so sharing? After two hours of bonding with the sewer-destined water, my observant mother slumped into the bathroom, hitting her head on the doorway. “Ow!” she gasped, placing a palm on her forehead. “WHAT is that atrocious sound?!” she demanded. After another refreshing vomit, I wiped the corners of my mouth with a dishcloth and just looked at her. Holding a fist to her own now-verdant mouth, my mother gasped “Oh! Oh!” Gagging, she queried, “Do you need anything?” Rolling my eyes I said, “Yeah, go back to bed and don’t puke. I don’t even want to flush my own digestions, much less yours. Go to bed, mom.” With one last gasp, she said “Okay” and scurried back to her bedroom at three in the morning.

Sunday, August 17.
1:02 P.M.
What time is it? I wondered. Slapping the nothingness beside me (for what reason, I’m not sure), I glanced over at my clock. 1:02, the blinding red lights shared. Gasping, I jumped out of bed, only to collapse on the floor with a migraine about one second later. “MOM!” No response. “MOM, what day is it?!” I shouted, crawling on the floor to check my calendar. Standing up, I remembered she was at work. Divorced mothers have to do that. Right. It was Sunday. Praise God! May’ve missed church, but praise…God. Mr. Ultmen would never forgive me if I was late for math class.
I tried to remember how long I’d stayed up. After a few moments of mind-boggledness, I remembered seeing 4:49. Oh my goodness! Is it possible to dry heave so long and not be hospitalized? Well, I guess it is, considering I did. Haha. My next thought was that was I starving. Cheerios, here I come!