Calla was a dancer, and dancers took risks. This had never really been a problem for her.
At age sixteen, her life revolved around her art. Short and slim, long-limbed and petite, she moved and breathed ballet. It was all that occupied her mind, ever since she began taking ballet classes at age four. She had always loved leotards, tutus, slippers, lights, glitter, applause. She lived from performance to performance - she lived to twirl under the hot bright lights, exerting herself into becoming something exotic and alien. She lived to hear the roaring cheers of the crowd, to feel the pride bursting from her as she bowed over in thanks, extending her arms gracefully to the side. If she wasn't dancing, life felt like a dull, lethargic limbo. Her grades were important, she supposed, but her dreams were more so. And she wasn't going to stop chasing them down.
The rising sun brought startling light to the metal and glass utopia that was New York City, leaving its inhabitants hissing and ready for their first cup of coffee. Calla awakened to the warm sunbeams on her face, and she sat up, pushing the white duvet cover down to the foot of the bed. Her alarm clock's neon green letters spelled out the time - 7:00 A.M. It was Saturday. She was ready to face the day.
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