I like it. I can really relate to the characters. :) What's your word count goal again?

*sighs* 30k :P Here's some more. I've got 5,200 right now! *squee* which techinically isn't too much, but I'm insanely proud of it :D:

I’d been a dancer as long as I could remember. Sure, I could carry a tune singing, and I’d been talking tree number four in the Wizard of Oz when I was in the fifth grade; but dancing was my passion. I’d honestly never considered making anything else my profession, and that was why, at the age of seventeen, I was coming to audition at Juilliard. Skipping a grade did have its bonuses, I suppose, because I was getting in a year sooner than I would have.             There’s just one catch. I love to dance, it’s who I am. It’s me. So I can’t have other people watch me. What I mean is I have terrible, horrible, incurable stage fright. It’s haunted me since I was about seven, when a girl in my class made some comment about a saute that I’d done. I know it sounds silly, but I never got over it. And for a dancer, that’s a death sentence.             It’d gotten better over the years. I just have to make it over that clutching fear before I start. Once I start, I’m not afraid. The dance is there to hold my hand, and it’s like a mother’s embrace to me. But allowing myself to be pulled along in the crowd that is pouring up the front steps, my fear comes back. And this time, it has a reason to stay. Because I’ll be dancing for my life in a few moments, and the thought of that is nearly more than I can bear.            When I get into the front hallway, the crowd makes my pulse go cold. How can I possible compete with so many of them? I edge my way into a corner, and find a miraculously empty bench. Sinking down onto it, I put my head between my knees and try to breathe. That always works. Detach myself from the rest of the world. If they’re not there, no one can stop me from dancing. I’ve nearly calmed down when I hear a voice behind me.            “Um, are you okay?” I look up towards the voice, and don’t have to look far. There’s an impossibly thin, short girl standing next to me. She has short blonde hair that flips up at the bottom, and bright red, wire glasses that make it hard to look her in the eyes. When I finally do, I see that her eyes hold a lot of pain, different from the cheery face and body language that she has. I wonder what her story is.            I realize that I’ve been staring, so I blush lightly. I always try to keep my blushing under control. I have olive skin, and let me tell you that a blush is not flattering on me. I realize that I still haven’t answered her.            “Oh, yes, thank you,” I mumble to her. I hear her walk away, and get ready to lull myself back into the false sense of security again.            “What are you auditioning for?” I glance back up at her, trying to hide my annoyance. She seems nice enough, but I’ll never make it through the audition unless I can get my fear under control.            “Oh, um, dance. Ballet,” I look at her tiny form, “And you? Singing? Acting?” I see her perfect face crack, and the pain in her eyes leaks out all over her. But she is strong, I can tell, and in a moment she has wiped away all traces of the sadness. The only bit left is the deep wells in her eyes.            “No, I’m a dancer, despite a seemingly popular objection from my peers.” Scorn is in her voice. I can feel her thinking of another time. I long to calm myself again; I can feel my fear fluttering its wings against my chest, eradicating any trace of a calm heartbeat.            She pauses, realizing that she has broken her serenity. She tries again, “Sorry, I’m just a little sensitive, that’s all.”            I introduce myself, and she tells me her name is Amy. A silence settles in, following a gentle lull in the conversation, but Amy seems unmoved by it, so I concentrate on the audition ahead.             It’s bittersweet when they call the next group; I’m regretfully unready, but the adrenaline is pulsing so fast through my blood now that there’s no way to stop it. I stand up in perfect unison with Amy, as if it was choreographed that way. I like the expression on her face, as she smiles, eyes and all, and I notice the well of sadness is drying up. Side by side we enter the room.            It’s gloomy in there, and speaks of the people before us, the ones that were not quite good enough. But I see the happiness here, as well. The sunlight glinting off the mirror tells me of a lucky young girl. The dents on the wood floor speak of a boy who tap-danced his way to his dreams. The smile on Amy’s face speaks of second chances.            We sit in battered chairs along the back wall, and soon the room is full of people. My senses prick to full alert, and the smell of people fills my nose. I breathe deeply, desperately, urgently calming myself. But it is too late. The stage fright has a good hold now. And once it gets a hold, it won’t let go ‘til I’m there, dancing.            I tap my foot impatiently on the dented wood floor. It’s a good floor for impatience. So many here before me had most likely imitated my motions as they waited for their turns. And for the first time in a long while, I’m almost excited to dance. In front of people, that is.            I slide my favorite Pointe shoes from my tattered bag. They feel like an old friend as they hug my feet so gently. Next to me, Amy is pulling off her shoes and socks, and her feet remain bare afterwards. I see her toes clench on the cold floor. Despite the cold, though, I feel that the floor holds more memories of happy than sad. All around us, other are sliding their feet out of their everyday shoes, and slipping into Dance. I feel it now, around me, whispering in my ears.            You can do this, you can do this, it’s like a mantra in my head by the time they call the first name. Alphabetically, of course. I grumble to myself, not quite loud enough to be heard. A boy that looked scarce older than fourteen walked hesitantly to the front of the room. He stands with his back to the long mirror. I see him collecting himself, breathing in. I see myself in him.            But when he starts to dance, I no longer see myself. His stage-fright carries over into the dance, marring its surface, inscribing the fear into it. I close my eyes and I hope for the boy. I hope that he will pull himself together in time. I hope I will not have to see my biggest fear reflected in someone else. And he does pull it together. Slowly, but surely, the boy shakes off his apprehension like an old winter coat. And when he dances, he dances well. He feels the dance, I can tell. It’s not just motions to go through. He has graceful arcing legs and a young face. His dance tells of determination. Of love. And then I know one thing for sure, as that young boy swoops around the stage with fierce determination; and that is that I am not the only one who is afraid to fall. And at this point, we’ve got a long way to fall.

 I think that's where it left off. This is from Chelsea's pov now, btw :D

Wow... this brought up memories for me. I did nine years of ballet class, two or three times a week for most of it. I was never all that talented, and I didn't really have much passion for it, but if you do anything for that long it gets to be a part of you. 

The memory I thought of was the time when, basically through a fluke, I'd gotten what you might call the starring role in the annual recital the studio put on, which meant I basically had to open the whole show. I remember sitting in the bathroom right before the performance, terrified, but not being able to cry for fear I'd smudge my makeup. With Chelsea, you've captured that feeling so well, it's amazing. 

Thanks so much you guys :D I've reach 8k today! *squeeishness* Here's a bit more:

Amy            My initial impression of the room is that it’s a gloomy, dreary place. Technically, that’s my overall impression. I can’t understand how something as light and beautiful and dance can take place in such a dark environment. Floors that are dented with age, scratched and murky mirrors, and the ever-present smell of sadness that lingers in the floorboards. I wonder how many just like me have been condemned on these floors.             I’m not nervous, as I take off my socks and shoes. I never am. I scrunch my toes together and my blood starts flowing faster, heavy with adrenaline. Chelsea sits on my left, fitting her feet into Pointe shoes. She stands up and bounces up and down on her toes a few times, warming up. I admire her long form, graceful and refined. It’s amazing how tall she is, nearly the tallest girl in the room.             I get up to stretch, feeling stiff from the cold outside. The room is full by now, and we’re in amongst a crowd of other hopefuls. But this is my time to shine. I cannot allow myself to be caught up in worrying for other poor souls that don’t make it in. Survival of the fittest. They call up the first performer. It’s an amazingly young boy whose face is etched with nervousness. He won’t make it, and I’m not sorry. He’s just not ready yet. He’s too young, and is trying to force himself into something too big to handle, like a young girl playing dress-up with her mother’s high-heels.            I glance over at Chelsea, and to my surprise she’s watching him with something that looks like compassion. I lower my eyes as they call up the next hopeful, a girl that looks to be about twenty. She’s small and brunette, undoubtedly good. But nothing remarkable. I won’t think about her later, or remember her dance. Next.            Surprisingly, my fingers shake as they near my name. I had to take it seriously now. This wasn’t some game. I wasn’t alone in the studio anymore; rather, the studio was packed with people I had never met before. And I’d hardly call Chelsea a friend yet.            “Amy Emerson?” the dance teacher is a small, vulture-like woman with wrinkles spider webbing into laugh lines around her eyes. She smiles at me, and her face warms.             “Good luck, dear,” she murmurs as I pass on my way up to the front. The dark mirror is behind me, and I can almost feel my reflection being distorted behind me. I breathe in deeply. The music begins, and I hear my cue. And I am alone in the dance studio, for the thousandth time in my life.             I honestly don’t remember dancing. What I do know is that I was good. But I’m always good. I’m Amy. Perfect Amy that does everything right. I made my way back to my seat with commendably steady legs. The room was abuzz, whether ‘twas from my dancing, or a severe lack of patience on their part, I could not tell.             “Good job!” Chelsea mouths to me as they call up yet another dancer.            “Yes, good job,” a deep voice behind me causes me to turn around. A boy who couldn’t be any older than nineteen was sitting beside me. I’d neglected to acknowledge his presence the whole time.            “Oh, thank you,” I stick my hand out. Amy is always polite. “What’s your name? I’m Amy. I flew over from Chicago.”            He smiles, a crumpled grin that lights up his eyes. Is it just me, or does everyone around here seem to have perfect smiles?            “I’m Josh,” he shakes my hand, “I’m from New York.” He leans around me to shake Chelsea’s hand as well. They exchange a brief greeting. I turn my eyes back up towards the front of the room, where the next contestant is gliding towards the front of the room.            She has long blonde hair and big blue eyes. Her perfect figure is adorned with traditional ballet attire. (Except the tutu, that is. In place of that, she wears a flowing skirt.) She has a flawless complexion and full lips. All in all, she seems insanely boring. Who wants to look at that? Except for all of the boys in the room, of course. I’d rather look at Chelsea’s crooked front tooth. Or Josh’s freckled nose. Perfection is so boring. I guess that I’m biased, of course, seeing as how I masquerade as it every day.            But when the music starts, I’m startled to find that she’s actually good. Of course. Because the people that look perfect usually are, until, of course, you find something that their not perfect at. Because then you can rub that in their face and laugh. I assume that you’ve gathered by now I wasn’t exactly among an overabundance of friends in my school years. Apparently I’ve got a bad temper.            The girl twirls around the stage in what appears to be a cloud of fairy dust. I barely conceal a gag. She has no faults in her steps, but something is not quite right. There is something insipid and blasé about her movements. They’re graceful, of course, but she doesn’t feel them. She doesn’t know Dance like Chelsea does. Or like I do after those hours alone with it. She doesn’t feel it pulsating through her. It’s only practiced movements that have been rehearsed enough to be good.            I look around the room. All around me people are gaping at her. I don’t understand how even the practiced eyes of the dance instructors cannot see that she doesn’t love it. And as the girl curtsies into a finish, I see it. Dancing to her is like acting to me. An obligation. Something you’d been raised to love. As she glides back to her seat, with a blank, unfeeling smile on her face, I see how this girl is just like me. Only she does a much better job of seeming perfect.

So, yes... thoughts? (Sorry if it's too long Admins *cringe*)

*heavy sigh* no one loves me :'(

I LOVE it!!! I can't wait till you post from Chelsea's pov!  I really want to know what her life was like.

Thanks for all your feedback, guys. I haven't really had time to incorporate anything yet, but I'll let you know when I do. I mean, who has time for editing? I only have 13k! Agh! Here's some more from Chelsea's pov. WARNING: POV switches at random! Do not expect perfect order or you will be disappointed!

I’ve nearly got myself under control when they call Amy up. She rises from her chair with an air of confidence; shoulders back, head held high. She has a surprising lack of grace as she walks to the front. She is simply waling. Not making a show for anyone to see, just walking purely walking to get somewhere. She doesn’t make a show of it, as those before her had.            Standing in front of the aged mirror, Amy looks so impossibly fragile that I think of a porcelain doll on a shelf. A thin strand of piano music cuts through the silence. For a moment, she is still, alert, every muscle of her tiny form tensed and ready. She impersonates beauty itself. And I feel her sadness flutter away from her. It’s like she’s alone on the dance floor as the music strengthens.             When Amy dances, it’s not like anything else I’ve ever seen. I can almost feel her savoring it on body. It brings on a flow of emotions like I have never felt before. I feel pain, and bittersweet happiness. I feel Amy. When she’s finished, the room pauses for a second, holding its breath, wishing for more. And then it begins buzzing with conversation. Not only from the people, but from the room itself. The friendly old mirror in the corner seems to groan in approval. The harshly dented floor squeaks out support as she walks back across it, looking strangely detached.            “Good job!” I mouth silently towards her as she sinks down into her chair.             “Yes, good job,” a voice on her other side makes her spin around sharply. But she gathers herself, as she’d done in the front hallway when she’d slipped out of her mask for a moment.            “Thank you,” she tells him, and her introduction is just a little too forced. Her mask has slipped for the time being. I shake the boy’s hand, Josh, he says his name is. My eyes are lingering on the fading scars on his arms when I see the next performer out of the corner of my eye. And I recognize her. It’s Brandy. The girl who gave me stage fright when I was seven years old.            My stomach muscles clench. She glides up to the front of the room, flaunting for everyone. Not at all like Amy. And when the music starts, it’s just like all those years ago, when she was always better than everyone. She lacks the feeling that Amy poured into it. That needing, that wanting. She is dancing to prove a point. That she can have whatever she wants. Because Brandy is always perfect. Watching her, my stage fright comes back with such a high intensity that I nearly gag. Beside me, Amy watches with a look of annoyance on her face. Is it possible that she has a history with Brandy as well?              At the end of the song, Brandy pauses, eyes searching the crowd. I’m praying she won’t recognize me. I’ve changed a lot since the last time we’d seen each other in seventh grade. My hair had gotten longer and straighter. My front tooth had grown in crooked, and my eyes had changed from grey to brown. But as her eyes scan the room, I have a feeling that a crooked tooth won’t throw her off.            Her eyes lock with mine. And she smiles, a dark, malicious smile. A slim finger drawn gently across her throat while her cold eyes hold mine is enough to send me back into panic. And this time, I know, it won’t let go.

 PS: I need title suggestions for this. If anyone had any, I would greatly appreciate them :D Spoiler that's really important later: Amy and Josh don't actually get into Juilliard. Amy gets kicked out for starting a fight with Brandy, and Josh isn't good enough. So please refrain from using Juilliard in title suggs. Thanks! :D

Wow!  This is awesome!  Keep up the great work and good luck reaching your word goal! :D  I really like how your characters are really distinct and I can get to know them.  They're not like the second contestant, where you won't remember them later and they won't stick out in your mind. Once again, fantastic job!

~Leaf