Showcase entry for LivingRed

Pitch:

THE TURNING POINT meets THE LONGEST RIDE. With the help of a smooth-talking cowboy, a broken ballerina battles physical and emotional trauma to get back to the barre, and maybe find love in the process.

Blurb:

A shy ballerina's structured life shattered in an instant. Can one rugged, flirtatious cowboy mend it all?

Adeline Vaughn's career is over.

All because of a spinal fracture.

Despite the success in physical therapy, Adeline's calloused mother wants nothing to do with her. So Adeline has no choice but to uproot her life and move to Kentucky to live with her aunt.

But the welcome party that greets her is not what Adeline expects-- nor the spark that ignites between her and a certain cowboy.

Soon Adeline finds herself the subject of this blue-eyed devil's desires.

But Quinn Daniel's is no devil.

As a friendship forms Quinn's patience, strength, and heart to serve those around him, begins to draw Addie to him in ways she never thought possible. But can this rugged cowboy with slow smiles and southern charm help her confront her tragic past and connect with Adeline despite her disorder?

As she rebuilds her life, Adeline struggles with her obsessive-compulsive tendencies... and deeper wounds she isn't ready to confront.

Getting back to the barre is not a physical fight, but psychological.

Will family, new friendships, and love help her overcome this inner battle? Or will she lose her ability to dance forever?

First 1K words:

The End is A New Beginning

1,2,3

1...2...3

3:00 a.m.

ADOLPHE ADAM'S SCORE CHIMES TO LIFE from my phone alarm and my mind fills with the mad scene from Giselle.

I yawn as my feet touch the cool wood floor and it whines when my full weight presses down on it. Gliding over to the bathroom, I begin my morning ritual.

1. Brush my teeth for a full minute then whiten them with my homemade remedy.

2. Wash my face and hands with soap.

3. Split my long ebony hair down the middle, French braiding each side and pulling it up into a tight bun with no wisps escaping.

I walk back into my room where there's not a speck of dust anywhere. It's pleasing to see that last week's deep clean is still lasting.

Rocking from heel to toe, I tiptoe to the dresser grabbing my light pink ballet tights. I pull up the thick cotton spandex that clings to my legs with my blistered hammer toes poking out. Slipping on the high neck leotard, the cold air tickles my skin from the open back. As I stretch my body, the skintight wardrobe stretches along with me.

Perfect.

I slide on my flats, pick up my pointe shoes, and head toward the kitchen to make my spinach and kale smoothie. The sound of the blender fills my entire studio apartment as I hum the song from my alarm. Glancing around, the quiet settles into my bones.

I have no family pictures displayed in pretty frames, the bare walls desperately need a touch of Joanna Gaines's magic, and every inch of the space looks as if it's staged for a showing. There's no life, no comfort... no anything.

All I do is wake up, dance, come home, maybe binge-watch something, then sleep.

I pour the unappealing green concoction into my giant cup and head for the door. I wrap myself in my long coat and twist my scarf around my neck three times, then exit checking the brass doorknob three times to make sure it's locked. I jog to the subway, jumping onto the one heading to the street the ballet company is on. Before I do though, I rock back and forth, heel to toe three times.

I've worked tediously my entire life and pushed myself to my limits, and it would seem to onlookers as if my life fits perfectly together. Yet... this seamless world is nothing but crumbs at my broken feet.

All I want is to mean something... to someone.

It isn't long before I am pushing open the creaking doors, the strong lemon-scented cleaning chemicals burning my nose. Something about that lemony acidic smell makes me cringe every time.

Once I am in the rehearsal room, I strip off my coat and scarf. Walking over to the music station, I switch on the same score that had chimed on my phone this morning.

I take a deep breath before getting started to clear my mind, knowing that I need to work on my depiction of torment in this scene. I have all the steps but need to show Giselle's madness better.

Ridding my mind of all thoughts, I stretch my body against the barre. As I warm up, only the image of a flawless performance is allowed in. I have to nail this because it's a crucial part of the story.

I must be perfect.

Closing my eyes, I allow the music to fill my ears, letting it take control and guide my motions as I work through the choreography. I allow the music and my body to become one, the melody making every big and tiny movement flawless, all the way to the stretching of my fingertips.

Mid spin, I realize that I need to let my hair down. It should be dancing for this scene too. Many great ballerinas have used their hair to exhibit Giselle's madness.

I made a note to talk about that later with Madame.

I finish out the scene as the room begins to fill and my daily routine continues.

1,2,3.

I like to count to three. And no, it's not the ballroom kind, but a calculated repetition. On this rubber floor, it is my fuel and I use it to my advantage.

My palm hits the door to leave and I inconspicuously tap it with one finger before opening it.

1,2,3

A bench I pass by every day comes into view and I lightly knock my knuckles on it.

1,2,3.

I am the creature of habit.

Sighing, I wipe the sweat off my brow and finish the last class of the day. Sometimes it's like I'm repeating the same day over and over again, like Groundhog Day. The only thing that shows me I'm not is how the performances change from Giselle to Swan Lake to The Nutcracker, etc.

The hallways are lively with chatter and gossip, but everyone stops and eyes me while whispering to one another as I walk by. Ballet can be very cutthroat, especially when you're the number one dancer.

I've heard the whispers. To some, I appear ungrateful because a way of showing your gratitude is to be prideful.

And I hate being prideful.

To others, I'm a weird combination of the tin man and cowardly lion, which is actually pretty accurate.

I'd love to go see the wizard and receive a heart and courage.

One ticket to OZ, please.

At the end of the hallway, Lucas is hovering over Clary with one arm above her head and his other pulls her in by her tiny waist, fusing their bodies intimately.

Light footsteps fall behind me as Lucas and Clary follow me into rehearsal. It seems like she's his new fling, poor girl. Clary is cute and very pixie-like, while I'm more of the plain, classical look. I follow each step with precision, whereas Clary feels the music, lets it drive her, and expose her passion. Unfortunately for her, the instructors care more for discipline, which is what she lacks. And that's why she's my understudy.

I love dancing, I love ballet, but I hate performing for an audience that expects perfection. If I miss a step or falter, I go home and have a hard time concentrating on anything but my mistakes.

Dancing for me is so much more than performing a story for the audience. It's about living in the moment, not being rewarded or applauded. It's about being free. When I'm alone with no one watching, that's exactly what I do, I dance freely. But when I'm performing... reality sinks in and I revert to the girl with a disorder. I have to look perfect because, well... I'm broken. My whole life has revolved around not letting people see that.

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