Prima the ballerina, worked so hard at dancing she even danced in her sleep. In the middle of the night strange poundings coming from her bedroom would waken her family. Ffump … ffump.
“She’s doing it again,” her sleepy mother would say to her father and poke him with her elbow.
“Will somebody stop that crazy girl?” moaned her older brother groggily from across the hall.
“Hrrumph,” her father growled as he crawled out of bed. Putting on his robe, he complained tohis wife, “You’re the one who named her Prima, who filled her head with all this nonsense about being the best.”
Sure enough, when he opened the door to Prima’s bedroom, there she would be, dressed in her warm pajamas, poised on her bed with the springs squeaking and creaking, exercising her classical ballet steps: Plié. Tendu. Frappé. Echappé. All the time she was facing her bedroom mirror even though she was sound asleep. Ffump … ffump … ffump.
Prima’s goal was to be the best ballerina in the City. She wanted to soar in higher jettés than any other dancer. She wanted to turn ’round and ’round in amazing fouettés. She wanted to look more beautiful than all the others, to stun audiences with her grace. She wanted the spotlight. She wanted standing ovations. She wanted piles of flowers from admirers.
She practiced hours every day, and only left the Dance Studio when the Dancing Master turned off the lights and locked the doors. She ignored her strained muscles and the bleeding blisters on her feet.
Actually, Prima was not happy with the Dance Studio Company…