“Oh my gosh,” my friend/dance partner, Alexis , complained,

“remind me never to come to the dance studio when it is 90 degrees outside!”

“I don’t want to be here either.” I moaned. I had been at my dance studio for four hours now without any breaks. My feet were killing me. Dancing isn’t as easy as it looks.

Anyway, we were going through our tap routine for the eleventh time.

“Uuuuugh! I don’t even like tap! Why does the studio require us to try out for every type of dance if I only want to be on one competitive team!” I questioned angrily in my head.

My feet kept flopping and stumbling through tryouts. I had never done tap before, and the judges could tell, they were looking at me like I was crazy for trying out. Once again I thought to myself;

“It’s not my fault that I have to audition! I only want to try out for one class!”
Finally, the music stopped and we were dismissed-to another class. But this was the class I had waited five hours for; hip-hop It sounds like a funny type of dance, but it really isn’t. It’s very fun to learn and practicing it is really fun, too. It is my passion and it has been since I was in third grade. I have been in a ton of different hip-hop classes and many different teachers have taught me. But now I was trying out for a team. This was different. This was competitive. This was my chance to stand out. Our routine was agonizing. We learned a dance to a whole song in one hour. It was very difficult. We were struggling to stay awake and on our feet.
“Ok,” Ms. Megan’s loud but gentle voice announced,
“Ms. Abby and I are going to separate you into six groups. Remember, who you are with, doesn’t necessarily mean that we are going to pick you or not. Don’t be nervous!” she walked away and fiddled with her ipod, trying to find the right song for the auditions. Every girl in every group was silent. We knew that just because she said “the groups don’t matter”, didn’t mean it was the truth We knew it wasn’t the truth.
Group one was called up to dance and was dismissed just as quickly. Group two was good, but by the look on the judges faces, you could tell that only a few girls would be considered to be on the squad.
“Group three please!” Ms. Abby said with a smile.
“Ok, you can do this,” I reassured myself, “I’m just practicing dance moves in my room.” As I stepped up onto the floor that had been worn down from all of the tap shoes shuffling and hip-hop shoes stomping, I took a deep breath, my friends and I wished each other good luck, and we got into our starting positions.
Ms. Megan looked excited to see another performance. She asked us if we were ready, and even though we weren’t, we all mumbled “yes”.
Ms. Abby gave us our cue:
“...5,6,7,8” We danced and tried to remember all of the steps.

When our dance ended, we stumbled off the stage as the next group trotted on nervously.
By the end of tryouts we were pale and tired. We guzzled down our water bottles and hauled ourselves out to our cars, ready to go home and get some rest after our long day that started before the sun had risen.
“How was it?” my mom’s cheerful voice asked. I took a sip of water.
“Hot. I wanna go swimming.” I whined. Then, my younger brother and his friend looked at me funny.
“You’re wearing a leotard and tights!” Then they burst out in laughter. I didn’t see what was so funny about my outfit. It was my studios policy that we had to wear this or we wouldn’t be able to try out. Besides, they were the ones wearing sopping wet bathing suits.
Weeks later, after many more tryouts and dance camps had passed, I heard my name coming from the kitchen.
“EMILY, MAIL CALL!” My friend and I exchanged glances, we knew exactly what was waiting for me. I hurried inside, and sure enough, sitting on the shiny white countertop was an envelope. An envelope with
EMILY SMITH
BLDC
typed on the cover of the otherwise blank paper. I stared at it, hoping that, inside this envelope that was containing my fate, would be good news. My mind was otherwise blank. My palms were sweating and my knees were shaking. I could feel the stares of my friends and family surrounding me, watching my every move, waiting for me to rip open the envelope. Their hot steamy breath was burning the back of my neck. I slowly, gently, carefully picked up my future and held it in my hands. I looked back at my parents,
“OPEN IT!” my brother shouted from behind me.
“Ok. I tried my best at tryouts. At least if I don’t make it, I have that to fall back on.” I reassured myself in my blank mind. I turned over the envelope slowly, as if any sudden movement would wake it up from a deep, dark sleep. I slid my thumb under the crisp, white flap sealed with the saliva of my dance instructor. It popped up and fell back down. The white slip of paper inside peeked out. I pinched the folded corner with my thumb and pointer finger and gently tugged it out of the envelope. This was it. This was the letter that I had been waiting for for 4 weeks.
“Honey,” my moms sweet but shaky voice encouraged, “no matter what happens, I am still very proud of you for trying.” I was not at all relieved by that. I unfolded the paper, trying not to rip it, just in case it was fridge worthy. One last fold. I was licking my lips and breathing heavily. I had to see what was on this paper. I unfolded the sheet stained with printer ink and carefully read.
“Please don’t put me in jazz or tap! I just want to be in hip-hop and maybe ballet. Please!” I pleaded inside my head.
The paper read:
TAP: No
JAZZ: No
BALLET: Technique Class-See director for date and time
HIP-HOP: Competitive Class-See director for date and time

“AAAAAAAAHHHHH!” I squealed with excitement.
“I did it! I am in competitive dance! I’m taking ballet technique! Oh my gosh when does class start? I’m so excited!” These were just a few things running through my mind as I was congratulated by my friends and family. My dad gave me a high five and told me how awesome I was. My friends told me how proud they were of me and gave me a hug. I blushed and hugged them back. My mom gave me a big hug, and, as I was wrapped in her arms, I felt a sense of accomplishment. I tried hard for something and it payed off. All those days of rehearsing and sweating finally meant something to me now. My goal had been reached and I couldn’t have been more proud of myself.
I am now practicing for my competitions and I’m loving dance more and more every day. I can’t wait to go to a competition for the first time and my friends are excited, too. Working hard does pay off. It sounds really cheesy, but, when you get a chance to chase your dreams, DO IT.