stopthisTRAIN ; openn.

[grace avery ivy]

She needed to clear her head. Just breathe, and move with the words of a song. She pushed open the door with her arm, and continued in the room to sit down on the wooden floor. Luckily, the room was empty. Not many people would think of working out a routine at eleven o'clock at night, on a Sunday. Grace pulled off her sweater and placed her hands on her bare legs. Fitting navy "booty" shorts clung to her thin thighs, along with a white wife beater - her hair down. She was too lazy, and too much was on her mind for her to focus on putting anything in it's place.

Why was Grace confused? Life. She didn't want to end it or anything, but it was that small little teenage roadblock that the young-adult wonders if life was made for them. Why were they there anyway? Were they on Earth for a reason? And Grace couldn't find an answer. And to be honest, that drove her up the wall. She couldn't focus when things weren't able to be figured out. That's not how things work.

She plugged in her small radio, and placed in her mixed CD, moving a bit farther away to sit on the ground and spread her legs apart. She leaned over and held it, and the the other leg. Stretching made her feel almost as good as dancing did. Everything in her body just stopped for a second, and felt that extra tug - but after it felt good. Grace continued this, before glancing at the door again. The fear of getting caught all by herself was something wasn't a comfortable thing to go through, and it was mostly just because of the fact that she wouldn't of known them. She didn't know anybody. It didn't bother her most of the time - but she did want at least one person to lean on for some support. But caring had to come with baggage and for some reason she always pushed it away. She stood to her feet and slipped off her shoes to her ankle socks, and slid into the splits. Dancing was so important to her. It was weird sometimes how she would turn to a type of exercise for her living rather than a person. Hell, she was at a school with over three hundred kids - how could he not find anyone? Because, she was Grace.

She stood back up and turned up the music just a little louder, and moved into the center of the studio. She looked at herself in the mirror, inhaling deeply. She wasn't going to be doing her regular routines, more of a cool-down. Her movements started and she tried to forget the things around her, listening to the words of the music. But she wasn't in her element. She shook her head as she dropped to the floor on her hands and knees, shaking her head in disappointment of herself. Grace rolled onto her back and starred at the ceiling.

[Zander Dredly]

His father had called, and he didn’t sound like a happy man. Apparently, he had met with Zander’s jazz instructor briefly, and the report wasn’t good at all. Zander knew he had slackened. There were just too many distractions going on in his life. Sure, he painted it up to be parties, girls, and more parties. But it had all been empty inside. And emptiness wasn’t a foreign feeling to the boy. The call from his father did nothing to appease his insecurities and that need to feel acceptance, more.

Zander sulked as he dragged his duffel bag on the floor. All his father cared about was his performance. His performance at school, his performance at formal events with the other Dredlys, his performance at reputation … it never ended. It felt like his father never cared about him. And it was just as bad with the mother. She was never seen again ever since she left the family, and neither did she seek to contact her son. Besides, Zander could never bring the subject of his mother up to his father. The older Dredly would go on another temper rampage that could very well end in a fight with his son. But of course, the Dredlys always look cultured and proper on the outside. It is, after all, a pity to damage a long-cultivated reputation.

Dressed in a simple black singlet and baggy trackpants that he always wears for dance practises, Zander finally found himself at the door of the jazz studio. He had heard music along the corridors, and it was definitely odd to find someone up so late practising. That person could either be extremely passionate and diligent, or is practically in the same boat as him. He couldn’t think up any other reasons.

As soon as his eyes landed on the figure of a girl in the jazz studio, Zander placed his bag beside the door as he folded his arms at his chest to watch her dance, silently. She seemed vaguely familiar, but was obviously not the high-profiled people from jazz, or he would have known her. Still, the girl looked pleasant enough to not make him want to turn away and go into another studio. Besides, it would be good to know more people from jazz, unless they turn out to belong to his category of students who are simply weird – of which a lot of people have already graced. Zander always put people into boxes in his mind. He never found it hard to judge people different from him.