The Art of Failing (pt. 1)

"Failure. Isn't. An. Option."
Of course it wasn't. In the eyes of a red-headed Pinciatti, if your didn't get a standing ovation for your solo or weren't a doctor straight out of Harvard, you could forget about leaving your curtains open during day light hours.
Meghan Pinciatti glared at the woman who called herself Meghan's mother and pushed herself off of the floor. Four dancers--Meghan, Gwen, Sharon and myself--had stayed behind at the studio after dance class to practice our routine. We had to go from our knees to jumping onto chairs; Meghan had missed.
Meghan took her starting spot. "From the top--Valerie?" She looked at me as she said my name. I reached into the pocket of my sweats and pulled out the remote to get Rihanna's "Breakin' Dishes" playing.
"Five, six, five, six, seven, eight!" Gwen yelled, and we all arched our backs a bit and moved to the beat with the choregraphed moves. They were all jerky and masculine, which was the intended effect.
We all dropped to our knees, then dropped our forearms on the ground, to the next move of throwing our heads back and jumping onto the chairs. My own chair wobbled a bit as on foot pressed on the seat and the other on the back.
Meghan cried out as hers toppled over into Gwen's, which set off the domino effect. Being on the end, I fell over last, and landed on my stomach against the chair. I groaned, clutching my side. I knew from the fact that I nearly passed out from the pain of breathing that I had broken a rib.
Meghan's mother stood, laughing. I glances around at Meghan. She was clutching her wrist to herself, repeating, "Failure is not an option."





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