For reasons you can't quite explain, you feel compelled to walk over to the corner of the room, by the mirrored wall. Somehow you just know you need to start at "stage left.".
The music is clearly audible now, a classical piece that seems so very familiar.
"Croisé left." you think to yourself, crossing your left foot over your right and holding your arms low, forming an oval. "Arms en bas."
"Hey, 10, stop messing around. We need to get going!" says 8, but your focus is on the music, not her voice.
You bend at the knees for a plié and step back on your right foot. "Now tendu left." you think, recalling this routine as if you'd done it a hundred times before.
With trained precision and confidence, you step left, and then right, and then begin a waltz across the room.
8 is clearly frustrated by this point. "Look, if you're just gonna goof off, I'm leaving." You're pretty sure she has some other choice words for you, but you're not really paying attention. It's a bit of a relief when she departs and leaves you to your routine.
As you turn en pointe you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirrored wall. Your G.E.T. uniform looks much baggier on you, and your hair seems to have grown slightly longer and neater. You thought you felt it brushing against your cheek.
While these changes should be alarming to you, you simply continue your routine. "Plié fifth, croisé right." you mentally recite the steps to yourself. The room seems quite a bit larger now and your uniform is so loose that you risk getting tangled up. Eventually your pants and boxers become so baggy that they fall to the ground. You continue without even pausing for a second to contemplate this.
"Plié fourth, pirouette."
You catch a glimpse of your reflection once again, your hair now reaches down almost to your chin with neat straight-cut bangs, and you realize how thin and slender you look. Your baggy, oversized uniform shirt slips off of your narrow shoulders and pools at your feet, leaving you in just a tank top which now fits you like a dress. A pair of tiny raised buds just barely poke at the front of the material at your chest, and you feel an uncomfortable stirring and churning in your crotch as the entirety of your manhood begins to pull itself upwards, receding into your body and permanently reshaping itself into a hairless little vagina.
This doesn't even alarm you, the only thought that occurs to you is that your routine will be much easier without that thing dangling between your legs.
You finish your pirouette, gather, and end on a lunge, turning to face the mirrors.
The music stops.
Your mind returns.
You're greeted by your reflection, the reflection of a girl of about 12 or 13 years old, with neatly bobbed brown hair and big blue eyes that stare back at you with visible confusion and distress.
You're now barely a head taller that the rail, or the barre as you now know it's called, which would put you at several inches below five feet tall. Before you can finish processing the shock of your new body, your baggy tank top changes from white to a brilliant gold and then suddenly shrinks to snugly fit your body, causing you to let out an embarrassingly girlish yelp of surprise. The material changes to something thinner and stretchier, conforming to your meager curves and barely-there breasts as if it was designed specifically for you. A strip of material forms between your legs and fits itself snugly over your privates, completing to garment's transformation into a golden leotard.
You shudder as smooth, white material begins to crawl up your legs, sliding up your thighs and disappearing under your leotard, forming a pair of tights.
And just when you think it's all over, a shimmering golden tutu unceremoniously POOFs into existence around your waist, leaving you feeling shocked and embarrassed all at once.
Once again you're left all alone with your reflection, and the mixture of horror, confusion, sadness and humiliation on the young girl's face sums up your own feelings pretty well.