Chaos Choreography (13 page)

I wasn't the only one. Only two dancers remained standing—Lo, who looked more amused than anything else, and Ivan, the other ballroom dancer from her season.

“I think you were built in a secret government lab for creating tireless ballroom dancers,” I accused without rancor, closing my eyes.

“Now that you know my secret, I'll have to incinerate you with my laser eyes,” said Lo. Her toe daintily prodded my ribs. “Get up. There's water. You could use some.”

“Everyone here is evil except for me,” I grumbled, and rolled over, climbing back to my feet before I opened my eyes. The first thing I saw when I did was Lo's smiling face.

“Evil, perhaps, but in excellent shape,” she said. “I heard you hadn't been working.”

Of course she'd heard that. The ballroom dance community is smaller than anyone likes to believe, despite
the number of talented amateurs and studios scattered across North America. Everyone talks, and while it's not like we all know each other personally, reputation is harder to run away from.

“There was some family stuff,” I said, wiping my cheeks on the top of my shirt. “I thought I'd been getting enough practice in. Apparently, I'm going to need to work harder.”

“Or risk elimination,” said Lo. Her smile faded, replaced by solemnity. “I want to know that everyone here is giving it their all. I want to know that whoever beats me will deserve it.”

“Maybe you'll win again,” I said.

Lo snorted and started walking toward the table at the back of the room where the water service was set up. “America isn't going to vote for the same winner twice in a row. They loved us enough to reward us, and I'm grateful, but all you have to do is look at the Internet to know that there are always people who think the wrong person won. Those are the voters we're courting back this season. Everyone who feels like their favorite got robbed their first time around will be turning out, and the producers will reap the rewards.”

“Why are you here if you feel like you can't win?” I asked, nabbing a small paper cup of water. The urge to dump it over my head was strong. I might have given in, if I hadn't known my wig would block most of it from reaching me.

“It's good exposure. I get to work with a wide variety of choreographers on someone else's time, while that same someone pays for my food and lodging. I'll be able to book more lessons after I show up on TV again. And it's
fun
. Are you really going to tell me you're only here because you might win this time?” Lo gave me an inquisitive look. Too inquisitive: for the first time since rehearsals started, I felt like my wig might be less convincing than it needed to be.

“No,” I admitted. “I missed my friends from the show,
and I wasn't doing anything big. This seemed like a good way to see them again. Like summer camp in high heels.”

Lo grinned. “I enjoyed you during your season. I voted for you, especially after your cha-cha in week two.”

“Thanks,” I said, returning her smile. I hadn't been watching the show regularly by the time Lo was on: something about being on assignment in New York had put a major crimp in my viewing schedule. Still, I'd seen enough to be sincere when I said, “I really like your footwork. Your quickstep is amazing.”

“I think we're going to be friends,” said Lo, just as Marisol banged her heel against the studio floor.

“Back to work! Back to work, and may some of you remember how to dance before the end of this day!”

Lo and I looked at each other, laughed, and dropped our paper cups in the trash before following the other dancers back toward rehearsal, and our future, which wasn't going to wait around for us to catch up with it.

We danced for the rest of the day, until our feet hurt and our thighs sang hosannas to the god of muscular torsion. And then we went back to our temporary homes and rubbed Tiger Balm on our legs and shoulders before collapsing into bed, a whole company of exhausted dolls being put away at the end of a long day's play. No one complained more than was absolutely necessary. We knew we were going to do it all again the next day.

And we did. We did it the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that, until we'd whittled away the week, and we were standing on the stage of Adrian Crier's specially-built theater, dressed in black and white rags, heads bowed, waiting for the music to begin. Brenna stood on the corner of the stage, her voice providing our only map through the darkness.

“You voted for them once, and you saw them rise to the top four, where one of them claimed the ultimate prize. Now they're back, ready to dance for you a second time—ready to prove that each and every one of them
deserves the title of America's Dancer of Choice. Welcome, to
Dance or Die
!”

The music began to pound: “Disturbia” by Rihanna. The dancers began to move, sharp, staccato, and more synchronized than anyone who wasn't on that stage would ever know. I stopped thinking and just moved, following the beat, flinging myself into the air and trusting the people larger than I was to catch me before I could fall. We hit the verse and split into pairs, racing forward to take center stage for a few precious seconds while our names flashed on the screens to the sides. Anders hit a merciless tap sequence, heels echoing like gunfire, during his solo. I matched it with my footwork, hips shaking until my ragged skirt was a blur. Then I dropped backward, and he caught me, dragging my limp form back into the swell.

We danced. The song was only four minutes long, and we needed every precious second to get through twenty introductions married to a group number. At the end, we began to fall, one tier at a time: the dancers who had come in fourth collapsed, then the ones who had come in third, then second, and finally the five winners, all of us sprawling on the stage like the dead. The audience exploded into applause. Brenna Kelly appeared from the back of the stage, stepping over our prone and supine bodies, shouting about how amazing we were.

The show was going on, and we were going with it. It was really happening. I lay there, cheek pressed to the stage, catching my breath, and smiled.

I was dancing again.

“A mother is always proud of her children. Sometimes she doesn't understand what the hell it is they're doing, but that's also part of motherhood. If you always understand your kids, they're probably not telling you everything.”

—Evelyn Baker

The Crier Theater, three weeks and two eliminations later

“L
AST WEEK,
they left their hearts on the stage, and America voted. Now it's time for me to tell you which three girls and which three guys are in danger. Are you ready?” Brenna's eyes skimmed down the line of dancers. The stage felt too small for the sixteen of us, standing with our partners in heart-dropping solidarity. Anders had one arm wrapped loosely around my shoulders, offering what comfort he could.

Intellectually, I knew we were unlikely to be in danger of elimination: we'd both danced incredibly well, and we still had a strong fan following. The fact that we'd reached the third performance week without dipping into the bottom proved that. Emotionally, I was holding my breath, bracing for the moment when Brenna called my name.

“Poppy. Emily. Jessica,” said Brenna. “Reggie. Chaz. Ivan.”

The six dancers she'd named stepped forward. Poppy
and Chaz were a partnership, and they clung to each other even harder once they were no longer in the back row of dancers.

“If I did not call your name, you are safe, and can leave the stage,” said Brenna. We filed obediently away, heading for our dressing rooms. The first couple to perform would only have about ten minutes before they were expected back on stage. That was Lo and Will, a contemporary dancer. What they lost in time, they would gain in being the first to make an impression on the audience this week. Starting the show could bring big rewards, if you could be sure your eyeliner was straight.

Monitors lined the hall, allowing those of us backstage to keep up with what was going on at the front of the house. It was odd to see Brenna from the front, as the audience saw her, and not as a tall, occasionally terrifying figure moving among us. She looked sad, something I knew was more than half sincere.

“These are the dancers your votes have put in danger, America,” said Brenna gravely. “This is the part I enjoy the least, because one guy and one girl will be leaving us tonight. But buck up! There's still a chance for each of these dancers to save themselves. All right? Off with you now. Go get ready.” The six dancers rushed for the wings, and Brenna turned to begin giving the spiel that would lead us into the commercial break.

I continued on to my dressing room. I had my own routine to get ready for, and maybe more importantly, I didn't want to get caught by Jessica when she came looking for someone to wail at. She thought everything was unfair, from the choreography she was assigned to the fact that she was dancing with someone who wasn't originally her partner. Being in the bottom six would probably trigger the sort of fit that I didn't want to be anywhere near.

I was here to dance. I had danced my way through two weeks of eliminations after the performance-only week one, saying good-bye to Raisa and Graham in week two, and to Bobbi and Danny in week three. It was week four,
and I was still standing, because I knew what was expected of me. The judges and the people at home, they just wanted me to dance.

And that was exactly what I was going to do.

With neither me nor Anders in danger, we'd been able to flirt, fight, and float our way through a contemporary routine set to a Yael Naim cover of “Toxic” by Britney Spears. There was no concern that this dance would be our last: we just did our best and left everything on the stage. We were the last routine of the night, and we were still streaked with acid-green chalk when we joined the other safe dancers in the pit in front of the judges' table, where we could watch the elimination.

“All right,” said Brenna, standing in front of the line of six dancers in danger. “Adrian? I know you don't like this part, either, so I suppose we should get down to it. What have the judges decided?”

“Well, Brenna, we are unanimous tonight. But before I give our decision, I want to remind all our dancers that you're with us because we already know we love you, and that America loves you. It's just that we're a competition show, which means someone always has to go home, no matter how much we want to keep you all.”

Anders squeezed my hand. I squeezed back. This was still nerve-racking, even when we knew we were safe, because next week, we might not be. Jessica had her eyes cast down at the stage, probably so the audience wouldn't realize she was glaring daggers at the people who'd dared to not vote for her.

“You're all magnificent dancers. We are so very proud to have seen your talent grow over your time with us, both in your original seasons, and over these past weeks. You are truly stars. Never forget that. Poppy, step forward. Chaz, step forward.”

Poppy—a diminutive blonde from Utah who danced ballroom with the clinical precision of a surgeon—and
Chaz—a jazz dancer from Chicago who sometimes seemed to have no bones at all—stepped forward. Both were from season one. I turned to bury my face against Anders' shoulder. The judges weren't making any effort to whittle down the seasons symmetrically. They could take out an entire year with two eliminations, and they knew it.

“You will be leaving us tonight,” said Adrian. Poppy and Chaz nodded as Brenna shooed the other dancers off the stage and began telling the eliminated contestants how much we were going to miss them. I doubt they heard a word she said. I certainly didn't. As with every elimination, the reality of the competition was slamming down on me, and I was suddenly, fiercely missing my normal, monster-filled life, where at least no one was going to vote me off.

Then the theme music was playing, and the remaining dancers were rushing the stage for good-bye hugs and mass goofing around, all while mugging for the cameras and reminding people at home that we were still here, we still wanted their votes, please don't send us home. It wasn't dignified, but as Pax swept me off my feet and held me up in a perfect
Dirty Dancing
lift, the weight of the competition eased off, and there wasn't anywhere else I would have wanted to be. I was a dancer. I was dancing again. That was all that really mattered.

We weren't allowed to roam around unescorted according to our contracts, but the producers understood that dancers were a weird and temperamental lot, so they didn't try too hard to force us all to leave the theater on time. Drivers had been assigned to each season, with the understanding that sometimes we would swap cars, and no one would be left behind.

I didn't feel like hurrying. The first people to get back to the apartments would be the ones starting the after party, and that wasn't the sort of responsibility I felt like
having on my shoulders. Not tonight, not with my complicated feelings about the show warring for my full attention. So I sat at my dressing table and slowly wiped the chalk off my cheeks, listening to the theater emptying out around me.

Lyra lounged on the room's small couch, filing her already perfect nails. “Are you planning to sleep here tonight?” she asked.

“There was open space in the season one car,” I said, wiping off another streak. Leanne, as the only remaining contestant from season five, had been consolidated into the season four car. It was like Tetris, only with high-strung, over-stimulated dancers instead of colored blocks.

“Oh, because riding with Jessica after
that
is the sort of thing I feel like doing,” she said, and snorted. “Thanks, but no thanks. I'll wait until you're ready to go.”

“Anders is doing the same cleanup job. You should go find Pax, see if he wants to practice your lifts.”

“Nope. Pax is being standoffish and weird, so I'm giving him the cold shoulder.”

I eyed her in the mirror. “Did you try to kiss him again?”

Lyra's coy smile was all the answer I needed. I sighed.

“You know that makes him uncomfortable,” I said. My wig itched, but I couldn't take it off to adjust it in the theater. Lyra knew I wore a wig. So did Brenna. Everyone else would have been shocked and appalled, and it wasn't like we had actual privacy here. “Flirt with Anders instead. I promise I won't mind. I might even thank you. David's twitchy about me sharing an apartment with two men he doesn't know.”

“Eh,” said Lyra, and kept filing her nails.

Someone knocked on the doorframe. I glanced over my shoulder, and there was Pax, looking shaken and a little ill. “Val, do you have a second?” he asked.

It's hard to upset an Ukupani. Pax had always struck me as even more unflappable than most. I sat up straighter, putting down my washcloth.

Lyra, meanwhile, was pouting as prettily as she knew how—which was, admittedly, very pretty. She was a practiced pouter. “I have a second,” she said.

“I just threw up in the stairwell and I need someone to help me find a mop,” said Pax. “Do you really want to be here for me?”

Lyra's weak stomach had been legendary during our season, to the point of keeping a bucket backstage before competition, just in case. She wrinkled her nose and sank back into the couch cushions. “No,” she said. “Take Valerie. She's good with gross.”

“Thank you for your endorsement,” I said, standing.

She waved a hand magnanimously. “But hurry up, okay? I want to get home before the party winds down. We might start switching partners next week, and I don't want people to think I'm no fun.”

“Do my best,” I said, and hurried out of the room.

Pax waited until we were halfway down the hall before he said, “I didn't throw up.”

“I know.” Ukupani were therianthrope sharks. They could eat basically anything, and I wasn't even sure they
had
a regurgitation reflex. Not the sort of thing I could ask about in mixed company. “What's going on?”

Now he looked even more uncomfortable, glancing around himself several times to confirm that we were alone before he leaned a little closer and asked, “Can you smell blood?”

“No,” I said, the first hints of concern seeping into my consciousness. “Human noses aren't set up for blood detection. More's the pity. I'd ruin fewer cute skirts if they were. Do you smell blood?”

Pax nodded tightly. “I noticed it when I was walking Malena out to her car. You know she's a chupacabra, right?”

“I suspected.” Chupacabra were oddly drawn to ballroom dance. Or maybe not that oddly—ballroom dance is
awesome
. “Did she smell the blood, too?”

“Yeah,” he said. He ran a hand back through his hair.
“She's still here. It's cool if we cram in five people for the ride home, right? Because we told the season three driver she was going to be riding back with us.”

It wouldn't be the worst thing we'd done to one of the studio drivers. Lyra could deal. “That should be fine. Where is she?”

Pax gave me an inscrutable look. “She's with the blood. It seemed . . . safer, than leaving me with it.”