Chaos Choreography (InCryptid, #5)(32)
Our choreographer, Marisol Bustos, shouted instructions and we did our best to follow them. I’d worked with her before on my original season, and I knew she didn’t expect perfection right off the bat: she just wanted to know that we were trying. Well, I was trying, and when she finally called, “Enough! Enough! You are hopeless and should take fifteen minutes to dwell upon your failures!”, I was more than ready to collapse into a heap on the studio floor.
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.