“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.

Seven

“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

“LAST 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.”