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.