The crowd went wild. Malena, frozen in a dip next to me, whispered, “You got a plan?”
“Try not to die,” I whispered back. Then the lights were on Brenna, who was introducing the judges to the audience, and it was time to form our line across the back of the stage, falling into position and waiting to hear our fates.
It was the usual three judges tonight: Adrian, Lindy, and Clint, waving and smiling while they were facing the audience, but reverting to all business as they turned back to Brenna. She was saying something about how the cut from top twelve to top ten was always one of the hardest, because we’d all worked so hard and come so far, and didn’t the judges agree that it would be better if we could all stay forever? It was a spiel I’d heard from her before, and only the fact that she was genuinely sorry to see any of us go saved it from becoming saccharine.
Malena’s hand found mine and squeezed. I glanced her way without moving my head. None of us were smiling now. Silence and solemnity were the order of the night when it was time to learn who was in danger and who was guaranteed another week on the dance floor.
Brenna finished talking to the judges and drifted back, accompanied by the spotlights, to speak to the dancers. “Hello, my darlings, hello. Don’t you look splendid tonight? What am I saying, you always look splendid. You know what time it is, don’t you? Oh, I hate this part.” She had two small envelopes in the hand not holding her ever-present microphone. They could have wired the whole stage for sound, but preferred the illusion that this was a smaller, more intimate sort of show. I’d never had a problem with that. We wouldn’t have been able to whisper among ourselves if the place had been fully wired.
“Last week, America voted, and now three girls and three guys are in danger of elimination. Remember that this week is the last time the judges will be able to save any of you: after this, it will be purely about the audience votes.”
The judges haven’t saved any of us, I thought, looking straight ahead as Malena squeezed my right hand and Anders squeezed my left. Pax had his arms around Lyra’s waist, using her almost like a human shield against what Brenna was going to say next.
“Let’s get this over with,” said Brenna, and opened her first envelope. “Troy, step forward. Ivan, step forward. Anders, step forward.”
The look Anders shot me as he let go of my hand and stepped forward was pure anguish, overlaid with a layer of resigned betrayal. Somehow, that wasn’t a contradiction, and I couldn’t blame him. It was my fault he was in the bottom three, after all.
“You are in danger tonight, I’m sorry,” said Brenna. “Will, Pax, Reggie, you may leave the stage.”
The music played a descending sting, telegraphing the disappointment of the dancers on the stage. Brenna turned her attention to the girls.
“Hello, my girls,” she said. That was all she said, but I caught her flicker-quick glance in my direction, and steeled myself against what she was going to say next.
The envelope opened with a small tearing sound. Brenna took a breath.
“Lo, step forward,” she said. “Lyra, step forward. Valerie, step forward. The rest of the girls can leave the stage.”
Malena grimaced sympathetically as she pulled her hand from mine and let me step into position. Then she was gone, and the six of us were standing, exposed and a little sick, alone with Brenna.
“My darlings, you are in danger. The judges will make their decision at the end of the evening,” she said. “One guy and one girl will be leaving us tonight. In the meantime, we have six exciting partner dances to come, and will be seeing solos from all six of our dancers in danger. After the break, Jessica and Reggie will be taking you to Broadway, in a Carl Nanson routine. See you in a moment, America!”
The lights flashed, signaling the end of the live broadcast segment. Brenna turned to us, suddenly solemn.
“Dance for your lives, my darlings,” she said. “Now go.”
We went.
Anders was waiting for me in the hall.
“I knew you’d be in the bottom, but I didn’t think you’d drag me down with you,” he said, without preamble. “Do you have any idea what this could mean?”
“We need to get ready, we’re on third,” I said, trying to step around him. He moved to block me.
The color was high in his cheeks; his eyes were narrowed, and he was taking short, sharp breaths, like he was trying to cage his anger. I realized there was a chance he might take a swing at me, and I would have to decide whether to be Valerie and take the hit, or be Verity, and break his goddamn arm.