“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.