Then the show’s theme music began, and Brenna Kelly strutted onto the stage, walking through the mass of dancers. We straightened and bowed to her as she passed us. She rewarded us with smiles and blown kisses, chirping, “Hello, my darlings! Wasn’t that amazing? Hurry now, go and get yourselves ready.”
That was our cue. We scattered, running back to the dressing rooms, where the wardrobe assistants were waiting to scrape the makeup off of our faces and brush enough of the hairspray out of our hair to render it malleable. We had eight minutes—only four of which would actually be broadcast—to get into our costumes for the intro. The unlucky couple that would be dancing first tonight would also have to get into their hair and makeup before they could go back out, and so the assistants swarmed over them first, giving me time to slip into the bathroom and trade my teased-up wig for one that had already been styled in victory rolls and delicate waves.
(None of my fellow dancers seemed to realize I wore a wig, except for Lyra, who’d caught me, and Pax and Malena, who’d been told. I was reasonably sure everyone from the wardrobe department knew, and just didn’t care. It made me easier to style than the other dancers, since they had one less dancer yelping every time they hit a snarl, and so they were happy to keep my secret, if only out of enlightened self-interest.)
I got out of the bathroom and plopped down in a seat, where a makeup assistant appeared and used a cloth soaked in a chemical-smelling fluid to remove the rhinestones and makeup from my face. It burned, and I wondered if I was also losing half of my epidermis. Oh, well. Sometimes you have to suffer for your art. They were finished in record time. I yanked my simple black practice dress on and strapped my shoes to my feet just as the bell rang again and the whole group of dancers stampeded for the door. The show was going on.
Since we were still in the couples phase of the show, introductions consisted of one male dancer and one female dancer running onstage and performing roughly eight seconds of steps between them. Anders and I were the first to be introduced this week, courtesy of his name’s place in the alphabet. He tapped. I grabbed his hand and used it to steady myself as I performed an impressive-looking flip that would have gotten me disqualified from any formal competition. Then we fell back, swaying rhythmically as we watched the other dancers go through their paces.
None of them looked calmer or more anxious than I expected. If any of my fellow competitors had been involved in the deaths of Poppy and Chaz, they were good at not showing it. I switched my attention to the judges as much as I could without losing my place in the rhythm. Adrian had his usual expression of faint disapproval. Lindy was smiling—although with as much Botox as she’d had, I wasn’t sure she could do anything else. The third spot at the judges’ table was occupied by a grinning Clint, clapping his hands in time to the intro music. He saw me looking and winked. I winked back, still grooving, and felt better about the show, if nothing else.
Clint genuinely liked the dancers on Dance or Die. Adrian viewed us as a path to better ratings, and Lindy seemed to hate everyone equally, but Clint was second only to Brenna in showing affection and fondness for the dancers. If he was here, the judging would be even-handed and constructive, even if everything else went horribly wrong.
“It’s your fourteen remaining dancers, America!” crowed Brenna, and we walked forward, the boys strutting, the girls sashaying, to strike our pose at the middle of the stage. The crowd cheered like so many supersized Aeslin mice. The lights beat down, hot as a summer sun, and I was home.
It was really a pity I wasn’t going to be allowed to stay there. But then, I never was.
“—hate this part, so let’s go on and get it over with,” said Brenna. She looked down the row of girls, a line of worry etched between her eyebrows. I realized with a pang that we hadn’t told her about the snake cult. Between rehearsals, Alice showing up, and our own attempts at an investigation, there hadn’t been time. How could a week not have been enough time?
Brenna was worried because she might be sending me home, and she needed to stay on my good side if she wanted an introduction to William. I was worried because whoever was eliminated tonight might be in deadly danger . . . and I hadn’t told her. She was right there, and should have been among the first to know.
What else had I missed?
“The girls in danger of elimination tonight are . . .” Brenna opened the envelope, sighed, and read, “Leanne, Malena, and Raisa. Thank you, girls. The rest of you may leave the stage.”
We filed off as she was reading off the names of the boys in danger. I lingered in the wings. Anders and I were up fourth: I had time, and I wanted to know which of the male dancers were on the bottom.
“Pax, Mac, and Will,” said Brenna, and the bottom dropped out of the world. The rest of the boys walked off.