“But, Grandma—”
“Don’t you ‘but, Grandma’ me. Get back in there, keep an eye on your people, and tell me if you notice anything different now that those confusion charms aren’t clouding your vision.” Alice shook her head. Her mouth was a hard line. I knew that expression very well: I had been seeing it on my father’s face since I was a little girl.
Sadly, that meant I also knew there was no further point in arguing. Once that face came out, I had lost. “I have my phone. Call me if you find anything. I’ll find a way to get out of rehearsal if I need to.”
“You won’t need to,” said Alice, and pointed to the door.
I sighed, and went.
The hallway was still empty, and for the first time, it occurred to me how odd that was. There should have been production assistants and security guards everywhere, even during rehearsals. One of the unexpected truths of reality television was that no one was ever alone. There was always someone there, watching, monitoring, making notes on an endless series of clipboards. Hollywood was a self-perpetuating machine, creating jobs for people who wanted to move up the food chain, while it moved the cousins and nieces and nephews of the elite up in place of the people who fetched the coffee. So where were they?
Maybe this snake cult was taking the employees after all.
I prowled through the halls back to the rehearsal room, not even trying to walk like Valerie. She was a pampered creature, designed for controlled environments and safe spaces, and this wasn’t a safe space anymore. Maybe this had never been a safe space in the first place. Maybe I’d just been imagining it.
The door to the rehearsal room opened before I could grasp the knob, and there was Anders, a hangdog expression on his face. “I’m sorry, Val,” he said. “I shouldn’t have yelled, but when I came back to apologize, you were gone.”
He sounded genuinely anguished. Even if I’d been angry with him, and not disappointed in myself, I would have forgiven him then. “It’s okay. I just needed to take a walk and clear my head. I shouldn’t have said that. You know I didn’t carry you.”
“Yeah, just like I know that without you, I would never have made it to week four in our original season. I’m the only tapper who’s ever made it to the top ten, because the rest haven’t been lucky enough to have partners who’ll prop them up until they get their stage legs.” He offered his hands. “Forgive me?”
“Forgiven,” I said, taking them.
We were still standing there, smiling at each other, when Marisol pushed through the door behind me and reentered the studio. “Good, you’re both here,” she said. “We’re going to take it from the top. I want to believe you’re going to leave the stage and head straight for the nearest broom closet to conceive your love child.”
Broom closet. “Marisol, did we cut way down on the janitorial staff for this season?”
The choreographer turned and frowned at me. “What do you mean?”
“I didn’t see as many people in the hall as I was expecting when I went down to craft services for a cup of water.”
“We have the same staffing levels as always,” said Marisol. “You must have been lost in your own little world. Hopefully, it was the world of dance. Now come. Show me what you’ve learned.”
We assumed our starting positions. Marisol hit “play” on our backing music, and for a little while, I did what my grandmother had told me to do: I danced, and I trusted my friends and allies to keep an eye on the situation.
This was almost over.
Twenty
“There ain’t no drug in the world like the siren song of the stage. Once you’ve tasted it, you’ll always want more, even when you know it’s killing you.”
—Frances Brown
The Crier Theater, the following Thursday afternoon
DANCERS RACED DOWN THE HALL, glistening with sweat and smelling of hairspray. The army of makeup assistants that had wiped away our vampiric pallor and fake blood after the opening number was behind us, getting ready for the rush that would follow the requisite introduction sequence. Sometimes it felt like Dance or Die was a series of sprints disguised as a dance show.
Anders beat me to the stage entrance by a few seconds. He stopped there, waiting for me to catch up. Then he grinned. “Season two for the win, right?”
“Season two for the win,” I agreed, looking over my shoulder to where Pax and Lyra were getting into position. Pax flashed me a thumbs-up. I could see the pale metallic gleam of the counter-charm around his neck. We’d done everything we could to make this safe. It was all down to chance now.
“Jessica and Reggie!” announced Brenna, from the stage. The last two dancers from season one ran out to take their places under the lights. Jessica raised one leg in a high, perfectly vertical extension, showing off her muscle control, while Reggie executed a series of standing flips that would have taken my breath away if I hadn’t seen him do it a hundred times before.
They ran for the back of the stage, beginning the lineup, as Brenna called, “Valerie and Anders!”
We ran to center stage, where Anders executed a quick tap step before grabbing my hands and allowing me to go into a series of fast, supported turns, ending with my weight on my right foot and my left leg shifted to the side in the classic “I am a sexy tango dancer” pose. We let go and joined Jessica and Reggie at the back as Brenna announced Lyra and Pax.
“Nice turn,” said Jessica, sotto voce, as we clapped for my season-mates. “What, you couldn’t figure out how to stage a wardrobe malfunction?”
“Says the girl who starts every show by announcing the color of her panties to America,” I replied. Lyra ran up next to me. Malena and Troy took the stage.
“Shut up, Jessica,” said Lyra automatically.
Jessica glared daggers.
Emily—the third remaining dancer from season three—took the stage with Ivan from season four. He’d originally been partnered with Raisa, whose body was lying in a circle below the theater, alongside all the other dancers who’d left us. Seeing Ivan sent a chill down my spine. This wasn’t over. This was nowhere near over, and if it didn’t end tonight, two more people were going to die. Two more people I knew would die—and it was going to be my fault.
Ivan danced like he had no idea his former partner was dead, and when he ran back to join the rest of the male dancers at the rear, leaving Emily to fall into line with the girls, they were replaced by Lo and Will, who had been dancing together since the beginning of season four. She was elegance personified; he was strength and languid grace. It was lovely to watch them, but it was also terrible, because it drove home the fact that they were the last: all four dancers from season five were already gone and waiting for their graves.
“These are your girls, America,” called Brenna, as the music signaled us to strut to the front of the stage. The lights were near-blinding, but I squinted through them, smile firmly in place, as I scanned the audience for dragons. Blonde heads were dotted throughout the rows. It was hard to tell whether that meant Brenna’s Nest was in attendance, or whether there had been a run on bleach at the local salons.
I hoped for the former. I hoped I was surrounded by saurian cryptids wearing human disguises. Because we needed all the backup we could get.
“And here are your boys!” The male dancers joined us in the strut for the front of the stage. We interwove, finding our partners and striking our poses as the music ended and Brenna’s jubilant voice announced, “It’s your top twelve!”
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.
“I’m not getting eliminated because of you,” he spat, grabbing my shoulders. “I refuse. Do you understand? We’re going to go out there, and we’re going to dance like our lives depend on it. We’re going to be so amazing that America develops time travel just to go back to last week and pick up the phones for us. You got me? Dance like I’m going to slit your fucking throat if you let me down.”
“Wow, Anders, I had no idea you had such a deep-rooted hatred of women,” said Malena, stepping out of the doorway behind him. He whirled. She smiled, as pretty and poisonous as an adder. “Or maybe you’re just an asshole. Little bit from column A, little bit from column B, I guess. You want to take your hands off my girl before I take them off your body?”
“Dyke,” said Anders, taking a step away from her.
Malena raised an eyebrow. “Was he this bad during your season, Val, or has he been taking asshole lessons?”
“Search me,” I said. I stepped around Anders to stand next to Malena. He glared at me. I looked back as impassively as I could, trying to conceal the fact that I was shaken and confused. I thought we’d made up during rehearsal. He wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be my partner, and if I hadn’t been completely committed to that partnership this season, I still hadn’t done anything to deserve this sort of treatment.
Could the confusion charms have been doing this? I’d never heard of that sort of magic making someone violent, but then, what I didn’t know about magic could fill a university.
I took a steadying breath before I said, “I’ll see you backstage, Anders. And remember, even if the dance says you need to touch me, that doesn’t mean you get to do it ever again when the lights aren’t on us. Do you follow me? I’ll break you.”
“Don’t fuck with the ballroom girls,” said Malena. She hooked her arm through mine and led me away down the hall.
I let her. At the moment, anything more complicated than putting one foot in front of the other felt like it would have been too much for me—and I still had to get changed for my partner routine, and swap my wig for something wilder, more suited to the tango. I just kept seeing Anders, shouting those horrible things I’d never heard from his mouth before, and nothing made sense.
Malena waited until we were almost to the dressing room before she murmured, “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I forced myself to smile. “I didn’t . . . he surprised me, that’s all. It won’t happen again.”
“Yeah, because maybe he meets one of us in a dark alley and gets reminded why you don’t talk to a lady like that.” Malena cast a dark look back along the hall. “Or maybe I tell your dangerous boy what he said to you, and his body is never found.”
“We’re supposed to be saving the other dancers, not digging new graves for them.” Still, I couldn’t quite deny the appeal of her unmarked grave proposal. There was something to be said for burying the people who pissed you off.
“We can revisit this after we’ve won.” She let go of my arm. “Get changed, be amazing, and don’t get eliminated. You get ganked, I am out of here so fast I’ll leave claw marks all along the walls. I’m not sticking around to be somebody else’s sacrifice.”
“I’ll be amazing,” I said solemnly. “And Malena?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
She grinned, showing the pointed tips of her incisors. “Don’t mention it. I’m still going to beat your ass for the title once we take care of this stupid snake cult.”
“Of course,” I said, and slipped inside.
There were dancers and costume assistants everywhere. The room still felt jarringly empty compared to the beginning of the season, and it seemed like there were ghosts everywhere I looked, dancers who’d died for their
art and would never be taking the stage again. I wondered whether Aunt Mary would be able to find any of them haunting the theater, if I called her and asked her to come and have a look. Maybe I would do that, after this was all over. The dead dancers deserved the chance to rest in peace.
Lyra waved from where she was having her face painted, keeping her expression neutral to avoid messing up the beautician’s careful chart of colors and designs. From the look of her, she was going to be doing some sort of incredibly complex jazz number for her solo. I realized with a pang that I didn’t know. I’d never asked. We were sharing the same apartment, we were sleeping in the same room, and I didn’t know what she was going to be dancing this week.
“Hey,” I said, dropping into my designated seat. My own makeup assistant was there almost immediately, clipping my hair back with two banana clips before reaching for her palette. They never asked me to pull it back myself, and they never made any attempt to actually style it. They had to know I wore a wig, which meant the producers probably knew—which meant Adrian probably knew. He just didn’t care enough to say anything about it.
This wasn’t my world anymore. Maybe it never had been.
People buzzed around me, getting ready, getting their costumes on, getting their makeup just right, and generally oblivious to the world around them, which didn’t matter nearly as much as pointing their toes, shaping their hands, and dancing their way into the hearts of America. I was so envious of them that it physically hurt. My chest ached like I’d bruised my sternum from the inside. I wanted what they had: I wanted the ignorance and the innocence that came with it.
There were things I didn’t know about in the world. There were things I didn’t want to know about. I wasn’t being judgmental when I called them ignorant; I was being jealous. They didn’t know, and so they didn’t have to worry. They could just live their lives, and be happy.
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