Chaos Choreography (23 page)

“—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.

Anders was one of the first to make it clear of the cameras. He stopped in front of me, a bleak, anxious look on his face. “Pax was never on the bottom during the first half of our season. What the hell went wrong?”

“Better dancers, tougher competition,” said Jessica, stepping from behind one of the dangling curtains. She was smirking. “Maybe you're going to have extra room in your apartment sooner than you thought.”

The urge to slap that stupid smirk right off of her face was almost strong enough to override my common sense—but only almost. Assaulting a fellow contestant would see me eliminated on the spot, and then my friends would be defenseless.

“Not funny, Jessica,” snarled Anders.

“
Hysterical
,” she said, looking him dead in the eye.

“Break it up,” I said, stepping between them. “Pax isn't going anywhere. He's too good a dancer to have pulled the lowest number of overall votes. Now if you'll excuse me,
some
of us are interested in staying in this competition.” I slid my arm through the crook of Anders's elbow, so I was holding him close without clinging, and pulled him with me toward the dressing rooms. We separated at the last minute, him going into the men's, me going into the women's. We were all dancers here—none of us actually
cared
—but the show's producers needed to at least pretend they were holding to Middle American standards of decency.

Someone grabbed me as soon as I was inside the room, yanking me behind a rack of costumes. I pulled the knife from my thigh holster—worn high enough that it hadn't been visible during my flip earlier, and low enough that I wasn't goosing myself in uncomfortable places, and don't think
that
hadn't been a learning experience—and whipped around, ready to stab my assailant in the throat.

Only the fact that Malena was even faster than I was saved us both from a very bad experience. She hissed and let go. “Stand
down
, Jesus! All I did was grab you!”

“Keep your voice down!” I countered, making the
knife vanish back into my dress. “Didn't anyone ever tell you not to grab people?”

“I didn't expect you to respond by pulling a goddamn
harpoon
out of your crotch,” she snapped. “How is your boy still among the living? You should have stabbed him the first time he rolled over in bed.”

“He's a sound sleeper.” I cast a glance over my shoulder to the costumes she'd pulled me through. They weren't currently moving. Maybe we were going to get lucky, and no one had noticed my impromptu disappearance. I looked back to Malena. “You need to stick close to me or Pax tonight. If you can't find us, look for Alice. I know she's lurking around the back of the theater.”

“She'd better be. Shit, V—” Malena caught herself before she could use my real name, and continued with a, “I didn't expect to be in the bottom this week. I thought Troy and I danced better than this.”

“You did,” I said. “The voters make weird decisions. Now we just need to make sure that if you're eliminated, you never go anywhere alone.
Anywhere
.”

“What if Pax and I both get eliminated?” Malena asked.

I grimaced. “Then we hope whoever killed Chaz and Poppy will go after the two of you, because I'm honestly not sure I can stop this if I'm the only one in the theater who knows what's going on.”

Malena's glare could have melted metal. “I didn't sign up to play the bait in your little crusade.”

“No one signed on for this ‘little crusade,' Malena. People are dying, and we're trying to stop it.” A bong sounded, signaling the first couple to take the stage. “If you and Pax are eliminated, they're not going to know what hit them. I still hope that doesn't happen. I'd much rather have the two of you helping us track down our killers. Either way, I'm hoping no one dies tonight.”

“You know, when I came here, I was just hoping for a shot at the big money,” grumbled Malena. “I'm coming up on my twenty-sixth birthday. It's time to start thinking about having kids. That'll be a lot easier if I can actually afford them.”

“I think we all came here for that,” I said. “I know Poppy and Chaz didn't sign up because they were hoping to get their throats slit.”

Malena looked at me gravely. “Do you think we're going to be able to stop this?”

“Honestly, Malena, I don't know. But we're going to do the best we can.” That's all we could ever do, and all my family had ever done: the best that we could. It was a real pity that even our best had never been enough to keep everyone we cared about alive.

The rest of the show passed with the kind of speed found only in tense situations and anxiety dreams. Anders and I danced our quickstep with as much enthusiasm as we could muster, but I knew I was letting him down; I was too worried about what might happen after elimination to focus on my energy and my connection with my partner. The judges knew it, too. Getting criticized and warned about potentially being in the bottom next week was painful. Having Clint look at me like I had personally disappointed him was worse.

At least I had stayed on the beat and kept my feet moving. Maybe I'd put myself in danger, but Anders should be safe. And maybe if I kept telling myself that, the universe would take pity on me and somehow make it true.

Brenna called the six dancers in danger back to the center of the stage after the last couple finished. The rest of us moved to stand in the space between the judging platform and the audience, still in our costumes. The nervous energy rolling off the group was palpable. I was struck once again by how
simple
this had all seemed once, how blissfully removed from the world I'd grown up in. The last time I'd been standing here, I'd been thinking only about winning, proving I was America's Dancer of Choice, and that I could have a life beyond the one my blood had fated for me.

Now I was worried about whether two of the people
up on that stage were going to survive the night. I was worried about the fact that of the three contestants who knew about the deaths, two of them had their heads on the chopping block. If Malena and Pax were both eliminated, and we didn't catch the killers before the theater closed for the night, I was going to be the only person left who knew what was going on and had free, unfettered access to the building.

Brenna and the judges had been speaking while I fretted over the future. Now she turned to them, and said, “Well, Adrian? Please don't leave us in suspense any longer, my heart can't take it.” Neither could the dancers who stood beside her, their hands locked together and their faces set in near-matching expressions of grim stoicism. There could be no crying or visible distress: the two who survived tonight's elimination would need votes to stay on the show, and the public didn't respond well to the idea that someone was a sore loser, no matter how untrue it was.

Please, Adrian,
I thought.
Just get it over with.

Adrian leaned forward. “Well, Brenna, we've discussed it, and our decision tonight is unanimous. The girl who'll be leaving us tonight is . . . Leanne.”

Leanne pulled her hands away from the other two, covering her face. Now that she'd lost, she was allowed to show how crushed she was.

I didn't really know her. I didn't know how much of her heartbreak was real, and how much was a careful affectation, designed to appeal to the audience, in case there was a miracle that might get her back on the show. It had happened before. Right now, it didn't matter, because she'd just been cut, and I grieved for her, even as I was grateful Malena would be staying.

“All right, Malena and Raisa, you can leave the stage.” Brenna put her arms around Leanne, giving the girl a hug that lasted just long enough for the other two dancers to make it down into the pit. Then Brenna let her go, waving her toward the wings, and walked over to where the three boys in danger waited.

The same drama played out in slow motion for the second time: the brief critique by the judges, Brenna's plea that they get it over with, and finally, Adrian's verdict.

“Once again, we are unanimous. The boy who will be leaving us tonight is Mac. Thank you so much for your time; your journey ends here.”

Mac bowed his head, shedding a single manly tear. Brenna embraced him. The closing music began, inviting us all to mob the stage, hug our departing comrades good-bye, and dance for the cameras.

Pax grabbed me as soon as I came into range, spinning me in until he could murmur in my ear: “What do we do now?”

“We stay on them,” I replied, and spun out again, this time flinging myself at Malena in what I hoped would look like a friendly hug. The fact that we'd never shown any real affection for each other before didn't matter: we were originally from different seasons, and could be expected to form new bonds during this one. Anders was glaring at me. I did my best to avoid him as I brought my lips to Malena's ear.

“Follow Leanne,” I whispered.

Malena nodded, and pulled away to dance with Ivan, matching him step for step. The cameras spun around us, capturing every moment, right up until the lights flashed to signal the end of the credits. That was everyone's cue to get offstage.

It was my cue to get ready for an ambush.

The Crier Theater was built to accommodate all sorts of productions, from the recording of
Dance or Die
to concerts and theater companies. Consequently, the ceilings were unusually high everywhere backstage, to allow for the movement of stage flats and complicated equipment. Moving through that space was like moving through a dream of the theater, unconfined and smelling always, faintly, of sawdust.

Being a free-runner means I spend my life assessing my surroundings in terms of “how hard would it be to climb that?” Most of all, being a free-runner means I've had a long time to figure out the big blind spot that almost all humans share:

Humans virtually never look
up
.

I was among the first off the stage, and the absolute first to hit the women's changing room. My Jane of the Jungle costume was simple to shuck off and hang on the rack, and it was a matter of seconds to pull on my street clothes. I swapped my stage wig for my usual loose red ponytail, and filled my pockets with knives. By the time the first of my fellow dancers was coming through the door, I was pushing my way out into the hall, murmuring vague phrases about not feeling well. Some of them looked at me sympathetically, but no one tried to stop me. They all knew I hadn't danced my best tonight.

As soon as I was alone in the hall, I grabbed the nearest curtain and shinnied up it to the rafters. Once there, I ran along the beams meant to hold our hanging lights to a position above the basement door. I crouched, holding a beam for support, and waited.