Free Chaos Choreography by Seanan McGuire Page A

assistant. Whatever answer she got, she nodded, and said, “On my count, then. Five, four, three, two . . .” She stopped talking and smiled, an expression that took her from attractive to stunningly beautiful. It was directed at the camera, and hence, at America. “For five years, you’ve tuned in to watch as America’s most talented and hardest working dancers took to our stage. You’ve seen their triumphs and their tragedies, their flights and their falls, and after every season, you’ve asked ‘what happened to my favorites?’” Her smile softened, turning almost maternal. “I know I’ve often askedthat question myself. Often enough, in fact, that someone listened, and said ‘why don’t we find out?’”
    Brenna took a step back, gesturing to the stage with her free hand. “This season, we’re doing something that’s never happened before in
Dance or Die
history. We’re bringing back your top four dancers, America—not just from last season, but from the last
five
. Our top twenty is made up of your very favorites, here to dance for you one more time, to prove that they deserve the title of America’s Dancer of Choice.”
    She descended the stairs, never looking where she was putting her feet, hitting her marks impeccably. It was a form of dance in and of itself. She always insisted she had two left feet, but I couldn’t have done that walk in those shoes without a choreographer. “But, of course, we can’t do it without the people who started it all. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your judges.”
    Adrian was the first to appear—naturally. It was his show, and he wasn’t going to let anyone steal that from him, even if the structure of the program forced him to give Brenna more camera time than he had. He strutted out of the wings, waving for the cameras, grinning. The dancers around me clapped. The families and friends seeded throughout the audience clapped. I clapped. There was no knowing whether we were being filmed right now, and a dancer who didn’t applaud for Adrian might well find themselves falling, quite abruptly, from grace.
    â€œExecutive producer Adrian Crier,” announced Brenna.
    A woman with auburn hair teased into a glorious bouffant was the next to appear. She was smiling, but less broadly: she had Botoxed most of the movement out of her face years ago. It was sad. She was a beautiful woman, but as someone who worked in an industry where the most important thing a woman could be was young, she’d been forced to resort to increasingly desperate measures. Her hatred of Brenna—who was rumored to be the same age, and yet hadn’t needed any such procedures—was legendary.
    (Brenna was actually older. Brenna didn’t need Botox because Brenna wasn’t a mammal. This . . . wasn’t something we could actually explain to anyone. Oh, well.)
    â€œOur lady of the ballroom, the lovely Lindy O’Toole,” said Brenna.
    Lindy waved, smile never shifting, as she crossed the stage to take her place next to Adrian.
    The third judge varied from season to season. I crossed my fingers, hoping for one of the faces I liked, and was rewarded when a skinny man in a bow tie, with the sort of smile that promised unexpected explosions, stepped out of the wings. He was waving with both hands, and looked happier to be there than any of us.
    â€œChoreographer, producer, and all-around fabulous human being, Clint Goldfein!” said Brenna.
    Clint sat down at the end of the judges’ table. Lindy leaned over to touch his arm and say something inaudible, smiling like she hadn’t seen him in months, even though she’d been backstage with him for who knew how long. That was show business for you.
    My nerves were starting to tingle, and my stomach was a hot pit of terror. It was almost time to take the stage. I wasn’t ready. I wanted to be up