As I’d predicted, we were learning multiple routines, and expected to master them in the course of a week. The big group number that would launch the season was a combination of fast, pseudo-jazz and our own styles, designed to give us each a “stand out moment,” but really creating a confusing series of shifting angles, which we had to memorize without kicking each other in the heads. After that, we had two smaller group numbers, one for the girls and one for the guys. I didn’t know yet what the guys were learning, although I was sure Pax and Anders would have plenty to say about it once we were all back home, icing our ankles and whining. We were learning the sort of loose-limbed, lyrical contemporary piece that was my bane. Dance should tell a story, but I shouldn’t have to dislocate my shoulder to do it.

For the moment, however, I was learning my third routine for the week, and I was in my element. There were six ballroom dancers among the contestants, and four of us specialized in the Latin forms, so it had been decided that the big “ballroom style” number would be an Argentine tango. Sweaty, steamy, sticky, and best of all, familiar, using steps and postures I’d been doing in my sleep since I was thirteen years old. There were four women and two men, so we switched partners throughout the dance, forming duos and trios of swirling seduction. I was currently going through my steps with Lo, a beautiful Chinese-American dancer who’d taken the top prize in her season. We were almost the same height, and so we traded off who was leading constantly, spinning and caressing one another. Pretty intimate, considering we’d only met at the beginning of the rehearsal.

Our choreographer, Marisol Bustos, shouted instructions and we did our best to follow them. I’d worked with her before on my original season, and I knew she didn’t expect perfection right off the bat: she just wanted to know that we were trying. Well, I was trying, and when she finally called, “Enough! Enough! You are hopeless and should take fifteen minutes to dwell upon your failures!”, I was more than ready to collapse into a heap on the studio floor.

I wasn’t the only one. Only two dancers remained standing—Lo, who looked more amused than anything else, and Ivan, the other ballroom dancer from her season.

“I think you were built in a secret government lab for creating tireless ballroom dancers,” I accused without rancor, closing my eyes.

“Now that you know my secret, I’ll have to incinerate you with my laser eyes,” said Lo. Her toe daintily prodded my ribs. “Get up. There’s water. You could use some.”

“Everyone here is evil except for me,” I grumbled, and rolled over, climbing back to my feet before I opened my eyes. The first thing I saw when I did was Lo’s smiling face.

“Evil, perhaps, but in excellent shape,” she said. “I heard you hadn’t been working.”

Of course she’d heard that. The ballroom dance community is smaller than anyone likes to believe, despite the number of talented amateurs and studios scattered across North America. Everyone talks, and while it’s not like we all know each other personally, reputation is harder to run away from.

“There was some family stuff,” I said, wiping my cheeks on the top of my shirt. “I thought I’d been getting enough practice in. Apparently, I’m going to need to work harder.”

“Or risk elimination,” said Lo. Her smile faded, replaced by solemnity. “I want to know that everyone here is giving it their all. I want to know that whoever beats me will deserve it.”

“Maybe you’ll win again,” I said.

Lo snorted and started walking toward the table at the back of the room where the water service was set up. “America isn’t going to vote for the same winner twice in a row. They loved us enough to reward us, and I’m grateful, but all you have to do is look at the Internet to know that there are always people who think the wrong person won. Those are the voters we’re courting back this season. Everyone who feels like their favorite got robbed their first time around will be turning out, and the producers will reap the rewards.”

“Why are you here if you feel like you can’t win?” I asked, nabbing a small paper cup of water. The urge to dump it over my head was strong. I might have given in, if I hadn’t known my wig would block most of it from reaching me.

“It’s good exposure. I get to work with a wide variety of choreographers on someone else’s time, while that same someone pays for my food and lodging. I’ll be able to book more lessons after I show up on TV again. And it’s fun. Are you really going to tell me you’re only here because you might win this time?” Lo gave me an inquisitive look. Too inquisitive: for the first time since rehearsals started, I felt like my wig might be less convincing than it needed to be.