“Let’s scope out the competition,” I say.

Since the pros don’t compete until nighttime, the practice room is packed with mostly young amateurs. Per capita, the only other place you can find more sequins or bow ties on teenagers is prom. X and I shuffle along the perimeter until we find a free spot.

“This is wild,” X says as we watch our competition. I look for the couple from Westside Dance that Maggie said would be our main adversary. They’re about our age and very, very obviously in love, given the way they can’t keep their hands off each other. They’ll have no trouble with the “give yourself to each other” part of the Argentine tango.

Finally, one of the organizers gives us the five-minute warning. Dancers for the first heat start heading out.

“We should go up to on-deck,” I tell X, even though we’re in the second of the two heats.

He nods but then doesn’t move. Instead, he cups the back of his head with both hands.

“You’re nervous,” I tease.

“I’m not,” he says.

I reach up and touch his elbow and gently tug his arm back down.

He captures my hand in his and threads his fingers through mine.

By the time we get upstairs, the heat one dancers are already competing in the main ballroom. Bachata music filters out through the closed doors. A few of the other heat two couples dance along with the music.

Thirty minutes later, the heat one dancers file out. They’re sweaty and breathing hard but happy and relieved too. They wish us luck.

And then it’s our turn.

As it turns out, ballroom competitions are not stately affairs. The fans are boisterous and partisan. As soon as we walk into the main ballroom, they start whistling and screaming out the numbers of their favorite dancers.

I hear a few loud calls for twenty-three. X and I scan the audience until we find our little cheering section in the second row on the right. They’re all waving wildly. Except for Fifi. Fifi just gives us a small nod.

“Well, she’s consistent,” X says, laughing.

Up at the mic, the lead judge welcomes us and goes over the rules and the order of dance. Bachata followed by salsa, West Coast swing, Hustle and, finally, Argentine tango. “Have fun, and dance your hearts out,” she tells us.

X and I start off nervous, but by the time we get to West Coast swing, we’ve settled down. As usual, the Argentine tango is our weakest dance.

The song ends. We take our bows and exit the floor.

“You think we did it?” X asks when we’re back downstairs in the practice room.

“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly.

He rubs his chest and pretends to be wounded. “Ouch, my heart,” he says.

Impulsively I press my hand over his heart, feeling the beat under my palm. “Not a thing wrong with your heart,” I say, looking up at him.

It’s not long before an announcement comes over the loudspeaker. “Dancers, please make your way back to the ballroom for results.”

The audience hushes quiet as soon as the lead judge takes the mic. She thanks everyone and says that she wishes we could all move on to the next round. It takes her forever to read the numbers, but finally she gets to ours. We made it to the semifinals.

X lets out a whoop and our little cheering section goes wild. “Yeah, twenty-three!” Archibald yells.

We only get a short time to celebrate, though. One hour later, we’re all back in the main ballroom and in position, ready to dance for a spot in the finals.

X smiles down at me, definitely more relaxed than before.

“Don’t get cocky yet,” I tell him.

“I’ll wait until we win,” he says with a wink.

He’s not the only one feeling more relaxed. The energy of the whole floor is different from before. The smiles are bigger, the atmosphere looser. The audience feels it too. They’re even louder, screaming the numbers of their favorites.

The music starts, and we’re off. I lose myself in the music for the first four dances. I hope the feeling will last until the Argentine tango, but it doesn’t. My muscles tense as soon as the music starts. I concentrate too hard on X’s lead. Instead of dancing the music, I’m dancing the steps again.

Still, it’s not like we’re bad. We make it through the rest of the dance without any technical errors. But I know if we don’t make it to the finals, it’ll be my fault.

The wait for results is longer this time. The judges need to score each couple for each dance. Only six couples will make it to tomorrow’s finals.

We wait for an hour. There’s a lot of pacing and back-of-the-head rubbing. I do the pacing. X does the back-of-the-head rubbing.

Finally, it’s time for us to go back into the ballroom. I try to read our fate on the judges’ faces, but nothing doing. I try to read our fate on Fifi’s face, but nothing doing there either.

The lead judge gets on the mic. “Thank you, competitors. You were all wonderful. The judges would like to see the following dancers…”

The fourth number she calls is eleven. It’s the happily in-love couple from Westside Dance, the ones who are so good at Argentine tango.

The fifth couple she calls is number eighteen.

Once the applause dies down, the judge gets back on the mic. She smiles an I know something you don’t know smile.

I kind of want to dance on her grave.

“I bet you guys are just dying to find out who has the final spot,” she says, teasing us all.

I am going to dance on her grave.

The audience hoots in agony.

X squeezes my fingers and smiles into my eyes.

I smile back into his and I don’t look away, not even when the judge makes her announcement. “Congratulations to couple number twenty-three. You have a spot in the finals.”

X pulls me into a hug.

“I told you,” he whispers into my ear.

All around us, everyone cheers.

CHAPTER 47

Becomes a Sea

AFTER WE MADE it to the finals yesterday, Fifi took us back to the studio for one last practice.

“Technically they’re not as good as you, but their tango is like sex,” she said as soon as we got there.

She was talking about the Westside Dance couple.

“Like good sex,” she clarified.

X looked at me. “Did you think she meant bad sex?” he asked, deadpan.