At this, Lena yanked me up onto my feet, while Dominique and Kat pulled the others with them, and we were unceremoniously hauled toward the barrier. Once there, Lena pointed to the floor, where, to my increasing horror, I noticed that among the general, seventies-inspired crowd, a few groups of people in matching costumes (matching, not random like ours) were rounding the rink, practicing well-executed dance moves on some seriously stylish skates.

“Thanks to Kat, who’s got connections with the MCs, we got you the opening spot for tonight’s dance-off! Sweet, huh?” Lena declared, hands in the air as though she really believed we’d be happy to hear this.

The four of us stared at her for a second, then glanced at each other.

“Better get crackin’!” Kat added, and annoyingly clapped twice for emphasis.

After a confusing moment where we didn’t really know where to go to begin our practice session, Lena gave us a shove toward an area near the bathrooms that wasn’t too crowded and yelled, “Have fun!” over the music.

We weaved through the crowd toward the spot. Drunk and dazed, I tried to tap back into the motivation and resolve I’d formed earlier—when I was determined to show everyone I could be part of the team off the track come hell or high water. But fire and flooding seemed like a delight compared to whatever catastrophe was surely about to take place in a few minutes.

Thankfully (maybe) and surprisingly, Sage took control of the current situation. She’d been mostly giggles and high fives tonight, but apparently, song and dance were her things, because she announced that we could do no other song than “I Feel Love” by Donna Summer and then quickly maneuvered us into a line, with her in the lead. No one was about to argue—our options and time were limited. I’d slipped into autopilot, going through the motions just to have it be done.

“Okay, no matter what, watch the person in front of you and just do whatever they’re doing!”

Thirty minutes later, we had… something. I had to give Sage props—organizing three drunken, clearly incompetent dancers had to be a nearly impossible task. Grace appeared to be more interested in flipping her flouncy, curly hair from one shoulder to the next than she was in the moves. Potts seemed to be in a different time zone altogether—each move we completed, they completed about five seconds later. I, of course, was just as bad. I stood immediately behind Sage and kept accidentally hitting her because I couldn’t get the timing right. I’m also sure my face was a combination of pure disdain and utter bewilderment.