“Psst . . . She’s about to pass out the credentials,” said Lily.

“Somebody passed out? Who passed out?” Riley’s mom had already reached into her large handbag and pulled out her first aid kit.

“No one,” I reassured her. “Everyone is fine. Vanessa is just about to give us the performer IDs we need to flash as we come in and out of the dressing rooms.”

As soon as we wear the passes around our necks, we’re allowed to veer away from the slow-moving crowd of vendors, yet-to-be registered performers, their families, and early bird audience members and gain access to the equivalent of a backstage pass.

“Whew, there’s room to breathe back here,” said Riley when we stepped into the spacious room—or “chill zone,” as Trina started calling it—we were to share with other performers. Several dance groups were already here, doing warm-up stretches or just lounging around. One section was partitioned and repurposed as private changing rooms. The carpeted floors gave it a cozy but elegant vibe, and people felt comfortable enough to sit on the floor. We could hear the music from the grand ballroom from here, but it was muffled down to a distant hum.

Lily gasped. “There’s one last free corner!” We couldn’t believe our luck. As fast as our legs could carry us—the speed walk was something we learned to do since arriving here—we claimed that corner by dropping all our bags.

With help from the moms, we began doing our makeup and hair. Whichever one of us was free would head to the neighboring room to run through a super-low-impact version of the dance. Vanessa’s last-minute feedback went a long way in preparing us and encouraging us to dig deeper.

On my way back to rejoin the Squad, my name rang out as soon as I stepped foot into the chill zone.

“Harper!”

I turned to the source of my shout-out and instantly cracked a smile when I saw who it was.

“Eliza!”

Wow, who would imagine the both of us—Eliza and Harper—together on the big stage? We even got a chance to dance together at the hip-hop class yesterday. But today was a day we’d both talked endlessly about: the chance to compete at an event as huge and respected as nationals. Here we were. rival dance troupes but still teamed up in a lot of ways. I was rooting for her, and I was sure she was rooting for me.

We gave each other a double fist bump and then a high five in greeting, already in game day mode. Much like a basketball player at the free-throw line, Eliza had a focused look in her eyes. Her hands were at her hips, and her stance was wide and stabling. Her track suit jacket was half zipped, so her navy-blue, sparkly performance bodysuit stayed visible. She looked like a temporarily benched player, ready to jump in at the first whistle.

“Ready to start off strong?” she asked.

“Always.” I looked her square in the eyes. “We all are. You?”