Janey straightened her lace collar and winked. "School's out, Jeff. And I’m just getting started."
When the music faded, the room erupted. Jeff leaned in, grinning through his sweat. "Not bad for a school girl," he teased.
The neon lights of the Danceteria pulsed in sync with Janey’s heartbeat. It was Friday night in 1985, and Chicago felt like it was made of glitter and hairspray.
As the song peaked, Janey realized she wasn't just rebeling against her dad or trying to get on a TV show. She was finally loud. She was finally bright.
"The TV auditions are in twenty minutes," Lynne yelled over the bass. "If we don't get on Dance TV , I’m going to die. Literally die."
Janey stepped onto the floor. The first few notes of their favorite anthem began to chime—that iconic, shimmering keyboard intro. She didn't think; she just felt the rhythm. She met Jeff in the middle, and for a moment, the world slowed down to 24 frames per second. They moved in perfect, high-energy symmetry—kicks, spins, and gravity-defying lifts.
Janey adjusted her lace headband, the one that matched her fingerless gloves. Next to her, Lynne was doing a frantic sound check with her gum, popping it loudly over the synth-pop blasting from the speakers. They weren't just here to dance; they were here to change their lives.
Janey looked at her reflection in a chrome pillar. Her school uniform was stuffed into a trash can in the alleyway, replaced by a tiered tutu and enough blue eyeshadow to be seen from space. Her father, a man who thought "fun" was a well-organized filing cabinet, had no idea she was here.