Archive of Our Own ^beta

 

The supply closet wasn’t really a closet, not in the traditional sense. It was more of a cramped storage room, stuffed with old props, stacks of unused costumes, and piles of crash mats stacked high against the back wall. It smelled faintly of dust and worn-out foam, the kind of scent that clung to gym bags and forgotten corners of the studio.

And it was quiet.

That was the important part.

Richelle climbed the mats with practiced ease, fingers gripping the rough edges of vinyl as she hoisted herself up to the top of the pile. It was a routine she’d perfected since J-Troupe, back when everything was still too much—too loud, too fast, too full of unspoken expectations. There was something about the height, the separation from the floor, that made her feel safe. Like the world below couldn’t reach her up here.

She settled in, cross-legged, pressing her fingertips together in a steady, rhythmic pattern. Tap, tap, tap. The motion grounded her. She let herself rock slightly, just enough to feel the shift of weight, the familiar compression against her back.

For the next twenty minutes, she could just be.

She let herself stim freely, flicking her fingers, tapping against her knee, occasionally letting out a soft hum under her breath. There was no one watching. No one judging. No one trying to pull her into conversation or ask why she wasn’t sitting with the others.

Only one person knew about her hiding spot.

And Noah wasn’t going to tell anyone.

He’d stumbled upon her here back in J-Troupe, back when they were both younger, when she was still figuring out how to navigate the constant social expectations of being on a team. At first, she’d braced for the usual reaction—confusion, maybe even teasing—but he’d just tilted his head, nodded like it made perfect sense, and said, “Cool. I won’t tell.”

And he hadn’t. Not once.

Most of A-Troupe probably assumed she just liked being alone, which wasn’t wrong, exactly. It was easier than trying to explain the exhaustion of masking all day, the way breaks weren’t really breaks when you spent them in a crowded room with people expecting you to talk, react, perform.

She exhaled slowly, letting the tension in her shoulders ease.

A perfect break.

Until it wasn’t.

 

---

The studio was busy, but not chaotic. A-Troupe had been pushing themselves hard lately, rehearsing late into the evening, trying to perfect their choreography for an upcoming showcase. Stress levels were high, which meant tension was even higher.

Breaks were precious.

Most of the team had collapsed onto the couches in the café downstairs, stretching out sore muscles, sipping water, and chatting about anything except dance for once.

Piper was half-listening to Kingston tell a ridiculous story about a dance battle gone wrong when a voice interrupted them.

“Hey, have you guys seen Richelle?”

Everyone turned. The question came from Hannah, a J-Troupe dancer, who was standing just inside the café, looking slightly frantic.

“Uh…” Piper frowned, exchanging glances with the others.

No one answered right away.

Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t seen Richelle since rehearsal ended.

“She’s not in Studio A?” Kingston asked.

“No,” Hannah said. “We need her for something important. Like, now.”

“What kind of important?” Noah’s voice cut in before anyone else could respond.

He was leaning against the counter, seemingly casual—but Piper knew him well enough to recognize the sharpness in his tone, the way he was already thinking ahead.

Hannah shifted awkwardly. “Miss Angela needs to talk to her about the final formations. She’s been looking everywhere.”

Piper blinked. She glanced around at the others, trying to remember the last time Richelle had actually been with them during a break.

“…Where does she go?” Finn asked, frowning.

Silence.

Now that the question had been asked, everyone suddenly realized the same thing—Richelle never spent breaks with them.

“Wait,” Piper muttered. “Has anyone ever seen her during a break?”

“I just assumed she went home,” Kingston said.

“In the middle of rehearsal?” Finn raised an eyebrow.

Kingston shrugged. “I don’t know, man. She’s just gone every time.”

“Well, now we need to find her,” Hannah said impatiently. “Do you know where she—”

“I do,” Noah interrupted.

Everyone turned to him.

He was already standing up straight, brushing imaginary dust off his hoodie like he was preparing to move.

“Follow me,” he said.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Piper said, standing up. “You know where she is?”

Noah gave her a look. “Yes.”

“For how long?”

He didn’t answer, just turned and started walking.

Naturally, everyone followed.

 

---

Noah didn’t rush.

He didn’t need to.

He knew exactly where Richelle was, the same place she always went when the world got too loud, when she needed space to just exist without anyone pressing in on her.

He also knew that leading the entire team there was not going to go over well with her.

Still, if Miss Angela needed her, she’d want to know.

The others followed, murmuring among themselves, trying to piece together how Noah—of all people—was the only one who knew where Richelle disappeared to every break.

“Wait, so you’ve always known?” Piper asked, walking beside him.

“Since J-Troupe,” he said simply.

“J-Troupe?” Finn repeated, eyes wide. “Dude, that’s years.”

Noah just shrugged. It had never seemed like a secret worth sharing.

They reached the door to the storage room, the one most people barely paid attention to.

Noah paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Just… don’t freak her out, okay?”

“Why would we freak her out?” Kingston asked.

Noah didn’t answer. He opened the door.

The room was dim, lit only by a thin strip of light sneaking in from the hallway. Shadows stretched across piles of mats, shelves stacked high with old costumes, and the uneven stacks of foam pads against the far wall.

Noah didn’t walk in right away. Instead, he called into the space, voice even.

“I’m turning on the light,” he warned. “And it’s not just me.”

Silence.

Then, a soft shuffling sound from above.

Noah flipped the switch.

Light flooded the space, casting long shadows and illuminating the highest stack of mats.

And there, perched at the very top, curled up like she belonged there, was Richelle.

She blinked rapidly, clearly adjusting to the sudden brightness. Her fingers twitched against her knee, a rhythmic tapping motion, and her expression shifted quickly—mild surprise flickering into something more guarded as she registered the extra people in the room.

“…Why are you all here?” she asked, voice flat.

Piper’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“You—” she gestured vaguely at the mats “—this is where you go?”

Richelle tilted her head slightly. “Obviously.”

“I—what?” Finn sputtered.

“You’ve been hiding in here this whole time?” Kingston asked, looking both impressed and confused.

“It’s not hiding,” Richelle corrected. “It’s being alone.”

“Up there?” Piper asked.

Richelle gave her a look. “Where else would I go?”

Noah, still leaning casually against the doorway, cleared his throat. “Miss Angela needs you.”

Richelle blinked again, rapid and unfocused. “Miss Angela?”

“For formations.”

She frowned slightly, like the words weren’t fully sticking. “Oh. Right.”

Then she hesitated.

Noah recognized that pause—the tiny delay between thought and action, the way her muscles seemed frozen, like the shift from stillness to movement was harder than it should be.

Autistic inertia.

She was processing.

Piper must have picked up on it too, because she asked, voice softer, “Do you need a minute?”

Richelle exhaled through her nose. “No.”

She shifted forward, carefully climbing down. It took a few extra seconds, her movements slower than usual, like her body wasn’t quite syncing up with her brain.

Noah stayed nearby just in case, though she’d never needed help before.

When she finally reached the floor, she paused again, pressing her fingers to her temples briefly before shaking her head.

Kingston, ever the peacemaker, smiled at her. “Well. Guess we know where to find you now.”

Richelle’s expression shifted sharply—alarm flickering in her eyes before she masked it under a neutral stare. “No. You don’t.”

Finn snorted. “I mean, we do.”

“Noah knew,” she pointed out.

“…Fair.”

Piper watched her carefully, thoughtful. “You don’t like breaks with us?”

Richelle hesitated again. “I just like being alone.”

Noah saw the way her hands twitched, like she was resisting the urge to stim in front of everyone. He wasn’t sure why she still tried to hide it when she was literally just found sitting on top of a mat pile, flicking her fingers in the air.

“It’s not personal,” she added. “You guys are just… a lot.”

Kingston let out a soft laugh. “That’s fair.”

Piper nodded, thoughtful. “I get that.”

And that was that.

No teasing. No prodding. Just acceptance.

Noah met Richelle’s eyes briefly, a silent see? passing between them.

She rolled her eyes but didn’t look too annoyed.

The team still had questions, but for now, it didn’t matter.

For now, Richelle just nodded and walked past them toward the studio, leaving them to stare at her little hideaway with newfound understanding.

Noah lingered for a second longer before following.

Some things weren’t a big deal.

Except they were.

 

The studio buzzed with Nationals energy—feet pounding against the floor, music blaring, dancers moving in a frantic blur. A-Troupe was working overtime, and Noah felt every ounce of pressure sitting squarely on his shoulders.

“Again from the top!” Noah called, pushing sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes.

Groans chorused through the studio, but everyone fell into position.

Everyone except Richelle.

She wasn’t on the floor . She was sitting on the sidelines, flipping through a notebook, pen tapping against her knee in precise rhythm. She hadn’t missed a single practice, but she also hadn’t said much—not in rehearsals, not in strategy meetings, not when people argued over transitions.

Just watching. Writing. Thinking.

Noah didn’t question it. Not yet.

He just called her back to the floor to join the group.

They ran the routine again. It wasn’t bad—better than yesterday, even—but something still felt off. As soon as the music cut, Noah scanned the room, trying to pinpoint the problem.

Piper was half a beat behind on the group section.
Finn’s landings were sloppy.
The lift in the middle? Inconsistent at best.

He sighed. “Alright, let’s—”

“Fix Piper’s timing by having Summer stand next to her,” Richelle said from her spot on the bench, not even looking up from her notebook. He hadn't even noticed her drift back they're as he tried to figure out the problem in his head.

He walked towards her the others drifting together and following behind him to where Richelle was sitting.

Noah blinked. “Huh?”

Richelle flipped a page like this was the most obvious thing in the world. “Piper takes timing cues from whoever’s closest to her. Usually that’s Amy, but Amy’s on the other side now, so she keeps falling behind.”

Everyone turned to Piper.

Piper hesitated. “I mean… I guess?”

Noah exhaled, thinking. “Alright. Summer, switch spots.”

They ran the routine again.

Perfect timing.

Piper looked at Richelle like she’d just performed actual magic.

Richelle just shrugged. “Told you.”

Noah squinted. “How long have you… noticed that?”

Richelle tapped her notebook against her palm. “Oh, I have pages of stuff like this. Been tracking patterns since Regionals.”

That was two months ago.

Noah stared at her, then slowly held out a hand. “Can I see?”

Richelle studied him, then handed it over.

He flipped through the pages—and what he saw made his breath catch.

Everything was there.

Competitors’ weak spots.
A-Troupe’s weak spots.
Possible choreography mistakes before they happened.
Notes on the judging panel—who they liked, what styles they preferred, how they scored based on facial expressions.

Noah looked up, stunned.

Richelle was already watching him, head tilted. “What do you think?”

He thought it was brilliant 

And now? He was going to make sure they win Nationals with it.

 

---

Noah spent the next five minutes flipping through Richelle’s notebook, absorbing everything. The more he read, the more his stomach flipped.

This wasn’t just some notes.

This was a full breakdown of A-Troupe’s strengths and weaknesses, competitor analysis, judge behavior, and probabilities of mistakes based on past rehearsals.

Richelle had basically mapped out the future—and it was terrifyingly accurate.

“Dude.” He turned to her, lowering his voice. “Why didn’t you show me this sooner?”

Richelle blinked. “You’re the first person who asked.”

Noah had to physically stop himself from throwing the notebook at the wall.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Finn leaned over his shoulder, eyes widening. “Are those, like… actual stats?”

Noah sighed. “It’s Richelle. Of course they’re actual stats.”

Richelle tapped the page with a diagram of their formations, tiny arrows marking movement efficiency. “I only track what matters.”

Summer peered over his other shoulder. “What’s that section?”

Noah scanned it. “‘Judge Analysis: Trends and Preferences.’”

Everyone exchanged glances.

Richelle didn’t even look up. “Judge #3 will be the problem.”

Noah frowned. “Why?”

“Because she overscores ballet technique and undervalues contemporary elements,” Richelle said, like this was common knowledge. “Look at last year’s Regionals. Team Verve should’ve placed higher, but Judge #3 tanked their scores because they used too much improv. She also hates it when dancers look at the floor mid-move.”

Amy raised an eyebrow. “You memorized last year’s judge scores?”

Richelle finally glanced up. “You… didn’t?”

Noah shut the notebook. “Okay. We’re using this.”

Finn grinned. “Are we, though? Because if we start listening to Richelle’s prophecies, we might as well rename her Nostradamus.”

Richelle ignored that.

Noah stood up and clapped his hands. “Alright, new plan. We’re making last-minute adjustments. If we want to win, we need to work with the judging panel’s biases, not against them.”

“Which means?” Piper prompted.

Noah turned to Richelle. “Tell us what to fix.”

And just like that, Richelle took control of the room.

 

---

 

Noah took a deep breath as the murmurs in the practice room died down. The team gathered in a loose circle on the studio floor, their eyes flicking between him and Richelle, whose notebook lay open on a makeshift podium—a folding table, no less, that she’d insisted was “just enough for the details.” The room, filled with exhausted energy and the faint smell of sweat and determination, suddenly seemed quieter, as if every dancer was holding their breath.

Noah cleared his throat. “Alright, everyone,” he began, his voice steady but firm, “we’ve got Nationals coming up fast, and we need every advantage we can get. Richelle’s insights—her notes—are our secret weapon. I know it sounds crazy, but we’ve got to trust her.”

Finn raised an eyebrow. “Secret weapon? Since when do we have secret weapons on this team?”

Noah shot him a pointed look. “Since now. Look—we’re not going to overhaul everything. We’re just making some targeted adjustments based on what Richelle’s noticed. We know our routine well, but she’s noticed patterns—small shifts, timing issues—that could cost us points if we don’t fix them.”

Richelle leaned forward, her pen poised over a fresh page. “For instance, Finn,” she began in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, “I’ve noticed that during the rapid-turn segment, your spin tends to lose its momentum when you’re positioned at the very front of the formation. It’s not that your technique is off—your timing falters because being at the extreme edge puts extra pressure on you. But when you’re more centrally placed, your rotations are nearly flawless—about 15% more stable, in fact. I’ve tracked this pattern for months.”

Finn arched an eyebrow and let a half-smirk play on his lips. “So you’re saying that being in the spotlight throws me off my game?” he teased.

Richelle offered a small, understanding smile. “Not exactly the spotlight—it’s more about the isolation of the lead. When you’re surrounded by the group, you find your natural rhythm. It’s a predictable pattern, and we can definitely work with it.”

Noah quickly scribbled a note on the whiteboard:
• Adjust Finn’s position for the rapid-turn segment in Formation C

 

He then turned to another page in the notebook. “Next, look here.” He pointed at a detailed diagram with arrows and numbers. “For the lift in the middle, our timing is consistently 0.7 seconds off. Kingston, Amy, you’re the base in that lift. You’re pushing too early. When you wait until the count hits exactly four, the lift is smoother. I know it sounds minor, but every detail matters.”

Kingston frowned, then nodded slowly. “I can adjust that. Amy, what do you think?”

Amy shrugged, smiling wryly. “I’ve noticed I get nervous with lifts. I tend to rush to finish my part, but if Noah’s right… I’ll slow down a notch.”

Richelle continued, her voice even as she flipped to another section of the notebook. “Now, regarding the judges: Judge #3 is our big wildcard this year. She’s been known to favor ballet technique and becomes critical when contemporary elements are too dominant. Our current routine leans a bit too far into that contemporary style in the final sequence. I suggest we integrate a transitional movement—something subtle that leans into classical lines, even if just for a moment.”

Noah’s eyes widened as he absorbed the information. “A transitional movement… like a brief pause, a held position?”

“Exactly,” Richelle replied, tapping the page. “A half-second extension in the formation. It’ll let the judge’s eyes register a classical aesthetic before transitioning back. Trust me—it’s all in the rhythm and nuance.”

A murmur of assent ran through the group as Finn, always the joker even in serious moments, piped up, “So we’re basically dancing like we’re spies, tweaking our moves just to fool a judge?”

“No, not fool,” Noah corrected gently, “influence. We’re working with what we know about how they score. We’re not compromising our style; we’re enhancing our performance in ways that the judges will appreciate.”

The room fell silent as everyone digested the implications. Richelle’s methodical observations were unearthing a new level of strategy—one that went far beyond raw talent or practice. It was analytical, almost surgical in its precision.

Noah glanced at Richelle, a quiet acknowledgment passing between them. “Okay guys, Richelle’s been tracking every little detail for a long time. It’s like she sees the dance in patterns, the flow of time and movement as a series of predictable events. And that… gives us a real edge.”

Kingston leaned forward, curiosity etched on his face. “What about the judges? You mentioned she’s got some predictions about them too.”

Richelle flipped to a different section—a detailed breakdown of each judge’s scoring history, their facial expressions, and even small notes about their preferred attire. “Judge #3,” she repeated softly, “scored nearly every performance from Team Verve with the same pattern—up to 1.5 points off when modern movements dominated. Conversely, Judge #1 and Judge #2 seem to appreciate energy and improvisation. We need to craft our final sequence to subtly highlight both styles: keep it modern enough for energy, but with a brief, deliberate classical element to appease Judge #3.”

Amy, who’d been quiet until now, frowned in thought. “That means we need to have our final sequence double as a showcase of two different styles. It sounds complicated.”

“It is,” Richelle said. “But it’s not about overhauling your performance—it’s about precision. I’ve mapped out the counts, the transitions, even the potential timing delays that might occur if someone gets nervous.”

Noah picked up the notebook again and ran his finger along the detailed diagram of the final sequence. “I never realized how many variables there are. We’re not just dancing—we’re performing an experiment.”

Finn snorted. “An experiment with very high stakes.”

A few chuckles broke the tension, but the gravity remained palpable.

Noah continued, “So, here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll rehearse these adjustments until they’re second nature. Richelle, I need you to stay with us during every run-through. Point out any discrepancies, no matter how small. And everyone—listen up. These aren’t just suggestions. If we nail these details, we’re not just avoiding penalties; we’re maximizing our score.”

Piper crossed her arms, her playful smirk softening into determination. “Alright, genius. Let’s see if your ‘pattern recognition’ can make us champions.”

Richelle looked up, a quiet confidence in her eyes. “It’s all about the details,” she said. “If you see the patterns, you see the future. And I’ve seen our future—if we adjust now, we win Nationals.”

The room buzzed with a renewed sense of purpose. For the next hour, the team split into smaller groups to rehearse the various adjustments. Noah stayed near the center, orchestrating the changes like a conductor with his orchestra. Kingston and Amy worked on the timing of the lift, repeating the new count until the movement felt natural. Piper and Summer ran through multiple formations, trying out the new side-by-side positioning until Piper’s eyes, usually darting around, settled in sync with Summer’s steady gaze.

In one corner, Finn and Amy played with the transitional movement in the final sequence, experimenting with a half-second pause that Richelle had meticulously detailed. “Remember,” Finn said, “we’re not breaking the flow. It’s like a heartbeat—a brief pause before the crescendo.”

Amy grinned. “Heartbeat. Got it.”

Across the room, Richelle sat with her notebook, quietly observing, occasionally jotting down additional notes as she watched each dancer’s performance. Her eyes flicked from page to page, matching the inked diagrams to the movements on the floor. Every misstep, every perfectly executed transition was logged in her mind—and on her pages.

Noah approached her during a brief lull in the rehearsal. “Hey,” he said softly, “I just wanted to say—thank you. I mean, you really see things, don’t you?”

Richelle looked up, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I see patterns,” she replied simply, “and I see potential. You just have to know where to look.”

Noah nodded. “And I’m glad you do. I trust you, Richelle. I always have.”

Their eyes met, and in that quiet moment, the weight of expectations seemed a little lighter. It was a reminder that even when the pressure of Nationals loomed large, they had each other to lean on.

As the rehearsal resumed, the adjustments gradually began to gel into a seamless performance. Kingston’s earlier hesitations gave way to confident, measured movements. Piper and Summer’s positioning became second nature, their timing flawless. And as the team ran through the routine one more time, Noah couldn’t help but feel a surge of hope. Each move was more than just choreography—it was the embodiment of every detail Richelle had painstakingly recorded, every pattern she’d recognized, every prediction that was now becoming reality. 

She also ran through the routine with them getting a feel for the changes and if they would hinder any dancers in a significant way.

“Alright,” Noah called out after another full run-through, “that’s enough for now. We’ll pick this back up tomorrow. Great work, everyone.”

A round of tired applause followed, mixed with relieved laughter and murmured compliments. As the team began to disperse, Piper lingered by the whiteboard, tracing her finger along the notes with a thoughtful expression.

Cleo clapped her on the shoulder. “Not bad, huh? I mean, who knew a Richelle would be our new playbook?”

She laughed. “Yeah, who’d have thought?”

Outside, the evening light filtered through the studio windows, casting long shadows on the floor—a quiet promise of another day, another chance to perfect the art they all loved.

Noah gathered his things slowly, his mind still buzzing with Richelle’s precise observations. He made his way over to her, careful not to disturb her notes. “Hey,” he said softly, “I’m glad we’re doing this. I know it’s not easy to convince them to change , but… it just might be what we need.”

Richelle’s gaze softened. “I’m not saying it’ll work every time. But if we can minimize the variables… we can control the outcome a little better.”

Noah smiled. “Then let’s control what we can. Together.”

 

---

 

The morning light seeped through the curtains of the team’s temporary dorm as the dancers stirred awake, nerves and excitement mingling in the early hours. Today was Nationals. Every detail, every adjustment Richelle had painstakingly noted and every strategy Noah had embraced in the days leading up to this moment now culminated in the charged atmosphere of the locker room.

Noah paced quietly near the mirror as the team gathered for a final huddle. His eyes swept over every face with a mix of determination and reassurance. “Today, we’re not just dancing—we’re executing a plan. Richelle’s insights have given us an edge, and every single one of you is a crucial part of this.” His voice was steady, laced with the weight of responsibility and hope.

Piper, tying her shoelaces, nodded. “I still can’t believe how many little adjustments we made just because of Richelle’s notes.”

Finn added with a laugh, “I’m just still waiting for someone to call her our very own Nostradamus.”

Richelle, sitting off to the side with her ever-present notebook cradled like a precious treasure, offered a small, knowing smile. “It’s all about the patterns,” she said softly. “Today, we use what we know about ourselves, the routine, and even the judges.”

Noah stepped closer and placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “We’re counting on you, Richelle. Your ability to see what’s coming… it’s our roadmap.”
She met his gaze, and in that silent exchange lay the unspoken promise that every observed detail—every repetitive behavior, every trend in scoring—would be our advantage.

After a quick warm-up session in the practice room, the team boarded the shuttle bus to the arena. The ride was a mixture of anxious chatter and thoughtful silence, each member mentally rehearsing the adjustments Richelle had helped carve out over weeks of practice.

Inside the arena, the backstage area buzzed with energy. Teams from other studios milled about, stretching and reviewing last-minute cues. As A-Troupe walked to their designated waiting area, Richelle’s voice reached Noah’s ear.

“Judge #3 is here,” she murmured almost to herself, eyes on the judges’ table through the frosted glass. “I saw her reviewing the performances from last year. Today, she might be looking for that classical touch we built in.”

Noah nodded silently. He trusted her—he always did.

Before stepping on stage, each dancer took a moment for themselves. Piper quietly repeated the new formation instructions while Summer adjusted her stance, and Kingston and Amy revisited their count for the lift. Even Finn, usually the jokester, sat calmly, his mind clearly focused.

Backstage, the announcement came. “The next step, you’re up in five minutes!” echoed over the speakers. The team took a collective breath as they lined up for their entrance.

The lights dimmed and the opening notes of the music filled the arena. The audience’s chatter faded into an anticipatory hush as the curtains drew back. In that moment, the team transformed into a singular, living expression of countless hours of rehearsals, adjustments, and trust in one another.

Noah led from the front, his eyes scanning the formation with precision. Every dancer moved with deliberate confidence. Piper and Summer seamlessly executed their new positioning, their movements perfectly timed as if they’d been dancing this routine all their lives. Kingston and Amy’s lift, meticulously adjusted to the exact moment, soared with an elegant grace that caught the judge’s attention. And Finn, ever aware, ensured that even the subtlest of transitions were in perfect rhythm.

Halfway through the routine, the team reached the final sequence—the transitional movement that Richelle had painstakingly outlined. The music shifted ever so slightly. For a heartbeat, the dancers held a poised formation, channeling a classical aesthetic that gave a nod to Judge #3’s preferences. The pause was brief—a measured, almost imperceptible delay—but in that split second, Richelle’s prediction took form. The team then transitioned back into their contemporary energy, their performance flowing seamlessly between two styles.

In the midst of the performance, Noah caught sight of Richelle flowing naturally completelyin her own world on stage , as usual. In that moment, her subtle smile said it all: she had seen the patterns, had predicted the variables, and now, they were manifesting in real time.

The routine reached its climax with thunderous energy. The audience erupted in applause as the music ended, and the stage lights bathed the dancers in a warm glow. For a moment, time stood still backstage as every member of A-Troupe exhaled relief and pride.

Backstage, in the quiet after the performance, Noah gathered the team in a tight circle. “That was incredible,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “Every adjustment, every tweak—it all worked. We did it.”
Piper grinned broadly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen us move so smoothly.”
Kingston added, “And that pause at the end? Pure genius.”
Finn chuckled, “Nostradamus strikes again.”

Richelle, modest as always, brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m just glad it came together,” she said softly, her eyes scanning the faces around her. “I knew there was a pattern—we just needed to follow it.”

Noah nodded, turning to her with gratitude. “I can’t thank you enough. You don’t just see the dance—you see the people, the judges, every little detail. You made us better today.”

Before they could dwell on it further, the announcer’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker. “Teams , please come to the main stage for the awards ceremony.”

The team exchanged excited glances as they made their way to the stage, still riding the high of their performance. On the stage, the tension shifted from adrenaline to anticipation. Judges sat at long tables, their expressions inscrutable. The host, with a charismatic smile, began to read out the scores.

As each team’s score was announced, A-Troupe’s heartbeats quickened. When it came to their performance, the numbers were high—so high that for a few seconds, it felt surreal. When the final tally was revealed, the room erupted with cheers. A-Troupe had not only met their expectations—they had surpassed them.

The host announced, “And the winner of Nationals is… A-Troupe!”

The team leaped into celebration. Amidst the chaos of congratulatory shouts and laughter, Noah pulled Richelle aside. “This win… it’s yours ,” he said earnestly. “You were right. I’m so proud of you.”

Kingston joined in, clapping her on the back. “Honestly, you’re like our secret coach. We’re all still wondering how you noticed every little thing.”

Piper grinned widely. “Yeah, like the way you predicted the judges’ moods. I mean, who sees that coming?”

Richelle smiled shyly. “I’ve always been good at connecting the dots. Whether it’s in a routine or in people’s behaviors, patterns are everywhere if you just take the time to notice.”

The celebration continued long into the evening. In quieter moments afterward, as the team sat together in a circle, sharing stories and reliving the day’s triumph, the impact of Richelle’s keen observations became clear. Their performance wasn’t just a series of moves—it was a carefully crafted strategy, one that recognized that every element, from the smallest timing adjustment to the judges’ subconscious biases, was part of a larger, predictable pattern.

Noah, sitting beside Richelle on a quiet step outside the awards hall, summed it up best. “Today, you taught me that our strengths aren’t just in how we move—they’re in how we think, how we understand the world. Patterns, strategies, predictions... they’re all part of our art.”

Richelle looked out at the city lights, her gaze reflective. “I guess being autistic means I see things differently. But maybe, just maybe, that difference is what made us winners today.”

As the night wound down, the team exchanged tired hugs and promises of new challenges. For every dancer, the win was a validation not only of their talent but of their ability to adapt, to listen to the quiet voices of insight that sometimes came from the most unexpected places.