It didn’t matter that I turned left when everyone else turned right, or that I had already sweat through my shirt, I had found a place where I wasn’t characterized by my age, looks, or grades: I was solely judged on my ability to bust a move. Blaring techno music enveloped the room, and 30 pairs of sneakered feet scraped the glazed wood floor, each pair struggling to keep up with the instructor. Sweat pooled into my eyes and...