Or, wait. Perhaps you were surprised? These members of the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater appeared on Fox’s hit reality program So You Think You Can Dance, which wraps up its ninth season tonight. Viewers enjoyed the Ailey performance while waiting to find out which dancers would be, in reality-speak, “eliminated.” As if to make up for the daring of the professional troupe’s performance, the results were blandly predictable: two white girls (who are nearly indistinguishable from two other white girls currently on the show) got to stay; one lithe black ballerina named Amber was voted off. Thanks for nothing, America.

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I love being wrong sometimes. I was convinced, watching the girls get picked off systematically from week one of "So You Think You Can Dance," that the speed-dialing-teen-girl contingent of the voting public was fixated on the guys and wouldn't elevate their fellow XXers to the status of "America's favorite dancer." And then little Lauren Froderman reached out and touched them, and now we have the third female champion in seven seasons. Hallelujah.

And don't kid yourself -- it's a shocker. Yes, Lauren was infinitely more versatile than Kent (and my dear Robert.) She has proven herself to be bubbly and sweet, but not fake. All season she managed to be sexy, vulnerable, dark, or innocent, whenever she needed to be. But Kent was the clear favorite, for weeks, from the moment Alex Wong broke himself. The adoration, the screaming audience, the fact that he was never, not once, in danger of going home. It was his to lose. Again, I love being wrong.

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Because here's the deal: Kent might be the most popular, and the almost-certain winner, but he's not the best. He's sweet and cute, with the aw-shucks charm and the Paul Newman-y looks. He's an excellent dancer, with lovely technique most of the time (minus disco and ballroom) and he's enthusiastic, committed and earnest. Kent's performance with All Star Allison was the most deeply felt on his part since the prom piece with Lauren, but it looked like he managed to scratch the surface of something truly raw in his gut and it scared him. He pulled back from it, when I wanted him to just give in. The Bollywood was fine, although the smiley face distracted me from the already distracting sparkly costumes. The guy-on-guy malevos routine that closed the show was interesting for its novelty, but Kent looked like an 8-year-old in Daddy's suit and was no match for the more masculine Robert.

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I really want Robert to win, and I don't think he will. His warmth and authenticity is evident in everything he does. All of the final dancers are pleasant and earnest and seemingly kind in their recorded packages and rehearsal footage, but Robert has been able to infuse all of his performances with the same commitment and clarity he brings to the rest of his existence. Hyperbolic? Yup. And I don't care. Lauren, too, has been fully engaged in everything she's done, except for the first couple of weeks when she hadn't quite figured out how to dance like a grown-up. I have this little voice in my head, however, that even though Robert and Lauren are both better dancers (more fluid, more versatile, more consistent) than Adechike, one of them may miss out on next week's finale and the chance to be "America's favorite dancer." Kent, even before his rapturous contemporary, is the clear favorite and in no danger whatsoever, unless Taylor Lautner simultaneously appears, naked, in hundreds of thousands of teen girls' houses to distract them during the voting period.

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I'm technically on vacation right now, so we're keeping this very, very short (for me.) And I'm sure hearts are breaking as I tell you that I will not be writing a reaction to the elimination Thursday night -- we'll have to commiserate or lament our lost (blank) and (blank) next week.

Lauren: Our resident "lady-dancer," according to Adam, was upbeat and fresh in her Broadway routine with Allison. I was thrilled to finally see two girls perform together, and guest judge Toni Redpath was right -- strong women are sexy. Women don't cease to be hot when the guy leaves the room. Then Lauren made her body undulate freakishly during her foxtrot with the overdressed Adechike (seriously, a sweater vest? Lauren's practically wearing a bathing suit.) She's still great, and getting better.

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It was the 150th episode of "So You Think You Can Dance" on Wednesday, but beyond guest judge and director-choreographer Kenny Ortega ("High School Musical" and its sequels, "This Is It") there weren't any extra bells and whistles. Unless you count that tacked-on shower curtain Cat was wearing or the semi-sheer club shirt Adam was rocking. There were some surprises, sure, but the competition is getting more and more noose-like every week and the judges are going to be merciless in their cuts on Thursday nights. It doesn't pay to get overly emotional about the performers any more.

Which is good, because I didn't experience a lot of swooning tingly feelings after the performances on Wednesday. No real chills, although a couple of routines did make me bob my upper body on the couch, as if I were physically capable of matching the dancers step-by-step. That's always a good (if laughable and kind of sad) sign of an above-average performance.

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So Ashley Galvan from Visalia, California (holla!) was eliminated from the competition for a rib injury that will lay her up for 3-5 weeks. Her silver lining is that she's going on the live tour, but in the meantime season 7 of the show is proving to be the most death-defying yet. Maybe next time the dancers can have the decency to split something open, during the live performance show, preferably with some gore. That way I'll know it's not just the producers screwing with us.

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But what are they doing to the performers down there in L.A.? Ashley was injured during rehearsal this week, and therefore absent Wednesday night, but I'm optimistic that her ribs will be well and healed (enough) for her to perform next time and avoid automatic elimination. As for who will join her in the bottom three: I think Billy's in trouble, again, I still think Adéchiké's bulletproof, and Robert may have been able to win over some converts, so ... Jose? Lauren, just because she's a girl and Kent kissed her last week on stage with out any orders to do so? Who knows. She was the only one repping the estrogen set this week, and she still has a lot to offer.

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But I still cried my face off when I found out that Alex Wong, "The Beast," the sweetly humble powerhouse with the inhuman ability, had a lacerated Achilles' tendon that was ending his skyward trajectory on the show. Like, I had to take my glasses off, because they fogged up with my bitter tears. The judges were crying, Cat was crying and every single dancer was in the ugly-crying place. Even Ashley and Billy, the other performers up for elimination this week, didn't seem to register one iota of relief at their reprieve, so upset were they about Alex. The funny part is: we don't know, for sure, that Wong would've won the whole kit and kaboodle, but it would've taken him spewing Mel Gibson-esque racist tirades on live television to lose. So now the other performers are dancing for second place. Woe are the next season's contestants, because the minute Alex Wong is back on the show (and he will be, without all the silly auditioning, I hope) those other guys are going to have to set themselves on fire to get votes. So, to our beloved "Beast": fix the Achilles', get your sweet ass to physical therapy, and come back to us, lickety split.

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I was so anticipating Alex Wong's performances Wednesday night after seeing him kill it last week with Twitch -- then my stomach dropped. He wasn't in the show opener, and I know what that means on "So You Think You Can Dance." It means an injury. To hear from Nigel that it might not be just a torn muscle, or a sprain, which dancers of Alex's caliber dance through every day, but that it could be a ruptered Achilles' ... well, I almost stopped watching and called in sick for today. The rules state that if Alex can't perform for two weeks he'll be eliminated, and while it's fair, in this case it would be a f#*king travesty. He's the best dancer on the stage, and I think anyone who wins in his stead will know in his or her soul that the victory is tainted. And that's not fair. Everyone should be crossing their fingers and their toes and their eyes that he can rub some dirt on it and jump back in.

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That's kind of where I am after tonight's "So You Think You Can Dance" performances. I can usually count on at least 30 percent of the numbers on any given "SYTYCD" show to thrill me in some way, whether it's nasty, on-point hip-hop or tear-inducing contemporary. I've even been known to shiver after an arousing paso doble (yes, I love the much-derided paso, give me that over a smooth waltz any time.) With a couple of notable exceptions, nary a hair on my arm stood up after Wednesday night.

I also disagreed with almost every single thing the judges said. From Mia asserting that she was wearing a "bedspread" (it was really more like a rat had stuck its nest to her front) to the notion that Robert wasn't in control of Anya during their Argentinean tango, this was one of those weeks that the professional dancers and the professional TV watcher (that's a thing!) weren't on the same page.

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The judges spent a lot of time Wednesday night talking about what happens "in between the steps," the little extra bit of oomph and emotion and movement-without-moving that the most successful performers infuse into each number. I see it as the difference between a chorus member and a Broadway star, or a character actor and a lead. Because it is, really, the ability to act that makes certain dancers haunt you later. They make you believe that they are someone's naughty office daydream (thank you, Kathryn, for being so exquisite I never saw AdéChiké.)

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But we're back on track! Mary Murphy, of the interminable scream from hell, is being replaced by Mia Michaels -- a significant improvement that means the dancers are going to get invaluable insight into their craft if they can decipher her esoteric tangents. Director and choreographer Adam Shankman is returning as well, bringing levity and L.A. sheen. I love it when a dancer moves him to tears, because even with his super-tan I can tell it's genuine, that he can't control it. And then there's Executive Producer Nigel Lythgoe, who's the same as ever: a perfectly honest pervert.

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