“You were delicious,” Jared whispers heavily into my ear. I melt against him and he leads me to the other side of the floor.
“Let’s have a round of applause for the competitors!” the announcer says.
The applause and cheers are deafening. These beautiful people are all here to see me.
Me.
We dance our hearts out for the rest of our routines: samba, rumba, paso doble, and jive. Jared escorts me off the floor and we line up behind the other competitors. Genya and Iza exit first and Ricardo and Salomé follow them. Genya pushes open a door in the back corner of the ballroom and we all make our way into an empty hallway. The minute we get out of the judges’ sights, Genya turns back around and trips Ricardo. I hear a loud thump and see Ricardo lying face down on the multi-colored carpet.
“What the fuck, Genya?” Ricardo grunts.
Genya kicks Ricardo in the ribs. “This is nothing compared to what I will do to you if I ever see you hit her again,” Genya yells at him and then leads Iza to the dressing room. Salomé stands there speechless, grateful tears welling up in her eyes. Damn, I was wrong about Genya not having any balls. Like I said, Salomé’s a fool for leaving him.
Salomé flees the scene of the crime, leaving a splayed Ricardo to pull himself together. Jared and I step over him and head back to the dressing rooms. I nearly give him a kick myself.
An hour later we’re all lined up in the on deck area.
“And the results of the Closed Professional United States Latin Dancesport are as follows: In third place, placing third in cha-cha, second in samba, fourth in rumba, third in paso doble and third in jive: From California, couple 201, Dmitri Pavlov and Izabella Jasinski.”
Genya steps out on the floor and twirls Iza. As expected, I kiss Salomé’s cheek and hug Ricardo. I totally deserve my Emmy.
“And ladies and gentlemen, our runners up. Placing second in cha-cha, third in samba, second in rumba, second in paso doble, and second in jive: From New York, couple 187, Ricardo Mancini and Salomé Sanchez.”
Salomé cringes as Ricardo spins her out on the floor. She avoids all eye contact with him. His face gets red and I swear that vein on his forehead is going to pop.
“And ladies and gentlemen, placing first in all dances, your 2018 Closed Professional United States Latin Champions: From California, couple 216, Jared Brooks and Viktoria Brooks.” I jump up and down and kiss Jared and he squeezes my ass. Spinning four times, I bow and thank the crowd. I kiss all the competitors and take my place for the winner’s photo. The competition organizer hands me a dozen roses and a check for our winnings. It’s just two thousand, not even half of what I make during a week of Dancing under the Stars. I came to this country fifteen years ago, dirt poor and not speaking a word of English, and now I’m a two-time national dance champion. How’s that for living the American dream?
Foxtrot
The jazzy beat made her body tingle. He reached for her hand. They glided across the floor, weaving between the other dancers. The music began to crescendo. Their bodies rose and fell together, in synch with the music. The intensity between them built. She shimmied her shoulders toward him. He embraced her from behind. She escaped from his arms on the spot, and then staggered away. The chase was on.
3
Salomé
“SALOMÉ! YOU LOOK like a fat cow out there! Vaffanculo!”
I run off the dance floor with Ricardo’s angry screams trailing me and hot tears burning my cheeks. We just placed second. Second is never good enough for Ricardo—and clearly one hundred percent my fault. He’s a professional Blackpool, World Latin and Italian National Champion, for Christ’s sake, he’d never be responsible for anything but perfection. Credit, he’ll take. Blame? He knows exactly what to do with blame.
I stumble before reaching the dressing room, slamming into a pillar and breaking my right shoe heel clean off. Why am I here? Why the hell am I still doing this? Six years ago, I was on top of the world. I had just won the Amateur Youth Latin-America Dancesport Championships at Blackpool. Genya and I were the talk of the dance world. And now here I am with Ricardo Mancini screaming at me like I’m some stupid amateur.
“You dance slow like turtle!” an all too familiar voice rips out of the dressing room, cussing in Russian.
I peek around the door to see Genya’s mom cursing at Iza. Iza is trembling in the corner, biting off her fake acrylic nails.
“Iza, I send two thousand dollars every month to your family and I give you food, clothes and home. And you ruin my Dimochka’s result. He is Blackpool champion before you—and now he is third in Professional Latin. Third!”
Genya paces around the room.
“You are disgrace, stupid girl. I should throw you out on street for destroying Dimka’s career,” Irina says.
I step away from the door. No way I’m walking into that nightmare. I’ll change later.
Genya was mine once. My first dance partner, boyfriend, lover, everything. We became partners at fourteen, won our first junior nationals at fifteen, moved in together at sixteen, traveled around the world together at seventeen, and won Blackpool at twenty. Everyone thought we would be together forever. Me included. We were so right, so special—a combination of youth, love, exuberance, passion, and vulnerability rarely seen in the dance world. We used to stay up late at night after competitions, drinking champagne, giggling in our luxury hotel room beds, and getting lost in our dreams of turning professional, winning a world title, retiring, starting a family, and opening a dance studio for children.
We danced our final rumba at twenty-one.
Now here I am, six years later, dancing with a narcissistic perfectionist, struggling to regain my national title and maintain my sanity. But what choice do I have? I can’t stop. I come alive when I prance onto that floor. A pulsating samba, a rhythmic cha-cha, a melodic rumba, a confrontational paso doble, a frolicking jive . . . I’m at home on the floor, one with the music. When the music dies and I rip off my mink fur false eyelashes, scrub off my fake tan, and pull out my hair extensions, I am nothing.
I step back into the ballroom and try to find my girls. The newly crowned champions, Jared and Vika, are celebrating with the judges. I scan the room but can’t see straight thanks to the blinding reflection of the rhinestones and lights.
There!
Jenny’s head. She’s peering in from the bar outside the ballroom. Smart girl—she knows I need a drink.
When I reach the bar, Diana hugs me. My sweat gets all over her dress, but my girl doesn’t care. She sweetly drapes a silk robe around my wet body.
“Salomé, you danced great.”
“Of course, she danced great, Diana,” Jenny says. “She’s the best damn dancer in the world. Too bad the only way you can win a competition these days is to be married to a judge, be Ukrainian, or both!” She hands me a salty margarita. “Down it hard, baby. You were robbed.”
“No, I wasn’t. I totally screwed up my triple rope spin.”
“You did not. And where the hell is Ricardo? I can’t believe he hit you again. I’m going to kick his ass.” Jenny demonstrates a front kick that she perfected in her Crossfit class.
I block her leg. “No, you won’t. Genya already took care of him. Ricardo just got upset. Don’t make him even angrier. I need him, Jen. I don’t have a degree like you or a future hubby like Di. If I’m not competing, I’ll lose all my students.”
“Dammit, Salomé. You promised you’d leave him if he—”
“Excuse me, Salomé Sanchez is it?”
We all turn to the voice that dared interrupt Jenny Ming. A little bald man in a conservative black tie, white shirt, and black pants stands there, looking all the world like a tattered boot in the sea of rhinestone dresses and flashy suits surrounding him. Surely, he’s lost.
“The men’s room is over there.” Jenny gestures over her shoulder. “Now, Salomé—”
“A-hem.” The man clears his throat and waits patiently, smiling at me. “Ms. Sanchez?�
�
He doesn’t seem to notice how out of place he is in our world of glitter and glam. “Do I know you?” I say.
“I apologize, Ms. Sanchez, my name is John Applebaum. I’m the executive producer of Dancing under the Stars. I’m sure you’re familiar with the show.”
“Oh, hell no!” Jenny blurts.
Diana chokes on her Hawaiian Punch. I wipe the tears out of my eyes—smearing my makeup all over my face, I’m sure.
Jenny carefully sets her drink on the bar. “Mr. Applebaum, I’m Jennifer Ming, 2017 United States Amateur National Standard Champion and also Salomé’s manager. What do you want? Did you exceed your Russian dancer limit this season?”
Oh, good God, Jenny’s about to begin one of her sociological tirades about reality television, the topic of her senior thesis at Harvard. “Jen—”
She cuts me off by holding up her hand like a stop sign.
Mr. Applebaum doesn’t know what’s coming.
“Well, kind of,” he jokes. “We just heard word that Olga Radetskaya was deported from the United States for immigration fraud. We’re thinking of shaking it up this season and getting some new blood. Salomé, I saw you dance tonight—I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I believe you and Ricardo should have won hands down. It is so beautiful to watch a couple who is so in love perform.”
Diana claps her hand over Jenny’s mouth. I flat-out laugh. I guess our faux kiss at the end of our rumba was convincing. But nothing could be further from the truth. First of all, Ricardo is gay, or a gay as the Russians would say. Secondly, you can say many things about my relationship with Ricardo, but loving is not one of them.
“Apparently you missed the part where Ricardo slapped her,” Jenny says through Diana’s fingers.
Mr. Applebaum ignores Jenny and starts slowly eye fucking our darling Diana. “Are you a dancer?”
Jenny pulls Diana’s hand away from her face. “Obviously. You don’t get a body like that from just sitting on your ass and eating Cheetos while watching your show. Her name is Diana Young and she’s the 2017 Amateur National Rhythm Champion. I’m sure she’d be great for your ratings—a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, nineteen-year-old Mormon virgin. Can’t beat that.”
Diana kicks her. “Stop it Jenny. You’re embarrassing me.” She turns the color of the spilled punch on her dress.
Mr. Applebaum turns his snake eyes on Jenny. “Ms. Ming, you have a very dynamic personality. We would love to interview all three of you girls for next season.” He hands us business cards.
Like a perro seeing a mutt sniffing at his tree, Ricardo shows up at my side that instant. He looks ready to pee his circle around me, but Mr. Applebaum disarms him immediately.
“Hello, Ricardo,” he says. “My name is John Applebaum, the executive producer of Dancing under the Stars. I was just chatting with your gorgeous partner about the show.”
Ricardo’s eyes go from narrow to wide and welcoming. “Mr. Applebaum. We are very flattered. We would love to be on your show. In fact, Salomé and I were just talking about how we would like to take a break from competing.”
Well there’s some news.
“Of course, Mr. Mancini,” Mr. Applebaum says. “Gabriel Bains recommended you. We would love for you to interview.”
Oh, God. Open mouth, insert foot.
I take a step backward as Ricardo’s teeth clench. I swear I can see foam form around his lips. Interview him? Interview him? The insult! Apparently Mr. Applebaum has no idea who he is talking to—does he not realize that Ricardo is an eight-time Blackpool champion and a four-time World Champion? And did he have to mention Ricardo’s ex-boyfriend Gabriel? Nobody talks to Ricardo that way. Nobody.
I think I love Mr. Applebaum.
“Mr. Applebaum,” Ricardo says, finally unclenching his teeth, “Salomé will not consider it without me. She and I are a package deal. You know, I created Salomé. I’ve been training her since she was a young girl. She is nothing without me.”
I glance quickly at my girls. Diana’s hand is over Jenny’s mouth again.
“Mr. Mancini,” Applebaum says. “I know who you are and I’m well aware that you’re a fantastic dancer. Here’s my card, call me and we can schedule an interview. Ladies, it was a pleasure meeting all of you.”
He shakes Ricardo’s hand and walks away.
Jenny, Diana, and I slump onto the bar, attempting to suppress our obvious enjoyment of Ricardo’s embarrassment. Ricardo, dumbfounded, nervously glances at the crowd now gathered at the bar.
“Can you believe that jackass, Salomé?” he says. “Yeah right, Gabriel mentioned me. He probably just wants to make me jealous by flaunting his new boy toy. Unbelievable.”
“He seemed serious to me,” says Jenny.
“He couldn’t be,” Ricardo snorts. “His show is on television. You’d need to lose weight if you are going to ever be on television. Remember, Salomé,” oh, no, not that topic again, not here, “it’s not bulimia, it’s weight control. That is what it takes to be a champion. There’s a reason you’re coming in second. Plus you have to know Standard. Have you ever even done a foxtrot?” He smiles smugly when my jaw drops, then makes a perfect heel turn, reminding everyone that he was also once an amateur Standard Champion, and saunters off to flirt with “the boys”—a group of his adoring blonde, tan, and young male student groupies.
“Lose weight?” Jenny says. “What do you weigh, like one hundred pounds?”
“Try one hundred eight point five. But that was this morning, before I ate. I could easily be even one hundred and ten pounds by now.” I start fondling the business card.
Jenny gets in my face. “Salomé, no. I mean it, no. Don’t even think about it. We made a pact.”
“I don’t know, Jenny . . .” Diana says. She’s got a faraway look, like when she’s listening to a playful foxtrot. “It might be kind of fun. Think about it. We could all do it together. We can live in Daddy’s Beverly Hill’s condo. It would be just like last year when we were all training for nationals.”
Jenny crosses her arms. “We made a pact.” When neither one of us replies, she turns on me. “I don’t like the look in your eyes, Salomé.”
I shrug. “Diana’s right. It wouldn’t totally suck. No, seriously, listen to me, Jenny. I mean, I’ve been staying in random hotels and living out of a suitcase since I was fourteen. I still live with my parents. I made one hundred thousand dollars last year and I only have three hundred in my bank account because I spend every dime on costumes and travel.” I hold up my broken shoe heel. “I spent six thousand on this damn comp alone, and I lost. Vika makes five thousand a week! I know we make fun of Dancing under the Stars, but I’m so sick of the competitive dance world. Jenny, I need a break.”
“A break?” she asks. “You just want to have a second chance with Genya. And Diana, what’s Robert going to think about you cavorting with another man while he’s in Iraq? Christ, we would have to do photo shoots together with Vika. No. Absolutely not.”
“I could care less about Genya,” I say, trying to convince myself. “He’s all caught up in the Hollywood scene and just wants to be a star. Am I right, Diana?”
“Yeah. And Robert supports me in whatever I do. Come on, Jenny, you know you secretly want to be on the show.”
“I do not.”
“Yes you do,” I say, taking charge. I really do need a break from competing. Badly. “We’re doing it. You are either with us or against us.” I cross my arms. Next to me, Diana crosses hers. You go, Miss Hawaiian Punch.
Jenny looks dumbfounded by our defiance.
We keep our arms crossed. Finally, Jenny turns to the bar and picks up her drink. “I will have you know, Diana,” she says to the glass in her hands, “that I do NOT want to be on that show. However, I am your friend, and as your friend I cannot sit around and let you guys make fools out of yourselves on national television.” Her eyes sparkle. “Plus, there are no positive Chinese-American role models on television. When I was a little girl, I never had an
yone to emulate.” She takes a sip then turns to us. “I guess I’ll have to join, just to keep an eye on you.”
I high-five Diana. Jenny sticks her tongue at us then sips her drink again. “The things I do for you people,” she says.
“Oh my God, you guys,” Diana hops on a barstool. “This is going to be, like, so much fun. I wonder who my partner will be? Oh, I hope it’s Zac Efron or Robert Pattinson. Or maybe Taylor Kitsch. He is soooo cute.”
“Slow down, little girl,” Jenny says. “You’re engaged. Or have you already forgotten.”
“I know.” She jumps off her bar stool. “But I still want a cute partner.”
Jenny throws her napkin at Diana. “You’re so lame. We’re all going to end up dancing with losers. No one cool ever goes on the show. Our partners will be has-beens like Corey Feldman, Lamar Odom, and the only member of the Backstreet Boys who hasn’t been on the show.”
“Cool, I love the Backstreet Boys,” says Diana.
Jenny shakes her head. “I hate you both. I hope we all bomb the interviews.”
“No chance of that. We’re all awesome,” I say. “Another toast?”
“Uh uh. No way,” Jenny says. “Look where the last one got us.”
I grab my margarita and clink glasses with Diana over Jenny’s head. Who knew losing a competition could result in this? Maybe next year, I’ll win my own Emmy.
4
Vika
“VENYOCHKA,” I PURR into his ear in my best breathy phone sex voice after I just gave him a blowjob. “I love you for getting producers to pair me with Tony Zave.” I flip on my back and twirl a lock of my still perfectly curled hair. “Möxie Cörps is my favorite band since I was little girl. I am happy to dance together with him. This will be best season.”
Sway Page 3
