Bastard. I can’t believe he set this up to manipulate me. Hope he likes the pictures, because that’s the only time he’ll see me naked.
Playbunny magazine . . . Playbunny! This time next month, millions of men all over the world are going to be lusting over me. Me. I whip off my kimono and watch it flutter toward the garden. Everyone back in Odessa will finally know that I made it in America.
A WEEK LATER, I’m ready for my close-up.
“That’s lovely, Viktoria. You are gorgeous. Izabella, lean into Viktoria. Beautiful, beautiful,” says Paul Vello, Playbunny’s photographer.
I’m having so much fun. Paul is the best photographer I’ve ever worked with and I just love spending time together with Iza. I was hoping to do the shoot at the mansion, but they thought it would be better to do it on location in our studio. We are butt to butt with our backs arched in a hip twist position. A large fan is blowing in the background so our hair is whipping around us. In this shot, we are partially clothed, each wearing shear dance skirts and our hair is covering our nipples. Maybe this photo will even be on the cover.
Backdrops and cameras litter the room. Paul calls for a break and the assistants cover us with robes. We walk over to the laptop so he can show us the prints but then he gets called away to poke at some lights. Iza scrolls through the proofs and stops on one where we’re bent over a ballet bar clad only in our dance heels. “Oh Vika, we look great. I wonder what Genya will think of the pictures.”
“He’ll love them.” I point to my favorite. “What did he say when you told him you were posing? Venya just went on and on about this wasn’t the right image for us but I finally convinced him to let me do it.”
Iza bites her lip.
“Oh, no.” I straighten up. “Don’t tell me you didn’t tell him?”
She looks down at the screen and starts scrolling again.
“Iza! He’s going to go crazy that you didn’t tell him.” Genya doesn’t like secrets—and that’s well known to anyone on the dance circuit.” I grab a damp towel and toss hers over her shoulder.
She puts down the computer and tugs the sash on her robe tighter. “I know. I made a big mistake but we’ve been fighting ever since we placed third at nationals and he’s been spending so much time with Salomé. I didn’t want to upset him further.”
I squeeze her hand to comfort her. Poor Genya. First Salomé lied to him about Ricardo. She kept telling Genya that they were only practicing for a showcase in Japan and then they went behind Genya’s back and competed. He was devastated. Now Iza is lying to him, too. So stupid, these girls. I wish I could compete with a sexy man my age that I loved. But we can’t all have the ballroom fantasy; Benny has been good to me.
The camera assistant motions me to get ready for my next shots. Iza wipes off her makeup with the towel and heads to the dressing room. Since I’ve already posed for some risqué girl-on-girl action with Iza, it’s time for my solo shots.
“Vika, spread your legs around the chair and give me a sultry look over your right shoulder.” I love this pose. It is very Fosse—I feel like I’m in the musical Chicago. In the wall mirror behind the photographer, I see that my long strawberry blonde hair cascades seductively in between my breasts. I’m wearing nothing but a Victoria’s Secret diamond thong and my rhinestone dance shoes.
There’s a bunch of noise in the foyer, and then a production assistant’s voice rises. “I said this is a closed set.”
“A closed set?” The other person’s voice is even louder. “For what? I own this studio. Who are you? What are you doing here?” Uh oh. Nicole. She’s going to freak out. “Vika, what in the bloody hell is going on here?”
Yep, freak out.
I throw on my silk robe. “Hey, guys, can you take quick break?” Nicole blasts into the studio and squints her eyes at the bright lights. Nicole plows into the wardrobe rack. The crew disperses.
Nicole sees my thong before I get my robe closed. She turns the color of her ruddy hair. “Vika, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Now, Nikita, don’t please freak out. I—”
“Freak out? Freak out? You’re naked! This is a family ballroom dancing studio, not a porno set. Children dance here.”
I fluff out my hair. “Relax, Nikita. I’m not naked.” Not yet, anyway. “I’m shooting the layout for Playbunny. It’ll be great for business.”
“With who? Strippers?” She trips on an extension cord. “Does daddy know about this?”
“Of course he knows. I tell Venya everything.”
“When he’s awake?”
Ha. Ha. The crew is standing there watching, like we’re some kind of human train wreck. Not cool. I take Nicole by the elbow and walk her over behind a giant light. “Venya knows, and he’s thrilled for me. For us. This is good thing. Can’t you see that?”
“What planet do you live on, Vika? What do you think people are going to say when they see this? What are they going to say about us? Uh-uh, no more.” She storms around the light and points her finger at the huddled crew. “Out. Get out. Take all this . . . this . . . stuff and get out.”
“Nikita!”
She turns on me. “And you . . . Vika, I’ve had enough. I can’t stand by quietly anymore. It’s bad enough that you make a fool out of my father by flirting with all your celebrity partners—”
“Hey!”
“—but you will not drag our family name publicly through mud.” I try to pull her around the light again but she yanks away. “We’ve worked way too hard to lose our reputation and studio to you and your oversized ego.”
Jealousy is so ugly. I’m done with it. “First off, I’ve never cheated on Venya. You know that. There is nothing wrong with some innocent flirting. And Nikita, dear beloved stepdaughter, you seem to be forgetting one thing—I’m reigning United States Latin Dancesport Champion, not you. You were the second dancer eliminated this season. Face it, you’re has-been.” That shuts her up—or maybe gives her a heart attack, because her face goes purple. Bull’s-eye! “Our family’s success lies in my hands, and I’m just trying to keep a buzz on us.” Okay, time to tone it down, Vika. You gotta live with this woman, after all. “Look, Nikita, Salomé is starring in Dolla’s new video and they’re favored to win this season. I just thought I would do something to, you know, spice up ballroom world.”
She gets in my space. “Honey, the only reason you’re a champion is because I retired so you and my brother could win the title. And I did that for Jared, not you. You’re lucky that you conned my father into marrying you. Without him, you’re nothing. Who were you before you married daddy? Another nameless Ukrainian dancer only placing in the semi-final in amateur Latin with Stas.”
“Nameless?!”
“Until he dumped you. Stas used to tell me what a pathetic dancer you were and that you would never be successful. He was just using you until he could make a fortune by dancing with Diana.”
“He was not! He loved me, you fucking liar.” I know Stas loved me. He just didn’t have the will power to turn down that kind of money. “I hate you, Nikita! I’ve tried to be your friend and you’ve always been so fake to me.”
Her eyes bug out. “I’m fake? Why do you think, Vika? You’re ten years younger than me, married to my father, and dancing with my brother. How do you think that makes me feel?”
Nicole gets blurry as tears fill my eyes. “Venya married me. He loves me. No one has ever loved me like he does. He’s done more for me than anyone has. And why not? Men help their wives. Plus, we both know how mean he can be. It’s not fair for you to be mad at me.”
She fumes, but she doesn’t respond. How can she?
“Nikita, you have everything: world title, loving husband who was your partner, and beautiful daughter. I work hard to be where I am. I didn’t grow up with both of my parents giving me free lessons and importing me partners. My father died when I was a baby and my mama sent me here with my baba so I could have a better life. She wanted to come with me but her husband couldn�
��t get visa. I was only twelve!” Nikita has no idea how easy she’s had it. “It was so hard to learn English and I missed my mama so much. My baba cleaned houses seven days out of a week so I could dance. And now I have to take care of her. I sacrificed everything to be where I am.”
She looks long and hard at me. A crash on the other side of the light makes us both jump. It also cuts the tension, I guess, because Nicole sighs and rubs her face with her hand. “Alright, Vika, I know my daddy loves you. And he can be cruel, I’ll give you that. But you just can’t denigrate our name. Please cancel this shoot.”
I shake my head. “No. I’ve always wanted to be in Playbunny. To me, it’s like dream come true. And it’s classy. Venya said I could do it.” I pause. Maybe she’s just mad that they didn’t ask her to be in it. “Nikita, do you want to join me? It could be like Brooks’ family spread—mother and daughter? Don’t worry about your body. They airbrush photos.”
She stares at me. There, I’ve got her. I should’ve known. What girl can resist Playbunny?
“Vika Brooks,” she says, “you’re even more delusional and self-absorbed than I thought you were. You’re as useless as an ashtray on a motorcycle.” She spins on her heel and storms out of the studio.
Suddenly, I remember the production crew. They’ve huddled in a corner, dead silent, having watched the whole thing. My eyes settle on the photographer. He smiles and raises his camera. “So, break over?”
Thank God! “Absolutely,” I say. Ripping off my robe, I walk over and relax on the chair under the lights, the bright glaring lights—the lights that I have been waiting my whole life to illuminate me.
Waltz
“May I have this dance?” He led her to the floor, careful not to step on her flowing gown. He took her in his arms and they glided through the ballroom. Though she was hesitant at first, she relaxed into his strong hold. Flitting, effortless, as if she were floating on clouds. Dancing around the room, she couldn’t help but smile. This was how she danced in her dreams.
13
Salomé
DOLLA’S EYES LIGHT up the minute he catches me bouncing through Brooks Ballroom studio modeling the new line of his Jamal Trey women’s hip-hop dance wear. “Ah yeah, yo! Salomé’s in the house.” He twirls me around and we dance a few steps of the waltz we also have to perform this week. “Damn girl, you look fierce.”
I smile and break into some crunking moves. I’m so stoked. Today, the six remaining couples are practicing our group hip-hop dance. And Gabriel made me the official choreographer for today. That’s the good news. The bad news is that I’ll have to spend seven hours listening to Vika’s snide remarks, avoiding Iza’s possessive glances, and playing referee to Jenny and Tim.
I know this studio is Vika’s turf, but I woke up super early to help the set designers give it a street vibe. I hung up some paper on the walls and got some hip-hop dancer friends of mine to spray paint urban graffiti, swapped out the blue velvet curtains for some black rayon ones, and hired a DJ to set up a real booth. The cameramen and sound guy are milling around the room after they hooked up the LCD flat screen television I requested. Dolla brought in his newest designs for everyone to try on and the crew even set up some strobe lights. I hope everyone can feel the vibe.
Tim walks into the studio and Jenny immediately starts checking out his butt. “Tim, why are you wearing jeans from Abercrombie & Fitch? You know they’re racist.”
Oh lord, here we go. Apparently she wasn’t just admiring the view.
“I don’t know what you are talking about, boo.” He pulls at his pants to check the label. A few wisps of dark hair at the top of his happy trail peak out of his boxers. I can see why Jenny has the hots for Tim. His body is slamming.
But happy trails aren’t enough to distract Jenny from a tirade once she sinks her teeth into it. “How do you not know? Years ago . . . racist t-shirts . . . Abercrombie & Fitch . . . ring a bell?” She shakes her head when all he does is stare at her blankly. “Tim, the shirts had pictures depicting stereotypical drawings of Asian men smiling with slanted eyes and wearing rice patty straw hats. They had slogans like Wong Brothers Laundry Service: Two Wongs Can Make It White, and Rick Shaw’s Hoagies, Good Meat, Quick Feet with a short Asian man delivering a giant hoagie on a rickshaw. Hello? Offended?”
Tim shrugs, puts his earbuds in, and turns up his iPod, blasting his music. Big mistake. It’s never a good idea to blow off Jenny. Especially when you have to spend the next seven hours within two inches of her. I swear we’re gonna see blood in a minute, the way she’s biting her lip to keep silent.
I set about fishing a hip-hop CD out of my workout bag. The other dancers and their stars start piling into the studio, two by two as if getting ready for a trip on an ark. As soon as they walk in the studio, the costume girl hands them their Jamal Trey workout wear to put on. But Genya and Iza, who normally arrive at the studio arm in arm carting matching Starbucks lattes, head to opposite corners of the studio. Iza’s normally perfect doll-shaped face looks pale and her usual shellacked ponytail is askew.
Jenny can’t take the silent treatment from Tim for long. Big surprise. When the final dancers arrive, she’s in Tim’s face and yanking the headphones out of his ears. “I personally organized the boycott of the store in Cambridge while I was at Harvard. You were at Stanford when they came out. There were boycotts of Abercrombie & Fitch throughout the Bay Area.”
I swear, I love Jenny with every cell in my body, but the woman could argue with a corpse. Diana runs to my side to watch the cyclone.
Tim just smirks at the crazed woman in front of him. “Actually, Jen, I bought all those shirts. I love ‘em. Wear ‘em all the time.”
Jenny starts wheezing and motions to me to get her inhaler.
Tim’s smirk disappears and he steps forward instantly, caressing Jenny’s back. “Relax, baby. I’m just playing with you. I honestly didn’t know about all that. All I cared about at Stanford was basketball. If you want, I won’t wear the jeans. Look.” Before anyone can bat an eye, the guy unbuttons his jeans and drops them around his ankles. He stands in the middle of the floor, showing off his tight butt in his grey boxer briefs.
Jenny starts wheezing like a teakettle and finally purses her lips and becomes silent.
Hell, yeah! Now that’s the way to shut her up. Jenny’s lips finally close, probably trying to hold in the drool. Tim’s no dummy. Good move. And an even better ass.
Vika walks up with Tim’s set of Jamal Trey clothes. “Whoa Tim, I had no idea what you were hiding under those clothes.” She pinches his butt then slaps the clothes bundle into his belly. “Yummy.” She steps over to Tony, who whispers something in her ear that makes her giggle. If I didn’t know Vika better, I’d swear she and Tony were hooking up.
Okay, enough of this shit already. “Alright, people!” I clap my hands. This ball is mine and I’m running with it. “Let’s do this. Tim, hon, pull up your pants, will you? We’ve got some hip-hopping to do.”
Tim takes off his shirt and then puts on his Jamal Trey gear. He throws his old clothes to the wall and smiles sweetly to his partner. For once, he’s the Alpha Dog in the pair. He bows to Jenny. “May I have this dance?” His shiny straight black hair just grazes his eyebrows in a rock star-like razor edged cut.
Jen stares at him dumbly a second, then finally takes his hand and follows him to the right corner of the floor, where he leads her in their waltz. And I do mean lead. Man, they look perfect together. Maybe that’s what Jenny needed, a good drop of the pants. Hats off to basketball boy.
At the back of the studio, Tony is showing off Vika and Iza’s Playbunny pictorial to Dolla. Genya walks by them and rips the magazine out of Tony’s hands.
“Hey, man,” Tony protests. “Buy your own copy, dude.”
“I had my own copy—burned it.” Genya gives Iza a crushed look.
“Give it.” Tony trips over a chair trying to retrieve the magazine.
“Po'shyol 'na hui.” Oh no he didn’t! Ge
nya almost never swears let alone using those words. So that’s what Genya and Iza are fighting about. Genya tosses the Playbunny into the trash. Drama. Thank God I didn’t pose. Not that they asked me. Still, I would never do it. I have zero desire to show off my goodies to the world. Who would even want to look at me anyway when they can ogle at Vika and Iza?
I walk over to the music booth and give my CD to the sound guy who is playing DJ for us. “Is everyone here?”
“Xavi isn’t here, yet,” Diana says, her eyes glued to the door.
“He’s not?” I look at the clock. It’s nearly nine o’clock. Gee, wouldn’t want Joe Boxer to lose out on beauty sleep or anything. He of all people really needs to be here since they finished in the bottom two last week.
“I texted him,” Diana mumbles, “but haven’t heard back.”
“Well, I’m sure he’ll show up.” I give her a reassuring smile but she looks stressed. Time to distract. “I’m so excited about this group hip-hop thing. I love urban dance and I’ve been experimenting with some crunking and breaking so this is gonna be off the hook.” I glance around the room. The cameramen are setting up. Iza is giving me the evil eye and, on the opposite side of the room, Genya’s pacing and staring at the floor.
“So,” I start, “we have to do a four eight count as a group in the beginning and then the partners each do a breakout solo. The order for the solos is Xavier and Diana, Dion and Iza, Tony and Vika, Tim and Jenny, Genya and Lilia, and Dolla and me will close. I’ll work on all your solos later but let’s get started on the group part. We’re dancing to one my favorite songs, Rob Base and D.J. E-Z Rock’s “Joy and Pain.” But let’s begin with a warm up. It’s old school to get you in the mood.”
I signal the sound guy. He flips on the strobe lights then starts playing Cameo’s “Word Up.” I love that song. I skip to the front of the room and lead everyone in a dance isolation routine. “Roll your hips to the right, now to the left, now circles.” The lights are kicking on and off, and Tony keeps making goofy faces into the mirror even as he tries to keep up with me. He’s not doing a half-bad job. “That’s it, Tony! Bend your knees, Tim. Good!” I can’t wipe the stupid grin from my face. I’m having way too much fun. I’m almost delirious over the excitement of teaching this class. Vika’s actually following my steps and not giving me any attitude. And I hate to admit it, but she looks super cute in her low-rise pink hip-hop pants and matching bra tank top, which her breasts fill out perfectly. Damn, I need some boobs. Maybe I can buy them, now that I’m getting paid to dance.
Sway Page 11
