Sway

by Alana Albertson

  Benny goes in for another sloppy kiss. “Sure, Lassie. Anything for my baby girl,” he says, clearly still high from his post-coital bliss. “But luv, I have to tell you something about this season.”

  I stare up at the eyelet canopy draped across our bed. “What? I don’t care about nothing as long as I dance together with Tony.”

  “All right, Lassie.” He strokes the ruffles on the edge of my pink frilly slip. “But I got a call from Mr. Applebaum this morning. He just made an offer to five new dancers this season. Pasha and Olga were deported, Jill had a baby, Tommy was arrested, and Oksana is recovering from knee surgery.”

  I roll over, sit square on top of him, and stare him down. “Benjamin Russell Brooks, don’t you dare say that little man asked Salomé to be on a show.” He looks away. “But you promised to me!”

  Benny pushes me off of him. “I know luv, but there is nothing I can do. The public is sick of seeing all you Eastern-European dancers and Mr. Applebaum interviewed her and found her to be a delight. He decided to give her a go.” Benny turns his hairy back to me and pulls on his white Jockey underwear, making sure to avoid eye contact. He lowers his voice. “And that’s not all.”

  What, there’s worse news than Salomé?

  “He also made offers to Ricardo Mancini, Jenny Ming, and Diana Young. And I think he mentioned asking Stanislav Vronsky.” He gets out of bed.

  Hell no—not Stanislav! “They asked Stas?” I launch myself off the mattress and put my flawless face right in his wrinkly one. No more purring. “How could you let this happen? You swore to me! After Diana humiliated me and bribed my Stas to dance with her! When did he get back in United States? I thought he was rotting away on cruise ship.”

  He waddles over to the bathroom and opens the medicine cabinet. “Now Lassie—”

  “Diana sucks, Venya. You know it. And Jenny can’t even dance Latin!” I slump onto my goose down comforter. It smells like lavender and vanilla, but the scent does little to squelch my anger. “What about the ratings? Salomé is fat. She’ll look horrible on television.”

  Benny slathers menthol-scented shaving cream all over his whiskers. “I honestly don’t understand why you care. You’re the reigning champion on the show and in the United States. They’ll all just make you look better, luv.” He smiles at me and a glob of cream drops on our white marble floor. “Whatever happened with you and Salomé, anyway? You two used to be best mates.” He turns back toward the mirror and starts pruning his beard.

  I stay silent. He knows exactly what happened between us. I just choose not to rub it into his face that our marriage was the last drop of vodka that made the glass overflow for Salomé and me.

  He rinses his razor. “Don’t worry, you’ll be apples. Let’s not have a blue about this. We have to go to the choreography rehearsal in an hour, you need to get up and be a beaut’.”

  I crawl back out of bed and step onto the ice-cold marble, careful not to chip my pedicure. I tip toe to my side of the bathroom and glance in the mirror. Even after a blowjob, I look fresh as a cucumber. Thank God for Dr. 90210 and his signature brow lift. I smile, testing his work. Not a single wrinkle.

  I sigh. Benny is right. I will look better next to them. Salomé will look nasty on television. Even our makeup and hair people aren’t that good. And Diana can’t dance to save her life. Her daddy will have to rig the show and pay people to vote for her if she stands even a chance of not humiliating herself by getting booted after the first segment. The only thing worse will be seeing Jenny try to dance Latin.

  I shudder then check my teeth. Da, bright as the stars.

  Bring it on, ladies.

  I PUSH BACK my Christian Roth sunglasses and try to adjust to the bright lights of the Beverly Hills sun streaming into the studio window. Luckily, today’s choreography session is at our studio, Brooks Ballroom, off Rodeo Drive. I scan the main ballroom for Stas. Thank God, he hasn’t arrived yet. A few young girls are cuddled up on the couch in front of the television together watching a video of Jared and me winning nationals. Michael Bublé’s voice is radiating through the studio’s stereo system and two couples are trying their best not to slam into each other while fox-trotting. Salomé is standing in front of me, a nightmare in her standard uniform of black Puma sweats and a see-through mesh tiger-printed top with a black bra underneath. Her frizzy mane of hair is slicked into an awful Geri curl. God, she looks like a dog recovering from the Chernobyl disaster.

  Diana and Jenny are huddled around her, blathering like the idiots they are.

  “Oh my God, I’m so excited!” Diana exclaims. “I just read on Perez Hilton that I’m dancing with Xavier Viramontes. He’s so totally hot. Sal, you’re dancing with C. Dolla, and you’ve got Tim Lee. Oh, c’mon, Jen, stop the eye-roll. You think he’s hot.”

  Jenny puts her hands on Diana’s shoulders, probably to stop her from levitating. “No, I’m not happy. Tim is a fig newton: yellow on the outside, black in the middle. Sure he’s gorgeous but he’s a sellout. No big shock that they paired me with him. The producers would never place a Chinese-American man with a white woman. It stems back to the Yellow Peril fears at the turn of the twentieth century.”

  Diana and Salomé look like they are trying to comprehend what Jenny is saying. Both are clearly unsuccessful, so they ignore her.

  Salomé says, “Riiight,” as she squints her eyes. Not that you can tell. She always looks like that. The girl needs an eyelift.

  “Anyways,” Diana says, “I’m so happy that we’re doing this together. It’s gonna be so awesome!”

  I strut over to them, carrying Cha-Cha, in her pink Juicy Couture Carrier. Might as well make nice. I’m stuck with them.

  Diana shrinks when she spots me and mumbles something I can’t quite catch.

  Look, indeed, you little tart. “Hello Princess Di,” I look down on her snagged Pucci hair scarf. “So, did you bring your Daddy’s check book so you can buy another one of my partners? How much did he spend to get you spot on show? Oh right, Miss Molly Mormon would never do that.”

  Salomé starts turning her back toward me but Jenny can’t resist opening her big mouth.

  “No, Vika,” she says, “the producers just decided this season to omit the requirement that the professional dancers have to sleep with the judges.” Diana and Salomé laugh. “Great break for us, don’t you think?”

  I flip my hair over my shoulder. “Laugh all you want now, girls. There’s more to this show than simply dancing. You have to dance Standard AND Latin.” I eye Jenny hard on that last word. “And it takes star quality to look good on camera. None of you got that.” I swivel around and walk over to the next studio where Nicole is teaching the kids. She’s hugging a crying student over in the corner.

  God, what drama are these kids into now?

  I put my sunglasses back on. The sunlight is bouncing off the mirrors and blinding me. Several young children are doing endless circular rumba walks around the floor.

  I let Cha-Cha out of her carrier and she scoots across the floor, trotting between all the children practicing. “Cha-Cha, sofa. Sidet.” She drops her little butt down on the couch. “Good dog.” Can’t have any of those kids stomping my darling. I walk over to the windows and close the blue velvet curtains. Some fans are gathered on the street waiting for a glimpse of me. I blow them a kiss before joining Nicole and the sweaty girl in the corner.

  “Nikita,” the girl says to Nicole, tears staining her pale, heart-shaped face. “I just can’t take it anymore. Maksim said that I’m fat pig and slow like slug. He says I’m pathetic and he don’t know why he ever was in love together with me. He thinks he is only reason we are champions.” Her cheeks get all blotchy and she grinds her heels into the floor. “I don’t want to dance together with him anymore. Please don’t make me.”

  The other teens in the studio stop dancing and turn to watch the train wreck. Alla’s partner, Maksim, is flirting with another girl.

  Nicole puts on her signature happy face for th
e students. “Nothing to look at everyone; Alla is just feeling ill. Please continue your walks.” Nicole cranks up the music and mouths “help me.”

  I’m on it. This kind of talk is the plague—there’s no need to poison the other kids’ minds.

  I sit Alla down at a table on the other side of the floor. Nicole comes over and joins us as Cha-Cha hops into my lap.

  “Now Allichka,” Nicole starts, picking her words very carefully, “you’re just upset. I’ll talk to Maksim. He doesn’t mean what he says, he just wants to win. You want to be champions, right? Do you think it was always easy for Eric and me?” She points over at Eric, who is sitting on the couch across from us, cooing at their baby. “Eric broke my heart a hundred times but we stuck together and became champions. I will stay with him no matter what. I know it is a sacrifice. Trust me, you’ll thank me one day.”

  Alla blinks out tears. “But Niki—”

  “No buts!” Niki blurts. “You will not break up with Maksim. Look how miserable Salomé is since she broke up with Genya.”

  We all turn as if on the same string to see Salomé in the adjacent practice room, bent over in a stretch with her huge butt up in all its horror. I shudder. I can’t believe we used to be best friends.

  “She’s right, Allusja,” I say, petting Cha-Cha. “Twenty-four is too young to be has-been. Don’t get stupid on us.”

  “I won’t let you be that stupid,” Nicole says. She takes the weepy girl by the hand and leads her to the floor where she gives her a soft pat on the head before heading back to me, her eyes wide in a “Can you believe this?” look.

  Cha-Cha jumps off my lap and nips at Maksim’s ankle. He picks her up like she’s got mange and carries her over to me, his arms outstretched.

  “Maksimka,” Nicole says, coming up as I take my dog, “would you please try to be nicer to Alla for me?”

  “Sure, Nikita, anything for you,” the studio’s resident prince says, trying to turn his charm on her.

  Lowering her voice, she says, “Just be kind to Alla. For me.”

  “Da, Nikita.” He traipses off as if we’d just been talking about the weather.

  “He’s arrogant little man, that one,” I say.

  Nicole sighs and gives me a sincere hug. “Thanks luv, for backing me up. She looks up to you like a sister.”

  Of course she does. “No problem, Nikita. These kids need to learn about sacrifice.”

  My husband pokes his head around the corner. “Would my two favorite lassies please join the others?”

  “Sure, Daddy,” we say in unison.

  We walk into the other room where all the dancers are lined up like we’re here for an American eighth grade dance—boys on the left side and girls on the right. Jenny, Salomé, and Diana are holding each other’s hands and Iza’s back is turned to them. I take Nicole’s hand and we slide in between Iza and Jenny. I want to be in the center just in case one of the cameramen shows up.

  Iza gives me a kiss on the cheek. “I can’t believe we’re starting a new season already. It feels like we just finished the tour.”

  She’s right. We never have any time off. We film the show, go on tour with the celebrities, practice with our professional partners for a few months and compete. Twice a year for the past two years. We’re all exhausted.

  I see Stas ogling me across the room. He is standing with his arm around Genya, laughing. He drops his arm when he sees me. I look at Salomé, who’s also staring at them. Just six years ago, we were all inseparable. Amazing we’ve been thrown back together. Fucking small ballroom world..

  “All right, everybody,” Gabriel Bains says in his crisp British accent. In addition to being a dancer on Dancing under the Stars, he’s the head choreographer for the show. As much as I’m afraid of him, he’s good at what he does—which is spin the bullshit. “I know we all have history together, on and off the floor. But none of that matters.” With his shaded aviator sunglasses and permanent five o’clock shadow, Gabriel is a dead ringer for a young George Michael. And Gabriel milks the George Michael impersonation act for every last drop. He’s famous for his George Michael fantasy five dance Latin spectacular, where he remastered many of George’s classics and turned them into Latin songs: cha-cha to “Fast Love”, samba to “Freedom”, rumba to “Jesus to a Child”, paso doble to “I Want Your Sex”, and jive to “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go.” “This is entertainment and it’s very important to make the public believe that we are the best of friends.”

  “I’m not that great of an actress,” Jenny mumbles next to me.

  “Luckily for show, I am,” I quip.

  Gabriel ignores us. “To that end, I’m going to organize social events for all of us, which, of course, will be filmed by the show. That means spa parties for the girls.”

  “I told you so!” Jenny pinches Salomé’s arm.

  “And for us boys,” Gabriel’s eyes dart to Ricardo, Jared, Stas, Genya, and Eric, “a Lakers game.” Jared gives Eric a high five.

  “I’d pay to see that,” I whisper to Nicole.

  “Another thing, ladies. Please remember that the camera adds ten pounds.” He points at Salomé. Jenny charges toward him but Gabriel intercepts her in a dance hold, spins her around, and sends her back to Diana’s waiting arms. Yes, he definitely spins the bullshit. “You’re on the show to inspire other people to lose weight. You all have responsibilities to the public. It can be very distressing for the audience to see someone dancing their heart out while still being heavy. Therefore, there will be weekly weigh-ins and I have taken the liberty of ordering you all Sunfare food delivery service.”

  Salomé’s cheeks turn blotchy. I feel sorry for her. She’s always been big. But she can choose to work out more and cut back on her tequila. No one said it’s easy to get a great body.

  “So today we’re working on a foxtrot for the opening night professional showcase and a rumba for the results show. I’m still campaigning for the producers to get George on the show, but as for now we’re stuck with dancing to Jessica Simpson.”

  Everyone groans.

  Gabriel continues. “We are going to mix up partners for a change.”No, No, NO! “Partners will be: Jared and Diana, Ricardo and Nicole, Eric and Jenny, and Iza will dance with me. And just for old time’s sake,” he pauses and stares at Salomé and me, “we will witness for the first time in six years, the reunions of the infamous partnerships of Stas and Vika and Genya and Salomé.”

  I don’t fucking think so. “I—”

  “Yeah, I know,” he cuts me off, “some of you may question these pairings, but I assure you that good dancing is based in tension. And I just love me some tension.” He gives a naughty smile. “So please take your partner and warm up with a slow foxtrot.” Gabriel puts on George Michael’s cover of ‘Feeling Good.’

  Salomé’s eyes light up and she gets a devilish grin. I put my arm around Iza as Genya tries to calm her down.

  I search for my husband. He walks toward me. “Venya,” I whimper and give Benny my best pleading look. He can’t possibly make me dance with Stas.

  “Now, Lassie,” he leans and lowers his voice, “you heard Gabriel. He’s just trying to match the partners up by size and look. You just try to get along, now.” He kisses me then walks over and scoops his granddaughter out of Eric’s arms.

  Diana is standing in front of Jared and me like she’s expecting an invitation to prom. Jared, cocky as hell, is flinging around his favorite keychain, which bears his motto, “Sorry boys, I eat pussy.” It’s hard to be a straight male ballroom dancer.

  “Diana,” Jared caresses her hand, “refresh my memory—have we ever fucked?”

  She blushes and looks at her feet.

  “For God’s sake, Jared, she’s never fucked anyone, she’s a Mormon virgin.” I shoot a penetrating glare. “Remember, Diana, darling, Jared is only on loan.”

  She looks away from me.

  Stas slithers over to my side. He’s still wearing the gold Star of David that I gave him years ag
o. His deep blue eyes ravish me. “Zaychik moy,” he croons in Russian, “we meet again.”

  “Lucky me.” I am not your little fuck bunny, anymore. “Jared’s a better lead than you. What a downgrade.”

  He cups my hand in his. “Sure, he is, Vikochka. Sure he is.” He pulls me close in a hold. “You still smell like ice cream.”

  And you’ve had your last lick.

  Stas smoothly glides me across the floor. God, I forgot what a great Standard dancer he is. We weave between the other couples. The music crescendos, and the intensity builds between our bodies as we rise and then fall together. Our old routine rushes back to me like a flood. My body molds to his and we become one again.

  Gabriel changes the music to “Jesus To A Child.”

  “Rumba, please,” he says.

  Stas gives me a strong lead. Damn him for making a liar out of me. There’s no denying it—Stas is all man. Jared leads like a boy in comparison.

  “You have improved so much,” he breathes in my ear. “I can feel every inch of your body now through your connection.”

  I dance into his body, filling out the space between us with my chest, my hips. I trace the floor with my toes, hypnotizing him. He thrusts me back into his embrace.

  “Why did I ever let you go?” he whispers.

  “Because you’re an idiot,” I whisper back.

  He laughs. “That I am, beautiful.” He dips me hard and fast, locking his eyes on mine. Our four years apart vanish instantly. “That I am.”

  Rumba

  He seduced her with a glance. Pulling her toward him, he had her in his grasp, but she retreated. She danced around him, her hands tracing his chest. He took her by the waist, pressing her against his body. Leaning into him, she savored his scent. She wanted to give herself completely to him, but couldn’t trust him. Spinning around, she gave him a longing look, then slipped away.

  5

  Salomé

  “AND JUST FOR old time’s sake, we will witness for the first time in six years the reunions of the famous partnerships of Stas and Vika, and Genya and Salomé,” Gabriel announces. He turns my way and smiles right in my face. He’s clearly happy to whip up a new controversy, the bastard. I nibble on my hair and chew off a split end.