Sway

by Alana Albertson

  “Look pro, Antoshka,” I whisper and lead him over to hug Tim and Jenny. I could be the first dancer ever on this show to win three titles, including all the dancers in the thirty-one international versions. Yes, yes, yes!

  The audience gives Tim and Jenny a standing ovation as they walk down the stairs from the stage. Matt gives them each a hug. “Tim, you’ve won a NBA championship and an Olympic gold medal. Tell us what this experience has been like for you.”

  Tim clutches Jenny to his chest. “It’s been incredible. I met so many great people, and learned so much about myself. But the best part of this entire experience has been meeting Jenny. She’s changed my outlook on my life and she’s a truly beautiful person inside and out.”

  Normally poised, Jenny loses it and bursts into tears. For once she has nothing to say.

  Matt aborts the interview. “Ladies and Gentlemen, Timothy Lee and Jennifer Ming. Coming up, a musical performance from George Michael.”

  We head back to the red room to watch George’s performance. I can’t believe the producers convinced him to come on this show. Between Tony and George, I swear I’ve been sucked right into some kind of eighties flashback. Tim and Salomé are huddled in the corner consoling Jenny. I sit in between Tony and Dolla.

  I have to win this. I won twice before—once with a boy-bander and once with an NHL hockey player—men I didn’t give a shit about. I need to win now for Tony. For us. To show Benny that I don’t need him.

  “You nervous?” Tony asks. He’s decked out in a tuxedo with tails. Like a prince.

  “For once, I am. I just don’t know if Benny is going to ruin this for us.” George starts singing my favorite song, “Careless Whisper.” I close my eyes and relax into Tony’s arms. He kisses my neck and I want to savor this moment forever. We haven’t told the press about our relationship because we didn’t want to hurt our chance for victory. America doesn’t look too kindly on a cheating wife and her rock star lover. But they don’t know how horrible my marriage was and how Tony is perfect for me. I love him. He makes me happy. And I deserve to be happy.

  The song ends, and the producer calls us back on stage. “Here we go,” Tony says, pulling me up. He juts out his elbow, ready to escort me like a proper gentleman. I slip my hand through and we walk down the long, white hallway, right to where George is stepping off the stage. I can’t help it: suddenly I’m fourteen years old again. George was my dream long before Tony’s poster went up in my bedroom. I don’t even care that George is a gay; my knees actually go weak standing this close to him.

  “Good luck, love,” he says, touching my arm. I almost pee in my costume. I just touched George Michael . . . while holding Tony Zave’s hand! Can life get any more different for me?

  We take our place on stage. Salomé and Dolla stand next to us and I can’t help it, I rush over and hug Salomé. I can tell she’s surprised, but then Tony and Dolla jump in and we’re all hugging each other. It probably looks so hokey, I know, but that’s just how it is tonight. I feel like I’m swirling in emotions. Looking over at the audience, I see I’m not the only one. Salomé’s parents and abuela are sitting next to my baba and Tony’s boys, everyone looking so proud. Tony’s whole band showed up also. His bassist has more makeup on than Salomé and me together. The place is packed tonight, standing room only. I know on television the ballroom looks huge, but there are only about four hundred people packed into this crammed studio lot. The cameras pan overhead to create the illusion of a sea of people. I don’t have to see the millions of viewers at home to feel their eyes on me. This finale isn’t like any of the others. This one, I really care about.

  God, I want to win.

  “Good luck, Vika,” Salomé tells me.

  I take her hand. “You, too.” She gives me a hesitant smile and squeezes me as we all four line up for the final announcement.

  The music comes on. Matt takes his position. “For the past ten weeks, these couples have lived in the studio and endured endless hours of practice and blisters on their feet. Right now, we will finally reveal the winner of the eighteenth season of Dancing under the Stars.” He smiles so big I swear his bleached teeth actually twinkle from the bright lights. “The winner of the crystal dance shoe trophy is . . . .”

  I look over at the judges’ table. Benny is grinning at me. He mouths, “You did it again.” I bite my lip. That man can play with your heart like a cat with a mouse.

  Matt reads the card. “Tony Zave and Vika Brooks.”

  My scream is drowned out by the screams of the audience as Tony lifts me and twirls me around in the air. Confetti hails the stage. I did it! I did it! All the dancers and stars from the season flood the stage, and my baba runs out and gives me a big old kiss. Draven and Dallas jump right over the audience wall. They latch onto Tony’s legs as he lifts the giant crystal encrusted dance shoe above his head and pumps his free hand, barking like a dog.

  Benny turns up next to me and, to my utter shock, gives me a hug. “I’m proud of you, Sheila. You earned this.”

  I don’t even get a chance to respond. Tony kisses me on the lips and the cameras ignite. Our secret is out. For once I don’t have to live a lie.

  Hustle

  The couple walked on the floor, hand in hand. For once, they were equals. He smoothly guided her through the steps, his lead gentle, never pulling, nor pushing. She loved it. Perfectly in balance, she spun around him. Their steps flowed together, continuously moving across the floor. She anchored him and he twirled under her arms. They swapped hands and he lifted her over his head, showing his beautiful partner off to the audience. With him supporting her, she was able to fly.

  25

  Salomé

  OUR TOUR BUS rolls along I-55 in Mississippi for our show in Jackson tonight. It’s beautiful here. The sky is clear and bright with not a hint of smog. Cars whiz by at a leisurely pace with no crazed motorists cutting us off. Even though I’ve been through most of the United States competing, I’ve never spent much time in the south. There aren’t many competitions out here. The state flag is waving in all its glory over a local high school. Damn, it still has the confederate flag in its right corner. So not cool. Time to change that shit.

  We are on a thirty-seven show Dancing under the Stars tour around the United States. It’s a totally cushy deal, definitely better than competing. I make five thousand a week and they pay for my food and hotel. And the entire show was choreographed by Gabriel Bains and his assistant—ME!

  Holler!

  I needed the pick-me-up after Vika beat me in the finale, I’ll admit. Dolla and I are much better dancers than Tony and Vika, hands down. Plus, our routines were the bomb. And the judges gave us higher scores. It all came down to the fans, though, and I guess Tony and Vika have more than us. Five hundred thousand more, to be precise. Still, nine million people voted for us. Not bad for my first season.

  We continue down the highway. It is very different seeing nature instead of airport terminals when I travel. Endless rows of trees roll by with an occasional rose bush in the distance.

  Wish I could say it was all roses inside this rolling can. Hell no. We have six girls, the driver, Vika’s dog Cha-Cha, and my cat Rumba. This cruiser smells nasty. A mix of Cheetos, feet, kitty litter, and beer. Although . . . the Cheetos part makes no sense. No one on our bus would have those. Well, I would, but I don’t. Maybe the driver has a secret stash? Hmm . . .

  The smell isn’t the worst of it. It’s hotter than hell in here even though we have air conditioning. Buses aren’t a higher mode of transportation than planes. Our rickety ride has seen better days. The rug looks like Technicolor puke, blindingly bright so it can cover vomit and beer stains. Kip, the driver, is up front with a couple rows of seats. There are two bunk beds on either side of the hallway. Then we have a tiny “sitting area” with two square tables, a sink, a coffee maker, and a microwave. And one seriously cramped bathroom. This tour bus ain’t the Ritz.

  Being stuck in a steel tube with Vika, Jenny, Iza,
Nicole, and Diana is no samba walk either. It takes an operator to keep track of who’s speaking to whom. At least today we’re down to four—Iza and Nicole spend as much time off our bus as possible. Iza’s now dating Stas so she’s on the male dancers’ bus today with Nicole, who’s also spending some quality time with Eric. Neither of them is speaking to me. I’m still baffled about Nicole and Eric. They seem happier than ever. I want to tell her that I saw Eric with a man but I think I’ve done enough damage. I never go to the men’s bus—if Genya wants to hang out, he comes to me. Vika and Jen spend a lot of time on Tony’s and Tim’s buses. The producers cram six dancers into one bus but each celebrity gets their own. Man, to have your own bus. Those things are much nicer than ours. And Dolla’s, hell, that thing is completely pimped out. I knew I should have hooked up with Dolla and not Genya. At least Vika’s been cool. She hasn’t said one snarky thing to me in three days. Even when her stupid pooch took a dump on my Jimmy Choo’s. She just said, “Oh, sorry,” then picked up her phone and told her maid to order another pair to be sent to the next city. Damned decent of her, even if I did hate those things. The shoes got what they deserved.

  I hear Jenny’s voice nagging at Diana. I push Rumba off me then pull open the curtain on my top bunk to listen in.

  Jenny is camped on the end of Diana’s bed across the aisle. “I came up with a plan,” she says to Diana. “We’ll find you a new partner. I’m not sure who, yet. But someone will want to dance with you after seeing you on TV. Someone good. Salomé and I will start looking today.”

  “Oh, what the smack, Jen . . .” Diana looks ready to bite her head off.

  Lord, I need front seats for this blow out. I grab my pillow, jump out of bed, and sit at the small table. I’m styling in my David + Goliath “Shake Your Coconuts” jammies. I don’t have any coconuts to shake, but at least now I have enough money saved to buy me a pair.

  Vika walks out of the bathroom with her hair wrapped in curlers. “While you’re at it, find me partner, too. I still want to compete.” She pours herself some coffee and joins me.

  Somehow, Diana doesn’t blow. Instead, she gets up and marches over to the coffee pot, getting as far away from Jenny as humanly possible in this sardine can on wheels. “Jen, I don’t want another partner. I’m happy with Jared. Just leave me alone, will you?” Diana goes to fill her coffee mug, but Jen jumps up and snatches the pot from her hand.

  “Di, baby,” Jenny puts the pot back. “You’re Mormon. You’ll rot in hell, for God’s sake. Lay off the Starbucks.”

  “I know hell, Jen, and Starbucks is not what gets you there.” Diana snatches Vika’s mug as she’s about to sip it, takes a huge swig, and then shoves the mug back at her. “Murder does.”

  Diana storms the two feet to the bathroom and slams the plastic door with a flappy thud. Carpe diem, Diana. One bathroom and six women . . . what were the producers thinking?

  Jen looks at me, shock on her face. “Did she just . . .?” She stomps to the bathroom door. “Diana Young, did you just threaten to kill me? God is not going to be happy with you . . .”

  “This is going well,” I mutter.

  Vika leans over to me. “Is Jenny always like this?”

  “What, annoying? Only when she thinks she’s God.”

  “Oh.” Vika nods her head. “So she is always like this.”

  I slap my pillow over my face to hide my snorty laugh.

  Jen looks our way. “What?”

  “Nothing,” Vika says quickly, all innocent. “Just asked if Sal has any bikini wax she can spare.”

  Jen narrows her eyes but then finally looks away. I hit Vika with my pillow. “Bikini wax?” I whisper.

  “Well, it worked with Stas and Genya.”

  “That was in seventh grade. I didn’t even have bikini wax!”

  “And you do now?” She nods at my silence then heads for the coffee maker. “That’s what I thought. Some things never change.” She pours her Diana-tainted coffee into the sink and grabs herself another cup. “Want coffee?”

  I’m too lazy to get my own. “Sure, I take it—”

  “Black. With sugar. I remember.” She fills our cups, hands me mine, then sits down with me.

  I take a sip. Just the way I like it. The bus goes over a bump and the coffee sloshes all over us. “Aw, shit!” My new jammies!

  “Dammit, Kip!” Vika yells at the driver. “Be careful!”

  “Sorry, princessa,” he shouts over his shoulder. “I just got a radio from the men’s bus. We’re pulling over at the rest stop.”

  Vika scowls at me. “Again?”

  I shrug. Even though each bus has a fully functional toilet, we received the riot act before we left in a sheet entitled Rules of the Road.

  First rule: #1 only! No Paper! No exceptions! EVER!

  We pull into the gas station. Behind us, the male dancers’ nasty bus rolls in, followed by twelve luxury buses—one for each of the stars.

  “Anyone coming with?” I ask. Not that I expect them to. Diana’s locked in the bathroom primping and Jenny would never let Tim see her not looking flawless. “Vika?”

  “No. I can hold it. Vika does not do rest stops. I’d probably get kidnapped.”

  “Yeah, because there are Dancing under the Stars stalkers hiding in every gas station in Mississippi.”

  She laughs and waves me out. “Just go. They’ll have to be happy with just you.”

  Damn, they’re all so high maintenance. I slip on flip-flops and walk outside in my coffee-stained jammies. I don’t care. There’s no paparazzi in Mississippi. I hit the bathroom first before the mad rush. When I’m done, I walk into the convenience store, where I buy a Star magazine, a Rocky Road candy bar, a Slim Jim, and a Coke. Life is good.

  Genya is waiting for me by the bus door. He doesn’t look happy.

  What, he doesn’t like coconut jammies? “Hey babe. I’d kiss you but I haven’t brushed my teeth and I have coffee breath.”

  He’s not amused. “Salomé, I need to know if we are going to compete together at Heritage Classic. Mama needs answer today.”

  Fuck. Here we go again. “No, Genya. I already told you. I don’t want to compete anymore. I’m going to do this tour and then Dolla’s tour and then I’ll see.” I try to touch him but he flinches. “Dammit, Genya, don’t do this to me again. I never told you I was going to dance with you again. I thought there was more to this relationship than a partnership.”

  He crosses his arms. “There is. But I promised Mama I’d keep competing. It’s good for studio. Just Heritage Classic. Please. For me.”

  Lord. No. Uh uh. Not gonna happen. If only . . . hey, that’s it! I’m a genius. “Dimochka. You’ll compete at the comp.” I pat his chest. “And you’ll win, too. I promise. Just trust me.”

  The driver honks. “We’ll talk about it at lunch. I think we’re stopping at Cracker Barrel. I’m gonna get me some eggs, bacon, biscuits, and cheese grits. Yummy. Love you.” I run back on the bus and leave him standing outside.

  Booking down the aisle, I find Vika still sitting at the table. She looks up at my stash of goodies and gets a sour look. She’d never risk the chance of a fan seeing her in coffee-stained pajamas. “I hate being on a road,” she says. “Remember time we went on that road trip with Genya and Stas to Mexico?”

  “Totally. We went dancing at the club on that wrecked ship in Ensenada, and Genya was mad because they didn’t play ‘Be My Lover.’”

  “We got so drunk; I fell down stairs in hotel. And then we had lobster in Puerto Nuevo.” She pulls up her pajama bottoms and shows me her calf. “I still have scar on my leg from that fall. Sun Shimmer won’t even cover it up.”

  I can’t believe what I’m about to do. “So. You still want to compete?”

  She starts undoing one of her rollers. “I know I won nationals, but . . .”

  Yeah, we all know it was rigged with Benny on the panel and her dancing with Jared.

  “I don’t know,” she continues, “it would just be nice to
win now. When I’m with Antoshka and not ... But it doesn’t matter, there’s no one to dance with. Diana stole Jared, Iza’s now dancing with Stas, you’re gonna dance with Genya. It’s hopeless.”

  I unwrap my Slim Jim and take a bite. Vika grimaces. I study the Slim Jim for a second. Okay, it does look like what Cha-Cha did on my Jimmy Choo’s—but still, Vika has no idea how good this damn thing tastes. “Vika, look, . . .” I take a deep breath. Here goes. "I’m not competing with Genya. Do you want to dance with him?”

  The curler she was unrolling drops into her coffee. “You’re not serious?”

  “I’m totally serious. I’m going on tour with Dolla. I don’t want to compete.” I won’t compete. “Please. Take him.”

  Vika jumps up and down and curlers go flying everywhere. “Thank you, Salomé! Oh my God.” She hugs me and I almost choke on the Slim Jim. I can see her mind start racing. She grabs her iPhone—probably to text Tony—and then pauses and looks up at me.

  I know the look. “What do you want, Vika?”

  She speaks slowly. “The thing is . . . well, I need favor.”

  “Spit it out.”

  “Will you coach us?” She nods her head, like she’s deciding something. “You need to coach us. You make up my favorite dances.”

  I look her straight in the eye. “Yeah, I know. I hear they even win Emmys.”

  She laughs and gets up. “Da, they do.” She refills my coffee mug with all the grace of a waitress at Cracker Barrel and I realize just how much I’ve missed this girl.

  26

  Vika

  BACKSTAGE AT THE San Diego Sports Arena, it is the final night of the Dancing under the Stars tour. Thank God. I can’t wait to start my life with Tony. We are waiting in the wings for our grand entrance. I have skin-tight, yellow-fringed, low cut pants on and a matching backless top. Tony is wearing black pants and a yellow satin shirt—a far cry from the leather Speedos he wears at his concerts. Tony did NOT want to do this tour. It wasn’t in his contract. But I convinced him it would be a great way to spend time together and he’ll do anything for me. When last year’s winner offered to go in his place and dance with me, Tony signed on the dotted line.