Page 7 of Sway

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?”