Page 20 of Sway

“Oh, see and here I was thinking parrot.”

Dolla laughs. “So you speak Russian, too?”

“No. But I understand a lot. You have to in my line of work.” Dolla and I head back to the red room, our official backstage viewing area. Sparkly gold valances adorn the walls and an opulent crystal chandelier blinds me as I enter. Diana is sitting on one of the brown velvet couches, hugging a red pillow as if it’s her teddy bear. Soothing ballroom music is streaming from the overhead speakers. But the noise is not enough to drown out Tim and Jenny, who are ripping into each other. Again.

“I don’t get why you didn’t go with that geisha outfit,” Tim says. “It was hot.”

Jenny’s cheeks turn the color of her crimson dress. “Because, like you, I’m Chinese-American, not Japanese-American. There weren’t any Chinese geisha. Don’t you know that?” She tries to give me the ‘this is all your fault I’m dealing with this’ look, but I turn around, grab a brush from my bag, and start scaling the suede sole on my shoe. Smooth soles make for smooth slips on your ass. Not on my television debut.

“What kind of Chinese-American man are you?” Jenny snaps.

Tim bounds up in the air as if he is shooting a lay-out or lay-on or whatever you call it. “The kind that can hit a three-pointer from half court.”

Dolla laughs and gives Tim a high five. Diana, who’s now off the couch and trying to stand between Tim and Jenny, pleads with her eyes for help from me.

But no help is needed. Jenny is done. She throws up her hands. “Oh, I give up.” This time there’s no avoiding her Evil Eye.

Diana drags her over to one of the sofas and we all sit down together. Jenny looks like she’s got a porcupine up her butt.

“Jesus, Jenny,” I poke her in the ribs, “will you relax already? We’re on in like ten minutes. You’re not going to turn the guy into a Chinese Cesar Chavez in ten minutes. Let’s try to have fun.”

“It’s just so frustrating.” She spots a mirror and goes to it to gel back a stray hair from the top of her ponytail.

Time to distract. I put my arm around Diana. “You nervous?”

“No,” our little girl answers, “just super excited. This is a dream come true. I hope Robert gets to watch this on his satellite.”

Ha! I try to picture a bunch of smoking hot Marines crowded around a television set in Fallujah watching Dancing under the Stars. Isn’t Monday Night Football on? Aren’t we still at war?

A director runs through the door. “Okay, everyone, five minute warning for the opening.”

A makeup girl starts painting a six-pack on my belly with her abs in a box kit. I love this stuff.

A costume assistant eyes me suspiciously. “Do you think she’s stoned enough?” she asks Randall, the costume designer.

“Absolutely not. More stones. More stones!” Randall attacks me from behind with a bedazzler and starts shooting me up with more rhinestones. I don’t know whether to duck or cover.

“Are you nuts, Randall?” I cry. “I already have fifteen thousand stones on this gown.”

“Fifteen thousand and one, fifteen thousand and two . . .” he counts as he shoots me up. This guy doesn’t mess around. He already made sure all my dresses are cut on the bias because they are more flattering for “someone of my weight.” Thoughtful guy, our Randall.

As Randall bedazzles me, I make sure I’m cupped and taped in to my dress. My petal shaped nipple covers are in place. No wardrobe emergencies tonight. And these eyelashes they put on me—high-grade mink. We each go through four pairs a night! TV definitely goes all out with the makeup. Maybe a little too long, though . . . I try to separate my interlocked top and bottom eyelashes so I can see. My first vision is Jenny hyperventilating. Not good.

I rub her back. “What, is the queen camera-shy?”

“Shut up, Salomé. This is serious. I don’t think I can go out there and humiliate myself.” She starts wheezing.

I rummage behind the sofa, find her purse, and hand over her inhaler. It always shocks me how fragile she suddenly looks when she’s got that thing. Like maybe she’s not made of steel after all. “You’ll be fine, babe. You won’t humiliate yourself. Hell, you’re not dressed like a freakin’ peacock.”

Tim tries to place his enormous hand on Jenny’s back to comfort her but she shakes him off.

Tim’s feet catch my eye. Size thirteen and in his signature endorsed Nike “Chinaman Can” shoes. I lean in to Jenny’s ear. “But aren’t you gonna make him wear dance shoes?”

“Gee thanks, Salomé, it never crossed my mind.” Ah, now that she’s breathing again, the sarcasm is back. “Watch this.” She kicks Tim’s left foot. “Last chance, Tim. You aren’t seriously going to wear those?”

“Yeah, boo. What’s the big deal?” Tim starts jumping side to side. “See, these work.”

“No, they don’t. And I’ll tell you what’s wrong with them. A—you can’t point your toes in them, B—they’re ugly, and C—they are the most offensive named shoes ever!”