Page 28 of Sway

9

Salomé

“QUIET ON THE set!” The director screams. “Salomé, get in place. Are you ready?”

Am I ready? I’m living out my fantasy! I’m the featured dancer in Dolla’s new video. Screw ballroom dancing, chica, this is the life.

The Dancing under the Stars cameras are all here today to get the token Take Your Professional Dancer to Work Day video. But hell, I’m not complaining. I’m the luckiest girl in the world. Just think, a month ago Ricardo was dispensing my daily almond ration to me and now I’m commuting to practice with Dolla in Manhattan, partying at clubs like “Butter”, drinking chilled Cirôc—shit girl, bathing in Cirôc—and dancing in a video that is set to premiere on MTV. Life is good.

“Salomé, can you give me some of those turns and can you shake your tail feather for me?” Dolla says.

“Sure, Dolla. Whatever you like.” I begin to gyrate my hips back and forth to the rhythm of the music. I can do this in my sleep.

Dolla whistles. “Girl, I didn’t know when I wrote that song, but I was writin’ it about you.”

And I’m getting paid for this.

So, I think Dolla and I are actually going to win this thing. My favorite thing about Dolla is that he’s the most motivated, driven, energetic man I’ve ever met. He’s moved me to New York temporarily, so he can stay abreast of his business activities. We practice twice a day for three hours each time. And Dolla is a natural dancer.

“O.K. That’s a wrap. Take a break, Sal, and I’ll catch up with you later for practice.”

I wrap my freshly purchased Prada coat around my body and head downstairs to take my limo back to my penthouse suite at the W in Union Square. This is what I’ve been waiting for all my life. I never saw the world outside of dancing. My entire life I’ve always been practicing for a competition, hopping on an airplane, landing in some random nameless city, staying at a hotel located near the airport, competing, and then checking out of the hotel to return home. Repeat. Forty weeks a year. I don’t remember anything else. Not school—I dropped out when I was fifteen. I’ve been living out of my suitcase and hotel rooms, and I’m constantly broke. Even though I made two hundred fifty dollars an hour teaching Japanese and Korean students how to dance and ten thousand dollars for a half hour show with Ricardo, I put all my money back into dancing. Now designers are sending me their clothes and shoes to wear. For free! And in six weeks, I’ve already made thirty thousand dollars. I finally have enough money to move out of my parents’ house. If I win, my parents might stop nagging me to quit dancing. Maybe they’d even brag about me as much as they do about my older sister Ruby, a Stanford-educated lawyer. You’d think winning a world championship at age twenty would make them proud enough for a lifetime.

* * *

Back in my suite, I draw myself a bubble bath. Just as I’m about to jump in, the phone rings. “Pardon me, bubbles,” I say giddily, “the queen is being summoned.” This posh life is rough, man.

I grab the phone on the third ring. “Hola?”

“Hey, Sal.”

I jerk the receiver away from my ear. Damn, Jenny talks loud even on the phone. “Hey girl.” I move the phone a tad closer. “I’m so glad you called. You won’t believe my day. I just danced for Dolla’s new video.”

“Really?”

“Hell, yeah. It was sick. MTV was there filming a documentary and Dolla’s such a great daddy.”

“Is he married?”

“Yes. His wife just gave birth to triplet boys—”

“Triplets?”

“—they’re the cutest babies ever. He had them all decked out in Jamal Trey onesies. I hope I marry a guy just like him.” I lean into the bathroom to see if my bubbles are going down. Nope. The queen’s bath is still royal.

“Anyways,” Jenny’s voice changes into her nagging tone, “what are we going to do about Diana? When I flew to San Francisco yesterday, she still wasn’t back from her bender with Vika.”

“Seriously?” I stop ogling the bubbles. “Damn, girl, when I left for JFK at six am, I thought she was just asleep. You haven’t heard from her?”

“No. She won’t return my calls.”

“Huh. That’s weird.”

“No, that’s Vika. She would just love to corrupt Diana.”

“Oh, c’mon.” I pour myself a glass of Chardonnay. “Diana’s an adult. She’s smarter than that. She was probably just dancing all night, got tired, and crashed with Vika.”

“I think we should call her dad.”