THE LIMO PULLS up to the curb. Our driver opens our door and Genya and I step out. Cameras flash, the starry explosions of light following us as we walk down the red carpet. My first ever. Genya’s in a custom-made Armani tuxedo and I’m rocking Versace.

I nearly squeeze Genya’s bicep right off him. “Oh my God!” I whisper. “Is that Jennifer Aniston?” She is even more gorgeous in person. Wow—I’m actually here with all these stars. I grab Genya’s hand and try to get out of the way of the big celebrities.

Ryan Seacrest waves me over. Are you kidding me? “Hey, everyone, it’s Salomé Sanchez from Dancing under the Stars,” he says to the E! cameras. “How does it feel to be nominated for an Emmy?”

Freakin’ fantastic, chico! “It’s just such an honor. I’m so happy to be nominated.”

“And who are you wearing? You look gorgeous,” he says.

“Thanks, Ryan. I’m wearing Versace and Genya is wearing Armani. Now don’t put us on your worst dressed list.”

He laughs. “No chance of that. Good luck, Salomé.”

It’s so loud I can barely think—all the fans are screaming and the noise of limousines circling the block is louder than I ever guessed when I was watching this thing from my couch. Our limo was in line for the red carpet for an hour. My face was plastered against the window trying to spot celebrities. I saw Tina Fey and Eva Longoria, and I even saw a silver Hummer limo with studs all over it. I wonder who was in that one.

We walk through the throngs of reporters and lean over the rails to sign autographs for the fans. They’re all corralled behind a steel gate. One guy is holding a sign that reads, Baila conmigo, Salomé. He’s cute, too. My first groupie. I blow him a kiss.

Shit, is that the cast of Walking Dead? I love that show. Would it be totally lame if I got an autograph?

“Excuse me, honey, I think you’re coming undone,” I hear a voice say. I look up and Ellen DeGeneres is shielding me from the photographers. Oh damn, I think my breast tape came loose. I rub my chest on Genya to readjust. Cool. Wardrobe malfunction avoided.

“Thanks, Ellen. I love your show.”

She leans on her gorgeous wife, Portia. “And I love yours. I can’t wait to have you on.”

Me on Ellen! I’ve totally arrived.

We head to the auditorium and are escorted to the reality television section.

Jenny’s already in her seat, looking stunning in a Vera Wang gown. She is holding hands with Tim.

“Good evening, Salomé,” Tim says. “You must be honored that as a Latina you were nominated for choreographing a dance from your culture.”

“My culture? Christ, Tim, you’ve been hanging around Jenny too long. She got you writing a dissertation on Mulan, yet?” Damn boy is totally whipped.

Jenny leans in to me as I sit next to her. “Can you believe this?” she whispers. “Remember what we were doing last year?”

Who could forget? “Yeah. But I could totally go for some margaritas now.”

Jenny starts to get up but quickly sits back down. Benny and Diana, newly engaged, walk down the aisle and sit in their seats two rows in front of us. Jenny gives me The Look. We don’t even recognize Diana anymore. She got tacky implants last month, and her golden hair is now a bright platinum shade.

“Jesus,” Jenny mutters. “Next she’ll carry around a crazed Chihuahua with a diamond-studded collar.”

“Oh, stop. Vika says it’s lonely in that mansion, so if she needs a dog . . .”

“She doesn’t need a dog, she needs her friends.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, Jen.” I jab my thumb Diana’s way. “It’s Miss-I-Don’t-Answer-My-Own-Phone-Anymore who needs the lecture.”

“Hey, guys,” a sexy male voice says. I shift my gaze over Jen’s shoulder. Tony and Vika have finally strolled in.

“It’s about time,” I say as Jenny and Tim stand to let them through to their seats. “I thought you two were going to blow the whole thing off.”

“Never,” Vika replies. One of her curls has escaped the up-do that probably took her hairdresser hours to do. Of course it looks perfect hanging there. “Did you see that E! reporter out there? The guy practically tackled me and wouldn’t let go. Antoshka finally had to give him Vulcan mind meld.”

“The Vulcan nerve pinch,” Tim corrects.

“That’s what I said. Move your legs, Saloméichka, I gotta squeeze by. Hey, Christian Louboutin. Nice.”

“Thank you.” A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. The lights dim as we settle into our seats, with Vika at my left elbow and Tony on her far side. I lean in toward Vika then point my freshly manicured nail forward. “Hey, did you see—”

“Shh. Dimming lights means show time.” Vika swats my hand down with her diamond-studded clutch. “You have to get with program, my child.”

“I’ll show you program . . .” I settle in and smile like the freakin’ Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland.

I’m at the Emmys. The Emmys!

Two hours later they finally get to our category.

Ellen DeGeneres reads the nominees. “And the nominees for Outstanding Choreography are . . .” Genya grabs my hand and I squeeze like I’m getting blood drawn. “ . . .Wade Robson for I Know I Can Dance . . . Jason Gilkison for Champions of Dance . . . Judy Trammel for Dallas CowBelles: I Made the Squad . . . Salomé Sanchez for Dancing under the Stars . . . and Viktoria Zave for Dancing under the Stars.” The audience claps politely for all the nominees.

A cameraman has swooped down the aisle and is sticking the camera right in my face. Smile, dammit, don’t let them see you cry. I’ve been practicing my loser face since the day I was nominated. I shoot a quick glance at Vika next to me. You’d think she was sunning on the beach, as calm as she looks.

The drum rolls. “And the winner is . . .” Genya lets out a little yelp as I squeeze even harder. “. . . Salomé Sanchez for the samba to De Donde Soy on Dancing under the Stars!”

Salomé Sanchez? That’s me! I won!

My pledge goes right out the window as I start balling like a baby. Genya kisses me and Vika gets up and gives me a hug. Jenny is crying just as hard as I am. I even get a thumbs up from Diana, who has twisted in the seat. I flash her a thumbs up back. She’s not so far gone, Jen.

“Go, Sal.” Genya pushes me up the aisle. Oh no! I didn’t practice a speech. Just my loser face.

I walk up on stage and the Emmy girl hands me my trophy. Damn, the thing is heavy. I look into the bright lights. “Uhm. Wow. Wow. I can’t believe this. Thank you. Yeah ...” I look at the audience. The biggest names in Hollywood are looking up at me. Damn. “I’d like to thank Dolla, who was the best partner I could ask for. And my best friend Jennifer Ming, for being there for me, and Diana Young for convincing me to go on this show in the first place. And my boyfriend Dmitri Pavlov,” I air kiss at him where he’s standing at the foot of the stairs, “you let me follow my dream. I love you, babe. To my parents and my abuela, I love you. Thank you for giving me dance lessons!” I wave the trophy at the camera. I swear I can hear Abuelita balling from here. “And to my good friend, Viktoria Zave. For forgiving me for a mistake I made long ago. And finally, to all my fans—I love you.” I raise the Emmy with one hand, as if somehow everyone who voted for me could touch it. “See you next season!”

Flash bulbs go off all over the room. The orchestra strikes the music as some gorgeous model escorts me off the stage, where Genya is waiting for me. I run into his arms, almost slugging him with my Emmy. He gives me a kiss, takes my hand and glides me toward the waiting press, my partner now in my biggest adventure of all.