DOLLA STUDIES HIMSELF in the mirror before we take the stage for the show’s season premiere. He frowns and shakes his head. “I don’t know ‘bout this outfit, Sal.” I laugh. He’s dead-on about that—the poor guy looks like the mutant offspring of a parrot and a bottle of Squirt soda. He’s all done up in an open, lemon-and-lime-colored silk shirt with orange feathers sprouting out of his arms. If he started flapping, he’d probably lift right off the ground.

“Yeah, you do kinda look like you might fly away,” I admit as I walk over to the stereo and turn on our music. “But, no, it’s good. Very traditional mambo. The judges will like it.”

“Really?” he asks. Then he shrugs. “Hey, you’re boss. What you say goes. One more time?” He grabs my hand.

We start to dance our routine on the small black practice floor behind the main set. A couple of random key grips and assistants roam around.

Dolla is a machine. He is the one always asking for one more practice round. My dream partner. And he can totally dance. He started giving me respect once he realized how fierce I am about my dancing.

Dolla’s face lights up. He twists and shakes to the music, in perfect beat. We just might win.

The music abruptly stops.

“Hey!” Dolla snaps.

Vika is at the corner of the practice floor changing the track. “Oh, I’m so sorry guys. Weren’t you done? Here, I’ll put it back on for you.”

She puts on a big, doe-eyed innocent face, which contrasts with the God-awful stripper costume she’s wearing, probably rummaged out of her closet. But she’s not gonna shake me. “No thanks, Vika, we’re all done.” Make nice, we promised. “Good luck tonight.”

“Okay. See you guys out there.” She bites her bloated fuchsia painted lip, then suddenly smiles like some freakin’ Mary Sunshine when she notices a TMZ reporter ogling her. “Ni pukha, ni pera,” she tosses our way as I usher Dolla toward the red room.

He gestures his head back Vika’s way. “What was all that ‘pookie knee parrot’ stuff? What did she say?”

“It’s like break a leg in Russian. It actually means neither down from a duck, nor feather.”

“Duck? Who’s she callin’ a duck?” he cries, straightening his back and adjusting his fluffy yellow costume. “I’ll have you know I’m a bona fide canary.”

“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!”

“You tripping, girl.”

Jenny purses her lips until they turn white. A single tear threatens to slip from the corner of her eye. What have I gotten my friend into?

“Live, from Hollywood. It’s Dancing under the Stars,” the British voiceover says on the other side of the curtain like the Wizard of Oz. The audience screams and claps on cue.

“C’mon, Jenny, suck it up,” I hiss. This is no time to coddle. She’s a pro, she can do this. “Get your Chinese-American ass out there and show them how it’s done. Go!”

I shove her ahead of me, next to Tim’s side. The annoying theme song starts playing and we march out one by one with our partners. We get out to the floor and the camera pans across our faces. Dolla and I start bopping along to the music. Vika, next to me, starts blowing kisses at the audience. Like the pro she is, Jenny pops on her most beautiful smile. That’s my girl.

The host, Matthew Brinkman, is in his glory. “This is our best year yet, with Olympic medalists, Grammy award winners, and reality television stars. And we also have five new professional dancers. Right now is your first chance to see our competitors. First up, The Great Wall of China, Timothy Lee.”

Oh, no, they didn’t! I nearly trip on my own feet when Jenny shakes her head and mouths, “I’m sorry, Dad” to the cameras. Tim is more American than Apple Pie and had never even set foot in China until the Olympics.

“Timothy is the first Chinese-American basketball player in the NBA,” Brinkman says. “He’s led the Golden State Warriors to four NBA finals and two championships. He most recently won a gold medal for Team USA in the Olympics. Tim is paired with one of our newest professional dancers, Jennifer Ming.”

The overhead monitor cuts to a clip of Tim and Jenny as the rest of us dancers scurry back to the red room to watch their montage and their performance.

“I’m Tim Lee and I’m an Olympic Gold Medalist for Team USA basketball and I have led the Golden State Warriors to two NBA championships.” He seems almost charming on the TV screen.

“I’m Jennifer Ming and I’m the 2017 United States Amateur Standard Champion.”

A clip shows the first time Tim and Jenny meet on the basketball court of Tim’s home in Palo Alto. Tim, shirtless is shooting free throws.

Jenny’s jaw drops and stares just a tad too long at his ripped abs, and I think I see a drip of drool on her lips.

“Woo-hoo!” Dolla cheers at the screen. “You show her who’s her daddy, Timmy Boy!” Guess I’m not the only one who saw her gaping.

Tim puts on his shirt and gives her a big hug.

The next video is at the local studio. Jenny is standing behind Tim trying to get him to move his hips. It ain’t pretty.

“How many times have I told you to stop shuffling your feet?” Jenny yells at Tim.

“I don’t know, Mom, a million?” Tim screams back.

The audience laughs.

The voiceover cuts in: “Dancing the mambo, Timothy Lee and his partner Jennifer Ming.”

Now live, Tim leads a grinning Jenny to the floor.

It’s almost too painful to watch. Tim fakes his way through the mambo and almost trips Jenny several times. His huge feet fumble along the floor, the sound of which elicits the same reaction in my ears as hearing Vika baby talk. What was it I told Jenny about not being humiliated? They finish their dance and wait for the judges to give them their comments.

“So, Tim, how do you think you did?” Matt asks.

Tim gives Jenny a pat on her butt. Her nostrils flare. “Well, Matt,” he says, “I just tried to dance the best I can.”

“Jennifer, how did you enjoy working with Tim?” Matt asks her.

Oh, Lord. Please tell me she won’t . . .

“Tim was a delight to have as partner, Matt,” Jenny says, smiling like some possessed Stepford Wife. “I am so ecstatic that I had the opportunity to dance with a prominent Asian-American role model.” Good God. Did her nose really grow or is that just my imagination?

“Let’s see what the judges have to say. Benjamin Brooks?” Matt says.

The camera pans to Benny, who is wearing a yellow suit, black silk shirt, and his signature Australian Bolo tie. He looks like a pregnant bumblebee. Benny Brooks is the epitome of everything that is wrong in the ballroom industry. He rose to fame in a time when ballroom dancing consisted of stringing together a series of cheesy poses while the men paraded around in ruffled white cat suits that were split in a long V shape to ensure that their excessive mane of chest hair was showing.

“Timmy,” Benny starts, “you couldn’t blow the froth off a glass of amber fluid. This is a ballroom floor, not a basketball court. You looked like you were dribbling your partner. She is not a basketball. The maam-bo should be playful and sensual.”

The audience boos and hisses and Dolla leans in to me. “That’s harsh.”

“That’s true,” I say back. Much as Benny makes me want to puke, he’s right on this one. Jenny keeps that smile on. Like I said, a pro.

“Karen Lopez,” Matt says, “what did you think of Timothy and Jennifer’s mambo?”

Karen Lopez sits elegantly perched on her judge’s chair. Karen was a five-time Blackpool Latin Champion with her first husband, Sean Middleton. She shocked the dance world by leaving Sean when she was thirty-five, at the peak of her career, for her eighteen-year-old student Carlito Lopez. Karen trained Carlito and eventually they won Blackpool, stealing the title from her ex-husband and his new wife. Karen has a reputation for being a diva, demanding limousines and five hundred thread count sheets as if she were J. Lo. She and Carlito spend all of their energy training their own little devil spawn, Gregory Lopez, a brilliant rising star in the amateur Latin world.

“Timothy, the mambo is about a feeling,” Karen says. “You should make eye contact with your stunning partner. Your floor craft was nonexistent and your feet were deplorable. Plus your body was hunched.” Poor Jenny.

“Steve Samson, your thoughts?” Matt asks.

Steve Samson is the biggest competition owner and single-handedly responsible for getting ballroom dancing on television. In the nineties, he ran and was the commentator on the successful television show on PBS, The Turquoise Pendant Ball. The entire dance industry is grateful to the exposure he has given ballroom dancing.

“Tim,” Steve says, “you danced like soggy noodles in my Top Ramen. Where was your frame? You didn’t move your hips. And for God’s sake, why are you wearing those shoes?”

Jenny gives another pained smile. I’m totally shocked that she hasn’t passed out yet.

“Please head backstage and wait for the judges’ scores,” Matt says.

Tim takes Jenny’s hand and leads her off stage. Once safely back in the red room, Jenny drops Tim’s hand and runs over to Diana and me.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Diana asks.

“Sure, just peachy. I can’t believe he messed up that routine.” She looks at me. “You gave him the easiest mambo ever.” Jenny steps into my space, her smile finally gone. She’s probably not about to thank me for choreographing their routine. “This is your fault, Salomé. I can’t believe I’m humiliating myself on national television. I hope we get cut tonight. I can’t take thirteen more weeks of this nightmare. I hate Tim. He’s so—”

“Totally cute.” Diana cuts her off. “Admit it, Jenny, you totally have the hots for him.”

“I do NOT have the hots for Tim Lee.”

“Yes, you do. I saw the look on your face in the clip. You were completely checking him out.”

“I was not.”

Deborah Mares, the backstage host, interrupts us, and the cameraman shoves his lens in Jenny’s face. Tim stops high-fiving the production assistants and rushes over to put his arm around her.

“And now for the judges’ scores. Benjamin Brooks?” Matt asks.

“Four.”

“Karen Lopez?”

“Four.”

“Steve Samson?”

“Four.”

“Tim and Jennifer, your score is twelve.” Out of a possible thirty. Damn. “But remember, the audience can still save you. Tim, what do you think about the judges’ scores?”

“They are unfair, Matt.” Tim gives Jenny a chummy squeeze, making her head shake like a bobble-head toy. “Jennifer is amazing and I just tried my best. I am just happy that I can be a positive role model for my community.” He winks at Deborah. Jenny’s eyes brighten, as if she has seen a glimmer of hope that Tim might actually be the man she wants him to be.

“Next up, hip-hop legend C. Dolla and his partner, Salomé Sanchez,” Matt says.

When the clip of me and Dolla starts, I almost don’t notice. Nothin’ like Jenny to take my mind off myself. But Dolla’s hoot of joy pulls my eyes to the screen. My own hoot has zero joy—turns out they’re not kidding about the camera adding a thousand pounds. Oh, no . . .

“I’m C. Dolla,” he’s saying in the clip, “and I’m a producer, a designer, an entrepreneur, and a Grammy winner.”

My big ass pops up on the screen. Gawd. What am I wearing? I look like a chorizo sausage coming out of its casing. “Hi. I’m Salomé Sanchez and I’m the 2013 World Youth Amateur Latin Champion.” I spin four times on the screen. They show the much-rehearsed clip of Dolla and me meeting. Huh, I managed to actually look surprised. I’m no Vika or anything, but, hell, I can act!

Time to go live. Dolla and I duck through the curtains to the voiceover: “Dancing the mambo, C. Dolla and his partner Salomé Sanchez.” It’s showtime, baby!

Dolla twirls me around and I’m on fire. “Mambo #5” starts playing and Dolla is doing his best Ricky Ricardo impression. I made a fun routine with a lot of basic actions to please Benny. Dolla starts moving his hips and I shimmy around him, sloshing the matching citrus-colored fringe of my two-piece dress. I swivel in front of him and he shakes his chest. The crowd roars and I’m on fire. Their energy ripples through my body. Dolla leads me into my signature move, ten turns in a circle around him, as I throw my head back. Dolla and I crash our hips together and roll off each other, never losing eye contact. He spins me into him and dips me to the ground. Boo-yah, brotha!

The audience simultaneously stands up and claps wildly.

“The ballroom is on fire tonight,” Matt says. “That is how it’s done.”

Dolla gives me kiss on the forehead. “Salomé, you, my girl, are a queen.”

We rush backstage and wait for our scores. The judges give us straight nines! A twenty-seven for our first show. Can this night get any better?

A costume assistant comes out of nowhere, pulls me behind the red room, and starts ripping off my clothes. I almost forgot I have to do that demonstration with Genya. Last week, Gabriel choreographed a rumba for us. We got it down on the first try because Genya and I blend perfectly together, like whey powder and ice in those damn protein shakes I’m drinking. I was actually bummed we picked it up so fast because then I didn’t have an excuse to practice again with him, alone. The makeup girl starts powdering my abs and chest. She presses on another pair of lashes and before I can blink they throw me back on stage.

“Now ladies and gentlemen,” Matt says. “We’re going to start with a rumba demonstration from season sixteen winner Dmitri Pavlov and one of our newest professionals, Salomé Sanchez.”

The band starts playing one of my all-time favorite rumba songs, “Mi Vida Sin Tu Amor” by Christian Castro. Mi abuela is sitting in the front row, totally losing it. She took me to my first dance lesson and adores this song. I picked it just for her. I’m so happy she came tonight. My parents and my older sister Ruby told me they’d try to make it but cancelled at the last minute. I wish I can say I was surprised, but they haven’t watched me dance in years.

Genya creeps up behind me and grabs my arm. We slide into our rumba, with him pulling me to his chest. His white, billowy shirt is completely unbuttoned, showing off his freshly waxed chest and perfect pecs. I caress his neck and just give my body over to his. He grasps my waist and presses me into him. It feels like we never stopped dancing. But it’s even better than I remember. The tension between us is electric. I crave him. I run away from him and tease him with fleeting views of my inner thighs. The song starts to taper and he takes me into his arms. When the lights die down and the stage is completely dark, he gives me a tender kiss on the lips.

Holy shit!

The lights come back on and crowd erupts. Did he really just kiss me? No one saw, for sure. I’m in Genya’s arms, mi abuela is bawling her eyes out in the front row and hugging Vika’s babushka, who is bawling, too!

Just like old times.