Page 2 of Sway

Diana abruptly stops laughing and steps away from us. “Yeah. I guess I’m happy for Vika, too. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do . . .”

The silence is awkward for a second. Diana knows too well what a girl has to do. And so do we.

“Anyhoo,” Diana finally says, changing the subject. “Sal, trust me when I say, anyone who knows anything about dancing knows you’re the best dancer in the world. I’m so glad I don’t have to deal with that craziness anymore; I don’t even miss dancing at all. Not a bit. Seriously. I can’t wait to marry Robert and have his babies. Dancing under the Stars is for losers. We don’t need it.”

Jenny and I exchange sharp glances. Diana would dump her fiancé in a heartbeat if she found a new dance partner and we both know it. As much as a dancer’s life can break you, it also is the very air we breathe. Dancing is in our soul.

“You know what?” I get up and throw my glass over the rail. It shatters on a towering Oak tree in the back yard. “That show is stupid. Vika can have it. I wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole. How pathetic. Teaching all those loser has-beens how to dance . . . No, thank you!”

“Hear! Hear!” Jenny proclaims, taking out another tree with her own cocktail glass. “I don’t know why we even watch it. We’re way too good for that shit. It’s racist, too. Why has there never been an Asian-American movie star or professional dancer on it? Huh? Can you tell me that? Huh?”

“Uh, Jenny,” Diana says. “Don’t you remember . . . Lara Lu was on two seasons ago? She danced with Jared Brooks and they had that torrid love affair . . .”

“Oh, please! Lara Lu doesn’t count. She’s a sell-out. She paraded her affair with a white man all over primetime television just to insult all Asian-American men. I hate her. I wouldn’t go near that show if they paid me a million dollars.” Jenny picks up Diana’s punch glass and raises it. “I propose a toast.”

“Excuse me,” I say, gesturing to my empty hand. “I think we’re missing something here . . .”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Salomé, go get yourself a Dixie cup or something. You’re ruining my moment.”

“Ay, chica.” I laugh as I dash in to grab and fill glasses of punch for Diana and me. The show is over so there is no excuse to get hammered. Jenny defines drama queen. I love her, although hanging out with a dancer who is also a Harvard graduate gives my parents another reason to pick on my lack of education.

When I get back onto the porch, Jenny is still in full toast pose.

“Is your arm tired?” I ask.

“No darling, one of the benefits of dancing Standard. You Latin girls don’t have a clue.” Jenny gracefully raises her free arm and flips me off.

We all lift our glasses. Jenny clears her throat.

“Okay, here we go,” she says. “To the real dancing champions: Salomé Sanchez, Diana Young, and Jenny Ming. We have each won a United States National Championship, and our very own Señorita Salomé has won Blackpool and a World Title. We have placed higher than every professional dancer on that show. On the earth. May we all keep our dance integrity and vow to NEVER, EVER be pathetic reality television stars. Gan bei.”

I raise my glass higher. “I’ll drink to that, girl.”

“Ditto,” says Diana.

We clink our glasses together and drink the night away as the fog creeps higher on the world’s most beautiful bridges.