Page 34 of Marisol Acts the Part

What starts as a slow but powerful performance quickly kicks up a notch when she gets to the chorus, whipping her hair like a runway model yet somehow never getting any strands stuck in her gloss.

Jamila and I gasp in unison as she twirls across the stage, landing a split so on beat to the song, the entire room erupts.

But the split is only the beginning. Diamond kicks into high-gear, dancing and strutting across the stage with a confidence that rivals only the real Beyoncé’s, coupled with dips and moves of her own that still perfectly match the song’s energy.

When the performance wraps up in a death drop that makes me gasp again, the audience bursts into hysterics.

Screams and cries of Diamond’s name ring in my ears as I bounce on my tiptoes and cheer for her as loud as I possibly can with what little of my voice is left.

The stage is littered with bills, from singles to fives to even a few tens, that she gracefully sweeps into her arms as she waves to the crowd one last time.

Anita has no idea who she is, giving Diamond a full-on standing ovation. Or maybe she does know and doesn’t care that we went behind her back. All that matters is Diamond’s showstopping performance.

I immediately pull out my phone.

DIAMOND, CONGRATULATIONS!!!

Diamond is a tough act to follow, but the two performers lined up after her put up a good fight—a queen giving an edgy performance to a rock song I vaguely recognize, and a king who gives a steamy Magic Mike –inspired lap dance to one lucky audience member.

Anita steps back onto the stage after the lap dance to announce that they’ll be back with the next three competitors after a brief break.

As soon as she snaps her fingers, the DJ turns up the music again.

With the music back, the others in the private lounge flock to the smaller dance floor in the center of the room, no one stays in their seats once the DJ shifts to a remix of a Madonna song.

“C’mon!” I say to Jamila, holding out my hand to her. Who knows how long we have left here? For all we know, Diamond’s real identity will be found out any second now, and Anita will personally escort all three of us off the premises. So I want to make my time here last.

“I’m not great at dancing,” she replies stiffly, tucking her hands beneath her legs.

“You don’t have to be a good dancer to dance.” I point my thumb over my shoulder at where a bald man in a suit is whipping his nonexistent hair to the beat.

Jamila smiles, but it’s gone once she scans the crowd of dancing bodies. “I don’t know….”

“Well, I’m not leaving without getting in at least one dance tonight. So you can join, or you can watch.” I back away from her slowly. “Your choice.” I arch my brow, giving her one last chance to join before fully throwing myself into the pulsing mass of bodies.

My dance skills are nothing to write home about either, but it’s easy to get lost in the music.

I let my hands move above my body, my hips swaying to the beat.

The others on the dance floor welcome me without a second glance, everyone too caught up in themselves or their drinks or their partners to care who’s in their space because we’re all safe here.

When I close my eyes, the bass lines up with my heartbeat, pounding in time to the rhythm. I’m not sure how long I spend here, letting the music guide me. Seconds, minutes, or hours until a spark makes my eyes open again. The brush of an arm against mine, a familiar smile in the crowd.

“Changed your mind?” I ask Jamila, my smile so wide it hurts to my cheeks.

Despite her protests, she’s a natural on the dance floor. Her moves aren’t over-the-top or energetic, but she’s able to hold her own by two-stepping in time with the music—more than most of the others in the crowd can say. “You made it look fun.”

I smirk, resisting the urge to twirl her over and over until I can hear that laugh again. Instead, I stop dancing long enough to stand on my tiptoes and cup my hands around my mouth. “Attention, everyone! I convinced the Jamila El Amrani to dance tonight!”

Before I can continue, she lunges at me, cupping a hand around my mouth as she fights back a laugh. “Don’t embarrass me more than I already am.”

“Only if you dance with me,” I reply when her hand drops from my mouth and lingers on my shoulder.

I say it without thinking, without considering what it would mean to move in closer to her, to have her arm around my waist and her lips a breath away from mine.

My lips part when she steps toward me, as she takes my arms and wraps them around her shoulders.

I struggle to keep my balance when her hands grip my waist. We’re swaying slowly, not at all in time with the rapid pace of the music, but the world starts to spin.

All that matters is her, her touch, and the way it makes my heart race.

The crowd cheers as the DJ transitions into a remix of Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody,” everyone around us pairing up and pushing the two of us closer.

Our foreheads rest together, the fabrics of our dresses clinging and catching on each other. I’m not sure who moves in first—her or me—but I don’t care now that she’s here. Close enough for me to feel every beat of her heart. Close enough that kissing her doesn’t feel impossible—it feels like fate.

And who am I to deny fate?

When I lean up on my toes to brush my lips against hers, she meets me halfway, grip tightening on my waist as our mouths collide with enough force to knock me back. But she holds me tight and doesn’t let go.

My fingers tangle in her curls while she cups my jaw, and at some point, I’m not sure where she ends and I begin.

If I thought I was unsteady before, it’s nothing compared to leaning up to kiss her again and again until my chest tightens and begs for breath—but I can’t stop, never want to stop.

Because her lips are as soft as her skin and she tastes like she smells, like oranges and chocolate.

We part only because we have to, both of us heaving for breath as the song finishes, and a new contestant is welcomed to the stage. The disco ball above us bathes Jamila in flashes of silver light, and I didn’t think it was possible, but she’s somehow even more beautiful.

Slowly, my hand travels down from her neck, my fingertips skimming her arm, until I loop our fingers together.

My cheeks ache from smiling, and my lips feel swollen, and my gloss is smudged, but I don’t care.

Not about anything that isn’t kissing her again.

I lean forward to do exactly that, tugging her toward me.

First her hand slips out of mine, then her body, mine shivering from the loss of her warmth.

“I have to go,” she whispers, almost lost beneath the screech of a microphone.

And before I can ask her what she means, she’s gone.