When friends back home ask what life is like in Beijing, I usually just say, “Bonkers,” and change the subject. It’s easier than explaining how, one afternoon last fall, I found myself wearing a neon-pink t-shirt doing a bastardized version of the “Single Ladies” dance while my artistic collaborator, an eight-year-old Chinese girl who I was instructed to get freaky with onstage, sang a forgotten German pop song for a purported broadcast audience of millions and a live audience of hired models.

Fine, I’ll explain. A few months ago, I got a call from Zhang Yang, a producer for a Beijing TV variety show called “You Can,” whom I’d met while working on another story. “Wen Xiao,” he said, addressing me by my Chinese name, “are you free tomorrow? We need you to dance.” I’d once jokingly told Zhang that he should put me onstage to show off my freshest moves. I didn’t think he’d actually do it. I was wary of being yet another white guy acting like a dumb-ass on Chinese TV, but a chance to infiltrate the bizarro world of state television was impossible to refuse. “OK,” I said, “I’ll do it.”

Early the next morning, I showed up at the studio, where Zhang introduced me to my new partner, Yang Shuo. She, too, had been called in last minute. She was wearing leather boots, a pink angora sweater, and a newsboy cap—fancy duds for a third-grader, and that wasn’t even her costume. Despite her youth, she was already an old hand at showbiz, having performed on China Central Television’s (CCTV) “Music Express” and the Hebei Children’s Spring Festival program. I was impressed, but her mother, Hao Chunna, demurred. “She’s too shy,” Hao told me. “She likes to sing, but she’s not a natural performer.” She wasn’t a natural conversationalist, either. When I tried to make small talk (“What’s your favorite song?”), she seemed dubious of my presence (“All of them”). I couldn’t blame her.

In a storage room full of spare fire extinguishers, Yang Shuo’s mom produced a mini-speaker that played “She,” a boppy, mid-tempo marshmallow by the German band Groove Coverage. While Yang Shuo started singing into an invisible microphone and stalking provocatively around the imaginary stage, I just froze. It was then that reality sank in: I actually had to dance. I don’t know how to dance. The best I could manage was a sort of rhythmic power walk with lots of arm motion, like an old man at the park.

Zhang seemed as disappointed as I was. To make this work, he said, Yang Shuo and I needed to interact. He suggested I lead her around by the hand, shimmy right up near her, and finish in a swing-style dip pose. I reminded Zhang that Yang Shuo was eight years old. “It’s OK, Chinese people don’t think like that,” he said. I insisted. Fine, he agreed, just make it look like you have a connection.