Ameera, Unveiled (15 page)

That’s my dance sister, I thought. She’d no trouble saying the “a” word.

“Yes!” Sybil stood and took a red Sharpie to the mirror. In big letters, she wrote: August 9—6:15, St. Andrews Recreation Center. She spun around in excitement. “It’s time. What I’ve been grooming you for since fall.”

“Wow!” Cheryl said. “That’s about three weeks from now.”

I started calculating. Twenty-one days minus vacation days equaled eleven pre-audition days for me. That left three Monday lessons, and I’d miss next week.

“By now, you should know your solos. Here are your bio forms to complete,” Sybil said, holding out three sheets. “Be sure to tell the troupe why you want to be in it. Be honest, don’t hold back. The troupe will read your info before your tryout.”

“How’s the audition graded?” Polly asked. “Y’know, what’re we graded on?”

“Good question,” Sybil said. “You need to know the name of your music. They’ll look at your costume in light of your music. Dance execution: traveling, use of all three modules, facial expressions. Attitude!” she stressed. “After everyone’s done her solo, a member will show you a dance combo to a short music clip. Then you’ll do it without guidance and they’ll watch how fast you pick it up.”

I cringed. Does it ever get easier? My mind wandered so I missed some of Sybil’s instructions. “. . . and about twenty to thirty seconds of freestyle,” she finished, knocking my teetering dance confidence completely off the audition edge. “Have fun and just do your best. Okay?” she asked, looking at me last.

“How many are trying out?” I asked.

“You three and another girl who’s just moved to Charleston,” Sybil said. “Everyone’s got a shot. We’ve decided to take from none to all four of you. But I’ll warn you, not everyone on the troupe was accepted after first tryout.”

Even Polly looked disconcerted at this last revelation.

Unfazed, Sybil continued. “And one more thing. The troupe’s been invited to teach for a week in November . . .” She paused. “In Jamaica!”

I felt as though I was in America’s Next Top Model and Tyra Banks was giving me a shot to win a competition to continue in another country. If I didn’t make the cut, I’d have to unpack my bags and stay home.

Polly’s excited posture returned and Cheryl squealed. I thought this was the cue for me to join in, but I didn’t. Spontaneously learn a combo, freestyle, and then take part in teaching?

“So at the end of tryouts, I want you three to do the Gypsy. Bring your skirts and flowers for your hair,” Sybil said, making the audition to-do list longer. “I wanna surprise them with the fact that you’ve got almost two dances under your hip scarves. Okay, let’s get started.”

We pulled on our skirts, and forty-five minutes later a bubbly Sybil shooed us out of the studio, reminding us of the date: August 9. “Only a few more practices. Try to go over your dances with each other too.”

Before she could shut the door, I stalled. “Sybil, can we talk a minute?”

“Sure, sweetie. What’s up?” she asked, turning off the fan and lights.

“I’m leaving for a dive vacation on Thursday and won’t be at practice next week,” I said.

“Time with your hubby’s important. Practice on your own; you know the dances,” Sybil said dismissively. “Listen to your music and visualize it too.”

I looked at the red word list on the mirrors and confessed, “Sybil, I don’t think I can do it. I’m not experienced enough. I’ve started too late,” I said, as if I were waving a white flag. “I’m over my head in the solo with almost four minutes.”

“Kat, I know you can do it or I wouldn’t be working with you,” Sybil looked at me sternly. “You and your girls take care of each other. You’ve learned a whole dance and part of a second. I believe you’d be a great asset and have so much potential.” She asked, “Do you want this?”

Here it was—all about me. There was a little pink ballerina on my shoulder whispering, “Yes, yes, yes,” in my ear. In the other ear, the ballet mistress reminded me that I couldn’t even skip.

“This has been an amazing journey, but . . .” I fumbled for words that would get me out of this. Then a light went off over my head. I wanted a chance to make the Forte sisters my friends, to be part of this group, this . . . tribe. “You know what, Sybil? I’m gonna face this head on. You’re right.”

“Just do what you can, and, if you mess up, keep going,” Sybil said. “Don’t let them see it on your face. Call me when you get back and we’ll make up the class. Sound good?”

“Yeah, it does,” I said. “You’ve been so patient with me.”

“August 9 . . . and then Jamaica!” Sybil smiled. I resisted cringing and practiced my don’t-show-it-on-your-face expression.

Sybil clicked the lock behind me. I saw Cheryl and Polly still chatting by the cars.

“What happened to you? We looked around, and you were missing,” Polly said.

“I’m leaving Thursday,” I answered. “I’ll miss practice and wanted to discuss it with Sybil.” My voice sounded nonchalant. “She said she’d meet with me for a catch-up.”

“Polly and I were discussing the agenda and going over the bio form,” Cheryl said, looking at the paper from class. “Why do I want to be in the troupe? Hmm . . . so I can dance for a nursing home or sweat like a pig on one of the hottest days of the year?”

We giggled.

“Kat, I made something for us. I waited for you before giving them out,” Polly said. She opened the passenger door of her SUV, reached inside, and pulled out beige canvas bags. “There’s one for each of us and one for Sybil.”

The canvas bag had two exotic belly-dance eyes in the center and, around the edges, gold glitter glue scrolls. Over the eyes were two words written in what looked like henna: Banat Saaraa (the daughters of Saaraa). It was an honorary Arabic tribute to Sybil, whose dance name was Saaraa. This made us sisters.

“Daughters of Sybil,” Cheryl said, eyes misting. “We’ve gotta make it. I can’t bear not being with y’all.”

If there was any doubt that I’d audition, this simple canvas bag settled it. We were a tribe, and our teacher wanted us to graduate . . . together.

12

When Steve and I got home from our dive vacation and had unpacked and settled in, I scrolled through my e-mails and saw one from Cheryl. She’d copied Polly:

Hey Kat. Hope you’re having fun. Sybil had to cancel our last Monday class. If you want to get together and practice before our next meeting, let us know. We worked on solos and Patty’s troupe dance. Finished my costume!

I hit Reply All:

Hey, ladies. If you want to meet at my house to run through solos next Monday, I’ll clear out the table in the breakfast room. Still working on my costume!

We met twice to tweak and encouraged each other’s spotlight moment. We chatted through our costumes and shared the reasons why we wanted to be in the troupe from our bios. Now, I stared at the calendar on my kitchen counter. August 9 was circled, and it was here. We’d adjusted work schedules to ensure one last run-through at my house.

As we fluffed our skirts and held a final gypsy pose at the end of our last run-through, I glanced at the clock. “It’s five fifteen, ladies,” I announced. “There’s a bathroom or bedroom upstairs. How do we look?” I asked my daughter Isabella.

“Good,” she answered. Isabella had volunteered to help with eye makeup. Even though she was married and headed out of her late twenties, she still loved the lotions, potions, and eye makeup. “If you’re ready, I’ll put on your lashes,” she said to Cheryl.

“Cool,” Cheryl said, digging in her bag for a new pair.

“The jury’s still out for me on all that false stuff,” I said, heading to my bedroom. Lara’s flying ponytail and Sybil’s melting lashes made me leery of anything false.

I forced the never-ending What the hell am I thinking? question out of my mind. It was time, and I wanted to have fun. I was tempted to pour a glass of wine to soften my “Drama Queen” nerves.

After less than thirty minutes, I walked to my mirror and did a pre-audition fashion check. Black harem pants, hot-pink coin scarf, green jewelry (a peridot pendant, my birthstone), makeup, and shoes that I could kick off. I wasn’t thrilled with the pink crocheted cap, but the little silver-bead extensions did move better than my hips and accentuated my veil spins. I heard voices in the living room.

“Kat, come on. Pictures!” Polly was yelling.

I took one last look, grabbed the borrowed cover-up, and went to the living room.

“Where do you wanna take it?” Isabella asked.

“How about outside on the screened-in porch?” I suggested.

As we walked to the door, I looked at Cheryl and Polly. Their costumes were beautiful. Cheryl was in white embellished with gold coins. Polly wore well-accessorized burgundy. I was crowned with a cheesy pink skullcap trying to emulate a “Dancing Queen.” Why did I always feel behind the eight ball?

My daughter positioned herself to get proper lighting. I looked at my girlfriends and said, “Let’s be silly!” We looked at Isabella and poked our tongues out. Polly also crossed her eyes. Then we gave her our best pre-audition smiles and let the camera record our less-comical personae.

Isabella handed back the camera. “Good luck,” she said. “When’ll you know if you made it?”

“A couple of the girls are out of town at some festival,” Cheryl answered. “When they get back, there’s supposed to be a video for them to vote on. Might be a few days.”

We went to our cars. Each of us carried our new canvas bags, which reminded us we were Banat Saaraa, with duplicate music CDs and other accessories.

“See you at the gym,” I said, putting up the garage door. I didn’t feel worthy but wanted to win out over my anxieties. Sybil’s words at the last semiprivate class haunted me, “I’ve wanted to get you girls ready for tryouts, but now it’s up to you. I have no pull. The girls in the troupe will decide.”

It was one thing to face Sybil’s stare, but my fear would be increased exponentially facing the stares from a troupe of dancers who didn’t know anything about me. But I had my sisters and it brought my panic under some control.
Just do it, Kat . . . I mean . . . Ameera.

Our caravan of Palmetto Oasis wannabes pulled out of the neighborhood. I visualized glittery fumes instead of gas emitting from car exhausts. As we drove, I played “Drama Queen” in an effort to solidify my final moves.

We three auditioning dancers sought parking spots at the gym. I parked and froze. After I took a few deep breaths, I turned off my car. I watched as other costumed women headed to the front door. I really needed to get this to feel normal. It should be normal—to walk through a gym bearing belly dance costumes and props—right?

As I signed in, I saw the troupe girls circled beyond stainless-steel bleachers. It was definitely a hen party, and we were the topic of the night.

Cheryl and Polly stood on either side of me.

“I don’t see the Forte sisters,” I said softly. That was a little disappointing. They’d felt approachable at the Piccolo Spoleto performance. But I recognized a few of the other performers.

Out of the blue, Sybil came up from behind and tapped my shoulder. I jumped. “Oh, Sybil! You startled me. Guess I’m a bit nervous,” I said.

“Sorry. Everyone okay?” she asked. We nodded. “The aerobics class is almost through.” She pointed to the top of the blue staircase. “Follow us up and take a seat on the chairs on the wall. We’ll have our round-robin and then you’ll draw numbers,” Sybil continued. “Let’s have a quick review of costumes.” One by one, she checked hip-scarf knots, skirt transparency, makeup, and jewelry. She then asked to see our music CDs.

Polly had burned a CD with all our solo music and the Gypsy number on it. As a savvy computer nerd, she’d made a label from the picture taken at Piccolo Spoleto.

“How cute,” Sybil said, smiling like a proud mom on recital day. The blue door at top of the stairway opened and released a dozen sweaty aerobic participants. We waited.

“Let’s do it,” Polly said, leading our little tribe up the blue staircase. “I hope this isn’t the last time we walk up these steps.”

I was last in line. It reminded me of Dorothy walking arm in arm with her entourage toward the Wizard’s door. In true Kat spirit, I was the Cowardly Lion . . . nervously playing with my tail. Alright . . . with my pink veil.

I put skirt and props on a folding chair. The troupe had lined up its bags, shoes, and jackets on the mirrored wall in the front of the gym. The unknown fourth auditioning dancer had followed her troupe sponsor to sit in the round-robin circle. We stayed put. It felt right to watch from afar.

The aerobic-exercise room was fully mirrored and huge. The floor was covered with cheap, laminated, black-veined tiles that were chipped and ready to slice flesh if it got a barefoot chance. The last time I’d worked in a room half this size was in the high school drama room. I’d forgotten that I could actually space myself from the girls. We were used to Sybil’s small studio.

We sat and focused on the circle forming in front of the room. Papers rattled, pens were handed out, and the chatter faded. I couldn’t tell who stood beside whom. Although it was a safe assumption that they were aware of us, we were being ignored.

“Alright, ladies. Round-robin,” Sybil shouted. “Let’s get going. We’ve got a lot to cover.”