Ameera, Unveiled (16 page)

The pods of chattering girls gradually muted and formed a ring facing Sybil.

“Tonight is tryouts,” Sybil said, briefly looking our way with a dimpled grin. “Jamaica’s official. GrandResorts is sending us to Negril. It’s an all-inclusive resort, except airfare. I checked online for fares. They’re as low as $359. But you need to grab ’em while you can. Who’s thinking of going?” she asked before counting raised hands.

After the hand count, a few members of the troupe shared some personal updates. I only heard a couple volunteer to join the Jamaica adventure.

“Okay. If there’s nothing new, let’s start the auditions,” Sybil wrapped up. “Remember, we’ve got some missing members, so Patty’s videoing the tryouts. No results will be revealed till the whole troupe gets to see the video and vote. Let’s draw numbers.” She sent one of the troupe members over to get us to draw numbers, and the unknown fourth girl drew from the bag first.

“Second,” she announced, holding up a “2.”

Polly stepped forward and plucked from cupped hands. “First.” She held up a “1.”

I felt a little happier and left my fate up to Cheryl. We looked at each other, and I encouraged her with my eyes to go next and take one of the last two numbers. Third or fourth wasn’t so bad.

Cheryl picked the one on the right. “Fourth,” she said, holding up a “4.”

I took the last number and officially showed my “3.” I went back to my chair, fished for my CD, and looked at my pink veil. This was it. I turned my attention to my judges—solemn, quiet, and all mimicking the Sybil stare—a large pod of belly dancer poker faces.

Polly shed her cover-up before heading to the sound system, a glittery trail of confidence wafting behind her. She was the Tinker Bell of the Banat Saaraa tribe. The troupe looked through the paperwork for her information. The girl who’d worn the pink yarns at Day of Dance took Polly’s CD and set up the music.

Polly strutted in her burgundy costume to the middle of the room and looked directly at Sybil. Sybil and eleven other troupe members gazed back at her.

“What’s your dance name, what does it mean, and what’s your song?” Sybil asked.

Unruffled, Polly grinned and said, “Aj’bani. It means ‘I like it.’ My song’s ‘Rhythm of the Laia.’” I thought I detected small smiles.

“Ready?” Sybil asked. Polly nodded her coifed head, turned, and posed. Sybil motioned to the girl at the CD player to push the play button.

Polly knocked out her solo as if she were in Sybil’s studio. Her curvaceous hips slung gold beads around the dance area while she flirted with the audience. I looked for any sign of approval on the faces of the judges, but there were no cracks or public displays of affection.

I felt Ameera shrink. One down, three to go. If Polly couldn’t get a smile or nod out of a room that was eerily quiet except for the scratching of pens on paper . . . Cheryl and I looked at each other with discreet looks of terror.

Candidate two was asked to provide music, name, and song. I was two minutes away from having to do my solo. My lip trembled as I watched the girl in her beautiful cabaret bra and belt dance to a slow song with lots of minor chords. Her moves differed from those I’d put into my solo. They were sinewy and slinky. Her stomach was flat and undulated on command. When she finished, the room was silent.

“Next,” Sybil summoned.

I stood and picked up my veil and CD. As I walked over to deliver my music, my legs were heavy and my ears rang. I faced the judges in the center of the room. I saw Cheryl smile and give me a thumbs-up. Polly followed her lead. I pressed my lips together to bridle their increased trembling.

Despite how often Sybil had drilled us to use our confident walks, my diva juices just weren’t flowing. I’d trade a hundred nursing home performances to get out of this moment. And I didn’t see any signs of someone nodding off and snoring at the front of the room.

“Ready?” Sybil asked. I nodded, because my lips wanted to chatter, and stood with Pink puddled behind my feet. “What’s your name, meaning, and music?”

“I chose Ameera,” I said. “It means ‘ruler,’ like a princess or a queen. I thought it’d be cute to do a dance song with the word ‘queen’ in it, so I picked ‘Drama Queen.’” I tried to hide my terror. “Sybil asked me to do the whole song. It’s a little over three-and-a-half minutes.” They needed to know it would last longer due to pressure, not ego.

I raised my veil over my face like a silk curtain and summoned Ameera to take over as I waited for my music cue. As the first notes rang out, I lowered Pink at each module and fulfilled module one with head slides, enhanced by pink extensions from my crocheted cap. I tried to engage with the stern audience, but my lips chattered and made my smile strange. I kept Pink under control as I inched my way to the end. I ended with a royal pose, thanked them, and tried to slip into a confident walk back to my chair. I mouthed a “Good luck” to Cheryl.

I watched pens scratch until Sybil called Cheryl forward. As I listened and watched Cheryl’s dance, I knew that we were only halfway through the process. We still had the combo lesson, the freestyle, and performing the Gypsy number. In spite of the huge room, I felt claustrophobic as I discreetly checked the clock: seven twenty. Maybe we’d run out of time and they’d skip something.

After a brief silence, one of the troupe members stood to summon us to the center of the room. “Hey, ladies, thanks for coming tonight,” she said. “Sybil wants me to show you a combo to a short clip of music. I’ll demonstrate first, and we’ll do it a couple of times with and without music. Then you’ll do it together,” she said. Her voice was soft and kind. “Ready?”

I knew my nod didn’t mean I was ready. I just wanted it to be over. Polly was in front; I was in back. Again I cast a discreet glance toward the clock as she demonstrated to the music . . . twenty seconds. That didn’t seem too bad.

Two in the audience whispered while we demonstrated the combination. I tried to suppress my paranoia as we finished.

“One more thing, ladies,” Sybil said. “We’ll play a song, and we want you to freestyle. Just try to put some moves to the music as you hear it.”

Does running out the door and to your car count? I asked myself. I watched Polly, just as fresh and confident as when she’d arrived, while I cringed inside, copying moves offered by the other three girls and praying the music would stop soon. After fifteen seconds, I froze and waited for the music to stop. I hoped I’d get back to my chair without someone seeing the dejected look on Ameera’s face. I pulled off the pink crocheted crown and tossed it in my bag.

Sybil stood to address the troupe. “Ladies, I’ve been teaching my Monday students the Gypsy and wanted to give them a chance to show you how much of it they’ve learned.”

“Does this ever end?” I whispered to Cheryl. I tied the red coin scarf and clipped on a red flower. We got in line, and suddenly the attitude I should’ve had during my solo flipped the twenty-five-yard skirt as I danced with my Banat Saaraa. As I sneaked a peek at our audience, I saw that Sybil’s big, dimpled grin had replaced her unreadable stare. That put a little more bravado in my final performance effort.

On the last notes of the song, as we assumed our sassy pose, the whole group gave us a zaghareet. We held the pose like a photo op and then looked at each other and laughed.

As we gathered our dance gear, Sybil approached us. “Remember, we taped the auditions. After the rest of the girls see it and vote, we’ll send you an e-mail with the results.” She turned and looked over her shoulder. “It may be a week or so. Thanks for coming.”

We’d been dismissed.

“You did it, Ameera!” Cheryl said as we walked to our cars in gypsy costumes, as if it were a perfectly normal way to leave.

“It was hard, but I’m glad I made myself do it,” I admitted, opening my trunk and depositing all of the audition leftovers. I’d missed a call from Steve on my cell phone. He’d left a text: Meet me at Outback. How’d it go?

“Gotta run, y’all,” I said, peeling my skirt off and grabbing my change of clothes. “I need to pop back in and change. By the way, your solos looked great.”

“Let’s get together soon. Have a beer for your birthday before the end of August?” Polly suggested.

“Sounds great,” I waved them off.

Once I was alone in the silence of my car, I’d no idea how to start the story of my audition for Steve. My mind raced. What if only Polly makes it? Cheryl’d be so disappointed. What if Polly and Cheryl make it and I didn’t? I didn’t feel as much relief as I’d anticipated. What if we all make it? But Sybil had warned us that few made it on their first audition. If I’m invited, will I accept?

As I turned into the restaurant parking lot, my phone rang. It was Steve. “Hey, I’m parking,” I advised.

“Good,” Steve said. “I’ll order you a beer.”

“A big one, please!” I said, hanging up. I glanced in the mirror one more time. I caught myself hoping to see Ameera but, instead, I just saw Kat. My stomach was tied in a knot, but the post-audition adrenaline had created a twinkle in my eye.

13

“I can’t believe I’m shopping on purpose!” I said to Isabella. “There’s a bunch of shoes in there.” I hated shopping, but I was looking for some fun tropical footwear for my birthday trip. My daughter had decided to hang out with me.

“Where’re you going this time?” Isabella asked. She held up a sandal with silver and turquoise straps. “These look like you.”

I was already sidetracked by a sales rack. “Roatan, but there’s a hurricane on the way,” I answered. “Maybe nowhere.”

I’d felt a hole in my routine since auditioning. I missed my girls . . . and Sybil. As I passed the clearance racks, my cell phone rang. It was my fellow birthday girl, Steve’s business cohort, who’d be traveling with us to Roatan.

“Hey, Deb, what’s up?” I asked as I looked through the summer clearances. Isabella was checking out handbags.

“Been following the weather?” Deb Murphy asked.

It was unusual for Deb to call me directly. “That’s weatherman Steve’s job,” I answered. “I’ve been doing the birthday month. How about you?”

She laughed. “Absolutely. So that storm is heading to Roatan. I’ve talked to Steve. We’ve decided to change tickets to Costa Rica. We’ll go to the condo on the west coast and spend some time at Nuevo Arenal and the mountains, ride some horses,” she proposed. “I want you and me to get these boys out of town and make it about us.”

“I don’t care where we go!” I said. “It’s about all of us being together. Besides,” I added, “I’m still waiting on the decision about my belly dance tryout, and a trip’ll be a great diversion.”

“Oh my God, I’d forgotten about that,” Deb exclaimed.

“It’s really no big deal. I’m not sure I’ll join anyway.” I was trying to convince myself the troupe’s judgment of my performance didn’t matter.

I ended my call, assuring Deb we’d have lots of fun, and walked to the shoeboxes to look for a size eight. “These?” I asked my daughter.

Isabella gave me a thumbs-up.

It was the last night of our vacation and the birthday dinner in Costa Rica was amazing. Deb and I were rock stars as food flowed from the kitchen.

I sat at the edge of our friends’ Costa Rican mountain home, staring into Lake Arenal. Two hours earlier, the sun had set behind the mountain peaks on the other side of the lake. Moonlight silhouetted the windmills as they moved in slow synchronization. I heard howler monkeys to my right. They were on the move, seeking a nocturnal buffet of leaves and berries.

Our friends were inside mixing after-dinner cocktails and testing phones or computers for long-distance business updates. It was Steve’s and my last day away from all of the stress and responsibilities back home. Tomorrow was my forty-ninth birthday, and we faced a full day of travel.

“Here you go, dear,” Steve said, handing me a glass of Chardonnay. “Happy birthday . . . early.” He bent to give me a light kiss.

“Thanks,” I said, sipping topaz wine sparkling under moonbeams. During the vacation, there’d been no urgent e-mails from friends or family . . . or troupe . . . as we migrated from beach to mountains. But service was spotty, and sometimes it was impossible to hook in. I felt discouraged and tried to resist feeling rejected. Over my shoulder in the living room, Deb’s husband, Claude, was busy trying to check e-mails.

“What a beautiful spot,” Steve said. He was wearing well-fitted jeans and a white cotton shirt as he sipped vodka and cranberry. I could see his mind was on nothing but Costa Rica and enjoying these last moments.

“You look relaxed . . . far away from Charleston,” I remarked.

“This was a good trip,” he said. “The condo, surfing, eating at Lola’s, riding at the ranch. Now a couple of days here in the mountains. And it’s your birthday!”

“Tomorrow! By the way, I can’t stop replaying your horse falling over and you screaming that you’d killed her,” I said, grinning as I mentally replayed his six-foot-three frame seated on a fourteen-hand pregnant horse that moved as fast as a sloth. After the mare had stumbled and tipped over, she’d jumped to her feet and run away. But in true Steve storytelling form, the horse-falling-over story got better with each retelling.