Ameera, Unveiled (17 page)

“Kat, the Internet’s up if you’d like to check e-mails before we leave,” Claude yelled from the living room.

“Better make sure there’re no surprises when we get home,” I said to Steve. “You wanna check too?” I asked him.

“Nope. I’m relaxed and don’t want it in my head,” Steve said, sipping his cocktail.

“I’m gonna make sure everything’s okay . . . and maybe the troupe vote’s in,” I confessed. “I’m not sure why it’s a big deal. I don’t even know if I’d join.”

But as I left the moonlit deck and went into the lighted living room, I couldn’t help but wish for a glittery birthday present: a happy ending to my audition journey.

I took a breath, entered my e-mail name, and waited for a painfully long sign on. I had mail. I pushed the mouse over to the virtual envelope. Sixteen e-mails and one from an e-mail address I didn’t recognize. I hovered over the subject line: Tryout results. My heart skipped a beat. There were four Ballet Guild notices and the others looked like birthday wishes. I opened the unknown e-mail address. It was addressed to all four tryout candidates:

Congratulations. All votes are in and we’d like to extend an invitation to you to join Palmetto Oasis Middle Eastern Dance Troupe. Please feel free to be present at the next Thursday meeting. Monthly dues are $5, and round-robin starts promptly at 6:40 p.m.

I read it three times. I checked the address line to be sure my e-mail was listed in the recipient line. Me? Seriously, me? What did they see in me? I felt as though I’d been pulled out to sea by a riptide and I didn’t know how to swim. Now what?

I heard everyone chatting on the deck under the stars. As I stared at the screen, two more e-mails hit my server. I didn’t recognize them either. The subject line was: Happy Birthday and welcome. Curiosity got the better of me so I opened it.

Happy Birthday and welcome to the troupe, Mecca wrote, adding little birthday cakes and confetti graphics. I wasn’t sure who Mecca was, but I felt embraced.

I hit the other unknown address. Congratulations. Look forward to getting to know you, Leela. I was softened by her virtual handshake . . . or was it a hug?

“Everything okay, Kat?” Steve yelled from the deck.

I rose from the computer, numb. I headed back to the deck to join my husband and friends after I’d refilled my Chardonnay. I had decisions to make. I’d been embraced by two unknown women and invited by a spokesperson. But I was a realist. I had nothing to offer those women. I was a slow learner, with little experience and extra pounds that my body wasn’t letting go of. I felt confused and torn. I thought I’d prepared myself for my response.

“Everything’s fine,” I said, shutting the refrigerator door. But something in my reply hinted that I’d had news from home. I walked through the open sliding door to join them on the deck.

“News?” Steve asked. I tried to hide a grin, but I felt a twinkle in my eyes. “You made the troupe, didn’t you?”

“Ladies and gentlemen, meet Ameera!” I said. They cheered and whistled.

“Congratulations, Kat!” Deb said, raising her glass. “I’d like to make a toast . . . To four good friends, three members of Kat’s new fan club, two fabulous birthday girls, and one hot belly dancer!” We all clinked glasses.

Steve whispered in my ear, “Happy birthday, Ameera. You’re accepting, aren’t you?”

“We’ll see,” I answered, basking in relief in the moonlight.

14

My birthday month was over, but my Banat tribe wanted to provide me a beer and appetizer. We’d agreed to meet at TBonz, the restaurant at which we’d celebrated our nursing home debut. Little did we know we’d return as belly dancer debutantes.

“Happy birthday, Kat,” Cheryl said. A beautiful rhinestone barrette adorned her thick brunette hair.

“Thank you. You’re glowing,” I said. “The boyfriend . . . or making troupe?”

“Both,” she smiled. “Still can’t believe we got invited on our first audition.”

“I can’t believe I got invited, period. I’m still wondering why,” I said. As we pulled the front door open, I looked around the parking lot and saw Polly’s SUV. “Polly must be inside already.”

“Kat! Happy birthday,” Polly called from a corner booth.

Cheryl and I slid in across from her.

“It’s been quite a ride, ladies,” I said, unfolding my napkin from the silverware. “I recommend a birthday month for everyone!”

“What a birthday present—audition success!” Polly exclaimed. “Your birthday month ends with our first troupe practice in two days!”

“What’d you think when you saw the e-mail, Polly?” I asked.

“I didn’t check it until I got back from dinner,” Polly said. “It took so long I’d stopped anticipating anything.”

Cheryl and I said at the same time, “Me too.”

“Internet was spotty during our trip,” I said. “I was able to check it the night before we left, and there it was. I had to check the recipient line a couple of times,” I continued. “It was on the eve of my actual birthday, so I couldn’t reject the invite. It felt a little serendipitous. Maybe my Bindi Goddess needed to nudge my little ass to consider accepting the invite?”

“Kat, you don’t have much of an ass to shove forward,” Cheryl giggled and nudged me.

“No, but I can lift the ta-tas,” I replied, executing a chest lift and drop. I winked at them.

We were a bonded group. I looked at both of them engaged in energetic chatter. I wouldn’t have been friends with these two great ladies except for a random belly dancing class.

“Kat, you here?” Cheryl asked. “We’re asking if Sybil called you after the e-mail?”

“Sorry. Daydreaming,” I said. “Yes, she left a voice message on my cell. Sounded very proud of us. What about y’all?”

“Called me while I was driving home from work,” Polly said. “Asked me to consider going to Jamaica in November. I’m thinking about it.”

Jamaica? Why was that awful performing feeling rising in my chest again?

“Really?” I asked. “What about you, Cheryl?”

Cheryl sipped her drink. “She mentioned it to me too. I don’t think I’ve got enough vacation time to be away for a whole week, but we’ll see.”

I’d consumed my cold draft beer way too fast. I looked for the waitress. Coincidently, the waitress was walking toward us with our salads and wings.

“How was your trip?” Cheryl asked.

“Good,” I said. “Steve got away from all the business stuff and surfed for a couple of days, and we stayed up near the volcano for another couple of days.”

“Sounds like a tough trip!” Cheryl said sarcastically.

I smiled at her. “It was, but someone had to do it. Hey, it was just as painful not hearing the results down there, missy.”

“When I grow up, I wanna be Kat!” Polly said, pointing a French fry at me.

“Not if you wanna be a good belly dancer,” I said, pointing my fork at her. “Seriously, I’m stunned they asked me.”

“Kat, this journey would’ve never been the same without you.” Cheryl hugged me.

Polly had her hammy grin on. “Let’s go to Jamaica, mon!”

“I’ll think about it,” I laughed but didn’t mean it. I was already thinking about that first troupe meeting.

The girl at the desk greeted us as we walked in for our first troupe meeting.

“We’re the new belly dancers. Is this the sign-in sheet?” I asked. The words sounded foreign coming out of my mouth.

“Congratulations. We’d heard there were new members,” she said, sliding the clipboard toward us and handing me a pen that looked like a flower.

“Cute,” I remarked before I signed in and passed the pen to Cheryl.

Two more Palmetto girls arrived and stood behind us. One was the nice one with the soft voice who’d taught us the combo. I turned to introduce myself, but before I could open my mouth, she said, “Hey, I’m Patty Snow. Welcome to the troupe.”

“I’m Leona Forbes,” the other girl said. “Congratulations.” She was the girl who’d worn the pink yarns. She’d fascinated me from the first time I’d attended Day of Dance. Leona’s long, auburn hair was pulled back. She wore burgundy harem pants and a dance tank.

“I’m Kat Varn. This is Cheryl Curcio,” I said. “Thanks for inviting us. I promise to try to catch up.”

“I’ve got teaching DVDs I can lend you,” Patty volunteered. “You’ll do fine.” The gentle encouragement in her voice eased my anxiety.

We headed to a large room in front of the racquetball courts. Some of the girls wore makeup, glitter, and costumes. Others wore yoga pants and exercise tops. I spied the Forte sisters. Jennifer was talking intently to Sybil, and I overheard the words gypsy wagon and bonfire. Lara cackled as Jennifer finished her tale. Sybil laughed and leaned on Jennifer’s arm. I hoped to fit into the sisterhood that was unfolding before me. I already knew the names of five of them. Polly stood by two short girls who were holding court. She looked our way, waved enthusiastically, and motioned us over.

“Kat, Cheryl,” Polly invited, “Kelly Guyton and Denise Hudgins.”

“I’m Kelly,” said one. Her accent was Southern and heavy, probably from upper South or North Carolina. “And this is Denise. Woo-hoo! Y’all made it!”

Sweaty ladies emerged from the blue door at the top of the stairs. I glanced at the clock. It was going on six forty. Within five minutes of my arrival, the belly dancer tribe had grown to thirteen. I followed them upstairs. The room resonated with coin scarves being tied and dancers giggling.

Sybil headed to the center of the room. “Okay, ladies. Round-robin. Let’s welcome our new members,” she pointed to us. “Kat, Cheryl, and . . . my shy student, Polly.” The tribe snickered. Polly’s solo had challenged the word shy. “We’ll get you to tell us a little about yourself when it’s your turn. The fourth member, Ann, couldn’t make it tonight. So . . . remind us of your dance names and tell us what you do.”

Another dancer, the one who looked like Jackie Kennedy, rushed gracefully through the blue door. “Sorry I’m late. A meeting ran over.”

“We’ve just started,” Sybil said, then focused on our group. “First . . . Jamaica. Did everyone get the airfare link I sent?” Heads nodded. “I hope you’ve booked by now because the $359 fare is about gone. I talked to the hotel group representative. We’ll teach an hour every day, perform one half-hour show and a one-hour show at the end of the week.” She took a breath and went on. “Someone from the resort’ll meet us at the airport and shuttle us to Negril. And remember, it’s all-inclusive. Food, room, drinks; no tipping allowed. November 4 for a whole week.”

“Woo-hoo!” Kelly yelled. “My boss approved me and Denise. Free alcohol, the beach, dancing—I’m in heaven. High five, roomie!” She and Denise smacked palms.

“No spanking, Kelly,” Lara advised. The group broke into laughter, and Kelly shook her butt toward the middle of the circle. Kelly seemed friendly and approachable, if a little crazy.

“Questions?” Sybil asked. No one had any. “Okay, let’s go around.” One by one, they shared or passed along a personal fun fact or progress on a troupe assignment.

“Jennifer?” Sybil prompted. “Are you going to Jamaica?”

She made a pouty face, then broke into a big grin, “Yes! My boss approved it and I booked the ticket today!” Zaghareets filled the room at her announcement.

“Polly?” Sybil said.

“Thank you for giving us a chance to be part of the troupe. It means a lot to me . . . to us,” Polly said. “My dance name’s Aj’bani. I’m a nurse manager at MUSC. I look forward to dancing with y’all. I’m still thinking about Jamaica.”

“Outstanding! Cheryl?” Sybil nodded to her.

“My dance name’s Hana, and I also work at MUSC,” Cheryl said. “Jamaica sounds like fun, but I don’t think I have enough vacation saved. But I can’t wait to dance.”

“Okay! Kat?” Sybil looked at me.

“My dance name’s Ameera,” I said. “I worked for a sole-practitioner attorney for twenty-three years. We specialized in private adoptions. I retired in 2004,” I said, avoiding the Jamaica subject. As I looked left, I realized I was last.

“Let’s dance!” Sybil said. “What’s first? New girls, you’ll watch the dances you don’t know this week. We’ll get you copies of the North Charleston show videos so you can learn from them at home. We’ll put you with choreographers, and they’ll place you in the parts they want you in.”

For forty-five minutes, Banat Saaraa listened to new songs and watched dancers take their places. Some knew their parts better than others, but it’d been a while since they’d danced them. These were the dances for Jamaica. The final dance was Lara’s “Pathway to Goa.”

Girls grabbed Isis wings and veils from their bags. I’d seen Lara’s dance at Piccolo Spoleto. They lined up, veils over their heads and wings to the back. I loved the dance. We watched them run through three times before Sybil called it a night.

I grabbed my bag and chatted briefly with Polly and Cheryl. A couple of members came up to congratulate us as others rushed out to relieve babysitters.

Before I could get to the blue door, Sybil called my name. “Kat, I’m so glad you came tonight,” she said. “You’re going to Jamaica with us, right?”

“I don’t see why you’d need me. I don’t know the dances and can’t learn them fast,” I said, hearing panic in my voice. “I’ll be in over my head.”

“Kat, you’re here for a reason. And you do know the dances,” Sybil grinned. “You know Gypsy and Patty’s. I want you to learn Lara’s. We won’t perform until the end of the week, and we’ll practice every morning. Did you think I was teaching you those dances for no reason?” Her smile put her tactical lesson plan out in the open. Jamaica had been part of her strategy all along.