Ameera, Unveiled (5 page)

“Hey, girl,” Polly greeted. “Ready to lock ’n’ roll?”

I smiled at her pun, but before I could answer, another set of headlights pulled up behind Polly’s car.

“There’s Cheryl,” I said, waving to her. Cheryl jumped out of her car with a positive bounce.

“Glad y’all found it,” I said.

“Wow, look at that oak tree,” Cheryl remarked as we passed a mystical tree laden with Spanish moss glowing in the October sunset. I led them through two more doors and opened the final entrance to Sybil’s studio.

“This is so cool,” Cheryl said. She headed straight to some pictures hanging on the wall. “Wow! Look at her. I wonder where she was dancing in that one.” We looked over Cheryl’s shoulder at a candid black-and-white photograph of Sybil performing in a club.

As if on cue, the hallway door opened and Sybil joined us.

“Hey, ladies. Obviously, everyone found my house okay.” As one, we turned to give her our attention.

“What a great place, Sybil,” Polly said.

“I love the oak,” Cheryl added. We were all tying on coin scarves.

Sybil ushered us into her studio. She pulled out a dry erase marker from a desk drawer, walked to her closet mirrors, and wrote, “December 6 at 7:00 p.m.” Dutifully, I pulled out my journal and wrote down the date. I assumed it was for the nursing home performance.

“Let’s stretch and chat,” Sybil suggested as she sat on the floor. “The home’s so excited about the Christmas visit,” she said, leaning forward with a stretch. “I want the three of you to do the Shakira dance. I’ve got students from my Wednesday class who’ll be performing the same dance after you. So let’s focus on this dance, and afterward we’ll move on. Also, the troupe’s performing at the Coastal Carolina Fair on November 4. If you haven’t seen Palmetto Oasis, this is a good chance. We’ll be using a lot of the North Charleston dances from the May show.”

My mind was spinning.

“One more thing. A lot of dancers adopt a dancing name. Mine is Saaraa. There are Arabic websites you can search. Find a dance name that says something about you. I’ll give you till next Monday.” Sybil paused. “Okay, let’s dance, ladies,” she ended and, like a hummingbird, flitted to her CD player and stood at the front of the room.

We renewed our dance drill and ran through each part Sybil had decided to hone for forty-five minutes. As we cooled down, I mentally counted each Monday that would inch me toward the dreaded nursing home performance.

“Okay, ladies,” Sybil excused us. “You know what to do. Practice and pick a dance name.”

After grabbing bags, we retraced our steps to the cars.

“Geez, does she ever stop throwing curves?” I asked. I opened the wooden gate and headed to my car.

“I hope not,” Polly said, knocking me with her hip.

I didn’t feel as confident as Polly did. What did a brand-new dancer have to offer to an expectant audience anyway?

4

To: PollyG
December 2
Hey, got my silk veil today. What a huge difference from the training chiffon veil. She’s fluorescent hot pink and floats like a cloud. I’ve named her Pink Panther. Pink, for short (ha!). See you on December 4 for dress rehearsal at Sybil’s. Hope our matching shirts get here.

To: Katbox
December 4
Hey, got my shirt. Want to run through the dance before dress rehearsal tonight? Cheryl said she has hers too.

I couldn’t believe the big day was upon us. I’d arranged and removed all my clothing pieces—belt, shoes, and jewelry—from the bed. Talking to myself in the bathroom mirror, I aimed for a pre-game pep talk. “Kat, get done, grab the silk veil . . . oh, and don’t forget jeans for drinks afterwards. Take a breath.”

I exhaled as I tried to create exotic eye makeup, then continued addressing my image. “How hard could this audience really be? It’s Christmastime, for heaven’s sake! Sybil does this every year. She must know what she’s getting us into.”

My reflection remained unresponsive.

I stepped far enough back from the bathroom mirror to check that my hip scarf was properly pinned to hide my waistband and the knot wasn’t drooping—costume etiquette imparted at one of our recent classes by Sybil. I looked at my still-pudgy belly and winced.

“How well can the nursing home folks see?” I asked my reflection, hoping Ameera, my new belly-dancing alter ego, knew. I’d chosen the name because Ameera means queen in Arabic. My previous non-dancing life had been all about duty and responsibility. The idea of being a queen amused me. I’d decided that, when I stepped into Ameera’s costume, I wanted to abandon my call to watch in exchange for a pass to dance.

Before I left the bathroom, I looked down at my dog Chaz and cat Melkey staring up at me. Their stares conveyed confusion about what I’d been doing for over an hour. The doorbell rang. I jingled my hip scarf; Chaz cringed and Melkey blinked.

Polly was meticulously groomed. Any chance to practice had been spent on her makeup and precise hair placements.

“Okay, guys, see you in a couple of hours.” I dismissed my furry Peanut Gallery as Polly and I headed to the garage with new silk veils on hangers. Opening my car trunk, I carefully laid Pink, my new veil, flat, hoping to preserve her wrinkle-free state.

“How are you feeling?” Polly asked, laying her veil in the trunk.

“Like I’m going the wrong way on the round-the-world move,” I confessed. “Why’s it such a huge brain fart?”

“Just don’t let on if you mess up,” Polly laughed, echoing Sybil’s advice.

How is everyone else doing tonight?
I wondered as I backed out of the garage. “Let’s go meet Cheryl. I told her we’d pick her up at the restaurant parking lot.”

As we pulled into the TBonz parking lot, I saw Cheryl’s car. She waved, gathered her things, and jumped into the back seat with her veil in hand. My stomach lurched.

Cheryl looked great. Her eye makeup shimmered, and her false eyelashes were impeccably glued. She exuded a natural, sexy, ethnic-dancer look from smile to skin tone.

“Hey, girl. Ready?” I fired at her first, attempting to take the spotlight off my own stage fright. “Your makeup’s fantastic.”

She batted her lashes. “I like false eyelashes. Might have to use them more often,” Cheryl said, all cheer and confidence. “I guess I’m ready. How ’bout you, Polly?”

“Can’t wait,” Polly answered without hesitation. “I just wanna dance. But Kat’s nervous.”

I wish I had a pinch of Polly’s dancing dust, I thought. I wasn’t sure if I was envious or jealous of her hammy gene. Either way, I admired her unfettered dance zeal.

“Kat, you know the dance. It’s a nursing home. They’ve probably been excited all day looking forward to Sybil’s annual visit,” Cheryl prodded.

“It’s gonna be fun,” Polly added. “Did anyone bring a camera?”

“That’d be me,” I said.

While dance music played in the CD player, Cheryl and Polly discussed the performance from start to finish. The dance talk went on throughout the two-minute ride to our first nursing home. The horror in my head had grown proportionately as I pulled into the parking lot.

After we retrieved our veils from the trunk, I jingled across cold, dark asphalt. At the front door, we waited for the receptionist to buzz us into a warm lobby. It was a chilly night, and our costumes weren’t suitable for December fashion. My teeth chattered—partly cold, mostly nerves.

“Good evening, and welcome to Home Health Assistance. You must be part of Sybil’s group?” The receptionist’s greeting made it sound perfectly normal to be standing in a lobby in harem pants, hip scarves, veils, and glitter.

We smiled and nodded.

“I don’t think she’s arrived yet. You’re welcome to wait here,” she said, pointing to the burgundy-striped couches.

Before we could sit, Sybil—CD player in hand—waved at the receptionist through the glass front door. She was wearing a glittered Santa coat and had slipped a Santa cap over her blonde curls. Another belly dancer was with her. When the door unlocked, Sybil socialized cheerfully with the receptionist, confirmed the location of the waiting residents, and finally sashayed over to us.

“Thanks so much for doing this. I can’t tell you how much this’ll mean to the residents,” Sybil said as she checked our attire. Pointing at Cheryl’s chest, she added, “That’s too cute, and you all match.”

She inspected each of us for proper costume execution. Scarves were tight and each knot was pinned securely. Eye makeup was on, and fingernails and toenails were painted. We passed muster.

“Remember, girls, look at the audience and smile,” Sybil stressed. “Have fun. If you mess up—lose part of your costume, drop your veil—keep going and never let on that something happened. Oh, sorry. This is one of our troupe dancers, Jennifer Forte. Her name is Jessamyn.”

“Hi, everybody,” said Jessamyn. Her voice dripped like honey from the mouth of the most exotically dressed woman I’d ever laid eyes on. From the chain mail on her head to her glittery shoes, Jessamyn oozed the essence of belly dancer. But she radiated something more than costume and makeup; her naturally sensual, warm, and joyful personality shone through.

My costume and makeup paled by comparison. Now I was even more nervous.

Sybil and Jessamyn chattered as we moved through the corridors toward the performance room. Loitering residents stared at their noisy guests, some asking if we were the belly dancers.
Yep, by golly, we are
, I thought while my heart pounded out of my chest.

“Kat, you okay?” Cheryl whispered. “Your eyes are dilated.”

“Scared out of my mind,” I whispered. “I need to stop being Kat and find my inner Ameera.”

We followed Sybil to the second floor, stopping outside a door that appeared to be an entrance to an activity room. Sybil’s Wednesday night students were already there; seven of them standing with another real belly dancer, who was in full costume and makeup, long auburn hair tumbling over a tapestry cover-up. Jessamyn hugged her, and they stood attentively beside Sybil.

“Everyone, gather ’round.” Sybil motioned to us to pay attention. “I’ll introduce you as my students. My Monday class will go first. After I present each group, introduce yourself by your dance name and say what you do for a living. And, remember, have fun . . . and smile.”

Sybil and Jessamyn, both cheerful and confident, opened the door to greet the audience. As I followed, I saw several rows of white- and gray-haired heads. Staff lined up behind the residents, some of whom were formally dressed while others were in bathrobes. The room was packed.

I focused on another inner pep talk:
It’s all about the residents. It isn’t
about fear, imperfection, or self-image.
I exhaled and looked around the clinically decorated room. A small Christmas tree stood by the door. Some gold garland was taped over the window. And in front of us, two rows of wheelchairs and beige stackable chairs were filled with eager spectators. They consisted mostly of female residents who stared at us with smiles of anticipation. The staff, outfitted in pink scrubs, also seemed to be enjoying this chance to escape floor duties.

I sought out friendly faces. A couple of the people in our audience seemed to be on the fence about our presence—and I saw someone sleeping in the front row. Again, I focused on the fact that I’d simply be performing for someone’s grandmother, great-aunt, mom, or dad—the generation that had raised my parents. These were the people who’d blazed trails; they were veterans, teachers, and nurses.

My respect and admiration for them shifted my focus from Kat, and Ameera confidently took her place.

Sybil glittered in her Santa coat and hat as she stepped boldly to the front of the room. “Good evening, everybody. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah. My name’s Saaraa, and I’m with a local belly dancing troupe, the Palmetto Oasis Middle Eastern Dance Troupe. This is Jessamyn, and this is Leela.”

As she spoke, Jessamyn and Leela took off their cover-ups to reveal beautifully beaded tops, harem pants, and hip belts glistening like icicles. They gave a small bow accompanied by a confident smile.

“I teach classes, and I’ve asked some of my students to perform choreography they’ve been working on for a few weeks. Belly dancing brings women together from all walks of life. They’ll introduce themselves by their dance names and tell you what they do for a living. Ladies . . .” Sybil prodded us forward with an invisible stick.

Polly dove in. “Hi, everybody. My name’s Aj’bani. I’m a nurse manager for MUSC.” She radiated confidence and had no problem smiling as she focused on all sides of the room.

Cheryl and I looked at each other, my eyes pleading for her to go next. While Ameera was in the building, she just wanted a few more seconds.

“Merry Christmas, everyone. My name’s Hana. I work for the pathology department at MUSC.” Cheryl’s voice trembled slightly, but she had no problem smiling.

Cheryl and Polly gave me as much courage as they could through their eyes as I stepped forward. The audience smiled and I gave a little wave. “Happy Holidays, ladies and gentlemen,” I began, as an older gentleman snored loudly. That made me smile and relax. “My name’s Ameera. I’m a retired legal assistant for an adoption attorney.”

We moved to our dance spots. Sybil started Shakira’s song on the CD player.