Ameera, Unveiled (14 page)

“Hey, y’all, I’m gonna go home to get cleaned up. I need to figure out how to get this outfit clean before our next class,” I said to them.

“We’ll be leaving in a few minutes too.” Cheryl glanced at Trey and pulled her hair into a ponytail to cool off her neck. “I’m glad you did Piccolo Spoleto with us. Please don’t give up on the idea of auditions,” she asked. “It wouldn’t be the same if we made troupe and you weren’t there. You’d look great in the color Nashwa was wearing.”

“I guess we got baptized by sweat today!” I said. “I’ll see you next class— clean and in pants that fit!” I walked alone to my car and thanked Ameera for no obvious freak-outs.

11

Although our performance at Piccolo Spoleto seemed like yesterday, it was now six weeks ago. And it was the last week using the family house on Folly Beach. I waited for the computer to boot. During our vacation, I’d been trying to force myself to complete my solo but knew I didn’t have to face my belly dance drill sergeant and so excused myself. For the two-and-a-half weeks that I strolled the gray-sand beach for exercise, my dance life had skidded to a halt. For months, I’d been surfing the Internet and ordering instructional belly dance DVDs. They’d become a kind of staple in my suitcase as we’d traveled across oceans, and I’d tried to keep one available in my disc drive. So today, I sat on the porch swing thinking about our last meeting with Sybil after Piccolo Spoleto.

Sybil had informed us that she was going on vacation and that we would resume our lessons afterward. She told us that she would e-mail us when her schedule settled down and that she would provide us with the audition date.

As I drank my morning coffee to the sound of the incoming tide, I checked my e-mail. I had one from Sybil. I stared at the subject line, took a deep breath, and opened it: Need you all at my studio on Monday, July 16. Important troupe meeting last Thursday night. Auditions discussed. Bring your solos and gypsy skirts.

Damn it. I felt the reality of facing the decision to audition was upon me. I suspected that the only troupe member who was interested in a dancer like me becoming part of the tribe was Sybil. I struggled to see what she saw in me every time I tried to dance in front of a mirror. July 16? In four days, we had to move off the beach, pack for a dive trip leaving the same week, and now auditions?

I felt nauseated as I stared off the porch. Waves rolled in, pelicans glided by in V-formation, and sea oats swayed in the breeze. It made me think of undulations, traveling, and grace. Dance had affected my perceptions, but the idea of exposing my clumsy attempt to master dance? Stage fright drowned my excitement at being glittery.

Steve poked his head through the porch door before he left for work. “I’ll try to be home earlier,” he said, holding a Diet Coke. “Depending on the waves, I may surf instead of the gym. Let’s grab something off Center Street tonight.”

“Sure,” I said vacantly. My mind was still on meeting Sybil.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Sybil wants to meet with us Monday. I think they’ve set an audition date,” I said.

Sitting beside me on the swing, Steve asked, “Didn’t you want this?”

I looked down. Did I? I’d ignored practicing my solo for any reason under the Folly sun. “I’m so conflicted, Steve,” I said. “I saw more of the troupe girls at Piccolo Spoleto, and I’m not like them. I know I’m supposed to be over it all, but the old tapes won’t stop playing.”

“Take your time,” he advised. “I’ll support you in whatever you decide.” He stood and gave me a soft kiss. “We’ll talk tonight.”

When I looked back at the computer, Polly had already responded to Sybil’s e-mail. I pressed the new mail button and found she’d left me a note: Kat, please show up. We want you with us. She’d added a smiley face icon.
Am
I that transparent?
I wondered.

I heard my daughter Isabella open the bedroom door upstairs and her two Great Danes trotted down the espresso-colored wooden steps after her. I hurried to the porch door to close it. I wasn’t in the mood for my grandpups’ loving, wet noses. The “a” word (audition) had put me in a foul mood, and they didn’t deserve my misplaced frustration. I needed time to digest my morning news.

It was time to find the last moves of the solo. I had no more excuses.

I opened my computer media player and pushed play. A pretty china teacup and saucer appeared on screen. A silver teaspoon dropped instant coffee and stirred twice. The spoon tinkled and, as it left the cup, a cute blonde belly dancer emerged like magic. The words “Instant Belly Dancer” appeared above her.

Right
, I told myself as I took a swig of my morning coffee,
time to decide.

By afternoon, I was no closer to a decision. I sat on the top boardwalk step, watching Steve surf. I raised an icy beer at him as he caught a wave. Steve made it look effortless after years of reading the sets of waves, timing, and transition to balance on a blue plank of fiberglass. He rode his board into the shallows, stepped off, and unhooked the leash from his ankle. His silver hair popped over the dune.

“Hello, dear,” he said, placing his board on steps that were below my feet. “Can I have a swig of your beer?”

“Leave me some,” I said, grinning and handing it to him.

“Feeling better since this morning?” he asked. Steve faced me, sitting on his board, and tipped his head sideways to shake out excess water.

“I’m good,” I said. “No use dwelling on it. I’d like to enjoy our last weekend. Maybe Sybil’s telling us it’s a no-go.”

We locked gazes and in unison said, “Nah.” I laughed to cover my distress.

“Go get cleaned up,” I changed subjects. “I told everyone to meet us at Center Street between seven thirty and eight. I’m okay . . . really.”

Steve handed me the beer, picked up his board, and headed to the house. I leaned left, avoiding his drips. I held the bottle up to the fading sunlight, gauging its contents. “You owe me a beer,” I said. He chuckled down the sidewalk.

The sunset changed the sea-oat heads from gold to rosy red. More dogs roamed the beach with diehard Folly hippies.

Folly Beach left warm and fuzzies in me. The silhouettes of children kneeling at sandcastles reminded me of my childhood.

When my dad had been at sea, we’d spend hours here in the summer. At least once a week, Mom had packed a cooler with colorful plastic cups that held cottage cheese. Once eaten, we had an exciting addition to our cupboard. Each of us had taken a turn to claim a jewel-tone glass. Mom’s multi-striped beach bag had been stocked with PB&J sandwiches, a bag of chips to share, sometimes fruit, and cookies. A plastic jug of Kool-Aid had been hidden in the ice cooler. When we had driven to the beach, we’d always known we were close when we spotted the Coppertone billboard, brazenly displaying a toddler with her bathing suit bottom being pulled away by a cute, little Scottie dog, blushing as her white tush demonstrated how well the suntan lotion worked.

Every year, through each phase of my youth, the wind, sand, and sun had repeated what they’d always done. The elements had eased my lonely heart. Mysteriously, the beach had also refreshed and quieted my inability to find myself in the midst of my family’s military uprootings. It hadn’t been my parents’ fault. It would take me years to realize I was born with a personality that needed to be part of a flock, a litter, a herd, a congregation, a club, a team . . . a tribe.

As I waited for Steve to change, staring at the beach, I felt the little pink ballerina sitting beside me was also waiting for me to make a decision on auditioning.

The first day home from Folly Beach, I woke in bed a little confused. Stretching under the covers, I searched for the day of the week. Monday. I had four days to pack for a trip to Cayman. Tonight was the meeting with Sybil. I heard the coffee beans grinding and decided to get an early start to my day.

As I walked to the bathroom, the sun sneaked through the slats of the white plantation shutters. Another hot day was coming. Brushing my bedhead to the back, I twirled my hair and pinned it with a root-beer-colored clip. Before I left, I had another chat with myself in the mirror.

Are you ready, Ameera?
I asked myself, searching the green eyes that were staring back at me. I knew Sybil would give us an audition date tonight. There’d be no more hedging or excuses. I smiled as I reminded myself, It’s only an audition. Have fun with it, like Piccolo Spoleto. For weeks, I’d retold the hot-as-Hades performance stories to friends and family. It was like a fish story—with each retelling, my perspective got braver.

I left the bathroom and headed toward the breakfast room. Chaz ran toward me; his tail wagged his blond body, and his lamb eyes were smiling.
Such a happy little fella,
I thought.

“Morning, Chaz,” I said and sat on the love seat, hugging my knees. “I forgot we were home when I woke up.”

Steve’s reading glasses were propped on the end of his nose. He was buried in the newspaper.
The Today Show
ran in the background. “Ready to pack?” he asked. He scooted from the table to make me coffee as his dad had done for his mom for more than fifty years of marriage.

“I could probably just wash what we brought back from the beach,” I answered.

“Here you go,” he said, handing me a mug. “What’s on your agenda today?”

“Some errands downtown. Might have lunch out,” I said, blowing on my coffee. “Sybil asked us to meet at her studio tonight, but I should be home before you.”

“Audition info, huh?” he asked, staring at his paper and eating oatmeal with berries.

Melkey was fixated on bird activity on the oak tree. “I’d put money on it. Just wonder how soon,” I said, sipping my perfect cup of coffee. “I admit . . . the idea of being a real belly dancer in Charleston, how cool is that?”

“I’d like it,” he said, looking over his readers and raising his eyebrows.

“Belly dancer, Steve,” I said. “Not stripper.”

He grinned and went back to his paper.

I watched a bird tantalize my kitty. A window screen physically prevented the bird’s capture. Belly dance and glitter were doing the same to me and Ameera—separating us from the fear of an audition.

The studio was empty, but Sybil yelled from the other side of the hall door, “Be with you in a minute. Anyone need something to drink?”

“No, we’re good,” I said, after Cheryl shook her head “no.” We threw our skirts in the corner, and I kicked off my flip-flops.

“Get started stretching,” Sybil called.

Cheryl and I were tying hip scarves when we heard Polly rushing through the backyard maze. She was still in her work clothes when she came shooting through the door.

“Hey, guys. Got caught in traffic. Where’s Sybil?” she asked, peeling off her pants and pulling on practice gear.

Before Cheryl or I could answer, Sybil opened the door with Pappy at her side. Sybil’s blonde hair fell over her eye in true Sybil fashion. She put her CDs and papers on the wicker desk and lured Pappy back to the door. She dismissed him by gently pulling on his collar.

“Let’s sit. I’ve got some news for you . . . and homework,” Sybil said, revealing her dimple again. “This is it, girls.”

“Auditions?” Polly asked. She leaned toward Sybil, hope beaming out of her eyes.