Ameera, Unveiled (3 page)

Smiling, thankful that that relationship was a thing of the past, I eased my car through the back streets. Steve and I were creating our new Monday night after-class routine. Porch light on? Check. Kitchen light on? Yes. That meant Steve was cooking to reruns of
Two and a Half Men
. I closed the garage door and headed inside.

He pelted me with questions the minute I walked in the door. “How was class? Did you learn anything new?” Steve asked as he stirred food in a wok.

“We have to bring three yards of material next week,” I answered, casting my hip scarf on the sofa table. “She’s teaching us a short dance and how to use the veil.” My tuxedo cat, Melkey, rubbed against my legs.

“How’s that make you feel?” Steve asked. Apparently, he sensed my discomfort from my short description.

“Pushed,” I said. Suffocated, overwhelmed, scared. Admittedly, this hobby was an attempt to heal something I’d felt robbed of in my childhood that had been amplified in other areas as I entered my adult life. It was an attempt to put my creative side and my body in shape. It would take physical muscle and psychological muscle memory.

“I think six weeks is a bit ambitious to learn the craft,” I said.

Steve looked at me and smiled. “Have fun with it. You’ve earned this time to chase some girly dreams. Go get comfy.”

I kissed him then said, “I met two girls in class tonight. I’m not sure we have anything in common besides dancing, but who knows?” I left to snuggle into soft flannels. I then joined my hubby for some dinner and celebrity dance moves on
Dancing with the Stars.

The next day, I walked around the fabric store twice, assessing the textures and colors of fabric bolts. I looked at the list I’d written in my dance journal: “Three yards of something light in any pattern.”

As I headed down the aisles, I realized I wanted something tie-dyed to pair with my patchouli oil. Is buying a training veil like purchasing your first training bra? I was so deep in thought that I didn’t notice Polly walk up beside me until she’d pinched my butt.

“Geez, Polly,” I said, startled. “You shopping for a veil too?” I reached for a bolt of purple chiffon.

“Yep,” she answered. She reached for the gold lamé. “Will this work?”

“That’s not gonna float,” I advised. “That’s more for costuming. I’m going with this cheap chiffon, and maybe I’ll order some real silk online.”

“Good idea,” Polly said, fingering a bolt of red chiffon. “Y’know, we’ll be halfway through our class sessions come Monday. Are you going to keep taking lessons?”

“Maybe there’s another class somewhere,” I said. “I’m taking the purple fabric.” Polly picked up the red, and we looked for the cutting table.

“Would you want to keep taking lessons?” Polly asked as I slid the fabric bolt to the clerk.

“Three yards, please,” I requested. I was weighing Polly’s question. In spite of my bravado in carrying a coin scarf openly to class, I hadn’t seen any progress when I danced in front of the mirror. “Who knows?” I said. “I think I’m trying to chase my little ballerina’s dream. Maybe belly dancing wasn’t the right choice.”

“You sound like a ballet madam,” Polly said, exposing my betrayal to my little dancer—I’d shared my short life as a ballerina with her and Cheryl.

“Busted,” I admitted. The clerk priced the fabric and handed it to me.

“The same—three yards,” Polly told the clerk. Then she turned to me. “Give the lessons some time.”

“Old tapes are hard to erase,” I replied. “Know what? I think I’ll name my veil.” Polly chuckled, but I persisted. “She’s the color of Merlot. That’s what I’ll name her . . . Merlot.”

The clerk overheard us. “What’re you using the material for?” she asked.

“Veils for belly dance class,” Polly said unhesitatingly.

I searched the clerk’s face for a reaction. “Wow!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know you could take belly dancing in Charleston.”

“At the high school,” Polly said, as the clerk slid Polly’s material across the wide cutting table.

“Have fun!” the clerk said, putting the bolts in a buggy for restocking.

As we headed toward the cashier, Polly said, “Guess I’ll name my veil Ruby!” She nudged me with her shoulder and I grinned. “Been practicing the choreography?” she asked as I handed the cashier my debit card.

“I’ve been listening to the song when I’m in the car,” I said, avoiding the practice question. “And I try to play the moves in my head.” I punched in my PIN, took the receipt, and stepped aside. I waited for Polly to finish her transaction before we headed to the parking lot.

“If you wanna practice on Sunday before class, I can come over after I work out,” Polly volunteered, handing me a card with her telephone number on it. I placed Merlot into my trunk and ran through the rest of the weekend in my head. Truth was, I wasn’t ready to compare myself to hammy Polly yet.

“I think Steve’s committed us to something,” I said, “but maybe we can do it another time. I think I’ll research some YouTube videos by that girl Shakira.”

“You’ve never heard of Shakira?” Polly asked in disbelief. “She’s all over the radio.”

“My daughter burned a CD for me,” I replied. “I’m catching up.”

When I got home, I threw my keys on the counter and headed to the computer to search for a Shakira video. After watching two supple demonstrations, I resisted discouragement. Shakira’s youth, petite frame, passion, and costumes paralyzed me. But my stubborn mentality said,
There’s
still hope to dance. Ignore that young girl on YouTube.

Despite my inner protest, the old tapes started playing and fading into memories of another event from my former life . . .

It was 1985, and my seven-year-old daughter Isabella and I were driving home from a Christian concert.

“Mom, I love Twila Paris,” Isabella had squeaked.

“What do you like about her?” I had encouraged. My first husband Chris’s Pentecostal dictates didn’t endorse contemporary music . . . unless it was Christian. Twila’s sweetness and beautiful lyrical voice had undoubtedly attracted my little girl’s feminine spirit.

“She’s so pretty and her songs are heavenly,” Isabella had answered.

I’d been impressed at her use of the word heavenly. “Why don’t we go to the Bible bookstore and get a cassette of her songs? We can play it in the car and sing with her.”

My daughter’s eyes had lit up. “That’d be fun!” she’d exclaimed, clapping her little hands. “I can’t wait to tell Dad.”

My chest knotted up, anticipating her father’s reaction. She still believed he’d embrace her girly side. It stabbed me in the gut every time he crushed Isabella’s shooting star and returned to watching a football game or reading the newspaper.

“Don’t you wanna just surprise Dad?” I’d suggested hopefully. “Maybe we could practice, and you could sing it in children’s church.”

My daughter shook her head. “No. I think Daddy’ll be excited. He likes Twila too.” Her sweet need to please had hurt my heart.

After we had gotten home, Isabella burst into the great room. “Daddy, guess what?” she’d asked him. She ran over to where he was reclining on the couch . . . as usual. He hadn’t looked away from the television. “Mom’s gonna take me to the Bible bookstore and get me a Twila Paris tape. We’re gonna learn a song like the praise lady at church.”

“What makes you think you could do that?” he’d said. “You aren’t singers—either of you.”

She’d turned and looked at me with her big, brown eyes, and their twinkle had evaporated.

“I can’t wait to learn the song with you,” I had said as I gave her a hug. “Let’s get you in your jammies. You’ve had a big day, meeting Twila.”

I’d bought my daughter that Twila cassette tape, and we sang along with it until we’d worn it out. Even now, I remembered how well we’d learned that song. That helped me make up my mind.

“Polly, this is Kat,” I said, leaving a message on her cell phone. “Maybe we should try to get together on Sunday.”

3

“Hey, send Polly downstairs,” I called to Steve as I carried my coin scarf, CD, and Merlot to the garage stairway. “No peeking,” I said to him before I headed to the exercise area in the garage where I’d installed a full-length mirror.

Our garage also served as the poolroom, so floor space was limited. But I could move around, and I needed privacy to protect my brittle self-confidence. While I set up my music, I heard Polly jingling down the stairs.

“Where are you?” she yelled.

“In here,” I answered. I tested the CD. Music blared.

“Wow! Someone was cranking it out,” Polly said with a smile. —“So what do we need to remember about using a veil?”

I tried to replay veil standards from memory. “Sybil insists on dividing the veil evenly so it isn’t longer on one side, and you’re supposed to hold it like a mitten.” I folded the material in half and stared at its placement in the mirror.

“We’re using it as part of the costume and as a prop,” Polly added. We sounded as though we were cramming for a test. “But remember the ultimate rule: Never accommodate your veil.”

“I don’t get that,” I confessed. “When she lent us the veils last week, I loved the way the tie-dyed silk floated behind me as we circled the room. Didn’t it make you feel pretty?”

“It definitely makes our few moves look fancier,” Polly agreed.

“My veil makes me feel pretty,” I said. “I think it helps my struggle with the moves.”

“Have you noticed how our classmates have been dropping like flies?” Polly pointed out, adding, “Veils may be pretty, but they’re tricky devils. Did you see how they catch on hair clips, get underfoot, or slip out of your hand?”

I waved my veil in front of me. “Hey, girlfriend. We’ve gotta get this dance down. Only three classes left. We wanna impress Sybil. So how about we work together?”

Polly grinned. “Let’s do it.”

We executed various moves while the stereo blared “Hips Don’t Lie.” During the first half of the dance, I caught myself being sidetracked every ten seconds when I checked the door for an uninvited audience.

“Why do you keep looking at the door?” Polly asked me, sensing my panic.

“I don’t want my guy sneaking down to watch,” I confessed.

“Pfffffatttt!” she said. “Big deal! If you paid attention to what we’re doing, you might control Merlot a bit more.”

Polly was right. In spite of my conversation with my veil, Merlot didn’t want to stay in my hands or sail behind my head. She insisted on falling over my head and face as if she were saying, “Don’t look at that door, look at me!”

After we’d run through the dance five times, I swore at Merlot’s naughty behavior and flopped onto a dark leather couch. At least I was feeling better about the choreography. “Okay, I’m not thinking as hard about the transitions,” I said. “I’m not gonna let the atrophy in my body discourage me. But I need to get this veil to learn who is boss.”

“One more time, Kat,” Polly urged. “We’ll just keep at it till we know it.”

I watched Polly snap and strut with Ruby. Her veil displayed a totally different attitude as Ruby responded to Polly’s unrestrained dance execution.

“Let’s grab a glass of wine,” I suggested.

I climbed the garage stairs with Merlot slung limply over my shoulder. “I was watching you really close the last time.” I noticed that Steve had closed the bedroom door, which meant he was catching a quick nap.

“I think we’re getting it,” Polly said.

I grabbed two wineglasses and filled them with Chardonnay. We sat across from each other at the granite kitchen island.

“Your veil was a follower, and mine was a leader,” I said. “I’ve struggled with Sybil’s fuss about accommodating a prop. But I think if I could dance with my prop, ensuring it’s doing what I want it to do, I could take charge, y’know?”

“Yep,” Polly agreed. “But your head shouldn’t be so present in your dance.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” I responded. “I’m saying that when I finally decided my life was running me and not me running my life, I had to make some unpopular choices between family and church. But there’s still sifting and sorting through the details for a solution. So it’s just like me to try to get this three-yard piece of floppy material to behave. There’s a learning curve and plenty of self-doubt.”

“I guess I don’t get the self-doubt,” Polly admitted. “My parents knew I was gonna do what I was gonna do, no matter what. My mom took me to dance class, I cheered, and I danced at the local hangout with the boys in my cute 1960s’ outfits. I was hot.”

I admired her honesty but was a little envious. We’d lived two different childhoods. I wouldn’t go out into the hall without a pass while she was smoking in the girl’s restroom.

“I was the late bloomer and responsible oldest daughter,” I said. “I had to break the ice for my three sisters. Or maybe they took notes from my lack of taking hold and broke out in spite of me.” I shrugged.

“I never suspected you were quashed,” Polly said, sipping her wine. “You and Steve are delightful. You’re warm and kind and beautiful. You give back from what you’ve been given.”

My eyes welled in response to her words. Although I was grateful for her admiration of my current lifestyle, what I’d give for an ounce of her muscle memory! “Thanks, but I really wanna exorcise the devil on my shoulder that’s telling me I’ll never dance.”