Ameera, Unveiled (30 page)

“After fifteen years of an emotionally absent spouse who delivered a healthy dose of physical and verbal abuse, my last straw came when he ignored me on Mother’s Day and later demanded sex. When I gave him the ‘eat shit’ look, he left the house, got drunk, and got arrested . . . and I knew it was over. By the end of the summer, I’d kicked him out and I finished raising my children in a very peaceful home. We laughed a lot more.” I paused.

“That’s sad,” Jennifer sighed.

I shrugged. “Eventually, I remarried. I’d gained twelve pounds homeschooling my seventeen-year-old son. I wanted to lose the weight and conquer one of my forbidden zones . . . dancing. I kept running into ads where I could sign on for ‘belly dancing with Sybil.’ So when I summoned up enough courage, I enrolled. Sybil pushed me, and y’all were gracious to accept me in spite of my warts.”

The bay was quiet except for the passing boats and gentle slap of waves on the sandy shore. I felt self-conscious and naked floating on the Prude side of the bay. “And here you are,” Sybil ended with a warm smile. I looked around the circle, trying to read their eyes. I wasn’t sure if I imagined Denise’s eyes welling.

As I did this, Sybil looked at Kelly.

“Y’all know I decided to take up belly dance when I began working with Denise at the research lab after I’d started my PhD at MUSC,” Kelly said without hesitation. “So it’s really Denise’s fault that y’all got me.” She splashed a little water at Denise. “Denise and I melded over a shared passion for science and a wonderful boss. I saw the ad about a belly dancing class and asked if she wanted to take it with me. Belly dancing sounded cool. We met Melody through the class. Sybil pushed us to try out, but I declined.” She pointed at Melody and Denise. “You two tried out with Leona and the troupe girls said ‘no.’”

“Yeah, that was painful,” Melody recalled. “The audition was scary enough, but to be told they don’t want you!”

Denise chuckled and nodded her head.

“A few months later, Palmetto Oasis was planning a North Charleston Performing Arts show, but there weren’t enough to participate in an hour show. We were asked to help out as a junior troupe. For helping, they asked us to join,” Kelly revealed. “I’m the only member who never had to try out.” She smiled big and cocked her head.

“Hooker, you didn’t have to use the f-word to get into troupe?” Jennifer asked with a lilting voice. The group laughed and surrounded her with middle fingers.

“You want me to flash you now or later?” Kelly joked.

“And last but not least, Denise,” Sybil prompted.

“I came from a small town near Rockhill, South Carolina,” Denise began.

“We lived in the middle of the Bible Belt. Like Kat said, dancing wasn’t acceptable there. My hair was unruly, I wore heavy glasses, and I was really smart. I learned that if I read, I could avoid taking care of my siblings. When friends or family commented on me, I was the smart one . . . not the pretty one. I couldn’t dance because of Mama’s women’s church league, but I could march in Flag Corps. I’m not saying my childhood was bad. It wasn’t. I just wanted to be pretty. I’d sneak to the woods and pretend I was a gypsy and dance.”

Denise paused as a jet ski screeched by. “One bad marriage and two children later, I caught my husband cheating on me,” she continued. “I left him, went back to school, found my great research job, and decided I needed to lose the weight I’d gained from kids and self-neglect. Kelly saw the ad for Sybil’s class. Belly dancing inspired me to lose thirty-five pounds, my wonderful new hubby, Elvis, insisted on Lasik, and I went blonde,” she smiled. “Dancing made me feel pretty, just as Elvis insisted I was all along.”

Now I understood why she’d looked at me the way she had. Responsibility and self-denial had been twin monkeys on her back too.

“That’s beautiful,” I said. I would’ve never dreamed each woman could’ve taken a more different path to belly dance yet still be linked by such similar themes. I felt as though I’d been inducted into the inner circle of the Hedo project.

“It was an amazing transformation in spite of the pain,” Denise said. “But I think we need to make Kelly try out.” Everyone laughed.

The circle ended with Sybil.

“Sybil, why’d you do it?” Jennifer prodded.

“My family was military, too, but very drawn to the arts,” Sybil said. “I’ve inherited musicality and dance. My parents immersed me in dance all through childhood and college. I was one of the cheerleaders that Kat watched,” Sybil said, flashing a smile at me. “Eventually, I married my high school sweetheart, Bill, and followed him around the world. While we were overseas, I took up belly dance.” She paused for another jet ski drive-by.

“A group of us performed in clubs where Americans weren’t necessarily welcome. When Bill and I settled in Charleston, I met Ruth. In 1993, Ruth and I decided to form a small dance troupe out of our mutual love for the dance. For a long time, belly dance wasn’t an accepted dance form in America, except in New York or Berkeley.”

“To our fearless leader,” Polly said, pretending to toast.

There it was again. I felt the privilege of being part of the genuine love of the craft. Not the snootiness of being in a Cabaret costume in a pencil-thin body, but sincere participation in making others feel pretty and unique.

“So that’s why we’re here,” Jennifer summarized. “Now, let’s drum up some henna business before we eat lunch and do our first class!”

“Woo-hoo!” Kelly exclaimed as we kicked our way back to the beach.

22

We arrived onshore, replaced our floats, and settled in to dry our bathing suits before lunch. Jennifer opened her beach bag and put the henna pattern notebook on a chair.

“I need to do something big. Anyone want a back done?” she asked. “I wanna see if we can stop some pedestrians.”

Melody offered her back.

“Look at the book and tell me what you want,” Jennifer said.

Kelly and Denise reclined and discussed the early-morning bird walk. Kelly feigned interest but eventually nodded off. Polly grabbed Jennifer’s veil poi, trying to master it. I pulled out a book I’d started on the plane but stared into the bay instead. In less than two hours, we’d officially assume our titles as staff. I hoped we’d have a few students. I watched Sybil replace her float and hurry off—no doubt on a mission.

Between Jennifer’s artistry and Polly’s effort to master tennis balls tethered to small veils, the beach began to buzz with curious pedestrians by our chairs. I watched as couples stopped to chat, try their hand with the veil poi, or ask whether they could return and get hennaed. Class information floated over sand and chairs.

Just as we’d settled into our belly dance camp, Massi strolled toward us. His tall, dark, beach-short silhouette caught everyone’s attention. As he stood at Jennifer’s henna station, she glanced up from under the cowboy hat with doe-like eyes and smiled slightly. Melody’s back was almost done. She placed the last embellishment and blew glitter on the wet pattern.

“Let this dry till after lunch,” she instructed as Melody returned to her chair. “Kat, what time is it?” Jennifer asked. Massi leaned over and said something in a low voice that made her blush. “Never mind. Massi said it’s eleven fifteen.”

I pretended to read my book, but I watched out of the corner of my Oakleys. Massi lifted Jennifer’s hand to kiss it, offering to help her stand. I noticed Denise nudging Kelly to wake up.

“Hey, ladies, this is Massi Sarrochi . . . Massi, meet Melody Meadows, Kat Varn, Polly Taylor, Denise Hudgins, and Kelly Guyton,” Jennifer said, extending her henna hand, directing his gaze toward each of us as she called our names. “Massi’s here to photograph resorts in Jamaica for an Italian travel agency.”

“Nice to meet you,” we said, relatively in sync.

“We’re going for a walk along the beach before class,” Jennifer informed us. “I promise I’ll be back by one thirty. Kat, will you take my things to your room and I’ll get them in a little bit?”

I looked up from my chair and nodded. She put bag and cooler beside me.

“It was nice to meet you. I am looking forward to spending more time with you before I leave,” Massi said. He led Jennifer toward the path to explore the rest of our white, sandy beach. We all watched until they’d disappeared along a path adorned with hibiscus bushes.

“Aw, he seems so charming,” Kelly cooed.

“I may be married to my handsome husband, but I still know a hottie when I see one,” Denise said. We all nodded agreement.

I hoped he’d be good to my Jessamyn/Jennifer. Jamaica was her maiden voyage since her divorce. I still didn’t know the details but gathered it’d been painful.

“What’s everyone doing for lunch?” Polly asked as she reapplied sunscreen. Her flower-petal hat flopped over her forehead, hiding her features.

“I’m going to the buffet,” I said. “Jazz wants us to be at the lunch spin at one. Not sure what they’re doing, but it feels like a goodwill gesture.”

“Let’s meet at the dining room hall by twelve fifteen,” Kelly suggested. She turned over and handed Denise her sunscreen. “More, please?”

I settled into the rhythm of the bay slapping the sand in front of my chair and the sound of cheering from a departing party boat. Within the next eight hours, we were supposed to start our classes and jump off cliffs into the Caribbean. I wondered what Steve thought I was doing. Doubtful he could imagine practicing in a hot, sticky disco and meeting nudists, a hot Italian stallion, swingers, and sweet Hedo staff. The stories were filling my journal and my camera.

We’d dribbled into the dining room to eat at the lunch buffet. I stuck to the salad bar. Among my struggles with weight gain, I suspected water retention and menopause hormones had joined battle against me. My breasts were inflating as they anticipated grandchildren to bury into new cleavage. Someone hadn’t sent them the memo that my daughter had already announced to me that she wasn’t going to have children and they should “simmer down,” as Kelly would say.

Kelly worked on a salad and bowl of soup. Denise picked at some fruit, while Melody and Polly polished off a cheeseburger each. There was no sign of Sybil, Ruth, or Jennifer.

“Five minutes before the lunch spin,” Polly said.

“Anyone know what they’re doing?” Denise asked. No one did.

Three couples left their table and yelled across the dining hall at us. As if someone had pointed a camera at us, we sat erect, threw our shoulders back, smiled, and waved. Within one eight count, we returned to our pow wow.

Jazz was at the front of the stage arranging a microphone and blindfolds. He was in the standard Hedo uniform of khaki shorts and button-down shirt. Three local girls in similar outfits joined him.

“I’m gonna talk to him really quick,” Polly said. She scooted back her chair and switched to her slinky walk to the stage.

“There she goes,” I said.

“Why?” Kelly asked.

“Bet she’s soliciting Jazz to announce our first class,” Denise conjectured. “We threw that around on the beach.”

All eyes followed her and watched the two-minute exchange. Polly and Jazz hugged and she returned to our table with a foxy grin.

“And?” Kelly and Denise asked together.

“One Palmetto Oasis class commercial to make the Tuesday lunch spin at one,” Polly announced. “Not that he can say our name very well. But he’s okay on ‘belly dancing.’”

We laughed. I turned and spied the lost trio of Sybil, Ruth, and Jennifer joining us in the dining room.

“Hey y’all!” Kelly said. “Did you do lunch?”

“We grabbed something at the Prude snack shack. Jennifer joined us after her walk,” Sybil said, looking at Jennifer and grinning.

We all looked at Jennifer’s glow. “He’s very nice,” she said, but we all heard the dreamy way she said it.

Jazz popped the mic switch to welcome us. “After today’s lunch spin, we’d like you to know about a new class we have for your enjoyment. Belly dancing at one thirty at the fitness center,” he said, “so if I could get three couples to volunteer . . .”

We soon learned what constituted a lunch spin. For twenty minutes, we watched a contest in which a blindfolded team of two raced to lick whipped cream from a volunteer lying on the stage floor—all to earn the title of King and Queen of Cream.

As we headed toward the fitness center, Melody broke silence to ask, “What was that? Or should I say, why would you do that?”

“Hey, you heard Baby Daddy. It’s summer camp for adults,” Jennifer interjected. “I’m not licking whipped cream off a stranger for the title of Queen of Cream. I’ll earn that title in private, thank you very much.”

Among the pedestrians on a sidewalk bridging the dining room to the Nude side of the resort were minimally clad guests who passed us on their way to a room, pool, or beach chair. At the fitness center, we investigated a new dance venue that included air conditioning and less smegma. Ruth looked for an electrical outlet to set up the CD player.

“What’s the plan, Jennifer?” Sybil asked as she tied on a purple hip scarf.

“After I walk the students through some basic module explanations, I thought I’d use my music from the class I do for Trident Healthcare as a warm-up,” she answered. She’d lost the cowboy hat and rearranged her hair into an airy updo.