Ameera, Unveiled (38 page)

“So he kept telling me how hot I’d look in little golf skorts,” I continued. “I didn’t bite. He handed me his business card and said to consider calling him. He didn’t even buy me a drink,” I said and paused. “As I walked away, I looked at his business card and couldn’t help but ask myself: If we’d gotten married, did I want this new name?”

I felt everyone hanging on to my pause.

“Donald Dick,” I said. “If I’d married him, I’d be Mrs. Kat Dick. And he was short.”

The girls fell about laughing.

“Kelly, what about you?” Sybil asked, passing the baton.

“Y’all, I’ve got real bad taste in guys,” Kelly said. “My first boyfriend’s in prison. In high school, he was just a bad boy that I wanted to fix . . . kinda like a lost puppy.”

“I get it, Kelly,” Lara said.

“We’d agreed we were gonna have sex after a football game,” Kelly continued. “I’m pretty sensitive to hygiene. I like Miss Puss to be clean. So I decided I needed to spray her with Arrid Xtra Dry. I wanted to be extra clean and smell pretty for my boyfriend.”

Sybil and Denise tried to suppress premature snarking. I suspected they’d heard this before.

“So we met at a pizza place then went to his parking spot,” Kelly said. “He tried to have sex with me, but I couldn’t. . . well . . . let’s say it was too dry. He kept trying all our teen tricks, and finally asked me ‘What the hell?’ I guess all that dried up Miss Puss! Who wanted to confess that? I just looked at him like this,” and she gave us her shocked and innocent Kelly look.

We laughed. “He wrote to me from prison for years,” Kelly finished.

“At least he fed you,” Denise said, flicking water at her.

“Simmer down, missy,” Kelly said, flicking back.

“Can’t say I’ve ever had a bad date,” Polly said, aware she was next. “I just pick the wrong hubbies. But I got beautiful children who I wouldn’t change for anything.”

“You haven’t regretted any date?” Sybil prodded.

Polly searched her memory. “Before I went in the navy, I hung out at a local bar near my parents’ house. One night, I’d had too much to drink and a guy with a Scottish accent sitting at the bar started hitting on me. I guess I had my liquor goggles on when he asked me to go out the next night. We were on barstools the whole time we were talking, so I never saw his physique. I was intrigued by his accent. Next day, I was all dressed up and waiting in my mom’s living room when I heard a loud engine on our street. Out of curiosity, I looked out the front window and saw this rickety, rusted pickup truck that was short a muffler stopping in front of our house. The guy got out wearing a very dated blazer, and he hadn’t even shaved. My mother walked up to the window. It was my date. I asked her to tell him I was sick.”

“The old hide-behind-your-mother trick, eh?” Ruth asked, smiling.

“He came to the front door,” Polly said. “It wasn’t looking good. My mom was insisting I was committed to it. Whose mother looks at a future serial killer approaching the door and throws her daughter to him?”

“Did you go?” I asked. An image of a young Polly, coiffed and dressed in trendy hippy clothes, bouncing and creaking in the pickup truck to her favorite local bar cracked me up.

“Yeah. I told my mom I’d call her if I needed her to make sure I got home safe,” Polly continued. “At the bar, he ordered drinks—but no food. Before I could order a second drink, he told me how much he hated women, how we used him, and how he’d no use for us. I excused myself, went to the ladies’ room, and used a pay phone to call Mom. I told her I was ditching him and the route he’d be using to bring me home. If I didn’t get home in fifteen minutes, she was to come looking for me.”

“Did Grumpy give you a good-night kiss?” Denise asked, giggling.

“Hell no,” Polly said. “I’m not even sure I let him put the car in park. My mom was waiting at the door, looking at her watch. I changed my hangout for a few weeks and was more careful about accepting dates so quickly after that.”

“Glad your head’s still on your shoulders and not in someone’s refrigerator,” Kelly teased.

“You’ve got room to talk,” Denise said, jabbing Kelly.

“Ruth?” Sybil ignored them, inviting the next story.

“I didn’t really date,” Ruth said. “I kept my nose in a book most of college.

My husband was my college sweetheart. But I did go on a blind date before I met him. One of my friends said the guy loved birding, so, of course, I took the bait. We agreed to meet for a beer. He was supposed to be wearing a green shirt and tennis shoes. We didn’t have cell phones, so I couldn’t let him know I was running late. By the time I’d parked and approached the door, he was pacing and fussing that I hurry and order a beer before Happy Hour was over.

“Before I could sit on the stool, he’d called the bartender over by name and said I wanted a draft beer. She asked if I wanted a regular or, for twenty-five cents more, I could have a large. He answered for me: ‘Large.’ She brought back the largest beer I’d seen in my life. As I figured out how to pick it up and take a sip without it landing in my lap or not clearing the bar, the waitress asked him for $1.75. He looked at me and asked if I could cover it for him. He said he was a little short. And he drank it.”

“What a guy! I’m sure you were smitten and couldn’t wait for him to invite you out for dinner,” Denise said.

Ruth laughed and acted as though she’d shot herself in the head.

“I’ll trade being stranded in New Jersey in a hole-in-the-wall bar for your $1.75 draft beer,” Lara said, cracking up. Ruth laughed and refused to make the trade.

Jennifer turned to Sybil. “What was your worst date?”

Sybil’s face was unreadable. We gave her all the time she needed with no wisecracks. “I married my high school sweetheart after college, but we broke up after one year in college. I had to go to a sorority dance with someone else. I had my hair professionally done, picked a beautiful black gown, and hoped this would impress my date—and get back to my ex. When he picked me up, he met my parents with an Eddie Haskell persona. At the car, he opened my door . . . its window was halfway down.”

“Hope he was aware you’d done your hair and all,” Kelly said optimistically.

“You’d think, huh?” Sybil said. “After we got in the car, he pulled away and the wind was blowing my hair around. I tried to roll the window up but it was stuck. When I asked him if we could pull over and get the window up, he told me it was broken. He patted the seat for me to scoot over by him with a shitty grin.” The troupe groaned.

“That wasn’t the end,” she continued. “When he took me to dinner at a really nice French restaurant, we sat near the kitchen at this tiny table. When the hostess left, he leaned over his menu and asked me, ‘Don’t mind sharing a plate, do you?’”

“Wow!” Jennifer and Denise exclaimed simultaneously.

“Why’re food, cars, and honoring women a recurring theme in these stories?” Sybil asked.

I knew my answer, but it went back several centuries. I thought to myself that someone like Kelly probably should write a dissertation on the removal of the goddess in mythology.

Why were men so scared of the power of women? Why were women so eager to please?

30

That afternoon, after a two-mile walk with Melody, Ruth, Kelly, and Denise, I stayed behind to soak up some rays.

My mind went back to classes, the nursing homes, Piccolo Spoleto, auditions, and The Maproom—the sum total of my performance experience. Each event sent the same freaking message: Panic. But the angel on my shoulder reminded me that I’d made so many sweet and authentic contacts this week. There was no reason to regress. I tried to divert my attention to Jennifer, who was inviting henna customers to settle in at her feet. Lara chatted with anyone who approached her chair. I listened to the light banter.

“Hey, you guys are the belly dancers?” a man asked.

“Absolutely,” Jennifer said as she finished a henna tattoo.

“My wife and I are here on our honeymoon. Could you put something cool on her?” he asked. “We’ve noticed you during the week on the Prude side as we’ve gone on our walks, and we’ve seen you at the disco in the mornings, practicing. You always seem to be working so hard. Didn’t one of you sing karaoke?”

“That’d be me,” Lara said, raising her hand. I saw no anxiety in her regarding tonight’s show, the lack of weeklong practices, or audience abandonment issues.

This wasn’t helping my nerves. “Y’all, I’m gonna grab a Diet Coke and snack since we’re missing dinner,” I announced. I had wanted to have Jennifer and Lara to myself and get another pep talk about the looming performance, but my window of opportunity had closed as both women became preoccupied with the honeymoon couple.

I headed to the grill. I knew shots and tranquilizers weren’t realistic choices for the panic that was building inside me. But on the other hand, I needed to deal with this performance Big Foot. The monster appeared at the most untimely moments.

Holding my plate of jerk chicken, I shifted my beach bag, unlocked the door, and saw Polly blow-drying her hair . . . just wearing a robe . . . wide open . . . naked.

“Great. You’ve gone clothing-optional too?” I asked as I put the food on the dresser.

“No sweaty dancer in my costume,” Polly said. She placed each hair and sprayed it thoroughly. “You okay?”

“Hoping I don’t let the troupe down,” I said. “Between us, I wasn’t that upset over not getting shows. I’ve enjoyed practicing and teaching the afternoon class. No pressure. And it bothers me how many people leave the dining room when the seven o’clock show starts.”

“You’ve done great at practice,” Polly said. “Why’re you so hard on yourself?”

“I’m sooo tired of the battle,” I confessed, throwing myself on the bed. “I want dancing to be the jewel I thought I saw when I signed up for that first class with Sybil. But it teases me and then something always trips me with rejection and self-doubt.”

“Okay, let’s figure this out,” Polly said. She sat on the edge of my bed. “You’re the oldest daughter in a career-military family. We know that’s about responsibility. I was in the navy; I get that. You married a man who represented a faith you found solace in, but he had control issues, and you found yourself saddled with lots of mundane responsibilities and guilt—always fearing that you were failing him. And he let you believe that you were. For most of your life, you’ve heard nothing more than a bunch of people telling you to put your life on hold and make theirs shine. But this is different; you’ve set this dance goal for yourself.”

Tears were streaming down my cheeks onto the pillow. “Why don’t I hear the applause, Polly?” The floodgates broke and I pulled another pillow over my face. I felt Polly kneel beside my bed and put her hand on my elbow, pressing the pillow.

“We’re a team,” she said. “We love you to death. You’re bringing your creativity to new heights. Don’t you think it’s time you enjoyed the ride? You’ve earned it!” Polly said, showing her gentler side. “Now, hit that shower and let’s get glittered.”

I pulled the pillow off the puffy face that stared back at me from that darned mirror over my bed. “It sounds so simple when you put it that way, but why doesn’t the past stay there? Why can’t I just let it go? I’m such a rock in the other parts of my life.”

“Remember—a bunch of men took the goddess away,” Polly said, returning to the mirror and her makeup bag. “I’ll bet you were born with more of a calling to dance and sprinkle joy along your life’s path than the average goddess in training, so it meant more to you when it was denied.”

I appreciated her not dismissing my pity party. I kicked off my shoes and pulled out my ponytail. “I guess that’s why there’re fairy tales,” I grinned, trying to mask my meltdown. “I’d better get a shower.”

“You aren’t sweeping the fireplace, frozen in a glass coffin, or taking care of eight dwarves,” Polly played along. “You’re here, with eight crazy belly dancers. Hurry up so we can get you ready for your Jamaican debut. Hi-ho, ho!”

“Yes, Fairy Godmother. Please leave me plenty of glitter,” I said before I clicked the bathroom door closed.

The shower had made me feel better. “Let’s do a self-portrait before we leave,” I said.

Polly threw the black glitter-dot cover-up on the bed and joined me against the plain white wall. I tried to hold my camera out and snap. We looked at the playback and giggled approval.

“Let’s go, Cinderella,” Polly said, holding the door open for me.

Sybil’s door was open. Ruth’s striped harem pants and matching choli created a different visual than her cane dance in the disco.

“Wow, Ruth! Love your costume,” I said. “That hat’s really cute.”

Sybil looked exotic in her gold cabaret. It pushed my nerves a little to the side and allowed some excitement to bubble up in me. “Let me see you two,” she said as she dusted her face with one more round of glitter. “Your costumes too.” We unzipped and stood like new recruits for the drill sergeant.

“Did you back up your bra with pins?” Sybil asked. We nodded. “Paint your fingernails and toenails?” We nodded. “Sure you’ve got all your costume changes?”

“Checked mine twice,” Polly confessed.

I hoped my stuff was all there. I wasn’t as OCD as Polly.