Ameera, Unveiled (42 page)

As if on cue, our male prop walked into the fitness center. The room grew quiet. Some looked excited, others like deer in the headlights. I knew the second reaction.

Jennifer allowed a short pause as her words sank in. “Anyone who doesn’t want to participate doesn’t have to,” she said. “If you want to, we’re prepared to put a short choreography to ‘I Dream of Jeannie’ with some of the moves you’ve already learned in class. Donald’s agreed to be our genie, and you’ll be trying to win his heart.”

Donald flashed a masculine grin.

“What do we need to wear?” a student asked.

“I’m sure you brought something short and cocktail. The shinier the better, but you can add one of our scarves or just glitter up,” Jennifer answered.

The students chatted among themselves.

“Anyone want out?” Jennifer asked. No one did . . . not even our one male student, Donald. He seemed to look forward to sitting and picking his queen. “Okay, listen to the song and watch Ruth, Lara, and me demonstrate the moves. I’ll be Donald.”

For the next three-and-a-half minutes, we watched a fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants skit become a choreographed number. I’d volunteered both of my veils and, for forty-five minutes, sat on the perimeter watching the students revel in that excited state I’d often enjoyed during my diva training.

“That’s cute,” I whispered to Polly.

“Donald’s hot,” she said. Somehow her remark didn’t surprise me. “Don’t you wanna go stay in Lara’s room tonight?”

I looked at Polly with that “Are you serious?” look. “No, we’re not leaving Hedo with sex trophies . . . unless you were divorced by a man for a man,” I whispered.

Polly chuckled quietly.

“Ladies, good job,” Jennifer said finally. “Let’s cool down. We want you to meet us at the side of the stage near the stairs to grab your veils and pose for the start of your show. Listen for my emcee introduction. Donald—be close and head toward us in your genie persona like you did today. Rock it out!” All the women gave him catcalls and zaghareets.

Polly and I looked at each other and smiled. We were no longer the students.

After class, we scattered. Melody and I grabbed a bite at the pool snack shack. Sybil’s words “be sure to eat before our performance” haunted me. I wanted to knock off things from my what-could-go-wrong list. I decided to wear a different costume for the opening number and hoped it was more compatible with Lara’s skirt.

I pulled one last bite off my plate. “Well, Melody . . . you got two performances and well-received classes,” I said. “Bet you feel a lot better than you did earlier this week.”

Melody nodded and gave me a sweet smile. “I’m really excited,” she said. “I worked on my solo a lot and hated to come this far on family-vacation time. But here we are!”

Mention of her solo made me start thinking about the reality of being on a stage soon. I put my fork down and listened to my digestive tract. It was shutting down. I felt the usual pre-show flutters. “I’m super happy for you,” I said as I stood and looked for the trashcan. “I need to get ready. I still need to repack my costume bag.”

Melody stood and gave me a hug. “Relax and enjoy yourself tonight,” she advised. “You did really well last night.”

We tossed our plates, she gave me another hug, and we headed toward the rooms. Neither of us spoke.

I looked toward the main dining room and saw the stage. My stomach lurched again.

“Okay, see you in the fitness center at six thirty,” Melody said, as we parted at the fork. I gave her a peace sign and mustered a smile.

I slipped into the room and saw Polly in her robe, setting straggling hairs with hairspray. She turned toward me. “You okay, Kat?”

“Um . . . I’m . . . good.” I looked around the room.

Costumes had exploded all over her bed. I grabbed my suitcase and threw it on the bed. I started layering my costumes, put jewelry back into Ziploc bags, and zipped them tight. I slid my black-and-silver costume onto the edge of the bed with my fake hair and dancing shoes. I spied my false eyelashes and threw them on top of the pile. The glitter-dot cover-up lay slumped over my pillows. I jumped in the shower and proceeded to catch up with Polly.

In fewer than fifteen minutes, I’d showered, dried my hair, and slipped on a T-shirt and warm-up pants.

“You’re wearing the black sausage skirt for Patty’s opening?” Polly asked, lining her lips.

“Yep,” I answered. “Lara’s skirt and mine misbehaved for the last time . . . I hope.” I applied foundation and grabbed my eyeliner. But my eyes crossed over the false eyelashes. I picked up the pink box and set them in front of me. After puddling eyelash glue on the back of my cardboard container, I slathered a lash generously and blew it to allow it to get tacky.

I saw Polly watching out of the corner of her eye.

“Want help?” she asked. I looked at the white glue staring back at me. I was thinking that I should probably make myself learn the process, but Polly’s offer sounded so confident. I’d tried once at home and couldn’t beat the glue resisting bonding to my eyelash line without some type of magnifying mirror. My lack of twenty-twenty vision affected my ability to do false eyelashes at the age of forty-nine.

“Sure, you’ve got time?” I asked. Polly stood and faced me with her robe open, revealing her sisters and hoo-hoo. I hoped my voice and eyes didn’t show my alarm. I’d grown to love Polly, but her nude comfort thermometer challenged my church-girl shyness.

“Move over here and hand me that eyelash,” she barked. Obediently, I changed directions and noted how much better the lighting was. She leaned forward and demanded that I close my eyes.

“No problem,” I said, grateful to avoid the visual. I handed her a toothpick so she could smooth the eyelash on my eyelid. She puffed and tried to accelerate the glue drying.

“Okay, open your eyes,” she instructed. I opened and stared straight ahead . . . at bare breasts. “Look up.” I obeyed as she leaned backward to check out her handiwork. “Where’s the other one?” I reached over to the dresser and presented her with the left lash.

“Wow, Kat! Your eyes pop!” Polly exclaimed. She blew again. I retreated to my blind state while she dealt with the last lash.

“Thanks,” I said. I had to admit that this predicament lightened the sense of seriousness about tonight’s performance. I could always shoot myself back to Polly’s nude salon services if things got tough during the show. I felt her set the lash on my other eyelid and push it in place with the toothpick. She puffed and tried to encourage it to behave.

“Okay, Kat,” she said. “Open your eyes and don’t blink.” She adjusted both eyes as I stared at her nipples. “Seriously, don’t blink.” The first thing I wanted to do was blink—and rebel. The shifting of eyelashes took forever. Then she stepped back, cocked her head, and said, “Those look amazing.”

I shot my focus to her face. We looked into the mirror, and I knew that Ameera was there once again.

“Thanks!” I said. “Just line and glitter?” She nodded and tore off her robe, reaching for her opening-number bra and skirt.

I followed suit. Thirty minutes later, we’d pinned our bras and sparkled on even more glitter than we had for Grand Lido. We headed to Sybil’s room for our last-minute review. The door was open and Sybil looked amazing, smudging eye candy on her brows and lips. She looked our way when we entered.

“Hey, let me look at you,” she called, patting her bed. I swished to her vantage point. She patted the stool suggesting she wanted to shoot us full of more glitter. “Change in plans. Drop bags at the fitness room and head straight to the lobby.”

We accepted our baptism by glitter and left to tease the dining room. As we passed the diners, catcalls and zaghareets emphasized that we’d made good impressions for tonight’s show.

I released a prayer to heaven:
Please, God, don’t let them walk out. I’ll do
my best.
My spine shivered and I looked at my girls.

No one else seemed to be struggling. Sybil went straight to the front desk to arrange a new picture. She motioned us all behind the desk. Anyone with a camera handed it to the desk clerk, who volunteered to be our photographer.

“Smile,” Sybil said, as cameras began flashing. And I did . . . sporting my new eyelashes.

We returned to the fitness center to unload our costumes. The staff had papered all of the glass windows and put a sign on the door asking guests to refrain from entering. Sybil flitted from suitcase to suitcase, firing questions at each of us.

“Kat, do you have both gypsy skirts? All your jewelry?” Sybil asked. I nodded calmly and tried to give her a serene smile. The whole scene struck me as surreal.

Sybil buzzed over to Polly. “I’m so nervous,” Sybil confessed. “Run to the bar and get me a rum and Coke.”

I did a double take. Sybil didn’t drink. I realized my nerves weren’t the only ones running wild in the room. Lara overheard and gave Sybil a reassuring hug. Polly shot out of the door on a rum-and-cola mission.

“Ladies,” Sybil said, “we need to head back to the lobby in ten minutes for procession. If you’re ready, you’re welcome to head out.”

“I’ll meet y’all in the lobby,” I said, waving as I pushed the door.

“Hooker, I’ll go with you,” Kelly yelled. I held the door open for her and we scooted along the hallway, turning the corner past the stage. I spied Rich standing at a pillar near the dining room.

“We need to speak to Rich real quick,” I said.

“Why?” Kelly asked.

I ignored her and gently charged Rich’s space. He looked up as our black cover-ups sparkled in the hall lights. “Rich, excuse me. Can I ask you something?” I approached him. He looked at me, puzzled. I didn’t think he knew which belly dancer I was with all the makeup and glitter.

“Sure,” he said. Another round of zaghareets flew from the diners. Kelly and I waved before we redirected our attention to Rich. He looked into the dining room, surprised, then back at us.

“I’m Kat,” I said. “We really look forward to doing the show.” His facial muscles softened. I still didn’t think he knew I was the negotiator at the morning’s breakfast meeting. Kelly gave her best naïve smile.

“No problem,” he said, shifting his weight from the column and crossing his arms. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Actually, you’ve done a great job with our changing room in the fitness center,” I said, stroking his ego. “But it took us almost two hours to get ready for the show and, obviously, we’re missing lobster night. Is there any possibility that the kitchen could hold some for us until we finish at eight?”

He answered, “I can’t promise that. I’ve gotta make sure the guests get the benefit of tonight’s menu.” I resisted giving him my
Really?
look. We’d eaten with the guests almost every night and hadn’t been expected to sacrifice going back to the buffet line as staff. My attorney persona threatened to reappear, but I shushed her back behind Ameera’s glittery presence.

“Oh! Absolutely,” I said, bravado warming my voice. “I just wanted to let you know it’d mean so much if we could get some lobster to celebrate our opportunity to perform for Hedo and its guests.”

Kelly pinched my ass, challenging my sincerity, but I knew it was all about the lobster.

“I can’t promise anything,” Rich repeated.

“No problem,” I responded. “Whatever you can do, we’d be tickled.”

Rich nodded and looked back at the dining room. We walked toward the lobby.

“Wow, Kat,” Kelly said. “Now I know why you got the show! You’re good.”

I shook my head. “I’m no better with my life experience than you, Dr. Guyton,” I said. “It’s all about approach.”

After we arrived in the lobby, we sat on the red couches. As the diners watched a steady stream of black-glitter-dot troupemates make its way down the hallway, they offered cheers and zaghareets. Rich hadn’t moved from the column, and I suspected his gears were turning.

“Hey, Kelly,” I whispered.

“What?” she asked.

“I think we’ve stirred Rich’s pot with a little change to his entertainment menu,” I said.

She nodded.

Everyone arrived with black hoods over their fake hair; some carried drums and zills. Our dance puddle spread across the lobby. Ruth and Sybil were last to join us. Then Sybil went into executive-director mode and rallied the procession into positions.

“We’ve got less than five minutes,” Sybil announced. “Get in line. Jenn, you’re in front with the drum. Ruth, you’re behind with the zills.” We found our spots, and I naturally migrated toward the end of the line between Denise and Polly.

As we settled into line, I heard Razz over the PA: “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our Friday night show. This evening, we’re privileged to be entertained by the belly dance troupe that’s been visiting us this week . . .”

On cue, Jennifer began Arabic drum patterns and Ruth joined in with the resonation of the tiny finger cymbals. Sybil covered her mouth and started the background zaghareets. It was like a mating call, and the dining room returned the call as we followed Jennifer down the hallway. My mind rattled between fear and excitement.

We approached the stage steps, turned, and posed in two lines on the wooden floor. As I moved to my spot, my dancing shoes almost slipped from under me. I realized I couldn’t perform on the slick wood in dance shoes. I’d had enough strikes against me. As we ended the procession and posed for the dining room, Jennifer did her last drum pattern. The crowd exploded with applause. Razz handed Jennifer the mic.