Ameera, Unveiled (8 page)

Sybil wasn’t in the studio yet, but she yelled from another room that she knew I was there. I dropped my bag in its usual spot. It looked lonely. The mirrors still had notes from our last class. Our dance names were at the top, and the little stick figures and instructions were staring at me. As I tied my hip scarf, I turned to the hallway door and there was Pappy, trying to sneak in and force a petting.

Pappy . . . he was so oblivious to daily stresses and just lived life vicariously through Sybil. His long bangs hung over his eyes, just like Sybil’s. He was all about the energy of Sybil’s world. The tinkling Arabic music in the room behind the house was accepted as normal. No barks from him, just a wagging tail and stolen attention.

“Pappy-whappy . . . you know better. Back to the living room,” Sybil said as she joined me. “Hey, Kat, let’s chat as we warm up.” With her blonde hair hiding her face, she asked, “So are you enjoying belly dancing? I’m glad you agreed to continue.”

“I’m trying,” I answered honestly. “I’ve wanted to dance all my life . . . but something or someone always told me I couldn’t. I guess I just can’t give up on the idea.”

As we stretched our hamstrings, she continued to delve into my history. “I see. Tell me more about you. You’re married?”

“Yes, second time, blissfully. He supports my projects. He’s an amazing man,” I said. I felt like I was chatting with a friend instead of my teacher. It was the most personal conversation we’d ever had between us.

“How long were you married before him?” Sybil asked.

“Fifteen years. Two children,” I replied as we shifted to chest movements. I prayed she wouldn’t ask me why I was out of marriage one and into marriage two. From what little I’d learned, she was in a healthy, long-term, high school, Annette Funicello relationship. I’d hung on to the first marriage longer than I probably should have. My thoughts briefly wandered to my first marriage, back to when my children were the priority and I was a servant . . .

“Hey, kids are in bed. Can we discuss something?” I’d asked Chris.

Silence and folded arms had answered me as Chris watched television.

“I’d like to take a painting class. It starts next Wednesday,” I’d continued.

“How much? What time? And who’s gonna watch the kids?”

“I’ve got money saved. You don’t have a class, and you can watch them for an hour. It’s just ten minutes away, and once a week for three weeks,” I’d said.

“Why’re you wasting money and pressuring me to stay home if work needs me?” he’d demanded.

Yep, that was my world in marriage one. But today was good, and the journey had made me who I was. I hoped Ameera was headed toward emancipation too. Maybe marriage one was the South and marriage two was the North.

Sybil must have noted my silence. “Let’s chat about what you’re having trouble with.” She glanced at the mirror. “Anything in particular?”

That was a loaded question. “I guess I’m not sure when I should see some improvement on transition . . . like from hip lifts starting from front to back or chest slides,” I said. She nodded. Encouraged, I continued. “And I can’t find the line between new-to-dance or just plain stiff.”

“It’s certainly helpful if you’ve had dance or cheerleading in your past, Kat,” Sybil began. “But bad habits actually end up being more of a problem for women who think they’ve got lots of experience. So on the positive side, you’re a clean slate. But some muscle memory would help with choreography memory because you wouldn’t be thinking so much about movement.”

“Okay, then I guess I need to treat private Monday as a honing class. I wanna keep up with Polly and Cheryl,” I said, staring at the notes on the mirror. “It feels like we’re moving so fast, even though I know we’ve barely started.”

Sybil’s face softened. “Trust me, I wouldn’t be giving up my time if I didn’t see something in you. Let’s go over what we learned last class. We’ll go slower.”

I smiled at her, grateful for her understanding. We ran through confident walk and drills more slowly and with more personal direction. Negative energy was expelled before I took on another task. Posture and arm positions were explained in greater detail. I even learned that my arms are double-jointed— I’d had no idea—which meant I had to work much harder to give them the soft, bent, floating look. Otherwise, I looked like an airplane gliding on a dance floor. Information lowered my inner voice’s discouraging words and gave me room to grow.

After a short cooldown, I grabbed my shoes and bag so Sybil could get to work. Opening the back door, I looked over my shoulder and said, “Thanks, Sybil, this helped a lot. See you tonight.”

“No problem, Kat. We’ll get there,” promised Sybil before she disappeared through Pappy’s hallway door.

Between classes, I was called to duty for the Charleston Ballet Guild, which was requesting that our restaurant help create a buzz regarding its charitable goals benefiting the Charleston Ballet Theater. Mercato was a young and fabulous restaurant we’d entered into via a partnership. It was a red-headed stepchild of a building, but the makeover and floor plan were sexy.

I’d been a member of the Ballet Guild for about a year. I loved interacting with the dancers. Every month, the guild ladies met to brainstorm fundraising events for the benefit of the Charleston Ballet. Occasionally, we’d attended a rehearsal, or the resident choreographer, Jill Bahr, would enlighten us on features of an upcoming performance. As I saved the next meeting date on my calendar, the doorbell rang.

“Chaz, it’s just Polly,” I told my barking dog, who was escorting me to the front door. “Hold on,” I called as I searched for the deadbolt key.

Nowadays at home, I found time to sneak downstairs to the poolroom where my stereo system and mirror waited. I’d even allowed myself time to peer into my dance journal and do homework. I looked forward to my private classes with Sybil. I even loved classes with the girls, although it was apparent that Polly dominated all chances to show off. But I was happy to be at the end of the line.

“I don’t think we’ve got time to drill,” I said, after glancing at the microwave clock. “I’ve been practicing some today.”

“Then let’s head over to Sybil’s,” Polly said. “I’ll drive. Grab your stuff.”

I obediently grabbed my coat and dance gear.

After a fifteen-minute conversation about dancewear pants I’d found on the Internet, we pulled into Sybil’s neighborhood. Winter had stripped the trees, but the temperature this mid-February Monday evening was in the sixties and, fortunately, a light breeze blew in off the river.

“Are we early?” I asked. Sybil’s car wasn’t in the driveway. Cheryl hadn’t arrived yet either.

“Maybe Cheryl’s hung up at work,” Polly guessed.

My cell phone rang.

“Hey, Kat, it’s Cheryl. I’m stuck in traffic on Highway 61.” She sounded panicked.

“You should be good. Sybil’s car isn’t here yet,” I replied, checking the mirror for updates.

“Think it’s a wreck, but I’m coming,” Cheryl added. A siren cried in the background. “See you soon.”

I turned to Polly. “Since we’re waiting, can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” she said.

“Sybil keeps pushing this audition. I’m not sure I want it. I’d like to face my fear, but the idea of a solo makes my stomach hurt,” I said.

“Solos aren’t that scary.” Polly laughed. “Sybil said they’d only have to be two minutes long. Picked your music yet?”

Before I could answer, we spotted Sybil’s headlights. I waved but didn’t think she saw me because she exited her car, walked toward the house, and slammed the back gate, Pappy tagging along.

“Probably needs a moment to get settled,” Polly said. “Let’s wait on Cheryl. Listen to the song I think I’m gonna use for my solo.” As we listened, Cheryl pulled in behind us. We all grabbed our dance bags and went into Sybil’s studio.

As we placed our bags along the wall, we noticed the mirrored door had been left open, revealing a closet full of costumes. Our eyes feasted on glittery belts, cholis, shoes, boxes of shiny accessories, and what looked like cotton gypsy skirts on plastic hangers. As I stared, I felt as if I’d witnessed the opening of a treasure chest. Sybil never stopped surprising us.

Jingling from the hallway to the studio door, Sybil entered smiling. “Good evening, ladies,” she said. “I’ve got a surprise for you.” She held up a CD.

As usual, Polly’s face brightened and Cheryl clapped her hands like an excited child. How could they get so enthused over an unknown dance task? I wanted details first.

“For the past couple of weeks, we’ve been practicing dance moves and learning some veil basics,” Sybil said. “I’d like to add a new prop and start working on choreography.” She walked toward the costume closet and sifted through the hangers.

“Please, let it be easy,” I murmured to myself.

“The troupe’s started working on dances for the North Charleston performance in May. I’m in one called The Gypsy. It’s a trio. I got permission from the choreographer to teach it to you.” She yanked a black gypsy shirt from a hanger and tossed it to Polly.

A skirt will be our prop? I thought. Sybil threw a red skirt my way.

“Kat, I think there’s a problem with the drawstring on that one. Would you mind fixing it before next week?” Sybil asked. I shouldn’t have told Sybil I was an accomplished seamstress.

I checked the drawstring openings on mine. It was an easy fix. “No problem,” I said.

She continued to look for one more skirt to complete the trio. Eventually, she tossed a green skirt to Cheryl.

“Does everyone have a solo song?” Sybil asked.

Polly pulled on her skirt and played with it, looking in the mirror. “I do. It’s a drum solo, but I’m still deciding where to fade it.”

“I like a song that talks about meeting in the desert. It’s romantic,” Cheryl said. Her green skirt hung lopsidedly.

“I’m picking a song that has a queen in it. It’s called ‘Drama Queen,’” I revealed as I fiddled with the red skirt. It was tattered and in need of tweaking.

“I want you each to have a copy of your song for next week. We’ll play them before class.” Sybil pulled on a yellow gypsy skirt and motioned for us to sit across the room. She put the CD in and pressed the play button before she turned and transitioned into a saucy wench.

She seamlessly performed her three-minute gypsy song with flamenco guitar. She swished her skirt, twirled, wrapped it around her body, dropped the edges, and road mapped from her toes to her head. She even used it as though it were a bullfighter’s cape. Her facial expressions were bright and lively, though she was dancing for us. As the song ended, she held a pose.

“Wow, Sybil! How fun is that!” Polly exclaimed.

“Good. Let’s get started,” Sybil said. “I’d like you to know this routine by auditions. It’d really impress the troupe if you had one of our dances notched on your belt. You can borrow the skirts until you order your own—black ones.” Sybil went to the mirror and pointed at the sailor-boy illustration. “We haven’t done this yet because I needed to move you into skirts.”

Ah, now that little stick figure’s making sense,
I thought.

“Polly . . . you stand here. Kat . . . you’re there,” Sybil assigned positions. She pointed at the middle, “Cheryl . . . you’re there. Please stay in this order when we practice. Here’s the opening pose. Everything’s broken down in eight counts. Let’s do it.”

For the rest of our class, Sybil broke down the first four sets. Before we knew it, the hour was over. As Sybil peeled off her skirt, she threw us another dance tidbit. “By the way . . . this Saturday’s Dance for Women is at the mall. There’ll be a full Day of Dance troupe demonstration to support women’s health. Some of the troupe is performing, if you’d like to see them.”

“Man, I have to help my grandfather that day or I’d be there,” Cheryl sighed.

“What time Saturday?” I asked.

“Early. Somewhere around nine. Go to our website. It’ll be there,” Sybil quickly answered. Before anyone could pose another question, she asked us to close up the studio and disappeared into the house.

“What do you think?” I asked my classmates. My skirt dropped to my feet. I stepped out of it and gathered my bag.

Somehow, while we weren’t watching, Sybil had put a copy of the new Gypsy dance song on each of our piles.

“We’re learning a real dance,” Cheryl said. “Can you imagine us impressing everyone at audition?”

I silently wished the word audition would go into hibernation for a while.

“Driving to the mall at 8:00 a.m. for a 9:00 a.m. performance on a Saturday doesn’t call my name,” I said. “But I’d hate to miss seeing them dance.”

“I’m up by seven anyway. Let’s do it, Kat!” Polly urged.

“Maybe traffic will be lighter since it’s early,” I agreed. I knew my curiosity would push me there. “Anyone own a camera that does video? We could show you it later,” I said to Cheryl.

“I’ve got one,” Polly volunteered. “I should be able to find it by this weekend.”

“Thanks, guys, I really hate missing this one,” Cheryl said.

“Okay, the mall on Saturday,” I said. “Solo songs next Monday. New song to listen to in the car. And find a black skirt.”

Polly and Cheryl laughed as we parted.