Hot Pink in the City (13 page)

"You want me?" I ask.

"Yes, my brother and I were pondering over
matters since we saw you days back," Wahib says. "You see, I came
to this country ten years ago, and my situation is settled. But my
brother, Tahir you see behind me, he is having problems."

Tahir smiles at me, one of those lopsided
smiles that's supposed to be sexy. Yeah, sexy on John Stamos but
gross on him!

"What problems?" Nasreen asks.

"And what do his problems have to do with
me?" I ask.

"What's your point?" Nasreen snarls. "We came
here for a tape, and now you're mentioning your brother. We're not
asking about your personal lives. We're customers!"

"Young lady, you have not purchased anything
from me, and I'm not done with my story," Wahib oozes, maintaining
his cool. He gives us a conciliatory smile, but dread continues to
creep up my spine and tension builds across my shoulders. Between
the heat and my nerves, I feel faint.

"Anyway," he continues, "my brother is having
green card issues. We were thinking that here we are in a country
full of strangers, but there are so many nice Middle Eastern girls
we can find, many of whom are already citizens. We are a small
community in a big city. I see the same customers from Manhattan,
Staten Island, even New Jersey, Connecticut. So we were thinking,
since you're seventeen and one year away from marrying--"

"Hell no!" Nasreen yells.

"What are you talking about?" I say. "You're
talking marriage?" I may want to be grown-up, but I'm still a kid.
I also want to find someone on my own, and certainly not some old
guy who must have twenty years over me. Tahir rubs his potbelly
while Wahib wipes his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief.

"We're not talking marriage," Wahib says.
"How about just one meeting to see how the two of you get
along?"

"No," I say. "I'm not going to be set up for
either a date or marriage."

"We'll get the hundred dollars," Nasreen
says, her voice ice-cold. "It still is one hundred, right?"

"The price of my personal tape will not
change." He loves repeating that. I bet he'd still have done this
to us if the tape were on the shelves. "It's still one hundred, but
I'd rather you think my proposition over."

"I'm not trading myself for a tape," I say.
As if I'm a hooker or something! How dare they?

"Let's get out of here," Nasreen says. "And
we'll definitely come back soon with the money."

"We already have your phone number to alert
you of any new tapes coming in," Wahib says.

I feel ill thinking that Nasreen gave them
her number, but then I remember she had given them the number of
the payphone by her window. I want to get out of here so they can't
feast on me with their eyes and words. They just want my hand in
marriage, not to do any real business with me. Maybe this was their
plan all along. They figured I'm young and probably don't have a
hundred dollars to spare, so they had to lure me in for their icky
request.

We can't get out of here fast enough. I trip
on an uneven patch of the sidewalk, twisting my ankle, and Nasreen
bangs her knee against a fire hydrant. "Ouch," she says.

I grab her arm, and we hobble to the corner,
away from the windows of Wahib and Tahir's store. I put my weight
on my ankle. It hurts, but I don't think it's sprained. "Are you
okay?" I ask.

"My knee will be all right," Nasreen says,
her face pinched in a grimace. "What about you?"

"My ankle is already feeling better, but it
kind of hurts when I walk."

"It would be nice to get a brand new Kulthum
tape, instead of their bootleg, but who knows how long that'll take
to ship. Anyway, it's not about them trying to get something for a
customer. They want your sweet, young ass. Tahir has been drooling
over you since you first stepped foot in there, and he probably
figured you were born here from the way you talk and dress."

"What if they call us?"

"If they do call the payphone for whatever
reason, I figure I can always tell my parents I'm taking out the
garbage, checking the mail, or checking up on Omar on the
playground. I can be fast enough to catch the ringing phone. If
not, I'll just say we have no answering machine. The fact is, so
far this is the only tape we've found. It's not like I have a
catalog I can purchase this from, and we haven't seen this in any
other store. They have the upper hand."

"And they sure know it. We need to get our
hands on more money. Uncle is bound to find out the tape is missing
for good."

"How are we going to get the rest of the
hundred dollars to get this tape? And fast?"

"I think I have an idea," I say.

***

Back home we watch Omar ask Auntie if he can
go outside to the corner park to "play" with his friends. As if on
cue, there's a knock on the door. It's his friend Scott, a lanky
boy with freckles and stick-straight black hair. "Can Omar come out
and play?" he asks Auntie.

"Omar, go with your friend," she says,
smiling at the two boys.

Nasreen shakes her head. Omar and Scott are
acting all sugary and innocent -- they eat the cookies Auntie
offers them -- but they'll be gambling soon. Everyone has money but
us, it seems. Sure, we borrowed Auntie's money, but we didn't get
to spend it. We need a full payment of one hundred dollars.
Haggling didn't work, and those two disturbing brothers wanted me.
Tahir desires to have me as a wife so he can stay in the country.
And all for a tape. I'm worth a cassette tape. How insulting is
that? As if I'm in the old country where women are traded off for
livestock and other goods!

"TV, now," I say when Auntie is in the
kitchen and out of earshot.

"You want to watch TV?" Nasreen asks. "We
need to find the means to get some money."

"And I have an idea."

We're in her room, watching soaps on her
regular TV, not her closet TV. Women are crying, men are scheming,
and couples are kissing. Then I catch the commercial again, the one
for
NYC Dance Off
. "I'm going to enter that," I say. "They
have daily cash prizes if you dance on camera."

"Uhhh, I'm pretty sure your parents will be
pissed off if they see their daughter on TV," Nasreen says. "And do
you dance that well?"

"I sure do. Next to soccer, dancing is my
specialty. You need to see me in action. Since they also accept
singers, maybe I can try out for that too."

"You sing?" Nasreen asks.

"I enjoy it, but I know I need more practice.
Dancing is more my thing, but I can try out for both."

"I don't know about this."

"I'll do my hair and makeup so nobody
recognizes me." I imagine seeing myself made up in red lipstick,
blue eye shadow, and a sequined dress, the opposite of my soccer
persona. No one will recognize me. I think about all the TV shows
and movies I've seen where that happens -- Wonder Woman takes off
her glasses and pulls her hair out of a bun, and she's someone
else. I won't look like my same old self for that show.

"I guess we can try it," Nasreen says. "We
have nothing to lose."

The commercial comes on a second time. I grab
a notepad and pen off Nasreen's desk, spilling a few brochures onto
the floor, and write down the toll-free number. There's only one
phone in the living room. Ah, I miss my own phone in my bedroom in
Miami. I'm going to have to use the payphone outside since I can't
reveal my plans to Auntie.

She's busy in the kitchen, so I step out
without having to explain my actions to her -- she's nosy and
always wondering what everyone is up to; meanwhile, she needs to be
in Omar's business, not ours. Gambling is against our religion and
far worse than what I'm doing.

I wait for a young woman with sky-high bangs
and red pumps to get off the phone. Good, she's quick and hangs up.
I'm next. I dial the number and get through right away to a
secretary. I pump her for information. I write down the address. No
appointment is necessary. They have auditions tomorrow starting at
ten in the morning. I'll be there.

When I hang up, I stand still, taking in what
I did. I'm actually going to try out for a spot on TV. National TV.
As in everyone might see me. Money is involved. Dancers are even
eligible to get Madonna concert tickets. Maybe I can kill two birds
with one stone: get the one hundred dollars and Kulthum tape and
see my idol live in concert. A girl can always dream.

Since I'm out here, I decide to call Misty. I
brace myself for the automated messages from the operator. I will
not get mad, I will not get mad, I will not get mad...

"Hey, buddy," Misty says in her husky voice.
"So you finally decided to call me."

"I called Tamara awhile ago, but it's a real
pain to make long-distance calls," I say, feeling the need to
apologize to her. "I did send you a letter."

"Oh, haven't seen it yet. Tamara mentioned
you met a guy. Well, it's about time you get some action."

"Yeah..." Okay, I know I'm not an expert in
the love-and-sex department, but she doesn't have to rub it in.

"So what are you doing today? Going to the
library? To the park to play some soccer?"

"Of course not," I say. "I'm on
vacation."

"I didn't think you'd break out of your
routine."

Is this how my friends view me? As some
stick-in-the-mud homebody with no life? If only they could see me
now, truly experiencing the dangers of New York and its strangers,
of being in a boatload of trouble and doing a lot of legwork to get
out of it.

"For your information, I'm out of my
routine," I say.

Please deposit twenty-five cents.

"What were you saying?" Misty says. "You're
returning some library books?"

Please deposit twenty-five cents.

My hand is stuck in my pocket, and I wrench
it out, quarter in hand. I deposit it before I lose the call.

"Are you running a few laps this afternoon?"
Misty asks. "Don't forget a bottle of water and your vitamins."

"Actually, I'm doing something you'd never
believe. There's a show called
NYC Dance Off
..."

"Oh, I love that show! So you watch it
too."

"You're not listening!" I say, finally losing
my temper.

"I know that show is hot, and so are the
dancers."

"I'm going tomorrow."

"Of course, you can be one of those people
standing outside the windows watching them live."

There are windows looking out on the street
where passersby stand and watch, but she doesn't let me get a word
in. I want to be part of the show, and with my dancing skills I
know I can make it.

Please deposit twenty-five cents.

"You're good enough to be on that show,"
Misty continues, "but I know you'd never want to be on television.
You're too low-key to have a television personality."

I run out of quarters. There are more in my
pencil case in Nasreen's room, but my pocket is empty. "No! I will
be on the show," I say.

The line goes dead, the money-hungry payphone
and robotic operator cutting me off. The call had been irritating
me, but I still wanted to impress my friend and tell her a little
bit about what I'm up to in the city. But even when I'm in Miami,
Misty and Tamara both have a way of cutting me off and rambling
about themselves. Being on the phone just highlights this habit of
theirs. Anger sizzles inside me. I thought we were close since I've
known them since elementary school. When I'm at home, I call them
every night, and we share many classes together. Being far away
from them makes me doubt my friendship with them. Perhaps they're
really not my friends and they have a low opinion of me. Here I am
dabbling in the cool and the bad, and they don't think I'm capable
of such things.

Chapter Sixteen

I'm determined to keep out of Wahib and
Tahir's reach. The only way I'm willing to touch them is if I'm
exchanging money to purchase the tape.
NYC Dance Off
is the
answer to my prayers, I'm sure of it. I'll be competing with other
young women, but I know I can dance. Even if I don't win anything,
I have to try. It's better than waiting for something to happen,
because Nasreen and I exhausted all of our other moneymaking
possibilities. The only thing left to do would be criminal, and I'm
not willing to go there, although I packed some pantyhose in my
suitcase that would be perfect for a bank robbery.

My irritation and that nagging feeling about
my friends disrespecting me fizzle away. I can always deal with
Tamara and Misty when I'm back in Miami, maybe smooth things out
and really sit down and talk to them, gushing about what I've been
through. But what if they cut me off and still don't believe me
even when we're face-to-face? No, we're friends. I'll get them to
listen to me.

I can't think about them right now. I need to
rehearse for the show, but where? The only thing I can practice in
the basement apartment is singing since
NYC Dance Off
accepts both singers and dancers. I haven't been in glee club since
middle school, and I took Chorus I as a freshman, but I couldn't
take Chorus II this past year because that meant forfeiting Honors
Geometry, which I wasn't willing to do, so I'm not comfortable with
singing. I still want to try anyway. Nasreen is very much against
the idea of me singing.

I croon Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" in
Nasreen's room.

"No, no, no," Nasreen says, covering her
ears.

I switch to Elton John's "Sad Songs."

"Stop torturing me! My ears are going to
bleed."

Nasreen can be mean. My singing isn't that
bad. I never got to sing solo in glee club or chorus, but I was
always singing in the background. I haven't stretched my singing
voice. Okay, I'll admit I dance better than I sing.

I need to practice dancing. If I were to
dance in Nasreen's room, I'd knock everything off her desk and
bruise my arms and legs against the bunk bed. When I dance, I put
everything into it. Not only am I a soccer player and aerobics
fanatic, but I dance while I wait for my mom to pick me up from
school. She runs errands before coming, so I have some time to kill
on practice and nonpractice days. My friends and I do the cabbage
patch, running man, and all the other popular dances from TV.
Can I have some fries with that shake?
I've heard.
Gimme
some of that.
Even in my tomboy clothes, I get those remarks. I
blush all the way to my hairline, but I continue dancing. I know
I'm the best dancer out of all my friends. I'm fluid and don't run
out of breath.