Hot Pink in the City (14 page)

"You know, I've never seen you dance,"
Nasreen says.

"You're in for a treat," I brag.

"Then let's find a place for you to
practice."

We go out to search for an area where I can
practice my dance moves. Thankfully, there are no subway rides
since we're looking for an open space nearby. I'm not tired of
taking trains yet, but I'm subwayed out for today. Nasreen takes me
to the playground, where we see Omar's dark head bent down as he
huddles with his friends, his two demon whorls in full view.
Nasreen stops and lingers by the fence. She clears her throat.

Omar looks up, grinning at us. Amazing. He's
doing something wrong but has no misgivings. If I were gambling,
I'd be worried and guilty. He walks away from his friends to meet
us by the fence. The mesh separates us. Through the metal
striations, I glance down at his tawny skin and smug
expression.

"Having fun?" Nasreen asks.

"Yes," Omar says. "Going out again? You and
Asma seem to be out a lot. I hope you're not doing anything Baba
wouldn't be happy with."

"Of course not," I say in a fake, sweet
voice.

"We also hope you're keeping your nose out of
trouble," Nasreen says.

"I always do."

I laugh and hurry to cover my mouth. Omar
narrows his eyes.

"Have fun at this little casino of yours... I
mean playground," I say.

Omar's jaw drops. In spontaneous, perfect
choreography, Nasreen and I both turn around at the same time,
swaying our hips as we cross the street.

"I think torturing him a little bit will be
fun," I say.

"That's a lot coming from you," Nasreen says.
"I thought you didn't have a mean bone in your body."

"You must be rubbing off on me..."

***

We walk a few blocks to a grassy square.
There's a small park, an ice cream truck, and people going about
their business. Yards away from us there are some break dancers.
They're fun to watch as they spin on their heads, do splits, and
jump around. They leave a few minutes later, taking their boom box
and cardboard mat with them. Inside the park, kids are swinging,
sliding, and getting sprayed by a large sprinkler. Behind them
there's a basketball court, which is in use. I'd rather not go in
there, and I suppose it's not a big deal if I dance on the sidewalk
leading up to the park. It's not terribly crowded. I have to
practice somewhere. "We forgot to bring music," I say.

"Don't worry," Nasreen says. "My Walkman has
exterior sound."

What a relief. Mine doesn't do that, and it
only works with headphones. Nasreen has a giant cup of soda she was
sipping from; she took the lid off minutes ago so she could suck on
the ice. She puts it down on the ground so she can take her Walkman
out of her purse, pull out the headphones, and then tune the radio.
I hear country, elevator tunes, and oldies before she hits the pop
station. Janet Jackson's "Pleasure Principle" segues into Samantha
Fox's "Touch Me."

"Don't change it," I say. I love that song. I
dance languidly with the slow beginning. Once the chorus begins and
the guitars rev up, my body follows the tune. I spin around, shoot
an arm up, and then do a split.

A young woman stops and bops her head. My
hair whirls around me, and in between the strands I see two men in
business suits and a group of teenagers. Quarters and dimes fly,
followed by a splash. I slow down my dancing, doing some knee highs
towards the end of the song, and I see where the noise is coming
from. People are throwing coins into Nasreen's cup of soda, where a
few slivers of melting ice remain. Nasreen's eyes widen. I'm also
seeing dollar bills.

I dance to Taylor Dayne's "Don't Rush Me,"
followed by my favorite song... Madonna's "Into the Groove." I snap
my fingers, moving my body from side to side. People come and go,
throwing money into Nasreen's cup. Nasreen is the DJ, navigating
between songs, changing stations once commercials begin. The only
problem is that radio stations seem to synchronize their
commercials. They all play them at the same time. I use that as
rest time, but that's when people wander away before a new crowd
comes in. At the most ten people surround me.

"No more," I say after five songs. I'm beat,
and I think that was enough practice. I have a Taylor Dayne
cassette in my luggage, so if I have to dance to my own music I'll
bring that with me to the audition. Nasreen hands me some napkins
from her purse, the ones she picked up from the fast food joint
where she got her soda. The crowd dissipates, but not before
several people tell me how fantastic I am.

"Baby, you're a pro."

"Do you do bachelor parties?"

I'm not ready for this attention. I shake my
head bashfully at the sleazebag who asks me the last question.
Nasreen swipes down, gets her cup, and pulls me along farther into
the park. We find a bench by a basketball court. Men and boys are
shirtless or wearing tops drenched in sweat. Normally I'd ogle, but
Nasreen needs help counting the money.

The day is over with, and I no longer care
about my clothes, which are just as drenched with sweat as the
basketball players'. I pull down my shirt and use the bottom as a
holder for the money. I take Nasreen's cup and turn it over. The
ice is long gone, and all that's left is tepid water, which pours
through the cotton of my shirt and onto my lap. I look at all the
pennies, nickels, dimes, and a few quarters. Nasreen makes four
piles in my lap. I count the pennies and nickels while she counts
the rest. "Three dollars and twenty-three cents," she says.

"That's all?" I say.

"I thought we made more than that, but that's
pretty good for a half hour of dancing. Maybe if you dance all day
long--"

"No way." I shake my head. "I can't dance
like that for hours. I'm in shape, but that would kill me. I know
what you're thinking. If we can make three dollars in half an hour
and if I dance for a day maybe we can make up for what we're
missing to buy the tape from the perv brothers. But if I'm as good
as you think, I can make even more in a shorter amount of time from
NYC Dance Off
."

"You're right. I was watching it the other
day, and a girl won three hundred dollars on her first day of
dancing. That was from their applause meter. I'm sure you'll get
lots of applause."

"Thanks, Nasreen."

"You'll win some money this week when you
make it on the show," she says.

"We have a lot to prepare for," I say. "We
need to figure out what I'll wear."

"Let's go home. We both need a shower
badly."

I walk with a bounce to my step. It isn't
until we're a block from home that my ankle is bothering me again.
There's a twinge radiating in the middle of the bone. The pain
lessens until it's a minor throb. That's what I get for walking
into stores with strange men who make me want to run from them and
then dancing my ass off on a public street. But our situation calls
for sacrifices. We will get that tape someway, somehow.

Chapter Seventeen

"Can't a girl take a shit in peace?" Nasreen
shrieks when someone pounds on the door of the restaurant's
bathroom.

My hair is crimped, so it zigzags from my
scalp in all directions. Auntie blew on me this morning, thinking
Nasreen and I dolled ourselves up to tour the city, but in reality
we're going to auditions for
NYC Dance Off
. I left the
basement apartment with my hair like this, but now we're in the
bathroom of a Dunkin' Donuts to complete the transformation. I take
off my tights and t-shirt and put on a zebra-patterned miniskirt
and a pink off-the-shoulder top. Nasreen is doing my makeup. "Close
your eyes," she says.

There's more pounding, but then the person
ceases. We're trying to be fast, but it takes time to be a
knockout. I like what I see in the mirror. Nasreen does my eyes in
black, purple, and turquoise. She paints my lips in glorious
fuchsia. Two thick swipes of blush display cheekbones I didn't know
I had. I'm also wearing Lee Press-On Nails, my red talons
transforming my hands into woman hands, not the little-girl hands
of short nails and pink polish I'm used to.

"Wow," Nasreen says.

"I look..."

"Gorgeous and hot."

"Yeah," I agree.

"And look at your legs. They look
awesome."

"Thanks. We soccer players do have great
legs."

"We need to get to the studio," Nasreen says.
"Let's avoid any lines."

It's a good thing I'm wearing LA Gear
sneakers. They're comfortable for dancing, good for walking the
streets, and they're fashionable with my outfit. The pink in the
sneakers matches the pink of my top. Men turn towards me and
whistle. Some of the guys look cute, but where are the John
Stamoses in this world? They can't just be trapped inside TV tubes
or chanced upon briefly in airplanes. The only men I've really
talked to during my stay here were relatives and the creepy duo,
Tahir and Wahib. I might as well forget about my fantasy of having
a summer fling. This business of finding a replacement tape
consumes me.

We reach Rockefeller Plaza, and the two of us
study the address I wrote down yesterday. "That has to be it,"
Nasreen says, pointing to a line of people standing behind
pedestrian barriers.

"That line is so long!" I say. This is worse
than the cafeteria line at school. Sometimes I only have ten
minutes to scarf down my food because I'm standing in line most of
the time. But this is something else. We might be here all day.

"Maybe it'll move fast. Come on."

We join the line. In front of me are people
who are much older than I am: men with stubble and women with lined
faces. I hear one lady tell another she's twenty-nine. That's
almost ancient. What's she even doing here when this show is for
the young? But even though they're old, they're dressed cool, with
zippers, buttons, and spangles all over their clothes.

Some skinny Prince-wannabe with a moustache
and Jheri curls comes to us and asks me to pin a number on my
shirt. He hands me a piece of paper with #191 written in marker,
which I pin below my shoulder. Nasreen shakes her head and tells
the guy she's there to support me. He moves along. "We're going to
be here forever!" I whine again.

We move a few feet forward, so it isn't that
bad. At least I'm making progress with the line. People are joining
the line behind me. Hairspray, perfume, cologne, scrambled eggs,
butter, and bad body odor mingle together in the sizzling air.
Trickles of sweat begin at my hairline and make their way down the
sides of my face. My makeup artist, Nasreen, blots my face with a
napkin. "You're going to knock them dead," she says.

"Thanks for the support," I say.

"Really, no one's going to dance better than
you. And look at the other girls with all that paint shellacked on
their faces, too-tight clothes, and wrinkles. You're the prettiest
young thing here."

"Pretty young thing," someone behind me
sings.

I turn around to look into a pair of eyes
that hit me like a laser beam. Luscious, dark hair sprouts from the
top of his head. He's turned slightly away from me, and I see a
braid trickle from the nape of his neck. Some of my friends make
fun of guys with rattails, but I think they're hot. This guy is
smoking. Black jeans, black tank top, studded belt... and the more
I look at him, he looks like John Stamos. He morphs into the guy I
met in the airplane. Tall, dark, and handsome.

"Abe?" I say.

"Asma?" he says.

"Oh my God," we say together, shocked at
seeing each other again. I thought seeing him was a one-time thing,
that we'd both be swallowed by the city and our respective
families.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"I love to dance, so I thought why not
audition since I'm in town."

"Me too!" I smile so hard that I hope my eye
makeup isn't falling apart. I already feel specks of powder crumple
onto my cheeks. Nasreen blots them away. That's what I get for
using cheap makeup with the low funds I have.

After Nasreen fixes my makeup, she glares at
Abe. One thing I've noticed about her is how distrustful she is of
everyone. I'm more open to people. I'll say hi to a stranger. I'll
give coins to the homeless. Nasreen is the opposite and shuts
herself off from everyone. I smile at Abe, my brief companion from
the airplane before some big guy ruined things by asking him to
move. John Candy could've been nice and switched seats with Abe;
I've switched seats for the elderly, newlyweds, and other people
who belong together, and it had to be obvious Abe and I were
together, even though we were strangers.

Nasreen pulls me by the elbow when we're
holding up the line. We join the people in front of us, and Abe
follows, his cologne, Drakkar Noir, drifting to my nostrils. It's a
crisp, clean, sexy smell.

"I'm getting something to drink," Nasreen
says. "I'll be right back."

Nasreen walks around the barrier and crosses
the street to where a pretzel vendor is. This is excellent, because
now I have some alone time with Abe. He's grinning at me.

"What a coincidence," he says. "I tried
finding you at the airport when we arrived, but I didn't spot you.
Plus my aunt was waiting for me."

"And my uncle was waiting for me."

"Your name is familiar. I have a grandmother
named Asma."

"I'm Persian," I explain.

"I'm Syrian," he says.

He's around my age, he lives not too far from
me in Miami, we're both in New York at the same time, and we're
both Middle Eastern. I can't ignore this information. My summer
fling might be right in front of me, but I don't have much time to
chitchat. I find out that Abe is staying in Greenwich Village, he
loves to dance but break dancing is his specialty, and in the
future he wants to get a basketball scholarship and later go to
medical school... and he loves Madonna.