Hot Pink in the City (6 page)

During the commercials, Nasreen shares more
about her desire to leave the basement, New York, bratty Omar, and
her overprotective parents. She's played drums in her high school
band class, but her father won't allow her to have a drum set at
home. She itches to join a band, read her poems at a poetry café,
go on a road trip... the more I listen to her, the more I want to
do some of these things and help her live her dreams.

"Nasreen, I hope you get to do all of this,"
I whisper. "I also want more in life. I want to be on TV, dance,
sing, do things I've barely had practice in since my parents won't
let me take formal lessons. I only know how to do some of these
things playing around with friends. I want to be seen."

"We both want recognition."

I squeeze her arm and put my head on her
shoulder. Despite the anxiety of destroying Uncle's tape, I'm glad
to spend this closeted time with my cousin. We continue watching
TV, but the shows become less entertaining as it turns to early
morning. "
Josie and the Pussycats
comes on in an hour," she
says. "That's about all that's good at this time."

"That's the only cartoon I still watch. I
love that show. And I also love
Jem
."

"Band babes all the way."

"Do you have the Yellow Pages?" I ask.

"Why?" she says.

"I want to see if there are any Middle
Eastern shops in the area while we wait for
Josie
to come
on."

"I'll be right back," she says. Getting out
of the closet is a big deal. She turns the TV off, pulls the towel
away from the door, and shoves clothes and hangers out of her way.
I'm alone for two minutes, taking in the true silence of the
apartment, minus the people outside the windows and the restless
city. I now see why this closet is a haven for Nasreen.

"Here you go," she says when she comes back.
She puts the towel in its place, sits down, and turns the TV back
on.

I grab the phone book and look through the
sections for markets, grocery stores, and specialty stores. I find
a few ads and listings for Middle Eastern stores. "Be careful,"
Nasreen says. "This is my dad's main phonebook. The other ones are
old."

Sheesh, everything is about not upsetting her
dad. Meanwhile, we did the worst thing we could yesterday... which
is why I have this heavy book in my lap in the first place. I'm
going to correct this mistake. "Let's go to these stores today
while your dad is at work," I say, pointing at some listings.

Nasreen peruses the pages. "Okay, I know
where most of these are," she says. "I've been in one or two. We'll
get to know the subway system like never before."

"Anything, as long as I don't have another
night like last night. First doing something stupid and then doing
whatever it took to hide it. I can't have a headache every day I'm
here."

Time flies as we look at the small print of
the pages. We can't write in the book, so Nasreen jots down
addresses on a notepad. When we look up,
Josie and the
Pussycats
is playing.

"Let's go to sleep after this," Nasreen
drawls.

"I can barely keep my eyes open." I yawn.

We watch the show, yawning every few minutes,
unaware of the time. Nasreen seems more engaged in watching TV,
while I'm getting tired of it. On the notepad I draft letters to
Tamara and Misty. I don't want to write to them about my Umm
problem, because I can imagine them rolling their eyes.
Asma is
in the greatest city in the world, and she messed up. She can't
even enjoy her stay. We should've gone instead of her.
Why do
they sound so catty in my head when they're my friends? When I'm
talking to them they have a way of being sarcastic, with playful
putdowns, but that's how friends are.

"What are you writing?" Nasreen asks.

"Letters to my friends back home."

"Okay. I wish you could call them, but my dad
gets ballistic about long-distance phone bills."

My parents are also sensitive about those
calls. They do their best to call at certain times when the rates
go down. I've heard my parents yell into the phone after eleven at
night, reaching far-flung relatives at that time for the best
rates. I brought a pencil case full of coins with me, because I do
plan on calling my friends on a payphone. Even though the one
outside the apartment generates a lot of noise outside the bedroom
window, I'll be using it to call Misty and Tamara.

When we emerge out of the closet, we blink at
the wall clock. It'll be dawn soon. That was the best few hours
I've ever spent in a closet, outside of trying on outfits. "We must
do this again," I say.

"Okay, but next time we should bring some
snacks," Nasreen says.

"Yeah, maybe popcorn."

"No, nothing that pops."

I giggle. Nasreen puts the phonebook and her
notepad on her desk, and we're back in bed. My eyes droop and open
in time to people's footsteps. Through a part in the curtains I'm
still watching people pass by, fewer than there were hours ago, but
they're still out there. At this time of morning there isn't a soul
out on the streets in my suburb, but this city is always alive.
This city will provide an Umm Kulthum tape to save Nasreen and me
from Uncle's wrath and my parents' distrust.

Chapter Seven

I have this wonderful dream. David
Copperfield walks into the basement apartment with that beautiful
bush of hair on top of his head, brooding eyes, and hands that
gesticulate and are ready to perform some magic. He levitates
through the apartment, stops in the middle of the living room, and
stares into my eyes. We're alone, as we should be. He'll be my
hero. He waves his hands in the air, and an Umm Kulthum tape falls
into my hands. I am saved.

My lids flutter open. I don't want the image
of the tape to disappear. I really want to believe David is nearby
performing magic. The man walked through the Great Wall of China,
floated across the Grand Canyon, and made the Statue of Liberty
disappear. Surely he can help me with my problem.

Waking up at ten in the morning, I realize
David is just a dream. He can join John Stamos and Patrick Swayze
in my stable of imaginary boyfriends.

I'm groggy after a late night with Nasreen.
That was a much different experience than my last time in a closet
with someone. Months ago I went to a party, after begging and
convincing my parents it was an innocent birthday celebration, and
I ended up kissing a guy in a closet. It was Brad, a boy from math
class. He has dirty-blond hair and a cute face, but his braces were
a turnoff. That five-second kiss, with boys timing us outside and
girls giggling, felt like forever as I worried about swallowing any
food stuck in his braces. He had been eating Doritos minutes
before. Maybe I can have a real kiss this summer. Again, I ponder
the idea of a fling. The Uncle Jesse look-alike, Abe, runs through
my mind. If I weren't so obsessed now with replacing the Umm tape,
I'd be checking out guys... and not just in my head. My libido
isn't the same with this worrying.

So my closet time with Nasreen was unusual,
but it made me feel closer to her. I used to feel a bit formal
around her, but now I know I'm more than a relative. We're friends.
With no hesitation I shake her awake. "We have to get busy today,"
I tell her.

She opens her eyes to slits and then puts an
arm up to shield herself from sunlight. She looks different without
the heavy, raccoon eye makeup. She's much prettier, the same way
Ally Sheedy was better-looking after her makeover in
The
Breakfast Club
.

"Okay, I'll get ready."

We need to hit the streets today and visit
stores to get a replacement tape. I imagine once we get this tape,
we'll never have to worry about Uncle searching for Kulthum and
coming up empty-handed, and we won't have to admit to what we had
done.

An hour later we're showered and dressed.
Auntie straightens my collar and fixes my sleeves, skirting around
my shoulders. She avoids touching people's shoulders, because both
shoulders carry angels, one writing down your good deeds and the
other the bad deeds. I'm hoping my good deeds outweigh the bad, but
that might not be the case with the way my summer is going.

Before we leave, Auntie blows air on us, as
if she's a rotating fan head. Not only does she do it to Nasreen,
but she also grabs me, puckers up, and blows air around my face.
She whispers prayers in Arabic between breaths.

"It's for protection," Nasreen says when
we're outside. "I'm sorry my mom blew on you."

"No, that's sweet of her." Strange, but
sweet. My mom never does that.

We take the subway to the first store. My
eyes don't waver from the windows as I look for station signs to
see what the next stop is. Nasreen looks bored, but I can imagine
that people take for granted what's right under their nose. In
stations and on the streets I throw change into hats as people
sing, play violins, and dance. People-watching is so much fun in
New York.

On 14th Street, one store we visit doesn't
have the tape we want, but we buy some lokum, getting white powder
all over ourselves as we eat it under the awning of the store. In a
Canal Street store we rummage through the small selection of
cassettes, but we don't find Umm. On the covers we see heavily
made-up women in elaborate dresses, both modern and traditional,
but they all look like recent releases.

"Come on, let's go," Nasreen says impatiently
whenever I check out the fares of street vendors. The
street-shopping is amazing, even better than store items because of
the prices. After we buy hot dogs and sit on the rim of a fountain
to eat lunch, I put on a pair of earrings I just bought, feeling
the rhinestone drops graze my shoulders. I know I shouldn't be
spending what little money I have, but I should enjoy Manhattan
right now, since Uncle may soon banish me from his home. From a
park entrance I watch vendors wind toys with kids eagerly looking
on. Businessmen, tourists, beautiful boys, and gorgeous girls walk
past me. I love this city.

We travel uptown again, and the fourth store
in Manhattan has nothing for us. We see plenty of newspapers,
magazines, and some music... but not Umm. Most of these stores are
for groceries when we need to look through a full music selection.
"Let's try this place in Brooklyn that we wrote down," Nasreen
says, wiping the sweat off her brow.

Brooklyn sounds like a long trip, but we have
to do whatever it takes to replace that tape. We're back on the
subway. The subway has taken me underground and above ground, I've
seen darkness and light, we've stood on many platforms, we've been
through regular waist-high turnstiles and then the full-body ones,
we've walked through tunnels, gone up and down steps, we've
switched lines... I now feel like a subway-traveling pro, but the
journey isn't over.

Brooklyn seems like an entirely different
city. The skyline is shorter and streets are more residential.
After walking ten minutes from the subway station, we're at the
last store on our list. The street is quiet, and all of a sudden
there's a loud burst of voices to the right of us. There's a school
across the street that children exit from.

"What's that about?" I ask.

"Summer school letting out," Nasreen says.
"My own school has similar hours. Thankfully I passed all my
classes and don't need anything this summer."

I observe little kids rush towards parents
and older middle-school kids walk off alone. "I hope this is it," I
say, turning my attention back to the store.

"Me too, or we're screwed," Nasreen says.

The window displays cassettes and videos,
with signs about various imports. This looks like the most
promising place, so a small light ignites in me. I follow Nasreen
inside to see a wonderful sight -- there are rows of cassettes,
videos, and records. There are no groceries, no newspapers, and no
clothes. This is strictly an entertainment stop.

"Hello!" a round man with a bushy moustache
greets us with a lilting accent. His stomach juts out of his body
as if he were pregnant, and he has protuberant moles on his face.
"Welcome to my store. How may I help you young ladies?"

Behind him is another man sitting next to a
burgundy curtain. It's reminiscent of Omar's curtain, which reminds
me of what's waiting for us back home. The man looks like a
relative of the greeter, with the same round look and moles. His
thinning hair is greasy, wrapped around his scalp in a comb-over. I
don't like the way he's looking at us, especially at me. His eyes
linger up and down my body. I eyeball him back and then look away
from him. The nerve of that guy.

"We're looking for Umm Kulthum tapes,"
Nasreen says, getting to the point.

"Do you have any?" I ask.

"Umm Kulthum? I love her! She's very
popular."

"Yes, she is," I say. "So you have her
cassettes?"

"Let me see what I have..."

While he's searching, I look around. Even
though the relative-looking guy is creeping me out, I near the
curtain because I'm wondering if there's a selection behind there
as well.

"No, do not walk through," the stranger
rasps, his voice harsher than the other man's. He continues to
study me from the top of my head to my sneakered feet.

"Sorry," I say. It must be a backroom or
office of some kind. I walk back to Nasreen. We stand, watching the
first man search for Umm.

The store is small, with narrow aisles, and I
imagine his large belly must occasionally knock things off shelves.
He proves me wrong, because he's quite graceful and knows where
everything is. "I have three records... but you said tapes... ah,
here's a tape." He pulls it out from underneath the register. It's
a bootleg, and when he pulls out the cassette from the holder it
even has a Sony label on it -- the tape we destroyed was Sony. I
swing my purse closer to my chest, because I'm ready to buy it. The
tape has to be mine. Even if it doesn't match the one we destroyed
song for song, it's better than nothing.