Hot Pink in the City (8 page)

Chapter Nine

I've never liked newspapers. I only look
through them when teachers ask me to do a current events
assignment, but now I'm looking through a stack of them. I bought
several newspapers to look through the ads sections. Nasreen is
helping me. We're looking for moneymaking opportunities. I'm glad
to be with her. Compared to my friends, she listens, is
nonjudgmental, and seems supportive of me. Maybe it's because we're
in a bind, but I've always enjoyed her company, and this summer
we're becoming closer.

Her regular black-and-white TV -- not the one
hidden in the closet, since she never takes that one out from her
hiding place -- is playing in the background as we sit on the floor
together. Since she's peering down at the newspaper, her eyes look
like two black holes in her face. I myself am wearing frosted
blue-and-purple eye shadow and a pink shirt and shorts. I'm all
about color and positivity. Maybe she needs to add some bright
colors to her wardrobe to spruce up her outlook and future.

"Have you found anything?" she asks.

"Not really," I reply.

I found a few summer jobs for nannies, but I
can't disappear for days to take care of anyone's kids. I also
found waitressing and cashier jobs. Maybe I can call them and see
if it's during the daytime. Uncle won't miss me during the day
since he's at work, but if it's nighttime I can forget it. I eye
the business exec and medical jobs. Dollar signs swim in my head,
but of course I'm not qualified for those positions.

It's early in the afternoon, so soaps are
playing. I glance up and down to look at
The Young and the
Restless
. The opening theme of piano and violins sounds
depressing to me now, when that usually signals an hour of
mindless, yet entertaining, melodrama. I'm not dying to know what's
going on with Victor, Nikki, and the Abbots. I need money.

After circling a few ads that catch my
attention, I put the paper down and give my eyes a rest. I'm tired
of reading the tiny print. It hasn't even been an hour, but it
feels like it's been much longer. Commercials come on, and I switch
the channel, but every channel is playing them. I stop switching
when a radio DJ tells me I need to listen to his evening show for a
chance to win Madonna tickets. Wouldn't that be cool? If only I
were able to listen to the radio in the evening, but I can't since
Uncle is here and he listens to the radio at that time. Then
another commercial comes on. There's a new entertainment show in
town called
NYC Dance Off
, and they're looking for people to
audition to make it onto their dance floor. I wonder how long that
show is. Maybe I can do that.

"Nasreen, what do you think about that show?"
I ask.

Her eyes are on the TV since she's also
taking a break. "No way, Asma. You can't go on those shows. You're
not a
Solid Gold
dancer or one of those girls on
Soul
Train
shaking her rump."

"But I dance really well."

"You won't be staying too long and can't
commit to something like that."

"This looks like a one-time thing. It said
you show up to sing and dance for an audition and then dance for at
least three of their shows. That's something I can do. I love to
dance. Everyone says I'm good at it."

"Uh-uh." Nasreen shakes her head. She's so
negative. How can anyone have such a dour outlook on life? I can't
blame her too much. She wants one thing, to leave New York, and
she's not getting that. If I can find a way to help her, I'll do
whatever it takes during my stay. Maybe I can have a talk with
Uncle and Auntie, even though they never seem to side with her.
Everything is about Omar. He gets everything he wants while they
push Nasreen to the side. If I can show Nasreen it's possible to
make dreams come true, she'll be more open to my own dreams. And I
have many dreams. I think about Madonna. Then I daydream about
being on the stage myself, singing and dancing. There's no way I'll
ever be like Madonna, since she's one of a kind, but I imagine I
have Taylor Dayne's voice, Stacey Q's hair, and Janet Jackson's
moves.

"You want to try recording something else?"
Nasreen says, pushing the newspapers to the side.

"Sure. But what if your mother walks in on us
again?"

"The living room isn't an ideal spot with Mom
and Omar close by. Let's try to record something here."

"I don't know if I want to move your Uncle's
stereo into this room again."

"Yeah, he might notice it shifted out of its
spot, and then we can't have Omar see we've unplugged it. Maybe we
can record something from the TV."

Nasreen opens her closet and pulls out a
dirty beige tape recorder, the kind without a radio that's strictly
for cassette playing. "There's a show that comes on around this
time,
NYC Dance Off
, the one you were just mentioning," she
says, switching channels until we see dancers gyrating. Seeing them
makes me want to move.

I untangle the cord of the tape recorder,
which Nasreen plugs in. She takes a blank cassette and puts it in.
"Hold on, we better try it first," I say, remembering the tape we
destroyed.

"You're right."

We play a few minutes of the tape, fast
forward it, and press Play again. Yeah, it's blank.

"Next up is Madonna's 'True Blue,'" the
pretty host with big shoulder pads and bigger hair says. "Let's go
to the dance floor to see people groove to this hit..."

"Hurry up, let's press Record," I squeal.

Nasreen holds the recorder up to the TV,
raises the volume, and just as the song comes on I hit the Record
and Play buttons. This is quite awkward. Nasreen mouths "okay" to
let me know her arms aren't tired. I've done this before at home,
putting a stereo up to the TV to catch a song I like. The recorder
has to be close to the TV and the volume has to be really high to
get a good recording.

"Habibti!" someone outside the door says.

"Noooo!" I shriek.

"Habibiti, come taste this for me. Why is the
TV so loud? I hope I'm not interrupting anything. Nasreen, taste
this ground beef I just fried. Tell me how it is for
spiciness."

Nasreen drops the recorder onto her lap, I
turn the TV off, and we both slump our shoulders. Before cracking
the newspapers open, Nasreen told me she's still mad at her mom, so
she doesn't seem thrilled about having her in her room. I'm also
down in the dumps because this is the second time I've tried to get
a recording of Madonna, but it seems impossible.

"I'm going to step outside," Nasreen says.
"After I taste Mom's cooking, I need to check the mail, and maybe
I'll walk around the block to clear my head."

"Sure thing." When she leaves, I pull my
scrapbook from under my pillow. With scissors, glue, and staples, I
add the following items to some fresh pages:

A picture of Madonna I cut out of a
newspaper. I want to remind myself I forgot to bring her music on
this trip, which has led to a domino effect of problems.

Wahib's business card. Even though the man is
obnoxious and wanted to rip us off, I don't want to forget what I
had done. My scrapbook contains both the high and low points of my
life.

There's also a picture of a dancer in a tutu
and leggings I found in a magazine. I've been dying to dance, but I
haven't had a chance to so far. I need room, and there doesn't seem
to be any inside the basement apartment or even outdoors with the
thick crowds of New Yorkers. I also want to be on that show I saw,
but Nasreen thinks it's a bad idea. Maybe I'm just not meant to be
in the limelight.

***

"What have you seen so far?" my mom asks.

"Oh, you know, the typical places... the
Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty..." I'm lying through
my teeth. Nasreen and I are too busy finding a replacement Kulthum
tape to do any real sightseeing.

"Lucky girl to see such places."

"Yeah. The Cloisters are beautiful, and I've
lost track of the museums I've gone to." When did I become such a
liar? I've never lied this much to my mom before.

"Are you careful in the subway? You're not
going out at night, are you?"

"No." That's true, I don't go out at night,
but I'm not careful in the subway. When I'm out with Nasreen, we
check out guys, listen to our Walkmans, and sometimes read a
newspaper, unaware of our surroundings. Dad would tell me I'm a
mugger's dream.

"What are you doing now?"

"Uncle is going to take me out."

"Have fun. We love you." She smacks her lips
together in a loud kiss, and we hang up.

We're going out tonight. I'm not painting the
town red... I'm seeing more uncles.

In my family uncles, aunts, and cousins are
important parts of our lives. During my vacation time, I'm with at
least one of the clans. I've been to Los Angeles, Paris, Toronto,
and many other big cities thanks to these family members. My
parents don't believe in hotels. I've never stayed in one. We stay
with family.

It's a relief my parents aren't here with me
now. Not just because I want to be free, but also because years ago
we all actually stayed in the basement apartment... for an entire
week. Talk about uncomfortable claustrophobia. Nasreen and I shared
the bottom bunk. My brothers shared the top bunk. Mom slept on the
living room sofa, while Dad slept on the floor next to her. We were
packed like sardines in this
sarcophagus
, to borrow
Nasreen's term. At least it's just me representing the family, not
that I'm doing a great job since I ruined Uncle's tape. But tonight
he won't be looking for his tape since we're all going to Uncle
Javed's home in Queens.

Omar doesn't feel like going, though. "I
don't want to go, Baba," he pleads, his big eyes turning sad in
front of Uncle.

"All right, you don't have to go," Uncle
says. "Your sister and cousin will come with me, and you can stay
here with your mother."

"But I don't want to go either!" Nasreen
says, crossing her arms under her chest.

"You are going. I can't go there by myself.
They'll think none of you want to visit."

"We don't."

"Stop it, Nasreen. You and Asma are coming
with me."

Nasreen's jaw muscles look as taut as violin
strings. Omar gets his way, while we young ladies have to do what
the menfolk say. We go into her room to change. I don't want anyone
looking at my legs and judging me, so I switch to jeans. "You know,
a thought just came to me. Maybe this is a good opportunity to look
for tapes at Uncle Javed's place," I say.

"Hey, you're right," Nasreen says, her mood
brightening. She smiles. "Uncle Javed's cassette collection is just
as big as Dad's."

"I can't quite remember where it is," I
say.

"I know where to find it," she says. "And
it'll be easy getting there. Uncle Javed doesn't breathe down
people's necks like Dad does. If he catches us, I'll tell him I'm
interested in his collection, and he'll think I'm exploring my
roots. Dad doesn't want me looking through his music, but Javed
will be happy. My family always complains I'm listening to devil
music, so they'll be comforted by me listening to their stuff."

I laugh. My parents also think I listen to
devil music. My mom tells me that if I listen to too much radio,
it's the same as worshipping Shaitan. I don't even listen to Ozzy
or Metallica or anything like that. To my mom, excessive music
listening pulls me away from all things religious and spiritual.
Music might not be religious, but it is spiritual. I want to sing
and dance, but my parents don't allow me to try out for the
cheerleading squad or audition for the glee club after hours. I
want to see Madonna at Madison Square Garden, but I don't want my
uncle to have a heart attack and then call my parents so they can
have heart attacks too, because what if I get kidnapped or there's
a shootout or stampede or God knows what else at the concert -- as
if that really happens at every concert.

"Uncle Javed is cool," I agree. "I bet he
won't even mind if we dub an Umm Kulthum cassette if we were to
find one."

"Absolutely not. I've copied tapes there
since he has more stereo equipment than Dad does," Nasreen says.
"Okay, so my bratty brother may have gotten out of this one and I
didn't really want to go anywhere tonight, but now we have a
purpose."

"Yes, a purpose."

"We erased Kulthum, but we'll find her
again," Nasreen says, as if we lost an actual person. But
considering how people love her and she's Uncle's favorite singer,
it's like there's an actual absence in the household. And if Uncle
were to find out, he'd mourn over that cassette.

"A Kulthum we will go."

"A Kulthum we will go."

"Hi-ho, the derry-o, A Kulthum we will
go..."

"That's enough," Nasreen says, squeezing her
eyes shut. "Your voice is making my ears bleed."

"My singing isn't that bad," I say.

Nasreen snorts. Negative girl. But we'll do
something positive tonight.

Chapter Ten

I thought I was done with subway rides for
the day, but Uncle, Nasreen, and I make the journey to Queens.
Sitting on orange and yellow chairs and staring at multiple
surfaces covered in graffiti, I jostle against Nasreen and Uncle,
who reads
The New York Times
. His fingers are inky from
reading newspapers all day. News is his crack-cocaine, what with
his newspapers and shortwave radio. We've been fortunate that in
the past few evenings he's either been visiting friends or
listening to international news on his radio. Maybe he forgot about
Umm, or perhaps I overestimated how much he likes her.

"When we get home it'll be late," he says,
putting his newspaper in his lap. He smoothes his moustache and
yawns.

"Well, we don't have to be making this trip,"
Nasreen says, barely audible above the chugging wheels of the
train