Hot Pink in the City

by Medeia Sharif

  Hot Pink in the City

  By Medeia Sharif

  Copyright 2015 by Medeia Sharif

  Smashwords Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Torquere Press Publishers

  P.O. Box 37, Waldo, AR 71770.

  Hot Pink in the City by Medeia Sharif Copyright 2015

  Cover illustration by BSClay

  Published with permission

  www.torquerepress.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61040-955-1

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press. LLC, P.O. Box 37, Waldo, AR 71770

  First Torquere Press Printing: August 2015

  Hot Pink in the City

  by Medeia Sharif

  Chapter One

  People are being snatched right off the street. You'll be dragged into vans and alleyways.

  Everyone is doing drugs, but not my children.

  Don't go out alone. Always take someone with you, and never at night.

  Waiting for this plane to take off, my parents' words stick in my head. News headlines run through my mind. But I'm not with my parents, and there's no TV in front of me. I'm on my own, and I have to entertain myself. My purse is in my lap with my smorgasbord of stuff. I take out my illicit makeup bag. Makeup isn't for me. I'm a tomboy and my parents don't allow me to wear it in public, yet I'm ready to be girly.

  I pull out a compact and paint my face with blue and lavender eye shadow, hot pink cheeks, and fuchsia lips. Smiling, I like the shape of my colored lips. I pull at my sleeves so that both shoulders become bare, although I'm wearing a tank top underneath my shirt. For the last three years I've dressed like a boy, wearing shirts, shorts, and jeans. I'm the soccer star in the school and local papers for all the goals I make. My hair is always up with a scrunchie or banana clip, but I'm ready for a change. On this plane ride, I'll become a woman. I want to look like Kelly LeBrock, as if I stepped right out of a Pantene commercial. With the way I'm dressed I'd shock my best friends, Misty and Tamara. They wouldn't believe it. Maybe I'll take a picture for them later.

  I pull my scrunchie off so my straight hair tumbles down my shoulders. I have the clothes and makeup, but there's one more thing I need to be free, to be me, to be a woman. Where is it? I stick both hands inside the bowels of my purse to look.

  "It's not here," I whisper. "Where is it?"

  I don't care that I'm talking to myself and that people might look. The long fringes of my denim purse brush against my knees as I look for my Madonna mixtape. It has to be here. I only spent three hours making that tape, figuring out how to use my brother's new boom box with dual cassette players, with my mom yelling at me because she said the music was too loud. All that work for nothing when I can't listen to my favorite singer during this plane ride.

  Our plane is filling up. I look up to see people shoving things in overhead compartments. I check out guys to distract my frazzled mind in hopes of quelling my panic over the missing tape. Blonds, brunets, green eyes, and hazel eyes walk past me. A screaming child hurts my ears.

  But with the bad comes the good. After the child disappears to the back of the plane, a hunk with ripped muscles underneath a tight tank top, tawny skin the color of sweet caramel, and black hair with a braid across his shoulder reaches up to put his baggage away. Then he sits right next to me. I try not to stare, but it's hard when he's also checking me out.

  "Hi," I say.

  "Hello," he says.

  His breath smells like peppermint, and his bulging arms remind me of ripe fruit that I want to take a bite of. Oh, and he looks like John Stamos. I never miss ABC's Friday night lineup because of him. As a soccer star, I get to ogle the boys' soccer team, the track team, the football team, and other boys at practice, admiring them from afar. My mom picks me up after practice or after a game, so it's not like I get a chance to talk to any of these boys, but here is one right in front of me.

  "I'm Abe, short for Ibrahim," he says.

  "I'm Asma," I say.

  His name intrigues me. It sounds Middle Eastern. Other than relatives and family friends, I don't come by too many Middle Eastern people.

  "I live in Miami, not too far from the airport," I say.

  "I'm in North Miami."

  We talk about what high schools we go to. He plays basketball and I play soccer. It's like a marriage of sports teams. The two of us had no knowledge of each other's existence in Miami, but we're headed to New York together. Maybe I can see him when I'm there, which will be hard since I'm going to visit family, and my uncle and aunt are as overprotective as my parents are.

  "Excuse me, young man, but that's my seat," someone hovering over us says.

  We both look up at a behemoth of a man, a John Candy look-alike who glowers down at us. "I'm 11-B," he says.

  Abe lifts up his pelvis to reach the back pocket of his jeans -- yes, I'm noticing his every move -- and pulls out his boarding pass. "I'm sorry, I am in the wrong seat," he says. He gets up, pulling away from me, and retrieves his duffel bag. As he moves along with the tide of latecomers finding seats, he turns around to say something, but I can't hear him. I believe he said, "Talk to you later." I hope so.

  An hour later, I use the restroom but don't see Abe on my way there, although some creepy guy can't keep his eyes off me. I scurry away from him. When I'm back in my seat, we hit some turbulence. My heartbeat quickens, but not just because of the shaking airplane. I'm traveling from Miami to New York to stay with my uncle and his family for two and a half weeks and I don't have any Madonna to listen to. "Who's That Girl," "Like a Virgin," and "Dress You Up" play in my head, the tunes almost right in my mind since I know the lyrics by heart. Also they match the feelings I have for this boy I just met. But hearing the songs in my head isn't the same. I want to be able to stick a cassette in my Walkman and press Play. Her music makes me want to dance, see the world, and experience things. Inside of this cramped plane, my energy can't go anywhere.

  Digging into my purse again, I find something to occupy my time: my scrapbook. I've kept it since sixth grade and I've put mementoes of all the important things that have happened to me inside it. There are letters from pen pals, pictures of me in local newspapers for high school soccer news, report cards, honor roll certificates, goofy pictures of my friends Tamara and Misty, and plenty of boys from my favorite shows and TV movies... and of course there's John Stamos.

  With this summer in the greatest -- and most dangerous -- city in the world, I expect to add more to my scrapbook. I start now, though. There's glue and a stapler in my purse, because as a scrapbooker I have materials on hand. Taking my boarding pass, I glue it on a fresh sheet of paper. The book is thick, and wrinkly where I used too much glue. Still, this book is my life. I hope to fill it with many exciting things. My life has been plain, uneventful. I go to school and play soccer, day in and day out. A change is needed. This trip will give me one.

  ***

  We land and people clap, which annoys me, because what did they think? That we would crash? I've been to New York before, but this time there's a difference. It's summer vacation, and my parents have sent me all by myself. They started doing that with my older brothers, sending them by themselves to visit relatives, which to them is safer than sending them to summer camp and cheaper than going all together as a family. My parents wanted to come to New York, but they need to save mone
y for a new car. I begged them for a New York trip and my uncle wanted them to come, so my parents sent me to represent the family. Also, I'm old enough to travel by myself at sixteen. I will be the spokesperson for the Bashir family. It's so totally awesome that I'm on my own. I even feel closer to Madonna, since she lives in New York, not that it's likely I'll bump into her or anything.

  My parents taught me to be afraid of the world. One wrong turn -- being at the wrong place at the wrong time -- can lead to death and destruction. Just standing by myself at the airport makes me nervous, which overrides the delicious freedom I have before me. I find my luggage and in the distance are the polar opposites, the creepy, oily guy who had been staring at me on the plane and Abe. The creepy guy looks like he's in a hurry, maybe to stalk a girl or something. I'm glad he's leaving. On the other hand, Abe is taking his time slinging his duffel bag across his shoulder and lifting another piece of luggage. I'm thrilled to see him. If I don't know where I'm at, I tend to follow others. Instead of reading the Exit signs, I follow Abe. His eyes don't catch mine, so he must not have any idea I'm behind him. His cute butt goes bump, bump, bump. Next to getting away with makeup and skimpy clothes -- but not going overboard, because Uncle may complain and call my parents -- maybe I can have a summer fling. I've never had one of those before. I've never experienced any sort of romance, period.

  Abe is becoming more distant, and jeaned buttocks are blurring together. Too many people are wearing denim. I've lost him! "Asma!" someone yells. Does Abe remember my name? Of course, he must. It's only been a few hours since we've spoken before we took off.

  "Asma!"

  Oh, it's my uncle. Not Abe, the Uncle Jesse-John Stamos look-alike, but my uncle-uncle. Uncle Farhad waves at me. His handlebar moustache looks ancient, seventies style when we're in the eighties. Even his polyester pants and plaid shirt look outdated. He needs to get with the times.

  I walk to him, giving him a hug and kiss. His moustache tickles and abrades my cheek before he darts his hands behind me to get my luggage. So far, so good. He hasn't said anything about my altered appearance.

  Uncle lifts my suitcase while I carry my duffel bag towards an Exit sign. Next thing, we're on a bus headed to Manhattan. I can't wait to call and write to Misty and Tamara. I told them I'd keep in touch with them during my stay here. They didn't seem thrilled that I was leaving, probably because they're going to miss me. Misty sort of dug into me before I left by saying, "New York isn't for a homebody like you." I know I don't go out much, unless it's for soccer games, but of course I'm not going to be a homebody during vacation.

  I could stare out of the window forever, at all the New Yorkers and their dwellings... but my mind drifts to Madonna. I look through my purse again, but then it dawns on me that I changed purses last minute, picking a larger one, and I must not have emptied my other one out completely!

  The mixtape has all my favorite songs. I don't have the money to purchase several brand new tapes. It'll be hard to glue myself to the radio to hear Madonna since Uncle is a despot when it comes to noise. He doesn't let my cousin, Nasreen, play the radio. She only plays it when he's gone. How am I going to live without Madonna? There's Cyndi Lauper, Lisa Lisa, Taylor Dayne, and some other favorites in my purse, but nothing beats Madonna. It's her sound, her chameleon hair and makeup, and the most rad costumes I've ever seen on anybody that beats out everyone else. I have no problem being me, but if I were to choose someone else's life I would want to be her. When I zone out in class I pretend I'm wearing a bustier and leggings.

  "You look sad," Uncle says at a subway station, where we'll take a train for the rest of our journey.

  I zip my purse closed and then fiddle with my neon bracelets. "I forgot to pack something," I say.

  "Your aunt and I will provide," he says. "Don't worry about anything." His slight accent and deep voice are no comfort.

  After numerous stops, which involves me studying people and the advertisements above my head, we're in the city of cities, the borough of boroughs. My worries over the lost tape and lost hunk vanish. The city calls to me and I'm answering. And whereas I live in the middle of nowhere in my Miami suburb, where I have to be driven or take a bus somewhere to do anything, New York has everything within reach. I'm sure I'll come across more than one record store. Then I can buy myself some Madonna. My parents gave me money for this trip; not enough for my liking, but they gave me some spending money. I won't waste anything on clothes or snacks. Madonna is worth a little bit of discomfort, and I shall have her music on this trip.

  Chapter Two

  Uncle lives in a basement apartment. We don't have basements or a subway system in Florida on account of the high water table -- there's the stale joke my science teachers repeat about how if Florida were to be cut off from the rest of the states it would float away. I'm going to share a room with my cousin, Nasreen. She has a bunk bed, and since she's afraid of heights I always get the top bunk when I'm here. I get to watch people's torsos as they walk past the barred window.

  A short flight of steps leads to a heavy metallic door. Inside I smell onions, garlic, and a whiff of walnuts. The first thing I see is a coat closet, and nailed to it is a framed collage of Egyptian singer Umm Kulthum. There are four pictures of her inside the frame. Uncle has several of these collage shrines around the apartment. I'm not the only one obsessed with a particular singer.

  Everyone rushes to greet me with salaams. Cousin Nasreen is dressed in black, which is nothing new. She's into The Cure and channeling Robert Smith -- I must look like Rainbow Brite next to her. Her eyeliner is heavy, which gives me hope that Uncle's home is a makeup-friendly place, so I can wear it for the next few weeks.

  Nasreen's raccoon eyes brighten up, and she smothers me in a hug. Aunt Fatima's housedress flutters around her chubby legs. She greets me with kisses on both cheeks and a hug that squeezes the air out of me. Next is Cousin Omar. His dusky skin, large eyes, and long lashes face me. I want to hug him, even though I don't have the best history with him. The hug never happens. Instead of greeting me properly, the first thing that comes out of his mouth is, "What did you get me?"

  If that were to happen in my house, he would receive a slap, but Uncle and Auntie are quite lax with him. "Don't be hasty," Uncle says in Farsi.

  "Silly boy," Auntie chides.

  Nasreen rolls her eyes.

  "Baba, I want my presents."

  I give Omar a nervous laugh, but I don't hand him his presents yet. Whenever I travel, my mother makes sure our suitcases are as heavy as bricks since she weighs them down with gifts for the family. I'm carrying jewelry, clothes, candies, and an assortment of things, but Omar can wait. He can play with his Atari or Transformers. Until I hand him his presents, he can bask in the glory of being the only boy in the family, which he's already been doing in his eight years of existence.

  "Nasreen, take Asma to your room so she can rest after her flight," Auntie says.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. I love my family and I'm grateful they're letting me stay here for a while, but being in this apartment is not much different from being at home. There are rules. Auntie is a housewife, like my mother. Uncle is unsmiling, same as my father. The only difference is my brothers are far more civilized than Omar. Behind the closed door of Nasreen's bedroom, I hear Omar run around, causing the floor to rumble. It's good that no one lives under them.

  I leave my suitcase and duffel bag closed. Instead of unpacking right away, I jump to the top tier of the bunk bed. Omar used to sleep here, but he was complaining that Nasreen bothered him -- yeah, right -- and Auntie added a curtain to the family room alcove so he could have his own space. For all the tattling Omar does, one good thing came out of it. Nasreen has some privacy, with the exception of me being here now.

  The room is so small that when I look down, I can see the top of Nasreen's inky black head as she sits at her desk, which looks like a card table with a tablecloth thrown on it. Piled on top of her desk are ripped-open envelopes. I see that the se
nders are all colleges and universities.

  "Oh, you're shopping around for colleges since you'll be a senior soon," I say. That's totally responsible and ambitious of her. I have two more years to go, but have no clue what I'll be doing after high school. "Do you have your heart set on anyplace?"

  Nasreen looks up, her eyes pitch-black in a pale face. She takes after Auntie, who's ghostly pale, while Omar and Uncle are tanned. Her stiff, hair-sprayed hair points up in spikes, as if multiple scissors are protruding from her head. "Like my parents are really going to let me go to the schools I want," she huffs.

  "What do you mean?" I ask.

  She shakes her head, her eyes brimming with tears. "I want to leave New York, go to Boston or Chicago or maybe even California, but Mom and Dad want me chained by their side. They want me to go to college here and live with them until I finish a degree program. But I want to travel and get out of this basement apartment."

  "I like it here, but I can see how it's stifling."

  "That's the right word for it. This is the only home I know, and it's like living in a sarcophagus. Dad doesn't even want to move because he's happy with how much he pays for rent, but we've been here since the seventies. In a few years, when it's 1990, I don't want to be here. I don't want to spend another decade in this apartment!"

  "Aw, I'm sorry, Nasreen. I know how you feel. I don't want to live with my parents when I hit eighteen. I also want to see the world and do... things."

  "They think I'll turn American and stuff. It's not like all Americans drink and do drugs. Anyway, we are in America. I wish they would get with the times."

  My parents are the same. They're afraid I'll become too Amriki. They're always eyeballing my clothes, even the shorts and jeans I like to wear, and giving me the first degree about my friends and whereabouts. "I hope they see things your way."

  "Well, I've talked until I'm blue in the face. I don't see them changing."