Hot Pink in the City

by Medeia Sharif

"I know, play some Fereydoun Farrokhzad!" Nasreen squeaks.

  "No, no, I want to hear Umm Kulthum," Uncle protests. "All day long I've thought about listening to 'Ya Zalemni,' my favorite song of hers." The shelf of cassettes, records, and 8-track cassettes is Uncle's world, his old world, him bringing his country to this new one. I was born here and have never been in the Middle East, but when I listen to my parents' songs, images of mountains, rivers, hills, deserts, men in turbans, and women in headscarves come to mind. That music conjures up an exotic place that's part of me, a place I don't completely know about. I'm sure the music must mean even more to Uncle since he grew up there. And I ruined a slice of the old country because I was dying to have Madonna songs. It's up to me to fix this, to distract him so he drops this idea of hearing Umm.

  "Where is that tape?" he asks. "I cannot find it!"

  "I have my camera with me," I say. "Why don't we take some pictures? My parents asked me to take pictures of all of you, and I don't want to leave it for the last minute."

  "Yes, it's picture time," Auntie gushes with a smile. "Go get your camera."

  That was close, and I'm glad I caught my aunt's attention. Her enthusiasm spreads to Uncle. I get my camera from my purse and bring it. The problem is that Uncle and Auntie believe in being stiff in pictures. Uncle wants to take a picture of Nasreen and me, and he tells us to sit with our hands in our laps. Since when do I sit like that? Auntie lifts my hair so that some of it hits my shoulders. She licks her finger and takes a swipe of Nasreen's eye shadow that has smeared under her eyes. When she gets out of our way, Uncle snaps a picture of us like that.

  This is so uncomfortable, but this is how they take pictures here. Nasreen has shown me family albums before, and it's like looking through pages and pages of mummies. Everyone is standing straight, arms at their sides, or sitting down with their hands in their laps. Everyone faces forward, with no profiles or semiprofiles to be seen. I love it when I'm with my friends and we take pictures, because I jump up, stick my tongue out, and put my arms around people, and my face can be seen at all types of angles. Uncle and Auntie are against lively pictures for some reason.

  "Now Nasreen will take a picture of Asma and us," Auntie says.

  I stand by the window, against the radiator, and Uncle and Auntie sandwich me. They have their arms at their sides as if they're in the military. I make a move to put my arms around them. "No, no," Auntie says. "Stay still and look at the camera."

  I put my arms down, feeling awkward and unnatural. These pictures are going to look horrible. We take turns snapping pictures so that I get to sit or stand -- like a mummy -- with all my relatives, except Omar who's still out. Auntie made me promise to leave some film for him. With my camera back in its bag, I sit down. I sigh in relief, from both having the picture-taking ordeal out of the way and from Uncle being distracted from his request to hear Umm. I was wrong about that, though.

  He's back to the shelves looking for the tape. "I could have sworn I put the tape in this box."

  What more can I do? We just spent a half hour taking pictures, with Auntie and Uncle fussing over me on how to pose. I have to do something else.

  "Owww!" I howl, grabbing my head with both hands. My fingers clutch sticky tendrils of hair covered in Aqua Net. "Owwwwwww!"

  "What's wrong?" Uncle asks.

  "What's going on?" Auntie asks.

  "I think I have a migraine," I say. I cradle my head in both hands, my eyes squeezed shut. "It hurts so much."

  "Get some aspirin," Uncle orders Auntie.

  "That'll help, but I need some peace and quiet," I say, lowering my voice, because it pains me to hear any type of loud sound. I'm pretending and hating myself for doing so, but I'll do anything to get Uncle's mind off Umm Kulthum.

  "Lie down," Auntie says. She grabs me by the arm and leads me to Nasreen's bedroom as if I'm an invalid. She pushes me by the small of my back up the bunk bed. I close my eyes, but then open them when Auntie hands me a glass of water and aspirin. Sitting up, I swipe my hand over my mouth and drink the water. The aspirin is tightly stuck in the folds of my palm. I'll save it for when I have a real headache.

  Lights are turned off, voices are hushed, and everyone is quiet because of me. "No, no, don't go in there right now," Auntie tells Nasreen. "Go there when you're ready to sleep. And you don't play any music to disturb your niece." I'd love to talk to Nasreen right now, but Auntie is keeping her away from me because of my faux illness. I'll talk to her when I'm feeling better in a few hours. I'd also like to brush my teeth and wash the thick makeup off my face. I can't pretend I'm ill every single night whenever Uncle mentions he has a yen to hear Umm. I need to find a replacement tape, and fast.

  Chapter Six

  I wake up in the middle of the night in a sweat with a loud voice pounding into my head. My heart jumps in my throat, and then I remember where I am. I'm in Uncle's basement apartment, which I used to think was cool, but now I perceive it as freakish and deathly. Disoriented, I sit up, high above the floor since I'm on the top level of the bunk bed, yet I'm looking straight through a window, where the curtains have opened, probably from the movements of my tossing and turning. Between the exterior bars of the window and the iron fence that's a barrier between the stairway and the street, I see people's headless bodies float by. A woman talks into a payphone, which is right outside the window. Payphone users have disturbed my sleep during previous visits.

  "I have no money for a taxi!" the woman screams.

  I'm not the only one with money problems, I see.

  Memories of what I've done hit me hard. The tape. Omar's greedy hands reaching out for money. My mom thinking everything's okay when clearly I messed up on arrival. What am I going to do?

  I scoot closer to the window and part the curtains some more. It's past midnight, but people are still out, walking, alone or with others, in sneakers, in pumps, in sandals. Someone walks by with a boom box blaring, the large eyes of the speaker meeting my own eyes. Angling my head to look down the street, I see lights of restaurants and bars that are still open. It's hard finding places in Miami that are open this late, but in New York anything's possible. That's what I need to believe: the possibilities that lie in this city and how anything can be fixed. I'm in a big city, not my hokey little suburb in Miami. Somewhere in Manhattan there has to be another Umm Kulthum tape I can purchase to replace the one I destroyed.

  A huge moth the size of a cockroach lands on the window, and I have to stifle a scream. Insects scare the crap out of me. I pull the curtains together and lie back down, feeling a little bit better. I dip my head underneath my upper tier to check on Nasreen. She's curled up in a ball. I'm about to lie back down again, but then her eyes fly wide open, the whites bright and illuminated by a nightlight. I jump, gripping the sides of my mattress. "What are you doing up?" I ask.

  "What are you doing up, young lady?" she counters.

  "I can't sleep."

  "Neither can I. So what shall we do about this sleeplessness?"

  "I don't know." I shrug. "Can we watch TV?"

  "Not unless you want the Wizard of Oz snitching to my parents," Nasreen whispers.

  I chuckle, but not too loud. Uncle is the noise Nazi, and Omar hides behind his curtain like a fascist tyrant. Even though he's in the alcove, I wouldn't be surprised if he's up at this time to watch us.

  "If you want to watch TV, it has to be my way," she says.

  "What way is that?" I ask.

  "Come to my lair..."

  I climb down, intrigued. I didn't know Nasreen had a lair. The apartment isn't that big, so I wonder where she'll take me to watch TV. Omar dominates the living room, since he has his curtained nook there, and the kitchen and dining area are too close to the master bedroom, where Auntie and Uncle are.

  Expecting Nasreen to take me somewhere, she instead opens her closet. It's a large closet or maybe a small walk-in. She invites me into the darkness. Inside, she pulls a lightbulb chain that illuminates us and puts a towel at the
bottom of the door. "We can't have any light escape," she says.

  Whoa, she's really against having Uncle find out what she does. What parents don't understand is that their children have secret selves, secret lives. My parents would never believe what I paste in my scrapbook, the thoughts in my head, my dreams of being a famous singer and dancer, and the boys who woo me in my daydreams. Now Nasreen is showing me another side to her, but I'm still confused. "Why are we here?" I ask.

  "Sit down," she says. She sits on the floor, and I follow suit, crossing my legs. I notice the walls, which have crayon drawings all over them. Looking at the doodles Nasreen did as a child, I feel like I'm studying prehistoric man. She drew the sun and moon, and people with circles, triangles, and squares for heads.

  "I didn't know you were an artist," I say.

  "Trust me that I received punishment for my artwork as a kid," she says. "My parents were horrified that I did this in my closet. I even drew on the living room and kitchen walls."

  I smile, thinking about a rebellious little Nasreen. I position my limbs the best I can. I'm feeling cramped with our bodies hitting the wall and door. Nasreen already pushed hangers to the side, but her clothes still brush the back of my head. The light overhead is dim, and, as my eyes adjust, Nasreen takes a pile of clothes and throws them aside to reveal a small, six-inch TV. "One of our neighbors left this outside the garbage chute, and one day after school I rescued it. Dad doesn't know I have it. This is how I watch TV late at night, but I keep the sound low so no one can hear it."

  One cousin lives behind a curtain and another in a closet. Interesting. And it's kind of scary how Uncle is so controlling. Even my parents don't complain if I stay up late to watch TV or listen to my Walkman. They admonish me that I should go to bed early so I can wake early, but they don't make a big deal if I go to sleep at one or two in the morning. As I inhale the scent of stale perfume and mothballs, taking in this odd room within a room that Nasreen hides in, she turns the black-and-white TV on, adjusts the rabbit ears, and tunes in to a syndicated sitcom. Three's Company segues into Too Close for Comfort. Those shows are all the same to me with their canned laughter and repeated storylines, but I actually laugh, but not too loud. We can't get loud at all.

  "I haven't told any of my friends I watch TV or read in this closet," Nasreen whispers, her pajama bottoms rubbing against mine. "You better not breathe a word."

  "Of course not. And who'd believe me?" We're in a different level in this basement apartment, and I'm touched Nasreen has shown me her sanctum.

  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.