Hot Pink in the City

by Medeia Sharif

  "What is it?" I ask, rubbing my eyes. "What time is it?"

  "It's seven o'clock," she whispers. "My dad is already up getting ready for work. We need to watch my family closely so we can search the apartment and get money. I'll also need my mother and Omar out of the way, but I think I have a plan."

  I remember our plans from last night and the drinking I shouldn't have done. Nasreen normally takes showers in the morning, while I take them at night. She still smells like last night's cigarette smoke.

  "You stink," I say.

  "Thanks, dragon breath. I'll jump into the shower before my dad gets there."

  She's done in ten minutes, and she's drying her hair, the blow-dryer loud in the quiet of the morning. Then she begins to paint her face, brushes and sponges in hand as she layers the war paint across her eyes.

  The silence of the morning doesn't last because rush hour is building up. I watch calves and torsos glide past me. I used to feel bitter about people-watching. I always imagined others were living better lives than me, doing funner things. I used to look at people, thinking about how they'd shop for more things compared to me -- that they laughed more, went to exciting places without relatives, and experienced things I may never go through. Now I realize I'm just as capable of having these adventures, even if they begin the wrong way -- by erasing a tape of Uncle's most beloved singer.

  I watch Auntie blow Uncle. Okay, that thought came out wrong. What I meant is that Auntie says her prayers, blowing a circle of air around and around Uncle's face. This will protect him from muggers and stabbers on his subway ride to work. If we go out today, she'll do the same to us. Blow and blow.

  "Don't forget your prayer pouch," Auntie says. She hands Uncle a triangular pouch, which looks identical to the one I saw with Nasreen days ago. It has papers inscribed with prayers sewn into it.

  "Your mom sure is religious," I say.

  "And superstitious," Nasreen says. She pulls a necklace from under her t-shirt and shows me an evil-eye bead. The evil eye. When I was a child, my mom would go on about it as if it were real. I would dream about a huge, evil-looking eye gliding across the floor to hunt me down with promises of danger and disease.

  With Uncle out of the way, we both go into the bathroom. We squeeze into it, our elbows jostling each other as we style our hair. We use so much Aqua Net spray that the bathroom reeks of its scent. The ozone layer is suffering because of us.

  My bangs are swept up into a wave, while Nasreen's hair spikes up like scissors, her favorite style. We go to the kitchen, where Omar and Auntie are eating breakfast.

  "Come eat this cheese," Auntie says. "It's so delicious. I need to buy some more soon."

  I pick up a piece of bread and put a slice of cheese on it. It tastes like Monterey Jack. Nasreen doesn't pick at the food. "Are you going shopping today?" she asks.

  "Today or tomorrow," Auntie says.

  "I'm almost out of hairspray," Nasreen says. This is true. We use a lot of it.

  "That's not important," Auntie says, patting a piece of bread with a spoonful of yogurt. "You can wait an extra day for that."

  "And I need some pens and pencils."

  "I just went to your room. You have a cup of pens on your desk."

  "Let's go to the toy store!" Omar says. Gross. His mouth is full of fruit and he's talking.

  "Whatever you like, my little fellow," Auntie says, changing her tune. "I suppose I can shop today, not tomorrow."

  I look at Nasreen but see no change in her. I'm upset for her. How horrible that Omar is the favorite child and whatever he says goes! At least Auntie will be out of the apartment soon so we can look for money.

  We watch morning news and entertainment shows in the living room, waiting for the two of them to leave. Shopping for Uncle and Auntie is different from how we shop in Miami. In Miami my parents jump into a car and ride from shopping complex to shopping complex to get things on their list. It might take a long time depending on how many stops they make and what the traffic's like.

  In New York, when I've shopped with Auntie, she walks long blocks. She bargain-shops. If another store has something for a dime cheaper, then a dime cheaper it is, and she's off to another store. She once took me clothes shopping, and it was interesting seeing how she measures things. She takes her thumb and forefinger, spread apart, and uses that length as a ruler. Her two fingers glide across clothes to measure them. I know my waist is two thumb-forefinger spans, while Nasreen's is slightly bigger by a thumbnail. After measuring clothes, my aunt inspects every inch for tears and other aberrations. Shopping with her takes forever, so I avoid doing so.

  "Would you like to come with us?" Auntie asks.

  "No," we say simultaneously. I don't want her to finger-measure any clothes and I have to be here for my first foray in thievery.

  Sitting on a sofa watching Regis and Kathie Lee, Nasreen crosses her legs, while I fold mine under myself or otherwise I'd be tapping my feet nervously. Omar walks by. He narrows his eyes.

  "What do you want?" Nasreen asks.

  "You two are up to something," he says.

  "And you aren't? All you do is spy on people."

  "Me? Spy? Something about you two is off, and I'm going to find out what it is."

  "Get out of here. Go behind your curtain, you little troll."

  He sticks his tongue out and disappears, his green curtains flapping behind him. Ever since that area was sectioned off, I've never been behind those curtains.

  "Do you think there's a chance we can open that closet and get to Omar's money?" I whisper. "It'll only be fair since some of it is ours."

  Nasreen gives me a sideways glance. "Are you crazy? If anything goes missing, he'll know we're behind it. We have a motive since he recently blackmailed us. Anyway, only Dad and the super have the key to that closet."

  My hopes regarding the coat closet and Omar's cigar box are dashed. An hour later Auntie and Omar are by the front door, dressed for their outing. She's wearing a lavender dress, and he's wearing shorts and a Spiderman t-shirt. She blows her holy wind on him and says a prayer. I realize that while she blows on everyone, no one blows on her. Who will pray for Auntie's safety?

  Omar bends down to tie a shoelace when I notice something disturbing. There are two white patches on each side of his head. Typically, on people with short hair, I notice one whorl, where the hair has a natural pattern of growth spiraling from the middle of the head. Omar doesn't have one whorl but two.

  I nudge Nasreen's ribs. "Take a look at that," I say.

  "Devil's horns," she whispers.

  My mom told me that people with two whorls represent the devil, because that's where horns grow. Here Auntie is so superstitious, taking heed of everything from the old country, but she never mentions that her own son has the markings of Satan. It doesn't surprise me. At least he'll be out of our way for a few hours and the apartment will be a demon-free zone during that time.

  ***

  "Okay, they're gone," Nasreen says, leaping off the couch. "Let's start looking. Just make sure you put things back exactly as you found them."

  "Will do."

  Nasreen is twice as fast as I am. It's her home, after all. She looks through her parent's room and living room, finding four dollars worth of loose change. I try the closet door in the front hallway to make sure it's locked, still thinking of that box of money, but Uncle hasn't left it open. Then I'm in the kitchen, putting utensils and appliances back where I found them, handling them with care since I'm afraid Auntie will notice something's awry. When I reach the last drawer, I hit pay dirt.

  There's a list, but it's in Persian. It's paper-clipped to six ten dollar bills. Sixty dollars! It's not the one hundred we're looking for, but it's something.

  "Nasreen, I found something!" I say.

  She rushes over and smiles. "This looks like an old shopping list for groceries, sewing stuff, and school supplies," she says. "I think it's from September. Mom must have forgotten about it."

  "Yeah, o
r she would have taken it with her just now."

  "According to what you say you have left over for your trip expenses and considering that Omar fleeced me, we don't have one hundred dollars, but maybe if we go back to the store in Brooklyn the guy can lower the price or we can haggle. Maybe he'll drop the price to seventy-five or eighty."

  "But what if your mom notices today or tomorrow that the money's missing?"

  "I don't think she'll notice anytime soon since it's been here awhile. Also, in a few weeks I can replenish it. Aunt Latifah is visiting from Buffalo in August, and she always gives me money when she comes down here. Also, I won't spend a dime of my allowance."

  "Still, a few weeks is a long time."

  "Not for my mom," Nasreen says. "She won't notice it missing right away. Anyway, if she sees something is gone, she blames jinn. You know, genies? She says they move stuff to cause mischief."

  My parents have warned me about jinn, that they shift things around people's homes as a prank. Shortly before I left, my mother lost her sewing kit and blamed it on them. "In that, case, let's go to Brooklyn, and I'm sure the store owner can't turn this money down," I say. "Let's go today."

  "We'll wait for Mom to come back so I can tell her we're sightseeing." She says the last word with air quotes. It's okay since I've seen all of New York's biggest sights during previous trips. Right now my mind is on the replacement tape.

  "But, maybe there is more money somewhere," I say.

  "We've checked every room. I even checked the toilet tank, because people keep things in there to hide from burglars."

  "Yuck."

  "I checked my dad's desk in the living room. Really, there's just the closet."

  "You're forgetting one place. I know you said we can't take from him, but at least we can take a peek behind Omar's curtains."

  Nasreen's eyes darken. I also feel a bit ill thinking about it. Those curtains have come to symbolize something mysterious and sinister, but I'm still curious. What's behind those curtains? What does Omar do for hours a day behind them?

  "All right," Nasreen says. "Things are so rocky between me and him that I haven't been there in months."

  "Really?" I say.

  "Yeah. Let's go though."

  Nasreen follows me. When something pokes my back, I jump up and yelp. She laughs at my fear. "Oooh, the boogeyman will get you," Nasreen howls in a spooky voice. "Boooogeyman."

  "I don't expect rainbows and butterflies, but I know we're bound to see something frightening in there."

  "You first," she says.

  "No, you," I say.

  "No... you!"

  "All right, all right, I'll go first."

  Chapter Thirteen

  The curtains are emerald green and shimmery. In my opinion, they're too good for Omar. He should be living behind flaps of burlap or something. Auntie hand-sews many things, and looking at the stitches they look like they're her work. Not that her sewing is bad or anything, but I can tell the stitches aren't from a machine. The fabric is something she probably purchased during bargain shopping, and it's good quality. She got the best for the prince of the household.

  Nasreen stands behind me, humming the theme song for Jaws. I grab the curtains and yank them apart. Nasreen stops humming to gasp. The alcove joins the living room, but it's two thirds of the width. So much stuff is crammed inside that small space. The rest of the apartment is cramped, with every inch of closet and drawer space used, but this is something else.

  There's a sofa, desk, TV, Atari, Nintendo, boom box, and dresser. I guess Omar can move around in here because he's a little kid, but when Nasreen and I step in it's a small fit.

  "How does anyone stay here for hours a day?" I ask.

  "He has everything he needs," Nasreen says, picking up a Nintendo cartridge. She studies the cover and then throws it back down with the rest of the pile on the floor. "Everything that's important to him is here. Anyway, you see how he's always going to the playground with friends. It's not like he's here all the time."

  "Still..."

  The sofa is unmade, with a blanket scrunched up and a pillow indented with the shape of Omar's head on the other end. Nasreen sits down, while I'm on my knees on the floor. She turns to the side, leaning forward to look through his dresser. There are clothes, candy, and toys in there. Everything is a disorganized mess. If Nasreen's room looked like this, Uncle and Auntie would rag on her, but Omar can get away with sloppiness.

  I sit on the carpet and see some things stacked underneath the sofa. It looks like Omar's classwork from the school year that just ended. There are math equations, grammar, As, and Bs. He seems like a good student. And based on how Uncle and Auntie treat him, he's the perfect son. Too bad he sucks as a brother and a cousin.

  I flip through the next notebook. This is different from the others. Omar hasn't labeled it with his name or a subject area. Each page has a list on it.

  Handball Teams

  Team 1: Reinaldo, Jesse, Omar, Freddy, Haider

  Team 2: Chris, Luke, Mike, Winston, Hector

  Winner: Team 1, $20

  I flip through the pages and see the same thing on each of them. Sometimes instead of "handball," I see "cards" or "basketball." The winning teams win anywhere from ten to thirty dollars, with each list having three to six players each.

  "Nasreen, check this out," I say.

  "What's this?" she asks when I put the notebook in her lap.

  "It looks like your brother is partaking in some gambling."

  "What?" She flips through the pages, her mouth forming an O.

  "It's quite lucrative," I say. "They must pool the money and then split it, and Omar is on many of the winning teams. This goes on for pages and pages. He must've been doing this for months."

  "That little shit!" Nasreen yells. "We can't even afford the tape from that asshole in Brooklyn, and one of the reasons is because we gave money to Omar to keep quiet so he doesn't tell my dad we were using his stereo, when he doesn't need the money. He's making plenty of dough! That's why he's always begging to go out to the corner playground to play with the neighborhood kids. This is why he's always asking Dad to take the cigar box out of the coat closet, because that's where he's saving his money. He must lie to Dad and say he's saving his allowance, Ramadan money, and family gifts. No, he's getting most of his money by doing this!"

  "I wouldn't doubt he's the brainchild of this operation," I say. "Your brother is greedy and has brains, although he uses his intelligence for evil."

  "Yeah. And if you notice, his friends are the ones who seek him out. If he doesn't come out, they're knocking on our door, so polite to my parents and asking them if Omar can come out and play."

  "Yes, I've noticed."

  Nasreen puts the notebook on the arm of the sofa. "We need to make a copy of this gambling diary."

  "How?" I wonder. "If we take this for photocopies, Omar will notice it's missing."

  "Go get my camera," she says. "I'll set up here."

  I know where her camera bag is. It's hanging off a nail in her closet, above the TV she's not supposed to be watching late at night. When I bring it to her, she opens it and takes out the Kodak camera. "We're ready," she says.

  It feels like we're in the secret police. This is what spies must do in Iran. I'm always hearing about police and spy activity, cloak-and-dagger stuff, torture rooms, abductions, and political intrigue. Nasreen and I don't keep up with what's going on in the old country since we're part of this new country, but we listen to our parents go on about spies and family friends who sell information. Sure, this only involves my cousin and gambling on the playground, but it still feels exciting and wrong -- in the right way since Omar deserves being found out like this. He holds things over others, so we'll hold something over him.

  Nasreen turns on the alcove light since there are no windows and the meager light from the living room doesn't reach this area. Then she stands on the couch at an awkward angle, slightly bent over, while the notebook is on the floor. She
can't do close-ups because the camera manual doesn't suggest it. I flip the page, getting out of the way as she snaps. I flip, she snaps, until we've taken a picture of many of the pages. Nasreen doesn't have enough shots for the whole book since Omar has been gambling for quite a while.

  "We're done," Nasreen says.

  "So how will we use these pictures?" I ask.

  "My parents think the world of Omar. They think he's heaven-sent. What a joke. We'll have to use these at the right time and really threaten him, or else he'll give my parents some bullshit lie that this notebook was for math class or that he was only gambling in monopoly money."

  "Yes, we'll have to be careful." He's only eight, but we're talking about him as if he's a mafia kingpin -- he's as wily as one, though.

  "My film has one last picture left."

  "Let's get someone to take our picture!" I say.

  "Good idea," Nasreen agrees. I don't want Auntie and Uncle to take any more pictures of me. I can't forget our picture-taking experience a few days ago, when I felt like I was taking mug shots rather than family pictures.

  We both step outside and approach a cute guy who's hailing a cab. When the cab zooms past him, ignoring him, we ask him to take our picture.

  "Anything for you two beautiful ladies," he says in a deep voice. He has a sexy radio voice. I've heard the joke that people with a radio voice have a face for radio, but he's an exception to this belief.

  I giggle and Nasreen smiles, putting her guard down. She hands him her camera. We put our arms around each other, my lime-green shoulder against her black shirt, and my straight hair against her prickly spikes. We smush our cheeks together and smile wide. Auntie and Uncle would disapprove of this pose, calling it childish and improper, but they're not here.

  Click.

  ***

  The guy is gorgeous. He has thick, black lashes, cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, and muscles straining against his sleeves. He chats after he takes our picture. He tells us he's a student at NYU studying archeology. Ooh, an older man. Nasreen and I are glued to the sidewalk. When another cab comes his way, he manages to get it. "Sorry, ladies, but I'm late for an appointment," he says. "Thanks for keeping me company."