Hot Pink in the City

by Medeia Sharif

  When he's inside the cab, he blows me a kiss. Or does he blow Nasreen a kiss? "My heart is melting," I say.

  "We have to go back," Nasreen says, looking at her Swatch.

  I look at my own Swatch, and I'm startled by the time. It really flies by when you're snooping and doing things you're not supposed to be doing.

  We get back inside. Nasreen puts her camera bag away. I put the notebooks back under the sofa the way I found them, or how I remember I found them. Math, science, and English... then the gambling notebook at the very bottom. Nasreen had disturbed some of Omar's toys, so she sets Transformers and Gobots upright.

  We step out of the alcove. I put my hands back on the curtains to draw them shut. There's a problem. The right side is snagging against the curtain rod. I pull, but it won't budge.

  "What's wrong?" Nasreen asks, joining me in the yanking.

  "I don't know," I say.

  "Hurry up." Her efforts are also futile, because the curtain panel refuses to be drawn shut.

  Then we hear the jingle of keys as someone opens the door. This can't be happening, not when we've done our best to cover our tracks.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Here's another difference between New York and Miami: the complexity of key chains. I have one key for my front door, but Uncle and Auntie have multiple keys.

  They have the key to the lobby to get their mail and throw garbage down a chute, a key to their mailbox, and three keys for the front door. Omar's voice booms behind the door. "Come on, Mom! I need to pee."

  The second lock twists open. Nasreen pulls her father's desk chair to her, hops onto it, and lifts the curtain to unsnag it from the bump in the rod.

  "Help me," she says.

  I pull and it moves. The curtains are closed! Nasreen shoves the chair back to her father's work area, where books and bills are in piles. Then we throw ourselves onto the sofa, as if everything's normal. We're two cousins who spent the morning chatting.

  Auntie's working on the third lock. I'm breathless but force myself to slow down my breathing. Three seconds inhale, three seconds exhale. Omar rushes past me to the bathroom, and Auntie comes in, putting paper and plastic bags on the kitchen counter.

  Nasreen and I help Auntie put things away. Omar saunters out of the bathroom and heads to the bags that contain new toys. He's truly a prince, getting everything he wants at home and then handling an underground economy at the yard where he plays with his friends.

  My cousin goes to her room to look through brochures of colleges her parents won't let her attend. I continue sitting on the sofa, pondering my dilemmas: I want to go to the Madonna concert, but the more pressing issue is replacing the Kulthum tape. Omar hums a happy tune as he walks through his curtains, disappearing into his haven of toys and games.

  Since we've put everything away, Auntie wipes the windows; phase one of her housekeeping. When she pulls the curtains open, I'm back to seeing people's legs and torsos cut through the air in a headless world. It adds to the Bizarro quality of my summer vacation.

  Auntie has a spray bottle and a towel in hand. I ask her if she needs help. "No, no, you relax," she says.

  "Hmmm, that spray smells interesting," I say. It smells sharp, but not like the chemicals I normally detect in household cleaners.

  "I mixed it myself," Auntie says, huffing and puffing after her arms get a workout. She puts her hand down, the towel drooping from her fingertips. "It saves money. Anyway, your auntie was once a chemist."

  "You were a chemist?" I gasp.

  "Yes." She nods. "I have my degree in chemistry and I worked in a lab before I got married."

  We look at each other, and I'm falling into confusion and disbelief. Auntie has a science degree? I assumed she was a simple village girl, uneducated, forever destined to be a housewife... but I'm wrong.

  Auntie breaks away from my stare and continues to clean. "But I'd rather be here doing this," she says. "This is my home, this is my life. It was exciting going to college and working, but marriage changed me."

  "I don't think Nasreen wants to be a housewife," I say. "Or maybe not in the near future."

  "I know she wants to leave us," she says. "That's what young people want to do. But I can't let her go that easily, and I want to look out for her safety."

  So Auntie had a life, an education, and even a career before she got married. Why doesn't she want the same for her daughter? Why can't Nasreen experience freedom, explore college options and such? I see a chink in the family's armor. Maybe I can persuade Auntie to let Nasreen go to the college of her choice, which will then sway Uncle. I just need to think of how to do this since it won't be easy.

  ***

  Nasreen wants to be super careful with the money. She wears her purse strap across her chest and then throws a denim vest over it. "I've never been mugged, and I want it to stay that way," she says. "We can't lose this money. Let's go."

  "I'll cross my fingers that this guy will lower the price."

  Auntie blows on us. Spittle lands on my cheeks and nose, which happens sometimes. My parents' voices echo in my head -- I shouldn't travel far from Manhattan, be careful in the subway, and don't talk to strangers. But I will talk to strangers: those sleazy men at the Brooklyn store, Wahib and Tahir. I don't like how Tahir looks at me, and Wahib wants to rob us for a tape from his personal collection.

  "Hey, can you check the mail and see if there's anything for me?" I ask.

  "Sure," Nasreen says. I step inside the lobby with her. Inside there are rows of copper-colored mailboxes with air holes. It's sort of like being in a sci-fi movie, as if these mailboxes contain electronics or maybe alien pods. The mailboxes in Miami, lined up one per house, are so humdrum compared to these. The lobby has a lived-in, comfy smell, like my favorite leather jacket. Nasreen checks the mail, but there are two bills and some junk mail that she leaves inside for her dad.

  "Nothing for me?" I ask.

  "No." She shakes her head.

  "Shoot!"

  "Did you expect something from close friends?'

  "Yes, or I thought they were close."

  "I'm sure they have their own summer plans. You'll catch up with them later."

  But they're both at home with no special plans, or so they told me. Tamara and Misty promised they would write to me. I feel jilted and ignored, but I squash down these unpleasant emotions. I'm in the greatest city on the planet, even though I messed up my trip with the Kulthum tape. Once we find a replacement, I'll really enjoy this trip and see what I want to see.

  After my disappointment over the mail, we're out on the street. Long train rides ensue, made longer by the first train being stuck in a tunnel for ten minutes. I brought a Harlequin romance book with me, a thin paperback that fits into my purse, and Nasreen has her Walkman, but all we do is end up talking to each other. On our last transfer, we voice our concerns about the tape and the store manager.

  "You need to be tough," Nasreen says. "They're going to try to trick us, raise the price, but we need to haggle. Don't let on that we're desperate for the tape, and don't be too nice. They already know we want the tape, but we need to be cooler about it. And you have 'tourist' written all over you. You're too polite and wide-eyed, taking everything in as if you've never been to the big city before."

  "That's not true," I say.

  "Look, I'm just telling you what I've noticed."

  "Okay."

  "Okay is not good enough! I'm serious, Asma. You have that open look in your eyes when you need to be guarded. Don't slip and get emotional, because you can't be like that around these people. Trust me that those two men are vultures, ogling us and wanting a ton of money for a tape."

  "Okay."

  "Ugh! Stop saying okay. You're not making me feel better. I hope you don't mess up."

  I don't know why Nasreen thinks I'm going to mess up. Sure I live in the suburbs, have straight As, hang out with other straight-A students, and most of my friends are from my soccer team. All this does shelter me from a
ll the bad kids. I may never have cut class or gone all the way with a boy, but I know there's something inside of me that's street smart and hip. I just wish that side came out of me. I saw an inkling of my wild side when I gussied myself up on the plane ride and talked to Abe, but that's just appearances and a bit of flirtation. I think about Madonna strutting around in the "Papa Don't Preach" video. Her attitude shines through her every motion. I want attitude. I pull my chin up to practice being bad. I give a dirty look to a model in a subway poster. She's advertising a popular perfume. Someone spray-painted nipples on her dress, the black points like eyes, and there's also a red moustache on her.

  "What's wrong with your face?" Nasreen asks. "You look like you ate something sour."

  I stop trying to look tough. I can't be snappy and snazzy like my favorite idols.

  We're here. I don't know my way around Brooklyn since I don't spend much time in that borough, but I remember the way from our previous trip. Straight down and make a right. We're at the store.

  "Remember, keep your cool," Nasreen says, her hand on the door. "We can't get nervous."

  "Excuse me!" a man says, opening the door and almost knocking us down. He pulls his baseball cap down, ducks his face into the collar of his shirt, and holds a brown paper bag tightly to his chest. The rectangular shape makes it obvious it's a videotape.

  "Jerk," Nasreen says. "Come on."

  Inside the store, the curtain in the back of the store sways. Another man departs. He's tall and lanky, as well as sweaty and creepy. He smiles at us. Like the guy who bumped into us, he has a paper bag in his hand with a rectangular lump inside.

  "I thought there was an office behind those curtains," Nasreen whispers to me.

  "I thought so too," I whisper back. "Maybe they do some of their business there."

  "Hmmm."

  The tall guy leaves, but not before he undresses us with his eyes. They rake over my body in slow motion, as if he's taking off each article of my clothing one by one.

  "Okay, I feel naked," Nasreen says.

  "Let's be fast and get out of here. This place is full of creeps."

  "Hello there!" Wahib says. Closely behind him is his brother, Tahir. Their big bellies emerge first from the curtains, followed by their ridiculous comb-overs.

  "Hello," we say.

  "Ah, you two are back, Shireen and Isma," he says, which jogs my memory that we gave him fake names. "Are you here for the Umm Kulthum tape?"

  "We're wondering if we can strike a deal," Nasreen says.

  "I like to stick to my prices, but I don't mind giving a discount now and then. The thing is, it's the only Umm Kulthum tape I have, and I already told you why it's hard for me to part with it. It's not part of the store inventory. This is my tape. Weeks ago I had several of her tapes on the shelves, but they went quickly. It's going to take me a while to get more."

  But we don't have a while to get a replacement tape! He doesn't have to be such a jerk because he has this one tape. "Then there shouldn't be a problem if more are coming in," I say.

  "But I don't know exactly when," he says. "So for the one I have, it's still one hundred."

  "Fifty," Nasreen says.

  "One hundred," he says with a smile.

  "Fifty-five."

  "One hundred." His smile is unwavering.

  "Sixty."

  "One hundred." The smile plastered on his face fills me with unease.

  "Sixty-five."

  "Listen, how about a real deal?"

  "What do you mean?" I say.

  "How old are you two?" he asks.

  "Seventeen," I say.

  "Eighteen," Nasreen says at the same time. We each made ourselves a year older.

  "Interesting," he says. I don't like the sound of this. Anytime a man asks me how old I am, it's never any good. I recall icky men at the mall, at stores, all over the place asking about age. Usually I just walk away, but I feel enclosed in this store, needing something from this man. "How old are you?" men wonder about young girls. "Are you legal?" they're really asking.

  "Then you're of age," he says, nodding in Nasreen's direction. Then he looks at me. "Well, you're almost of age." He points to me, the younger one, the seventeen-year-old who's really sixteen.

  "Of age for what?" I say, my voice becoming squeaky. Damn, what street-smart person has a squeaky voice? I deepen my voice and ask, "Why is my age important when all we want is this tape?"

  "We want something from you," Wahib says. Not only is he the store manager, but he's the big talker of the two. Tahir smiles and rubs his mustache.

  "What do you want?" Nasreen asks.

  "We want her," Tahir says, breaking his silence, pointing at me. "We want her..."

  Chapter Fifteen

  "Yes, I want her," Tahir repeats.

  There are times when life seems surreal and I wonder if I'm dreaming. Or maybe I'm psychotic and imagining things. Am I really in a store that smells like hair gel -- for the brothers' comb-overs, I assume? Am I truly facing two strange men in a small store off the beaten path, away from any major landmarks when I'm in the most exciting city on the planet? I must have entered a parallel universe or something. I know... I must be on Candid Camera. But the store is so small that I doubt a camera crew can be hiding somewhere.

  "Excuse me?" Nasreen says.

  "You want me?" I ask.

  "Yes, my brother and I were pondering over matters since we saw you days back," Wahib says. "You see, I came to this country ten years ago, and my situation is settled. But my brother, Tahir you see behind me, he is having problems."

  Tahir smiles at me, one of those lopsided smiles that's supposed to be sexy. Yeah, sexy on John Stamos but gross on him!

  "What problems?" Nasreen asks.

  "And what do his problems have to do with me?" I ask.

  "What's your point?" Nasreen snarls. "We came here for a tape, and now you're mentioning your brother. We're not asking about your personal lives. We're customers!"

  "Young lady, you have not purchased anything from me, and I'm not done with my story," Wahib oozes, maintaining his cool. He gives us a conciliatory smile, but dread continues to creep up my spine and tension builds across my shoulders. Between the heat and my nerves, I feel faint.

  "Anyway," he continues, "my brother is having green card issues. We were thinking that here we are in a country full of strangers, but there are so many nice Middle Eastern girls we can find, many of whom are already citizens. We are a small community in a big city. I see the same customers from Manhattan, Staten Island, even New Jersey, Connecticut. So we were thinking, since you're seventeen and one year away from marrying--"

  "Hell no!" Nasreen yells.

  "What are you talking about?" I say. "You're talking marriage?" I may want to be grown-up, but I'm still a kid. I also want to find someone on my own, and certainly not some old guy who must have twenty years over me. Tahir rubs his potbelly while Wahib wipes his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief.

  "We're not talking marriage," Wahib says. "How about just one meeting to see how the two of you get along?"

  "No," I say. "I'm not going to be set up for either a date or marriage."

  "We'll get the hundred dollars," Nasreen says, her voice ice-cold. "It still is one hundred, right?"

  "The price of my personal tape will not change." He loves repeating that. I bet he'd still have done this to us if the tape were on the shelves. "It's still one hundred, but I'd rather you think my proposition over."

  "I'm not trading myself for a tape," I say. As if I'm a hooker or something! How dare they?

  "Let's get out of here," Nasreen says. "And we'll definitely come back soon with the money."

  "We already have your phone number to alert you of any new tapes coming in," Wahib says.

  I feel ill thinking that Nasreen gave them her number, but then I remember she had given them the number of the payphone by her window. I want to get out of here so they can't feast on me with their eyes and words. They just want my hand i
n marriage, not to do any real business with me. Maybe this was their plan all along. They figured I'm young and probably don't have a hundred dollars to spare, so they had to lure me in for their icky request.

  We can't get out of here fast enough. I trip on an uneven patch of the sidewalk, twisting my ankle, and Nasreen bangs her knee against a fire hydrant. "Ouch," she says.

  I grab her arm, and we hobble to the corner, away from the windows of Wahib and Tahir's store. I put my weight on my ankle. It hurts, but I don't think it's sprained. "Are you okay?" I ask.

  "My knee will be all right," Nasreen says, her face pinched in a grimace. "What about you?"

  "My ankle is already feeling better, but it kind of hurts when I walk."

  "It would be nice to get a brand new Kulthum tape, instead of their bootleg, but who knows how long that'll take to ship. Anyway, it's not about them trying to get something for a customer. They want your sweet, young ass. Tahir has been drooling over you since you first stepped foot in there, and he probably figured you were born here from the way you talk and dress."

  "What if they call us?"

  "If they do call the payphone for whatever reason, I figure I can always tell my parents I'm taking out the garbage, checking the mail, or checking up on Omar on the playground. I can be fast enough to catch the ringing phone. If not, I'll just say we have no answering machine. The fact is, so far this is the only tape we've found. It's not like I have a catalog I can purchase this from, and we haven't seen this in any other store. They have the upper hand."

  "And they sure know it. We need to get our hands on more money. Uncle is bound to find out the tape is missing for good."

  "How are we going to get the rest of the hundred dollars to get this tape? And fast?"