Hot Pink in the City

by Medeia Sharif

  "I think I have an idea," I say.

  ***

  Back home we watch Omar ask Auntie if he can go outside to the corner park to "play" with his friends. As if on cue, there's a knock on the door. It's his friend Scott, a lanky boy with freckles and stick-straight black hair. "Can Omar come out and play?" he asks Auntie.

  "Omar, go with your friend," she says, smiling at the two boys.

  Nasreen shakes her head. Omar and Scott are acting all sugary and innocent -- they eat the cookies Auntie offers them -- but they'll be gambling soon. Everyone has money but us, it seems. Sure, we borrowed Auntie's money, but we didn't get to spend it. We need a full payment of one hundred dollars. Haggling didn't work, and those two disturbing brothers wanted me. Tahir desires to have me as a wife so he can stay in the country. And all for a tape. I'm worth a cassette tape. How insulting is that? As if I'm in the old country where women are traded off for livestock and other goods!

  "TV, now," I say when Auntie is in the kitchen and out of earshot.

  "You want to watch TV?" Nasreen asks. "We need to find the means to get some money."

  "And I have an idea."

  We're in her room, watching soaps on her regular TV, not her closet TV. Women are crying, men are scheming, and couples are kissing. Then I catch the commercial again, the one for NYC Dance Off. "I'm going to enter that," I say. "They have daily cash prizes if you dance on camera."

  "Uhhh, I'm pretty sure your parents will be pissed off if they see their daughter on TV," Nasreen says. "And do you dance that well?"

  "I sure do. Next to soccer, dancing is my specialty. You need to see me in action. Since they also accept singers, maybe I can try out for that too."

  "You sing?" Nasreen asks.

  "I enjoy it, but I know I need more practice. Dancing is more my thing, but I can try out for both."

  "I don't know about this."

  "I'll do my hair and makeup so nobody recognizes me." I imagine seeing myself made up in red lipstick, blue eye shadow, and a sequined dress, the opposite of my soccer persona. No one will recognize me. I think about all the TV shows and movies I've seen where that happens -- Wonder Woman takes off her glasses and pulls her hair out of a bun, and she's someone else. I won't look like my same old self for that show.

  "I guess we can try it," Nasreen says. "We have nothing to lose."

  The commercial comes on a second time. I grab a notepad and pen off Nasreen's desk, spilling a few brochures onto the floor, and write down the toll-free number. There's only one phone in the living room. Ah, I miss my own phone in my bedroom in Miami. I'm going to have to use the payphone outside since I can't reveal my plans to Auntie.

  She's busy in the kitchen, so I step out without having to explain my actions to her -- she's nosy and always wondering what everyone is up to; meanwhile, she needs to be in Omar's business, not ours. Gambling is against our religion and far worse than what I'm doing.

  I wait for a young woman with sky-high bangs and red pumps to get off the phone. Good, she's quick and hangs up. I'm next. I dial the number and get through right away to a secretary. I pump her for information. I write down the address. No appointment is necessary. They have auditions tomorrow starting at ten in the morning. I'll be there.

  When I hang up, I stand still, taking in what I did. I'm actually going to try out for a spot on TV. National TV. As in everyone might see me. Money is involved. Dancers are even eligible to get Madonna concert tickets. Maybe I can kill two birds with one stone: get the one hundred dollars and Kulthum tape and see my idol live in concert. A girl can always dream.

  Since I'm out here, I decide to call Misty. I brace myself for the automated messages from the operator. I will not get mad, I will not get mad, I will not get mad...

  "Hey, buddy," Misty says in her husky voice. "So you finally decided to call me."

  "I called Tamara awhile ago, but it's a real pain to make long-distance calls," I say, feeling the need to apologize to her. "I did send you a letter."

  "Oh, haven't seen it yet. Tamara mentioned you met a guy. Well, it's about time you get some action."

  "Yeah..." Okay, I know I'm not an expert in the love-and-sex department, but she doesn't have to rub it in.

  "So what are you doing today? Going to the library? To the park to play some soccer?"

  "Of course not," I say. "I'm on vacation."

  "I didn't think you'd break out of your routine."

  Is this how my friends view me? As some stick-in-the-mud homebody with no life? If only they could see me now, truly experiencing the dangers of New York and its strangers, of being in a boatload of trouble and doing a lot of legwork to get out of it.

  "For your information, I'm out of my routine," I say.

  Please deposit twenty-five cents.

  "What were you saying?" Misty says. "You're returning some library books?"

  Please deposit twenty-five cents.

  My hand is stuck in my pocket, and I wrench it out, quarter in hand. I deposit it before I lose the call.

  "Are you running a few laps this afternoon?" Misty asks. "Don't forget a bottle of water and your vitamins."

  "Actually, I'm doing something you'd never believe. There's a show called NYC Dance Off..."

  "Oh, I love that show! So you watch it too."

  "You're not listening!" I say, finally losing my temper.

  "I know that show is hot, and so are the dancers."

  "I'm going tomorrow."

  "Of course, you can be one of those people standing outside the windows watching them live."

  There are windows looking out on the street where passersby stand and watch, but she doesn't let me get a word in. I want to be part of the show, and with my dancing skills I know I can make it.

  Please deposit twenty-five cents.

  "You're good enough to be on that show," Misty continues, "but I know you'd never want to be on television. You're too low-key to have a television personality."

  I run out of quarters. There are more in my pencil case in Nasreen's room, but my pocket is empty. "No! I will be on the show," I say.

  The line goes dead, the money-hungry payphone and robotic operator cutting me off. The call had been irritating me, but I still wanted to impress my friend and tell her a little bit about what I'm up to in the city. But even when I'm in Miami, Misty and Tamara both have a way of cutting me off and rambling about themselves. Being on the phone just highlights this habit of theirs. Anger sizzles inside me. I thought we were close since I've known them since elementary school. When I'm at home, I call them every night, and we share many classes together. Being far away from them makes me doubt my friendship with them. Perhaps they're really not my friends and they have a low opinion of me. Here I am dabbling in the cool and the bad, and they don't think I'm capable of such things.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I'm determined to keep out of Wahib and Tahir's reach. The only way I'm willing to touch them is if I'm exchanging money to purchase the tape. NYC Dance Off is the answer to my prayers, I'm sure of it. I'll be competing with other young women, but I know I can dance. Even if I don't win anything, I have to try. It's better than waiting for something to happen, because Nasreen and I exhausted all of our other moneymaking possibilities. The only thing left to do would be criminal, and I'm not willing to go there, although I packed some pantyhose in my suitcase that would be perfect for a bank robbery.

  My irritation and that nagging feeling about my friends disrespecting me fizzle away. I can always deal with Tamara and Misty when I'm back in Miami, maybe smooth things out and really sit down and talk to them, gushing about what I've been through. But what if they cut me off and still don't believe me even when we're face-to-face? No, we're friends. I'll get them to listen to me.

  I can't think about them right now. I need to rehearse for the show, but where? The only thing I can practice in the basement apartment is singing since NYC Dance Off accepts both singers and dancers. I haven't been in glee club since middle school, a
nd I took Chorus I as a freshman, but I couldn't take Chorus II this past year because that meant forfeiting Honors Geometry, which I wasn't willing to do, so I'm not comfortable with singing. I still want to try anyway. Nasreen is very much against the idea of me singing.

  I croon Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" in Nasreen's room.

  "No, no, no," Nasreen says, covering her ears.

  I switch to Elton John's "Sad Songs."

  "Stop torturing me! My ears are going to bleed."

  Nasreen can be mean. My singing isn't that bad. I never got to sing solo in glee club or chorus, but I was always singing in the background. I haven't stretched my singing voice. Okay, I'll admit I dance better than I sing.

  I need to practice dancing. If I were to dance in Nasreen's room, I'd knock everything off her desk and bruise my arms and legs against the bunk bed. When I dance, I put everything into it. Not only am I a soccer player and aerobics fanatic, but I dance while I wait for my mom to pick me up from school. She runs errands before coming, so I have some time to kill on practice and nonpractice days. My friends and I do the cabbage patch, running man, and all the other popular dances from TV. Can I have some fries with that shake? I've heard. Gimme some of that. Even in my tomboy clothes, I get those remarks. I blush all the way to my hairline, but I continue dancing. I know I'm the best dancer out of all my friends. I'm fluid and don't run out of breath.

  "You know, I've never seen you dance," Nasreen says.

  "You're in for a treat," I brag.

  "Then let's find a place for you to practice."

  We go out to search for an area where I can practice my dance moves. Thankfully, there are no subway rides since we're looking for an open space nearby. I'm not tired of taking trains yet, but I'm subwayed out for today. Nasreen takes me to the playground, where we see Omar's dark head bent down as he huddles with his friends, his two demon whorls in full view. Nasreen stops and lingers by the fence. She clears her throat.

  Omar looks up, grinning at us. Amazing. He's doing something wrong but has no misgivings. If I were gambling, I'd be worried and guilty. He walks away from his friends to meet us by the fence. The mesh separates us. Through the metal striations, I glance down at his tawny skin and smug expression.

  "Having fun?" Nasreen asks.

  "Yes," Omar says. "Going out again? You and Asma seem to be out a lot. I hope you're not doing anything Baba wouldn't be happy with."

  "Of course not," I say in a fake, sweet voice.

  "We also hope you're keeping your nose out of trouble," Nasreen says.

  "I always do."

  I laugh and hurry to cover my mouth. Omar narrows his eyes.

  "Have fun at this little casino of yours... I mean playground," I say.

  Omar's jaw drops. In spontaneous, perfect choreography, Nasreen and I both turn around at the same time, swaying our hips as we cross the street.

  "I think torturing him a little bit will be fun," I say.

  "That's a lot coming from you," Nasreen says. "I thought you didn't have a mean bone in your body."

  "You must be rubbing off on me..."

  ***

  We walk a few blocks to a grassy square. There's a small park, an ice cream truck, and people going about their business. Yards away from us there are some break dancers. They're fun to watch as they spin on their heads, do splits, and jump around. They leave a few minutes later, taking their boom box and cardboard mat with them. Inside the park, kids are swinging, sliding, and getting sprayed by a large sprinkler. Behind them there's a basketball court, which is in use. I'd rather not go in there, and I suppose it's not a big deal if I dance on the sidewalk leading up to the park. It's not terribly crowded. I have to practice somewhere. "We forgot to bring music," I say.

  "Don't worry," Nasreen says. "My Walkman has exterior sound."

  What a relief. Mine doesn't do that, and it only works with headphones. Nasreen has a giant cup of soda she was sipping from; she took the lid off minutes ago so she could suck on the ice. She puts it down on the ground so she can take her Walkman out of her purse, pull out the headphones, and then tune the radio. I hear country, elevator tunes, and oldies before she hits the pop station. Janet Jackson's "Pleasure Principle" segues into Samantha Fox's "Touch Me."

  "Don't change it," I say. I love that song. I dance languidly with the slow beginning. Once the chorus begins and the guitars rev up, my body follows the tune. I spin around, shoot an arm up, and then do a split.

  A young woman stops and bops her head. My hair whirls around me, and in between the strands I see two men in business suits and a group of teenagers. Quarters and dimes fly, followed by a splash. I slow down my dancing, doing some knee highs towards the end of the song, and I see where the noise is coming from. People are throwing coins into Nasreen's cup of soda, where a few slivers of melting ice remain. Nasreen's eyes widen. I'm also seeing dollar bills.

  I dance to Taylor Dayne's "Don't Rush Me," followed by my favorite song... Madonna's "Into the Groove." I snap my fingers, moving my body from side to side. People come and go, throwing money into Nasreen's cup. Nasreen is the DJ, navigating between songs, changing stations once commercials begin. The only problem is that radio stations seem to synchronize their commercials. They all play them at the same time. I use that as rest time, but that's when people wander away before a new crowd comes in. At the most ten people surround me.

  "No more," I say after five songs. I'm beat, and I think that was enough practice. I have a Taylor Dayne cassette in my luggage, so if I have to dance to my own music I'll bring that with me to the audition. Nasreen hands me some napkins from her purse, the ones she picked up from the fast food joint where she got her soda. The crowd dissipates, but not before several people tell me how fantastic I am.

  "Baby, you're a pro."

  "Do you do bachelor parties?"

  I'm not ready for this attention. I shake my head bashfully at the sleazebag who asks me the last question. Nasreen swipes down, gets her cup, and pulls me along farther into the park. We find a bench by a basketball court. Men and boys are shirtless or wearing tops drenched in sweat. Normally I'd ogle, but Nasreen needs help counting the money.

  The day is over with, and I no longer care about my clothes, which are just as drenched with sweat as the basketball players'. I pull down my shirt and use the bottom as a holder for the money. I take Nasreen's cup and turn it over. The ice is long gone, and all that's left is tepid water, which pours through the cotton of my shirt and onto my lap. I look at all the pennies, nickels, dimes, and a few quarters. Nasreen makes four piles in my lap. I count the pennies and nickels while she counts the rest. "Three dollars and twenty-three cents," she says.

  "That's all?" I say.

  "I thought we made more than that, but that's pretty good for a half hour of dancing. Maybe if you dance all day long--"

  "No way." I shake my head. "I can't dance like that for hours. I'm in shape, but that would kill me. I know what you're thinking. If we can make three dollars in half an hour and if I dance for a day maybe we can make up for what we're missing to buy the tape from the perv brothers. But if I'm as good as you think, I can make even more in a shorter amount of time from NYC Dance Off."

  "You're right. I was watching it the other day, and a girl won three hundred dollars on her first day of dancing. That was from their applause meter. I'm sure you'll get lots of applause."

  "Thanks, Nasreen."

  "You'll win some money this week when you make it on the show," she says.

  "We have a lot to prepare for," I say. "We need to figure out what I'll wear."

  "Let's go home. We both need a shower badly."

  I walk with a bounce to my step. It isn't until we're a block from home that my ankle is bothering me again. There's a twinge radiating in the middle of the bone. The pain lessens until it's a minor throb. That's what I get for walking into stores with strange men who make me want to run from them and then dancing my ass off on a public street. But our situation calls for sa
crifices. We will get that tape someway, somehow.

  Chapter Seventeen

  "Can't a girl take a shit in peace?" Nasreen shrieks when someone pounds on the door of the restaurant's bathroom.

  My hair is crimped, so it zigzags from my scalp in all directions. Auntie blew on me this morning, thinking Nasreen and I dolled ourselves up to tour the city, but in reality we're going to auditions for NYC Dance Off. I left the basement apartment with my hair like this, but now we're in the bathroom of a Dunkin' Donuts to complete the transformation. I take off my tights and t-shirt and put on a zebra-patterned miniskirt and a pink off-the-shoulder top. Nasreen is doing my makeup. "Close your eyes," she says.

  There's more pounding, but then the person ceases. We're trying to be fast, but it takes time to be a knockout. I like what I see in the mirror. Nasreen does my eyes in black, purple, and turquoise. She paints my lips in glorious fuchsia. Two thick swipes of blush display cheekbones I didn't know I had. I'm also wearing Lee Press-On Nails, my red talons transforming my hands into woman hands, not the little-girl hands of short nails and pink polish I'm used to.

  "Wow," Nasreen says.

  "I look..."

  "Gorgeous and hot."

  "Yeah," I agree.

  "And look at your legs. They look awesome."

  "Thanks. We soccer players do have great legs."

  "We need to get to the studio," Nasreen says. "Let's avoid any lines."

  It's a good thing I'm wearing LA Gear sneakers. They're comfortable for dancing, good for walking the streets, and they're fashionable with my outfit. The pink in the sneakers matches the pink of my top. Men turn towards me and whistle. Some of the guys look cute, but where are the John Stamoses in this world? They can't just be trapped inside TV tubes or chanced upon briefly in airplanes. The only men I've really talked to during my stay here were relatives and the creepy duo, Tahir and Wahib. I might as well forget about my fantasy of having a summer fling. This business of finding a replacement tape consumes me.