Ameera, Unveiled (12 page)
“What do you think?” Sybil asked.
Polly exhibited her usual enthusiasm, “That’s awesome!”
Sybil shot a glance at me. “I’m game,” I said, “but I need to check my calendar. We’ve got a small vacation scheduled in the next couple of weeks. But I’d like to.” My tone didn’t sound very convincing. “What’s a shamadan?”
“It’s a Middle Eastern ceremonial candelabra that’s balanced on the head. It weighs about thirty pounds and has nine candles,” Sybil said. She looked at Cheryl.
Cheryl didn’t say anything, just gave a thumbs-up with a huge grin.
“I want you to show up dressed in full makeup, reclining on the stage,” Sybil said. “You’re harem girls. Again, I need you to bring the pillows and flower petals to drop as we present the bride to the stage.”
“I’ve got some great pillows on my bed,” I volunteered.
Day of Dance had hooked me. I wanted to be part of the tribe. The girls appeared confident, colorful, and playful. Participating in Piccolo Spoleto sounded like a way to ensure the members saw our genuine interest.
Sybil gave us her cheerleader smile and started class. We mustered for her as she began to teach us “Patty’s troupe dance,” which was the troupe dance that we’d seen on Day of Dance. We weren’t great yet, but Sybil assured us we’d wow them with our progress.
Before class ended, she called for solo updates. I surprised myself because I was eager to learn whether she’d perceive my enlightenment. Cheryl was first. I still loved her music and the sparkle in her eye when she did her solo.
“Exaggerate your moves. They’ll get smaller on the day of auditions, because you’ll be nervous,” Sybil advised. “Still a little stiff. Try to make your transitions a bit more fluid. Good progress.”
Sybil called my name.
I handed Cheryl my CD. While she loaded it, I put Pink where she needed to be. I exhaled and nodded to Cheryl to push the play button.
I posed tall, letting my veil frame my shadow. I was determined that the veil would not misbehave. The music started and I danced over half of my routine. The choreography wasn’t done, but it was the most I’d given Sybil to date.
I looked over my shoulder and told Sybil, “That’s as far as I’ve gotten.” I was forty seconds short.
Sybil had on her hard-to-read face. It was unnerving, but I felt I’d improved.
“Kat, your veil looked a lot better. But you’ve still gotta work on your arms and hands,” she said. “Don’t let your elbows drop below the bustline. I’m glad to see you’re traveling and using the stage.”
“Thanks, Sybil. That means a lot,” I said. I walked to the back of the room and watched Polly’s confidence overshadow any mistakes in her dance.
“Good!” Sybil said. “You have your homework—and practice. Next week, we’ll go through my closet to find you costumes.” She shooed us out the door with her hands. “Lock up as you go, please.”
“I can’t wait till Piccolo Spoleto!” Polly exclaimed. “My daughter’ll be so excited.”
I was quiet, swishing the gnats from my face. There’d be no front-yard afterglow for me.
“You okay?” Cheryl asked, bumping me with her hip. “We aren’t dancing this time.”
“Yeah, but I’ve still got a tubby tummy and this audience won’t be snoring,” I said.
Polly and Cheryl laughed.
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “You know how much I wanna be part of this group. I love learning to dance, but the damned performance anxiety keeps pushing me away.”
“Your veil looked good,” Polly said. “We’ve come a long way, and we’re headed to auditions soon.”
“Yeah, Kat. Your dance is almost done,” Cheryl chimed in.
The gnats swarmed by the orange tree, and I was a stationary target.
“Ladies, have a great week. See you next Monday. Send me an e-mail if you need me,” I said before I ran for my car. I reached under the front seat for my cell phone. I’d one missed call and a text from Steve: Not cooking tonight, meet me for sushi.
Wait till Steve hears what I’m doing next,
I thought as I checked the rearview mirror. Okay, Ameera—let’s have some fun.
It was the day of Piccolo Spoleto, and I wasn’t sure how long it’d take me to turn into Ameera in all her costumed frippery. I’d altered my borrowed black-beaded costume. A sticky note on my bathroom mirror reminded me to bring pillows. I rummaged for a discarded basket, set aside for petals, in my charity pile. Showered and with my hair dried, I needed to polish toenails and fingernails, and after I’d put on stage makeup. The borrowed costume laid across the bed with my jewelry on the nightstand. Sybil had lent us the required cover-ups so our costumes would remain secret until the start of the performance.
I took my makeup bag and nail polish to the sunroom and curled up on a love seat. It was 11:30 a.m., and our digital thermometer blinked eighty-nine degrees. Steve had advised me during our morning coffee that the weather page warned of ninety percent humidity. At some point, the heat index would be 102 degrees.
I hoped to thank Maybelline for waterproof mascara.
By the time Cheryl stood on the porch ringing my doorbell, I’d rearranged my jewelry, hair band, and choli at least five times. Sybil had lent me black-lace harem pants with a matching choli that covered a black dance bra. My long legs accentuated the high-water hem. The small string fringe on the choli distracted from my not-quite-shrunken stomach. I wore a black swimsuit bottom under the harem pants.
Cheryl’s makeup was pretty, and her coin bra had a beautiful belly drape of coins and beads. Her brunette hair was held in place by a stretchy black hairband. She oozed belly dancer, and her eyes transmitted genuine excitement. As I invited her in, Chaz ran to her on the porch, barking, to escort her inside. Her boyfriend’s car drove away. I knew he’d be in the audience, waiting to stand proud in a post-appearance photo op.
“You look amazing!” I said. I couldn’t help but compare my costume with hers. She resembled a harem girl who’d turn a sheik’s head. I looked like I was about to hand down an outgrown outfit.
“Thanks,” she said, hugging me. “I’m so excited, but it’s already hot. You ready?”
“Let me grab my cover-up and we’ll get on the road,” I said, checking my makeup in the foyer mirror. “I hope I remember how to get to Hampton Park. Sybil said to look for a gypsy wagon.”
Mentally, I searched my to-do list. Did I have the camera? Yes, I’d made sure it was in the car with the pillows and basket. As the garage door rose, I felt my adrenaline surge. Cheryl kept chattering, but I wasn’t keeping up. I was wishing I’d started my dance hobby ten years earlier, but destiny didn’t work that way.
By the time we were on the road, I’d recomposed. I was thinking how hot Jessamyn was at the nursing home experience. She was a big pot of exotic ooze. I hoped I’d see her today.
As I parked and saw the masses, I started questioning my decision. Why am I doing this? I put the car in park.
Cheryl patted my hand. “It’s gonna be fun, Kat,” she promised. “Polly’s already here. She said to head toward the fountain, where the swans are.”
Nodding, I got out of the car and opened the trunk so we could grab the props. We zipped our cover-ups before we loaded our arms with bulky velvet pillows. I already felt a trickle of sweat on my jaw. We had an hour before we propped ourselves on stage for the girls. I realized now that I should’ve brought makeup to reapply. I’d bet the girls knew that.
We spied the gypsy wagon and veered slightly right. I looked at the venue stage. It was full of Greek dancers. Redirecting my gaze to the gypsy camp, I saw Sybil.
I’d never seen Sybil in costume.
She was leaning over a table shielded with draped veils to hide the makeup, strewn end to end, from prying eyes. Belly dancers buzzed to and from the table with last-minute costume touch-ups. As we stepped to the side of the table, Sybil’s ensemble was revealed: a beautiful gold Egyptian belt crowning a turquoise skirt. She’d coordinated the bottom with a matching gold-coin bra and earrings.
The air resonated with the sound of bangles sliding along busy dancers’ arms. Almost everyone wore hairpieces cascading down bare, sweaty backs.
How do they get them to stay in?
I wondered. We found a spot that seemed a good place to drop our props and stood silent within the dance hive. There was still no sign of Polly.
Sybil was intensely focused on a mirror. She was pinching something on her face over and over. I stepped a little to the side to see what she was fussing with. She laughed as she talked to a dancer I hadn’t seen before. This dancer was exotic and in chartreuse. Her smile was engaging as I heard them cackling over Sybil’s frustration. I watched as Sybil pulled off a false eyelash and flicked it in the grass. Her dimpled smile softened the expletives that were amusing the other dancer. I smiled at the scenario. The heat must have melted the glue on the false eyelash. Sybil turned around and spotted us.
“Hey! You made it. Look at you guys!” she said. “Could it be any hotter?”
“Brutal. And these cover-ups don’t help,” I responded.
“Take ’em off. It’s too hot. There’s water in the cooler.” Sybil pointed over to the gypsy wagon. “Stay hydrated. We don’t need fainters.”
“Cool wagon,” Cheryl said. “Can we peek?”
“Sure. Jennifer’s ex-husband made it. She’ll do henna after the show,” Sybil told us.
“Jennifer?” I asked. “Have I seen her before?”
“Jennifer Forte—Jessamyn. Her sister’s Lara Forte—Nashwa—the one in the green costume and the fake ponytail,” Sybil pointed.
Jessamyn. I’d adored her the first time I watched her at our nursing home performance. Her feet had glided as she’d walked through the lobby doors. Chain mail had hung from her brunette hair as she’d given us her crescent-moon smile.
Today, her sister was cutting up at the table where Sybil had abandoned her false-eyelash mission. Two in one tribe? My interest in the Forte sisters made me forget the performance panic button. Neither had a stick-figure body either. Who cared? They had an amazing presence. My anxiety level decreased immensely. Suddenly, I readdressed my assignment. I wasn’t driving the show. I was just a prop. I’d be a sweaty prop, but I’d get to watch like the crowd.
“I know you’re busy, Sybil,” I said, “but can you tell us where we need to go and what we need to do? I’m still a little confused about how this works.”
“See that white tent behind the stage?” Sybil asked. We looked and nodded. “Be over there by three fifteen. We’re doing photos a few minutes before that, but we’ll migrate there by three fifteen. We’ll tell you where to stand in the procession. Once we get the ‘bride’ to her chair, you’ll be behind her until the troupe finishes, and then you’ll discreetly recline on the stage.”
I got most of how I thought it would transpire except for the placement of the props. “Gotcha. But when do we put our stuff on stage?”
“After the Greek dancers are finished. Scatter them far enough apart to be comfortable,” Sybil said. Sweat was dripping off her jaw. “Where’s Polly?” she asked, suddenly serious.
“Got here ahead of us. She told us where the gypsy wagon was,” Cheryl said. “Probably walking around with her daughter.”
“You two’re responsible for informing her, okay?” Sybil said. “I need to move a costume change to the other tent. Meet me there . . . on time!” She looked us in the eyes, then gave us each a high five before heading off.
We walked over to the gypsy wagon and peeked inside.
“Wow! I don’t camp, but you could take this camping,” I said.
I couldn’t believe the thought that had gone into the wagon. Colorful material draped from wall to wall. Ornate pillows adorned window seats. A strange but musty smell reminded me of a fortune teller’s booth on my favorite PC hidden object game, Madame Fate’s Carnival. We spied the cooler and grabbed enough water for the three of us. Then we peeled off our borrowed cover-ups and snatched flower-petal baskets and pillows.
As we headed across the park to the white tent, I forced Ameera to behave as if it were completely normal to be wearing a not-so-perfect costume and participating in a faux Middle Eastern wedding before hundreds of Charleston locals. I couldn’t bear for anyone to recognize me. I felt as if I weren’t in Hampton Park anymore. My surroundings were alien and surreal . . . and populated with belly dancers.
I noted a ponytailed photographer snapping shots of the troupe as we hunted for a drop spot for the props. The old tapes of no one wanting to take pictures of me resurfaced as we stood and watched. I tried to push them back down and remind myself of my lack of photogenic success. But it was hard for me to resist feeling envious. The troupe didn’t seem aware of our presence in support of the performance. No one—not even Sybil—had asked us to share a Kodak moment for posterity or as a gesture of thanks.
I was unfamiliar with participating among a group absorbed in a daunting task. I sensed a remarkable female power hidden beneath sparkly costumes and glitter, one that was striving to impart a powerful message that was one part art and one part goddess.
Cheryl’s gaze veered from the photo session and pointed, “Polly!”
I looked over and saw Polly with her daughter, Lacey. Their silhouettes parted and Polly waved wildly. She’d shed the required cover-up, revealing a costume of black with green accents.
