Ameera, Unveiled (18 page)

“Let me talk to Steve. I’m sure he’ll be fine with it, but that’s the week of our anniversary,” I said, laying my own chess move to get out of it.

“It’d be a good time to get to know some of the other girls,” Sybil said. “If you decide to go, call me so I can get you the paperwork. We’ve still got rooms, but you’ll need to grab the airfare before it gets too high.”

I smiled to show my appreciation of her belief in me. “I’ll talk to Steve tonight. Thanks.”

“Bye, sweetie,” she said.

I’d opened the blue door before I realized I’d popped my first troupe practice cherry.

I realized that from now until November, troupe practice would be all about Jamaica dances. Even if I didn’t go, I could learn a couple of the dances.

I met up with Polly. “Kat, I’d like to do Jamaica. If you go, we can be roommates,” she said. “Think about it.”

“Sybil approached me, but I just don’t know why I can’t move into this more slowly,” I confessed. “I’ll talk to Steve. You know him, he won’t resist.”

“Kat, let’s do it,” Polly urged.

15

After Polly and I’d decided to join the Jamaica trip, I spent most of the next six weeks agonizing over the decision. Steve, knowing I wouldn’t waste money backing out, found and booked my airline ticket. Between Thursdays, I met with choreographers for personal coaching on their dances. Over a couple of Sundays, Polly and I met with Denise and Kelly to learn Gypsy as a foursome. I’d been assigned my part in Lara’s dance and met with her for instructions. Patty provided me with CDs of past performances, which I watched repeatedly, trying to absorb the combinations and sequences.

Tonight was the last time we’d meet at the gym to practice. Sybil had debated whether we’d have a dress rehearsal on Thursday, two days before we were to leave. She planned to announce her decision tonight. For the past week, she’d looked for a public venue for a short run-through.

Despite assurances, I didn’t want to participate in a dress rehearsal this soon—in public or in front of friends and family. I needed a couple of more weeks . . . or years.

Sybil and I pulled into the parking lot at the same time. I climbed out of my car to step on autumn leaves tumbling in the chilly wind. October sunsets arrived earlier now, so I needed my jacket. Hard to imagine I’d be on a Jamaican beach in a week. I’d promised Ameera we’d stop when it wasn’t fun anymore.

I loved my developing friendships, but the performance fears hadn’t lessened.

A beehive buzzed at the front of the room. I’d lost one of my girls. Cheryl couldn’t come to dance practices anymore. She had a family health emergency. Polly fed off Jamaica performance fumes. One hour a week over eight weeks didn’t give me a lot of insight into the emotional bonds between these women. Maybe Steve was right; a week in Jamaica could move the puzzle pieces and I’d bond with someone.

I saw Polly putting on her dance shoes so I crossed to her corner of the practice room. We were advised we’d be roommates in Negril. The troupe e-mails informed us to prepare for theme nights: lingerie night, toga night, Mardi Gras night . . . As staff, we were supposed to participate, blend in, and support management.

“Let’s go, ladies,” Sybil shouted. “Last week before we leave for Jamaica.”

Some of the girls sent a zaghareet of approval through the room. Polly winked at me. I returned a weak smile.

“I’ve got a checklist to go over with everyone,” Sybil said. “I’ve talked to the resort rep. We’ve got six rooms. That means three people can have a room alone.”

“I’d like one. Maybe I’ll get lucky!” Jennifer said. “Besides, I don’t wanna share with my sister ho.”

“Bite me, Jenn,” Lara said. They stuck tongues out at each other, grinning and shooting the bird. The words ho, skank, tramp, and other “terms of endearment” often flew around the group.

Sybil refocused us. “Lara’s spoken with the manager at The Maproom. It has a large, open space used by bands where we can kick off dress rehearsal. We’ve arranged to do a thirty-minute run-through next Thursday. They’ve got a room for us to change in.”

She looked down and paused, then raised her eyes and grinned. “Okay . . . the room’s a stockroom. Invite your friends and family.”

“The Maproom that’s out front in the shopping center?” Polly asked. “But isn’t that a bar?”

“Yes, but we’ll be there early. We’ll start at six thirty. I’ll send an e-mail with the lineup to the Jamaica girls.”

My stomach knotted as I tried to reassure myself.

“Those of you who aren’t going, decide what you’d like to do at practice while we’re gone. That’s all I have. Leona . . . ?”

Round-robin continued, but I had nothing new to say.

My anxiety wasn’t new.

I’d narrowed my shopping list for the Jamaica trip after numerous e-mail updates from Sybil. I’d already bought two yards of cobalt glitter cloth, a gold rope, and flashy sandals for toga night. I’d found a leopard eye mask. I’d also bought white, tight Lycra pants and a gold car-wash fringed top. I’d even ventured into fake hair, purchasing a long, clip-on ponytail. (The saleswoman had promised me that the clip wouldn’t fly.) Most of my makeup had been set aside to slide into a suitcase after dress rehearsal.

No one was home to help me get ready for dress rehearsal. So starting at 3:00 p.m., I painted toenails and fingernails. After applying makeup, I put on the first costume and found my cover-up. We’d been required to buy matching black, glitter-dot cover-ups that Polly had made for us for a small fee, but it was worth it. I didn’t have to cut, sew, or install zippers.

As I drove to The Maproom, I refereed between my stage-fright demon and Ameera. Come on, guys, I urged them to cooperate. I refused to play the show music but used the quiet to attempt to calm my nerves. I again questioned my decision to join the troupe.

Sitting at a light, I heard a horn honk. I cringed. Some stranger taunting me for the layers of makeup and glitter not hidden by my cover-up. After the second honk, I looked out of my driver-side window. Leona (who danced as Leela) was waving enthusiastically at me. She didn’t have enough vacation time at work to come with us, so it melted my heart that she’d unselfishly given up a Thursday to attend our impromptu dress rehearsal for an event she couldn’t attend.

We parked in the lot of The Maproom. I took off my sunglasses and laid them on the seat beside me. Someone knocked on my window and I jumped, heart racing.

“Kat, how are you?” Lara asked. “Did I scare you?” She wore a glitter-dot cover-up, concealing a chartreuse skirt peeking at the hem. Her makeup and hair were sensual. I paled beside her. I got out of my car, popped the trunk, and removed a black bag from within.

“I’m a bit freaked out,” I confessed. “I’m just so new to the process.”

“There is no process,” she advised me. “Every gig’s different. Every process adapts to the gig. How do you feel about my dance?”

“I love your dance,” I effused.

I avoided making eye contact with the bar patrons. It wasn’t due to snobbery. I was hoping no one recognized me. I felt conscious of my stomach and less-than-pristine dance progress. As Lara flashed her hot smile at some smokers, I spied a familiar face out of the corner of my eye.
Oh my God, it’s
my old redneck neighbor!
After he’d consume four cheap pitchers of beer, he’d play the Bee Gees at midnight with his front door opened wide.

“You okay?” Lara asked. She’d picked up on my shrinkage.

“Just saw someone I hope doesn’t recognize me,” I admitted as I opened the door. In my mind, I was urging Lara to hurry up!

Yet Lara’s presence gave me peace. As friends and family of Palmetto Oasis spied her, there were shout-outs and waves. Her natural, warm Italian nature greeted them like a hostess. I scanned the room for Polly. She wasn’t here yet. The Jamaica girls were scattered among the tables. A few new troupe faces had grabbed front-stage tables and were eating appetizers. My stomach lurched at the idea of food. I was processing the goddess persona . . . again.

Sybil was speaking to a table of older supporters. When she saw me, she waved me over. I left Lara and headed toward her.

“Liz, Debbie, this is one of our new members, Kat Varn,” Sybil introduced us. “She’s going to Jamaica with us.”

They extended their hands and smiled.

“How’s it feel to be part of Palmetto?” Liz asked. “It’s gotta be magical. Look at you. Your eyes are gorgeous.”

Her flattery caught me off guard. “I’m stunned and so grateful for the invitation,” I said. “Sybil’s been very good to me.” As I offered my own hand, I asked, “Did you go to Middleton High School?”

“Oh my God! Kat!” Debbie screamed. She’d recognized me behind the hairpiece and glittery makeup. We jumped into each other’s arms. Sybil’s eyes widened.

“Who would’ve guessed my typist classmate would be here,” I remarked. “How do you know her, Sybil?”

“Charleston’s a small town,” Sybil said.

I hugged Debbie again and fought back tears. I didn’t want to ruin my eye makeup. As we chatted, I saw Steve, my father, my sister Kay, and my daughter Isabella entering through the glass door, heading to the bar.

“We’ve only got fifteen minutes. Let’s get set up in the backroom,” Sybil said as she wove through tables with her suitcase. I followed her to our dressing room—the stockroom. Other girls had arrived to claim their spots in it. Second costumes were sorted and ready for exchange. I opened my suitcase, copying what they were doing.

Cover-ups flew off. Some hung costumes from storage racks. I had a new concern. How would we protect our privacy while changing bras and skirts? One door in and the same door out. Across the hall was a kitchen bustling with employees who kept trying to see what was going on in the stockroom.

“Anyone need help?” I asked. It worried me that I wasn’t as busy at my suitcase as the others were. Maybe I’d missed a step and would flunk my first official dress rehearsal.

Jennifer looked over her shoulder, “You okay, Kat?”

I suppressed what I wanted to say. “Peachy. I don’t know the first dance as well as I’d hoped to.”

“Like I said, we’ll practice every morning in Jamaica,” Jennifer promised. “Just relax and have fun.” Her blue costume separated Lara’s and mine. Both of us were wearing chartreuse. As I looked at Jennifer’s glitter, I made a memo to step up my glitter level. Smile and look like I’m having fun . . . with lots of glitter. Lara walked to the microphone to open the show.

I stared down the kitchen hallway toward the dance area. The sun had been replaced by lights shining outside the plate-glass windows. Every table was filled with troupe members and their families. I didn’t see my group, so I assumed they were seated in a different section. My chin wanted to quiver instead of relax and show glittery confidence. Lara ended her short welcome and joined us in the hallway. She asked if we were ready.

“Let’s go,” Sybil said, placing her veil over her head. Polly followed her lead, entering the ghostly veil world. I tried to stand erect and find my confident walk.

Lara led the procession to center stage and posed. After a comfortable pause, the music began. As Jennifer and I separated to flank Lara for the chorus, my husband cheered. My fans sat in front of me.

I pushed distractions aside and tried to focus on the next section of Lara’s dance. As I swooped, twirled, and hip dropped, I felt my skirt slipping farther and farther down my hips.
Note to self: Fix skirt before Saturday.
The weight of the skirt worked well with gravity, so I tried to look in control as I panicked at the idea of exposing my drawers in The Maproom.

After what seemed an eternity, the music ended. We posed. One dance off my dance card. As I posed, my hands lowered to the top of my skirt, anchoring it for at least twenty seconds more. Several bar regulars gravitated toward the stage. I winked at Steve as he clapped before I strutted off with my fellow dancers.

For the next few minutes, costumes flew and dropped. My second dance was the Gypsy. The last was Patty’s. I’d approximately seven minutes to change outfits and jewelry between them.

“Kelly, have we gotta see your butt before the door even closes?” Denise drawled. Both were ripping off cabaret bras as they searched for gypsy outfits. I realized that privacy issues weren’t at the top of the dress rehearsal list. I turned my back and pretended I didn’t see a reminder of high school locker room scenes. I’d been a late bloomer.

In high school, I’d dreaded having anyone see my slightly “A” bra, so I’d avoided eye contact with all the voluptuous, uninhibited girls.

Denise—surely one of those uninhibited girls—had lent me a Kelly-green gypsy skirt, and I’d added a yellow coin scarf to it. I watched her tie several coin scarves over her red scarf and adorn her neck with a beautiful coin necklace. I realized I was under-costumed.
Second note to self: Take
another scarf and look for a flashier necklace.

Soloists floated in and out of the room. My second appearance was in the foursome with Polly, Denise, and Kelly. I wanted to make the veteran girls proud to be dancing with me.

“Ready, Kat?” Denise asked as she put on her last earring. “Love your hairpiece.”