Hot Pink in the City (16 page)

"Can I have your number?" he asks.

Talk! His sweet lips have stunned me
speechless. "I don't think that's a good idea," I manage to say,
predicting Uncle's reaction to a strange boy calling me. "Hold on."
I find a piece of paper in my purse and jot down the number of the
payphone. Good thing I have a great memory for numbers and that I
had watched Nasreen write the number for Wahib. But the thing is,
if Abe ever calls, I'm going to have to rush out whenever the phone
rings. He finds a wrinkled business card in his wallet and writes
down both his New York and Miami numbers on it for me.

"Who's this guy again?" Nasreen asks. I jump
at the sound of her voice. I thought she was farther away, lost in
the crowd, but she snuck up on us. And she's so rude!

"This is Abe," I say. "Remember, the guy I
told you about who I met on the plane."

"I don't remember you telling me about him."
Nasreen puffs her chest as if she's challenging him. I look at her,
pleading with my eyes that she doesn't do anything embarrassing to
drive him away. "So you got in the show?" she asks.

"Too young," I say, shaking my head.

"Me too," Abe says.

"Well, we gotta go. Nice meeting you, Abe."
Her voice is gentler after hearing about my failure. She sounds
resigned, and so am I. I didn't get the gig.

While I walk away, I turn around and catch
Abe staring at me. I wish I could stay to talk to him some more,
but we must get back home to plan things out. We're trying so hard,
and I won't give up now. How do we get a replacement tape now that
NYC Dance Off
is a no-go?

***

The rest of the day is all ours. I had
imagined I would spend the day in makeup and wardrobe -- doing all
that showbiz stuff I've fantasized about -- but I'm back in the
basement. The only reminder of the morning is my crimped hair and
tingling lips. It's as if my lips have their own memory separate
from my brain.

Nasreen steps out to develop the film of her
brother's gambling notebook. Omar is out playing and gambling. I'm
alone with Auntie. She's in the kitchen making baklava and
spreading the layers of phyllo pastry, butter, and ground walnut on
top of each other. I would like to help, but I'm more of a cook
than a baker, and I don't have a light touch with phyllo since I've
ripped it before. I want to broach the subject of Nasreen's desire
to leave New York. If I can't replace the Umm tape, I can at least
help Nasreen with this other goal of hers.

"I think it's interesting that you have a
degree in chemistry," I say.

"I went to the University of Tehran," she
says. "I made so many friends and had wonderful professors. I still
keep in touch with many of them."

"Everyone says college life is fun."

"Yes, it is. I felt homesick, but my new
friends made me feel comfortable."

"You were homesick?" I ask.

"Yes." She nods. "My family lived in Kashmar,
not Tehran."

So she left home to go to college. Anger at
this hypocrisy burns down my throat and chest. I control my
feelings, because I'm sure Auntie has her reasons. "So why can't
Nasreen leave home for college?"

"This isn't Iran. It's dangerous here. The
city has many good colleges, and there's no reason for Nasreen to
go into a strange environment. But you know what? One thing may
change my mind."

"What's that?" I ask. I lean forward, almost
tipping my stool over.

"If I see a sign." Auntie stops spreading
walnut across the pastry and looks to the ceiling, as if looking to
heaven. "If Allah sends me a sign that Nasreen is meant to leave
New York, I will talk my husband into it and she will go where she
so desires."

"A sign? What kind of sign?"

"It all depends," Auntie says. "There are
signs all around us."

This is all cryptic and over my head. Middle
Eastern people have all sorts of superstitions, and I've only
learned a few of them dealing with my elders. There are so many
superstitions and signs I have yet to discover. Maybe a sign will
come to Auntie that she should let Nasreen go to the city and
college of her choice.

I go to Nasreen's room and climb onto my bed.
Since I'm alone, I go ahead and pull back the curtains to watch
people come and go, talk into the payphone, and dribble
basketballs. I get some looks since I'm on ground level staring up
at people, so I pry my eyes away and work on my scrapbook.

Leaving Abe's number in my wallet, I pull out
the #191 sign from my audition and paste it into my scrapbook. It's
a sign of failure, but at least I had the guts to put myself out
there. I thought it would be so easy to get in by looking good and
dancing like a maniac, but I was wrong. Dreams may not always pan
out, but life wouldn't be worth living if I didn't pursue them.

Once I paste the number, there's an empty
page facing me that I want to fill. I step down, grab a pile of
magazines Nasreen plans to throw out, and bring them to my bed. I
look through them and cut out a picture of a model with shapely
shoulders, a moth, a beaded necklace, and a few other items that
remind me of superstitions I've heard come out of Auntie's
mouth.

I'm getting an idea. It's huge and crazy, but
maybe I can create the sign that will unlock Nasreen from this
basement that she's tired of. I messed up with the tape and
NYC
Dance Off
, but I can't be a complete failure. I must get
something right on this trip. I'll do this for my cousin so she can
have the life she wants.

Chapter Nineteen

"Where is my Umm Kulthum tape?" Uncle yells.
He looks from box to box. Heavy rain pounds against the sidewalk,
but the boisterous tinkling of water doesn't drown out his anger
and confusion. It's only been a week since we've destroyed the
tape, yet it feels like much longer with my incessant panic and all
the running around town I've done. We could only hold him off for
so long.

"Calm down!" Auntie says. "It must be here
somewhere."

"But where?" Uncle wonders. The shelves have
no backing. He tries to pull the entertainment system from the wall
to see if the tape fell behind it. His stringy muscles bulge out of
his arms, but the shelves are too heavy.

"Don't strain yourself."

"I can't move this," he says. "I would have
to remove the TV, books, magazines, music... everything. I've lost
a few tapes, and they're all behind there. I never bothered to
look, but now I want to because I haven't heard Kulthum in a
while."

"You've been working hard all day. Wait until
the weekend when Nasreen and Asma can help you pull it all out and
you can check if the tape is there."

"And I'll help too," Omar says, sticking his
head out of the curtains. His smile is smug, as always. When he
sees Nasreen and me on the couch, he narrows his eyes. He didn't
like our innuendo the other day at the fence of his playground.
Well, we have more in store for him since Nasreen developed the
photos.

"Let's get ready for bed," Nasreen says.
That's code for "let's get ready for a night in the closet."

We take turns in the bathroom. I hear beeping
and other electronic noises as Omar plays games behind his
curtains, but then they cease. His parents think he's up early
during summer vacation because he has a lot of energy to burn.
Yeah, that and he has his gambling ring at the corner playground.
As early as ten in the morning his friends knock on the door to see
if he's up and ready.

Uncle checks the locks of the front door
before he retires. That's our cue to go into the closet to watch
TV. Nasreen enters the closet first.

"I'll be right there," I tell her. Opening a
drawer, I pull out my cosmetics. I dab cream on my face and balm on
my lips. Then I proceed to put lotion on my arms. The only light
that's on is the desk light, which is dim, but I'm still able to
study myself in the mirror. I brush my hair and pout, imagining I'm
getting ready to see Abe. I have his number and he has the number
of the payphone, but he hasn't called yet. I doubt I'll ever see
him again. I can mark him off as a new experience I had during my
stay in the Big Apple. His was the first kiss I experienced -- I'm
not counting my time with Brad and his Dorito breath. Abe was the
real deal.

My daydreaming comes to a halt when Nasreen
calls for me. "Asma, come in here right now," she whispers.

"What is it?"

"Get in," she urges in a louder tone.

I rush into the closet, plopping down next to
her. Holy crap.

NYC Dance Off
is playing. It plays
twice a day --in the afternoon and it re-airs at night. I didn't
bother watching it earlier today since I was depressed about my
unsuccessful audition. I'm over it now, but it still stings. Now
that I'm watching it, I see that I did make it into the show.

"This line is unbelievable," a hostess with
lilac eye shadow and purple lips announces. "These people are all
auditioning for the show, and some of them were here as early as
five this morning, camping outside the building..."

In the corner of the screen, I see a familiar
rattail. It's the back of Abe's head. Then I come into view.
There's my crimped hair and outlandish, hip clothes.

"I didn't see a camera in front of me," I
whisper.

"You've been on for the past few minutes,
first walking down the stairs, then tripping, and then Abe was
holding you in the lobby," Nasreen says.

Abe leans toward me for the kiss. It's a
melding of my crimped hair and his bushy bangs before we part.

"Oh no," I gasp.

"Shit," Nasreen blasts. She lowers her voice
and says, "I didn't know you two kissed. What's wrong with you?
You're not supposed to kiss strangers. And haven't you heard of
AIDS?"

"You can't get AIDS from kissing," I reply.
"I can't believe I'm on camera. Do you think I look
recognizable?"

"Kind of," Nasreen says. "It looks like you
took off your makeup, which you shouldn't have, but the clothes and
hair alter your looks."

"They do," I agree. The thing is, because I
recognize myself, I assume other people will. "But my parents don't
watch this show. My brothers don't even like this sort of music.
Anyway, I'm in the background. It's not like they zoomed in on
us."

"Yeah, let's think positive. If I hadn't been
with you, I might not know it's you on the screen since you left
here in different clothes."

The camera pulls away from the hostess and
focuses on the actual show, where an emcee is announcing a band,
then the camera pans to the dancers, to a world I was almost a part
of. They look so happy and free, smiling, spinning, and pumping
their arms in the air. Again, I feel bad that I'm not in this
crowd. I have my nose pressed against the window. I want to be on
the other side, having fun and being hip.

"What a bummer," I say. "And we still have to
think of a fast way to get money for the replacement tape."

"With the pictures I developed, I think we
can get our money back from Omar and then some," Nasreen says. "I
just have to figure out a way to approach him since he's such a
sneaky bastard."

"I'll cross my fingers that everything pulls
through," I say. "With this tape, with Omar, and even with you
leaving New York."

"Dream on, Pollyanna," Nasreen huffs. She
changes the channel, switching from the bouncy youth of
NYC
Dance Off
to
David Letterman
. It's cool that a guy old
enough to be our dad is so funny, but it's not cool that Nasreen is
negative and thinks I'm a Pollyanna. I believe in happy endings, as
hard as they are to come by.

***

Voices disrupt my sleep. Every time I startle
awake I hear a different sound. A woman cries, a dog barks, a man
is yelling and asks for his money back, a woman requests a collect
call. Then the phone rings. I pry my lids open and look at the
clock. It's nine thirty. It rings and rings, shrill in my ear. It's
a few feet from the window, but it might as well be in the room
with me. When it rings again, it's a quarter past ten. I was up all
night watching TV, hoping I could sleep until noon, but this phone
is relentless.

"Nasreen!" I moan. "The payphone keeps
ringing and no one's picking it up."

"It must be for us," she says. She rolls out
of bed, literally. She falls to the floor, stumbles on her knees,
and is on her feet reaching for her clothes.

"Oh, yeah," I say, having forgotten that
Wahib, Tahir, and my one-kiss-stand all have the payphone number. I
leap onto the floor and get ready. In ten minutes we're both
sitting in the living room, watching Auntie boil tea so she can
read leaves, something she does frequently. Auntie and Uncle
usually close the curtains since anyone can peek into their
basement apartment, so we don't have to worry about Auntie seeing
us from the windows if we were to answer the payphone.

The phone rings again, the sound dim in the
midst of the boiling water. The living room isn't directly in front
of the phone like Nasreen's room is, but we hear it nonetheless.
"We're going to say hi to Omar and his friends!" Nasreen says in
one breath. We're out the door, not even looking back to see
Auntie's reaction.

Nasreen gets to the phone first, and I'm at
her side. She picks up on the sixth ring and turns the phone so the
receiver is sandwiched between us. I wince, smelling the musty
residue of other people's breaths. It's a mélange of all the bad
odors of this world. My cousin is kind enough to turn the end
farther away from our noses. "Don't talk too loud since my mom's
inside," she whispers.

"Sure thing." Whether I'm outside or in the
closet, I always have to keep it down.

"Hello," Nasreen says. Her voice is strained
and guarded, as it usually is.

"Hello," I say all cheery, thinking of
Abe.