Hot Pink in the City (21 page)

Chapter Twenty-
five

"That's not the tape," Uncle says, shaking
his head. He wipes his hand across his tired face. His lids and
mouth are drooping.

"Dad, I'm sorry," Nasreen says.

"Yeah, me too," I say.

"For what?" he asks. "That's not the
tape."

A hush falls through the apartment. Even Omar
is attentive, his hand on his curtains as he's about to leave us to
play his games. Auntie blinks in her silence. The tremendous thing
that Nasreen and I did -- but mainly me -- cannot be shirked so
easily. Sure I thought I could easily cover up this deed, thinking
a tape's a tape, that we just have to match it song for song, but
it's not that easy. Uncle's tape is probably years old and carries
memories. The songs may be the same, but a replacement is a clone
without personality.

"It's my fault the tape's missing," Uncle
says. "Now, please, help me take everything off the shelf."

"Why?" I say. "The original tape isn't going
to appear. This is the tape. Well, not really. Let me explain the
damage--"

"I know about the damage," Uncle says.

"You do?" Nasreen says. "Of course you do.
She's your favorite singer."

"Which is why I replaced the tape years ago,"
he says.

"Huh?"

"What?"

Nasreen and I look at each other. What is
Uncle talking about?

"That tape you're holding was damaged by my
sister years ago," Uncle says. "She took it to a wedding where she
sang. She erased parts of the beginning on side 1 and the middle of
side 2 with her horrible singing. I can't even bear to listen to
it. I tried to let it go, but I'm still resentful. How could she
not read the label and realize that my favorite songs were on
it?"

"Yeah, how silly," Nasreen says.

As everything dawns on me, I feel pretty
stupid, yet also relieved.

"I got that cassette shortly after coming to
this country, and I don't want to throw it out. I don't listen to
it anymore because of the damage, but I leave it in my collection.
Anyway, help me find my other Kulthum tape."

With three pairs of hands we quickly pile
records, cassettes, books, and videos to the side. Lastly, Uncle
unplugs the TV and pulls it out. Nasreen and Uncle grab each side
of the entertainment center and pull it away from the wall. I reach
in, since the shelves have no backing, and pull out several tapes
that had fallen to the floor. Dust bunnies cover them. I shriek
when a spider scuttles away.

On the tapes there are pictures of a guy with
a full beard, a young guy holding a banjo, and then I see her. This
doesn't look like a bootleg. The cassette has a picture of Umm
Kulthum on the cover, and she looks beautiful in an evening gown,
with her head poised upwards as if she's a queen. Her hair's in a
bun and her profile is regal.

"That's my other Umm Kulthum tape," Uncle
says, taking it from me. "This is the one I bought after my sister
ruined the other."

All that worrying and running around for
nothing, for a tape that Uncle's sister had destroyed. I'm
ambivalent with feelings of relief, regret, and idiocy. I squash
those feelings down. I wouldn't have auditioned for that show, and
it was fun practicing my dance moves. Those porn brothers were icky
and scary, but my time with them toughened me up, and I'm grateful
to have had a
Cagney & Lacey
moment. I wouldn't have met
Abe again. He wouldn't have offered us Madonna tickets.

When the entertainment system is back in
place, I put the boxes of cassettes on shelves and stack the
records into neat piles. Uncle bends down and puts the newer,
undamaged, authentic Umm Kulthum tape into his stereo. When he
presses Play I hear her gorgeous voice. It's crystal clear, unlike
the tape we destroyed. Uncle's sister, an aunt who lives in Toronto
who I've only seen on two occasions, didn't really sound bad on the
tape we destroyed, but the difference is there. Umm Kulthum makes
me teary-eyed. Even though I only know a few words, I know she's
singing about the heart, about being human, with every emotion
compounded into her voice the same way a prism catches and releases
light.

"What a voice," Nasreen says.

Uncle puts our replacement tape back in the
box, where he'll never pick it up since he thinks his sister's
voice is on it. Maybe when he wears out his Kulthum tape, we'll
tell him the truth and he can use our tape for real.

Auntie washes dishes, and Omar retires to his
alcove now that this tape issue is over, or "ov-a" as many would
say in New York. Uncle, Nasreen, and I sit on the sofa listening.
Since Uncle's in a good mood after finding his tape, we spring our
Madonna request on him.

"You know that Asma loves Madonna?" Nasreen
says. "She loves Madonna the way you love Umm."

"It's true, Uncle," I say.

"Who's Madonna?" Uncle asks.

He reads the national and international
portions of the newspaper, and the only TV he watches is the news,
alongside his Middle Eastern entertainment videos. During my last
visit he let me know that he wasn't aware of who Michael Jackson
was.

"I forgot to bring her tape, or I'd let you
listen," I say.

"She's playing in Madison Square Garden in a
few days," Nasreen says. "It would be a shame if Asma couldn't see
her."

"I agree." Uncle nods. "If Umm Kulthum were
alive today, I would do anything to see her in concert again."

"So, anyway, while we were out we came across
this guy who offered us tickets," I say. "He's from Miami too."

"Do you know him? Who is this guy?" He raises
his voice in alarm. What were the two of us doing talking to boys?
How about they're half the population?

"Dad, don't worry. We bumped into the guy.
He's Syrian and our age, by the way, and he has some extra tickets.
He's staying with his aunt and uncle the same way Asma is."

We had to throw in the Syrian bit since that
would sway Uncle more, since he's partial to having Middle Eastern
friends. "I'd have to meet this boy," he says. "I don't like the
idea of my daughter and niece out with some stranger, some
boy."

"A nice boy with tickets, Dad."

"Yeah, Uncle, he was real polite when we
waited in line somewhere in midtown. You'll like him. And please,
Uncle, let us go. Madonna's my favorite singer."

"Okay. I'm not really comfortable with this
idea, but let me see this boy and I'll think about it after I talk
to him."

***

Later that night, in the closet while we're
watching Letterman and eating lokum, Nasreen and I go over our
day.

"I feel super-duper dumb over what happened
with the tape," Nasreen says, prying her teeth apart. My mouth is
also gummy from lokum. "I had no idea my aunt destroyed that tape
and that Dad no longer listens to it. I wasn't aware he replaced
the tape. It was literally under our noses this whole time."

"How were we supposed to know it was a poor
quality tape when it was a bootleg?" I ask. "We couldn't know. And
when you're listening to someone foreign, you can't always tell
who's singing. I didn't know that was my other aunt singing in the
beginning of the cassette."

"That tape put us through a lot, but at least
it's all over," Nasreen says. "We need to call Abe so he can meet
my father. It sounds like he'll let us go to this concert."

"It does."

We lick the powder off our fingers. My tongue
travels across my teeth, picking pistachio pieces out of my mouth.
Even though we've been staying up until three or four o'clock,
we'll go to bed earlier tonight. We're both exhausted after we took
care of the tape, changed the minds of Nasreen's parents, and
requested Uncle's permission to see Madonna. I wrote half of a
letter to my mom, which I'll finish tomorrow. All I'm writing is
that I'm doing well and Nasreen is a great tour guide. I'll mail it
in the morning. It'll be my last letter to her since in a week I'll
be back in Miami. I haven't bothered to write Tamara and Misty any
other letters since I haven't received any from them. With the
remaining quarters I have I might call them again before I leave,
and that's it. Even though my stay in New York and their treatment
of me has made me question their friendship, I do plan to catch up
with them when I get back home.

My relationships with my best friends may be
shaky, but at least I'll have Abe in Miami. I'm totally going to
stay in touch with him. This doesn't have to be a simple summer
fling. It can be much more.

Chapter Twenty-s
ix

Uncle and Auntie decide it'll be okay if
Nasreen goes to college in California, Texas, or Massachusetts, as
long as she's not too far away from relatives who she can turn to
in times of need. Now they're debating about apartment rentals or
dorm rooms. Auntie believes in dorms, while Uncle thinks they're
cesspools of alcohol and drug abuse. He'd like Nasreen to rent an
apartment with a Muslim roommate. Everything is so far away, but
they're planning, still trying to direct Nasreen's life.

"Let them act like they're in charge,"
Nasreen says. "Once I'm on my own and out of New York, that'll be
my bliss. I'll get to do my own thing."

I like her philosophy. "I'm happy you got
your way," I say.

"I couldn't have done it without you."

"I owed it to you, especially since
everything was my fault. I whined about not having Madonna and you
tried to help me out with that."

"That was an ordeal."

"It was," I agree.

We're in her room, and I stand by her desk as
she organizes her college brochures and pamphlets. Now that her
parents don't mind her leaving, she's pulling out the colleges that
are in states that have relatives in them. "Can I have one of those
brochures?" I ask.

"For that scrapbook of yours?" she asks.

"How do you know about my scrapbook?" I ask,
alarmed that she knows about it when I thought I had been hiding it
well underneath my pillows.

Nasreen shakes her head. "One night I woke up
and heard you gluing, stapling, and taping. It's kind of funny. I
don't know anyone else who does that, but who am I to judge? I
watch TV in a closet at night. Don't worry, I haven't looked in
it."

"It's not a diary," I say.

"But you treat it as one," she says.

"Yes, it's in pictorial code."

"Here, take this." She gives me a pamphlet
for a school in Arizona. Since she knows about my scrapbook, I go
ahead and work on it in front of her. I climb onto the top bunk and
staple one side of the pamphlet onto a fresh page in a way that
enables me to fold it out completely. I'll remember Nasreen and how
I helped her with this goal. I have mementoes from my other stays
in New York, but nothing like this. I usually collect maps of
museums, tickets to plays, and other touristy things. What I've
collected so far doesn't reflect me being a tourist. It's about me
being an adventurer.

If Uncle allows me to go see Madonna, I'll
tape or staple my ticket stub to the adjacent page. It will be the
first concert I've ever gone to, and I'd be seeing my idol, so this
will be a momentous event. I'm not sure what else I'll be doing in
New York in my final days. Maybe I can really see museums and other
sights -- not lying to Uncle, Auntie, or Mom about it, but really
going to these places now that I don't have to see the porn
brothers again. Nasreen has already put back Auntie's grocery money
we borrowed but never used, and since I didn't spend money on the
porn brothers' tape, I have some cash for myself. The rest of my
stay in Manhattan will be actual vacation time, in which I'm a
tourist. I'll have no mission this time other than to enjoy the
city.

"Asma!" Auntie yells from the living
room.

I jump when I hear her voice. What if she
wants me to taste something, even though Nasreen is the one she
comes to for that? "Asma!" She bursts through the door, and I
instinctively hold my scrapbook to my chest.

"You have mail," she tells me, reaching up to
hand me a letter. It's Tamara's address and bubbly writing on the
front. Finally, a letter from one of my friends.

Sitting on top of the bunk bed, I rip the
letter open. It's actually two letters inside the envelope, one
from Tamara and one from Misty. Tamara writes about how she's spent
time at the recreation center by her house, playing sports and
meeting guys. The whole letter is about herself.

Misty's letter is similar, about her exploits
at the beach and kissing boys, but her writing is more abrasive,
with her rough personality and putdowns shining through.

Asma, I wish you could be here. John's
friend Billy isn't all that cute. He flirts with me, but I'm not
into him and thought maybe you'd like him. There's also a soccer
camp going on at our school, and I thought about you, since you
only live and breathe soccer.

I'm fuming. Why would I want a boy who isn't
good enough for her... he'd fit my lower standards instead? And I
don't live and breathe soccer. I haven't even touched a soccer ball
during my stay in New York. I turn five pages back in my scrapbook
and find a picture of them. I'm standing in the middle of them, and
they both have their fingers formed into
V
s, making rabbit
ears behind my head. I take a red pen and slash into the picture so
hard I make rips. I draw devil horns and moustaches on my two
friends. It's not enough, though. I need to have the courage to
confront Misty and Tamara about their treatment of me. That's it;
I've had it with both of them. I leap off the bed and find the
remaining quarters from the pencil case.

"What are you doing?" Nasreen asks.

"I'm going to step out and make a call," I
say.

Outside, I wait for a man to get off the
phone and then dial Misty's number. I have issues with both my
friends, but Misty is the bigger problem with her attitude and
rudeness.