Hot Pink in the City (4 page)

Chapter Four

You must respect your aunt and uncle, follow
all their rules, and be careful with their home and belongings.
Don't make a mess. Pick up after yourself and offer to do
chores.

Do not make yourself and the family look
bad!

My parents' words fill up my head. They're
all the way in Florida, but I can hear them loud and clear.

I'm practically useless when it comes to
deciphering Arabic and Farsi script, since I recognize random
letters and sounds, but Nasreen is better at reading it than me. We
split ourselves between boxes. I check out one box of cassettes,
she the other. For the third one, we lay everything out on the
floor and inspect together. I hope Uncle doesn't notice that
everything is out of order. I don't think he alphabetized his
collection, but I'm sure he'll notice the cassettes aren't in the
order he last left them.

"Okay, here's some more Umm," Nasreen says.
She finds a cassette with a picture of the singer. Her hair is in a
bouffant and she's wearing sunglasses. She looks majestic in a
beautiful ball gown.

"Open it," I say.

We look inside. Actually, it's other artists
singing covers to her songs based on Nasreen's reading of Farsi.
"This isn't her," she says.

I look at the tape we recorded over and the
spool looks intact. The tape has no scars or other marks on it. It
looks practically new. What did we do?

We search some more. We find another cassette
that's a mixtape of several Arabic singers, but according to what
Uncle scrawled on the insert there's only one Umm song on it.

"So the cassette we ruined was the best and
only Kulthum tape Uncle had?" I ask.

"Apparently so," Nasreen says. Her voice is
flat. Even the spikes of her hair look like they're drooping. No
amount of hairspray can uplift us. We made a boo-boo of massive
proportions.

Omar is behind the curtain, still playing
with his new gifts and enjoying the toys I handed him. At least he
doesn't know about this. "My dad only has a soft drink and fries at
McDonalds since he's really there for his friends," Nasreen says.
"Mom is almost done with dinner, so he should be here soonish."

I gasp at the thought of him coming home. I
also think about tonight, which is when I should be calling my
parents to tell them I arrived here safe and sound. I told them I
would call around nine. I can't tell them about what I did. They'll
be so embarrassed. This will totally be the last trip they ever
send me on. I hope my parents don't take soccer away from me,
because I live for practices and games -- that sport is in my
blood. They've taken away phone and TV privileges in the past, so I
wouldn't be surprised if they limit my freedom even more.

"We have to hide the evidence," I say.

Nasreen grabs the Madonna-Aunt's voice-my
protest-Umm Kulthum tape, and we rush into her room. I wish her
door had a lock, but I'm pretty sure I gave Omar enough goodies to
occupy him until late tonight.

"So what should we do?" Nasreen asks.

"Well, we definitely can't have Uncle or
anyone else find the tape," I say. "Once he hears Madonna and my
voice, he'll know I did this and that you're my accomplice. We need
to destroy this tape but keep the box and insert for when we find a
replacement."

"Good idea. Some of those cassettes were
gifts, but my dad does buy tapes here. I'm sure we'll find a
replacement."

We brainstorm and do the following: Nasreen
finds a Bon Jovi cassette box minus the tape since she lent it to a
friend who never returned it, and I take a black marker and
scribble all over the ruined tape so that if anyone were to find it
he or she would never figure it was Uncle's cassette. Then Nasreen
cuts the spool of the tape with scissors. I slip the ruined tape
into the Bon Jovi holder. The Bon Jovi-destroyed Umm cassette is
now in my purse so I can dispose of it in an outdoor garbage can
the next time I go out. Nasreen puts the original cassette box
under a stack of clothes in her closet for the replacement tape
we'll find. We act like we're in Iran, with intelligence officers
spying on us. Stories of the old country told to us by our parents
have seeped into our bones. We're really going out of our way to
disguise, hide, and throw out the cassette we bungled.

"It's not like your dad is the secret
police," I say.

Nasreen snorts. "You don't live with him,"
she says. "They open my mail. Colleges send me material I
requested, and sometimes I don't see it until weeks later. Don't
underestimate my parents."

That sucks. Even my parents respect my
privacy by not opening my mail. I guess we are doing the right
thing by getting rid of this tape. Poor Umm. She had a brilliant
singing voice, and I messed with it. Umm is like Madonna to Uncle.
I covered my room with Madonna posters, and his home has Umm
collages. Umm has a magical voice that transports you somewhere
else -- I'm positive if I knew Arabic then this feeling would be
stronger for me -- and Madonna takes me someplace else, into her
world where everything is cool. Hours ago I was upset that I forgot
to pack Madonna with me, and Uncle will feel the same way when he
can't find this tape. I vow to find a tape to replace it since I
ruined Uncle's best copy of her songs. If only the write-protect
tabs had been broken in, then we never would have recorded over it.
It's amazing how something so small, a tiny piece of plastic, makes
a world of difference.

"Ooooooh, I'm telling," someone murmurs
behind the door.

I jump, and so does Nasreen. We look behind
us and see a big brown eye peering at us through a crack in the
door. Sneaky little booger.

"You two are up to no good," Omar says,
opening the door wider.

"You little..." Nasreen utters.

"Watch it," he says, sounding far older than
his age. "You can't afford to say anything bad about me. Why did
one of you say 'replacement' awhile ago? Did you mess up one of
Baba's tapes? You know he loves his music, and he never wanted
either one of you touching his tapes or his radio."

What I would do if he were my brother, but I
can't do anything. I'm in his home. I swallow a lump in my throat.
All the balls are in his corner. I already thought I paid for his
affections and his silence not too long ago, but I didn't give him
enough. He wants more. But what more can we give him?

"So which tape did you break?" he asks. "And
how? Did it snap in two while you were playing it? Did you record
over it? What happened? What singer was it?"

He lists all the possibilities of what can
happen to a fragile tape, but we're not telling him anything.
"Don't worry about it," I say.

"I'm not going to be quiet about this. What
can the two of you do for me? Huh? And make it snappy, because I
have a busy evening ahead of me."

Chapter Five

Nasreen and I sit in her room eating
lokum
, aka Turkish delight. It's this gelatinous, sweet
thing covered with powder with nuts inside. The powder falls onto
my lap and it's even funnier on Nasreen, who's dressed in black.
She looks upset, although the powder across her mouth, chin, and
shirt look comical. Sitting on the floor of her room, we have to
cheer ourselves up somehow. Auntie doesn't have chocolate on hand
in the kitchen, but there's lokum.

A chair stands in front of the door so Omar
can't snoop on us any longer. He's the reason we're glum and eating
sugar. He demanded twenty dollars, so both of us are ten dollars
poorer. He didn't even know all the details of our crime, but the
looks on our faces and our hiding in Nasreen's room tipped him off
that we did something bad.

I might end up completely poor by the time I
leave if Omar consistently blackmails us. He promised to stay
silent about the broken tape with this twenty-dollar fee, but I
don't trust him. He'll always have this thing to hold over our
heads. And if I keep losing money, I'll definitely never ever get
Madonna tickets. There's no use asking Uncle if I can even go if I
don't have the money, and it would raise my parents' suspicions if
I were to ask them for more money. If they stick some bills in an
envelope, I'll get it in a few days, but I can't ask. Mom and Dad
thought they had given me adequate funds for this trip. And some
trip it is. I just got here and I'm already miserable. The
excitement of the city and the possibilities within it disappear.
Omar's smug face, my lighter wallet, and the Kulthum tape I
destroyed swim in my head.

Not only is a tin can of lokum by us, but we
also have Uncle's radio. No longer wanting to be in the living
room, a stone's throw from Omar's curtained alcove, we took the
radio so we can use it in the privacy of Nasreen's room. I have a
blank tape -- an actual blank tape this time -- sitting on
Nasreen's dresser, but I'm not in the mood to do any recording.
Listening to Madonna would put me in a better mood, but I don't
have the will to find her music. Also, with Auntie around, I don't
know if she'll barge in and ruin things -- we barricaded the door,
so she might pound on it with one fist while a spoonful of food is
in the other. Not only do we need Uncle out of the way, but we need
Auntie out of the apartment too, although it seems like she never
leaves.

I hear the clash of pots and pans as she
finishes making dinner. "We need to put all this stuff away,"
Nasreen mumbles. "My dad is a creature of habit, and, looking at
the clock, he should be here any minute."

Instead of being afraid that he's coming,
that he'll find us with his radio in the bedroom instead of in the
living room, where there's a dent in the carpet from its bulk
sitting there constantly, I'm slow to move. I lift the radio, move
the chair aside, and walk into the living room. The dent is dark
against light beige. I put the radio back on the carpet, between
the sofa and entertainment system, and it fits inside the dent
perfectly. I'm laying this radio to rest. It brought us to no good
this afternoon.

The phone rings, and Auntie rushes to it, as
if she's going to miss something important. She doesn't want anyone
to wait, as if that makes her a bad person. It isn't wrong to let
people wait instead of catering to them all the time. All she does
is try to make others happy. I wonder what makes her happy, or
maybe what she's already doing is all she wants.

When she picks up the phone and begins to
speak Farsi, it's apparent she's talking to a friend. Her eyes roll
up to the ceiling in ecstasy, and she's smiling. Auntie is
friendly, a hostess, a people person, a face stuffer who wants you
to eat everything on the plate -- after all, there are people
starving in Ethiopia, and we should be grateful for what we
have.

"Yes, our niece is here... Farhad's niece,
from his mother's side... she's sixteen... I haven't really thought
about marriage, but it does sound like a good idea... your nephew
Nabil sounds like a good match for her."

The lokum sits heavy in my stomach. It seems
like all the older women in my family are looking for husbands for
me. At home my mother talks about boys she knows, young men her
friends have told her about, sons of friends. Meanwhile, I don't
want to be tied down. I'm still in school! And I'd like to find
someone on my own. Ideas of the summer fling I've daydreamed about
float in my head, but the people around me want to set me up with
someone right now or in the near future.

Auntie hangs up the phone. "Don't look like
that," she smiles. "My friend saw a picture of you and thinks
you're quite pretty for her nephew. But we're not putting pressure
on you."

Yeah, right. It sounds like pressure to
me.

"Dinner's almost ready and your uncle is
almost home, so why don't you wash up. It looks like you've eaten
lokum. I'm so glad you like it. Oh, before you eat dinner, maybe
you should call your parents already and let them know you're okay
instead of waiting until tonight. You might go to bed early and
miss calling them."

I wash my hands and return to the living
room. I look at the green curtains that mask the alcove. My monster
of a little cousin is behind them. He'll probably hear my entire
conversation with my parents. He's in a central location where he
can watch everyone. Outside of his room, he's sneaking around,
opening doors, and peeking in at people. Nasty little spy.

I pick up the phone and call my mother. "How
are you, Asma?" she asks. She talks in a hybrid of Farsi and
English, switching between the two. "How was your flight?"

"Great." I don't tell her about wearing
makeup, handsome Abe, and I most certainly don't breathe a word
about the Kulthum tape.

"You be on your best behavior. We trust you
by yourself over there. We shouldn't hear a negative word from your
uncle and aunt, but I know we won't hear such things."

"Right." I gulp. This is too much for me. I
ruined a tape containing music from the Madonna of the Middle East,
I lost money to my bratty cousin, and my aunt is mentioning the
word "marriage" and me in her conversations to friends. I have many
more days of this...

***

Nasreen's taste-testing and Auntie
interrupting my music recording at least had one good result.
Dinner is fantastic. Succulent beef, a rich gravy, and delicate
rice fill up my tummy, although I'm not eating as much as I
normally do. My nerves rattle through me. I quake hearing the
clattering of forks, knives, and saltshakers. Nasreen picks at her
food. Omar quickly finishes dinner and asks if he can leave. With
these long summer days, he can play outside in the evenings with
his friends. Just as Omar is about to leave, there's a knock on the
door. I see a glimpse of four of his friends, some taller and
older-looking than him, and Omar goes with them to a playground
across the street. Before the door closes on him and his friends, I
stare at his back pockets, picturing my money in them. If he knew
what was going on inside of me, he probably would have stayed to
torture me. My eyes dart up to my uncle and aunt. Nasreen is also
watching. We're particularly interested in Uncle. Auntie doesn't
touch the music collection because it's her husband's evening-time
hobby.