Hot Pink in the City (15 page)

A car drives by blasting "True Blue," and I
feel my body move with it. "You like Madonna?" Abe asks.

"I adore her," I say. "I wish I could go to
her Madison Square Garden concert."

"I'll be going with my aunt and uncle."

"No way!"

"Yes." He nods. "Isn't there a way for you to
go?"

"I don't think so. So what's your favorite
song of hers?"

We start talking about music, but then
Nasreen has to come back to ruin things. "This guy still bothering
you?" she asks.

"No, no, he's not bothering me. He never
was!"

Abe smiles at Nasreen, but he can't win her
over. She glowers, looking like Sam the Eagle from
The
Muppets
.

In no time, I'm in front of the line.
Outdoors meets indoors. The humidity wears off, it gets cooler,
drier, and I'm under air-conditioning vents. Someone ushers me
inside a studio. "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my..." I stammer.

"Calm down!" Nasreen says. "Go in there and
knock them dead."

"You'll do great," Abe says.

I turn around. "Thank you." I barely know him
and he's already cheering for me.

"Next!" someone yells.

"There's no time to flirt," Nasreen whispers.
"Get in there."

I walk on unsteady feet. I'm so glad I'm
wearing sneakers. My ankle starts to throb again. Oh no!

I'm facing two guys and a woman who are
behind a table and sitting on folded chairs. This is it, this is
audition time, and I need to give it my all. The lights are bright,
but not as bright as I thought they would be for TV. This is just
an audition, not the real thing, although there is a cameraman
honing in on me. His big lens is like a gigantic evil eye, a
Cyclops eye. Auntie's evil-eye beads come to mind.

"How old are you?" the woman with thick,
veiny fingers and harlequin glasses asks. My eyes fixate on her
many rings and huge, triangular earrings. She isn't old with her
unlined face, but she dresses old. She even has old-lady hair:
blonde, nearly white, and short.

"You look a bit young," a middle-aged man
with salt-and-pepper hair says.

"Um, I'm eighteen," I lie.

"Yeah, right," another guy says. "We can't
use this footage, no way."

Music starts playing, which I didn't expect
since the trio didn't seem to be done interviewing me. It's a dance
beat without lyrics.

"I didn't say to start!" the woman shouts.
"Cut the music! We're not done talking!"

This is my chance. I need to impress them so
the inquisition about my age can end. My body moves instinctively
in the large, high-ceilinged, brightly lit room. The music echoes
across the walls, pounding me with its bass. I dance the same way I
did in the park, with abandon. There's half a can of hairspray in
my crimped hair, but the strands become limp with motion. In
between my flying hair I see the blurred faces of the casting
people, the cameraman, people who had been standing in the back
coming closer... to see me. The pain in my ankle fades away,
because this is my moment to shine.

When the music stops I hear praise, varying
from crude to fancy.

"Nice ass on that girl."

"She's as light and graceful as a
ballerina."

I hear all sorts of things from the gathering
crowd. People carrying sound equipment, women in curlers who are
being made up, and buff men wearing tight shirts and tank tops are
gaping. I break out into a smile, my face straining against my
overwhelming happiness, but then my smile dies when I hear her
voice.

The old but young lady, whom someone calls
Faye, asks again, "But how old is she?"

"That was fantastic," the two men
simultaneously say.

"Do you have a parent or guardian with you?"
Faye asks.

"No," I say, shrugging my shoulders and
frowning. I conjure Nasreen's mean face that she's always giving
people. "I'm old enough."

"I'm afraid Faye's right," the older guy
says. "You look quite young, the youngest person we've seen so far.
We'll need a parent to sign a paper unless you have ID on you."

"I was so excited about coming here that I
left it at home," I explain. "We can always take care of
technicalities later."

"That's a shame. You're extremely talented,
and I'd love to have you on the show."

"Me too," the other man echoes.

"What is your name?" Faye asks.

"I go by Hot Pink."

"Cool name," someone in the back says.

"Great stage name," another voice pipes
up.

"You go by," Faye snorts, her rings clacking
together as she gesticulates. "Anyone serious would reveal her real
name first before handing us a pet name. You're not all that
special to be a one- or two-name wonder. You're no Madonna or Boy
George. Have a good day. I'm not entertaining any youngsters. I
hope the next candidate has stopped teething and isn't wearing a
training bra.
Next
!"

A pretty young thing in a turquoise mini
ushers me out through a different door than the one I entered from.
Another pretty young thing with humongous shoulder pads gives me a
sympathetic smile. But I wanted to be a P.Y.T. strutting in front
of a camera for money to buy a Kulthum tape, for Madonna tickets.
Why is "P.Y.T." even stuck in my head? I don't talk like that. Now
I remember that Abe called me that minutes ago. I hope I get to
chat with him after his audition so he can commiserate with me; I'm
so embarrassed and need to talk about my dashed hopes with
someone.

I'll probably have a chance to talk with him.
I linger by the door and see that Abe is next for his audition. The
trio grills him with some questions, and a dance beat ensues.

"Stop!" Faye says. "I didn't say to start!
Who the hell is cuing the music?"

The music starts prematurely, just like it
had with me, and I'm glad it did. Abe is amazing.

My eyes are transfixed to his muscular body
as he break-dances. First, he does footwork before going into
spins. He looks like a helicopter, spinning on his feet, his back,
and finally his head. When dealing with strangers you never know
what you're dealing with. Standing next to Abe outside, with him
all composed and still, I never imagined his body could do these
moves. My heart swells with happiness for him. Even though I'm sad
about my audition, at least others can make it, and I want the best
for him.

"Hey, hey," a man calls out. "Move it
along."

A security guard points the way out, and I
pry myself away from Abe's mesmerizing dance moves. The spell is
broken once I'm away from him, because sadness washes over me.

"Watch where you're going," a woman brays
when I bump into her.

"Go over there," another man in a security
uniform snaps. "Exit's that way."

Where's Nasreen? She was with me up to the
point I stood in front of the casting people. Great, I can't find
her. I meet one beige wall after another. I see water fountains,
people bustling around, and sequins. Someone in wardrobe wheels
clothes past me. To think that I could be wearing some of those
clothes!

The futility of everything hits me. I was
riding too many hopes on this show when I'm a minor. My parents
aren't here to sign any forms. Even if they were, they wouldn't go
for the idea of me being on TV when they think TV is for loose
American girls. A good girl like me doesn't belong on TV. They
tolerate me on the soccer field, with my short shorts and loose
shirts, but that brings trophies home and puts my name in the
paper, and it'll look good on college applications. Soccer is okay,
but dancing is not. To them, being on TV is meaningless, even
trashy. This also confirms the beliefs of my friends. Tamara and
Misty see me as a goody-goody, someone who could never be cool and
glamorous. I belong on the soccer field, dressed in boyish gear, or
in the library with my nose in a book.

The crimped hair and makeup was to disguise
myself in case I ended up on TV. All for nothing. I go into a
restroom. When I take a paper towel to my face, indigo, violet, and
fuchsia streaks mottle it; I need two more paper towels to get all
the cosmetics off. The rainbow is gone, and all that's left is my
bare skin. I was aggressive wiping away my makeup, and one of my
nails is askew. I go ahead and rip off the flimsy, fake nails. I'm
back to my stubby nails. The big, crimped hair and sexy clothes are
the only un-Asma-like things left, but my face looks like me.
Unglamorous me. That's how I leave the bathroom, looking for the
exit, which is getting harder to find.

"Hey, beautiful," someone calls out.

I'm not in the mood for any pervy men.
Thinking about the men at the park yesterday and the men just now,
I realize my parents are right. They're predators, and I don't need
their attention. And how can I be beautiful without any makeup and
with fried, crispy hair?

"Hey, wait up!"

I spin around to confront the person. "I'm
not in the mood! Go f--"

"I didn't want to leave without saying
good-bye."

"Oh, it's you."

Chapter Eighteen

Uncle Jesse is here. This isn't one of my
uncle-uncles, all serious, dressed in seventies polyester, smelling
like mothballs, and with a handlebar moustache. This is Abe, the
John Stamos look-alike, who walked out of my daydreams.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I apologize. "I thought you
were someone else."

I look through my purse and take out a banana
clip to hold back my hair. I'm never crimping my hair again. I miss
my straight strands, because I know I'm a mess right now.

"I didn't mean to be rude. I really thought
you were someone else."

"I'm jealous," he says.

"Of who?" I ask.

"Whoever it is you were waiting for."

"I'm in a rush. I'm looking for my
cousin."

"The girl with spiky hair?" Abe asks.

"Yeah."

"I just saw her. She's looking for you too,
but security wouldn't let her search the other wing of the
building. Let me take you to her."

"Thank you."

My cheeks become heated. His smile is wry,
one side of his face pulling all the way up while the other side
does so halfway. He has straight, white teeth. This is a sexy,
naturally lopsided smile... not what Tahir was trying to attempt
with me not too long ago.

"I thought you were pretty before, but you
look even better without all that junk on your face," Abe says.
"How old are you? And I mean your real age."

"Sixteen," I admit, figuring he saw my
downfall during auditions if he's asking about age. "What about
you?"

"Sixteen. That Faye woman asked me to leave.
There's no playing around her."

Sixteen? He looks eighteen. Hmmm, I never
thought too much about boys my age before. I usually ignore the
boys in my class and admire the upperclassmen. Every woman I know
is with an older man. My dad is five years older than my mom, and
Uncle is eight years older than Auntie... and I've always
daydreamed about older men on the small and silver screen. When I
met Abe I thought he was a high school senior or in college
already. It must be his confident strut and sexiness that make him
seem older.

"Your break dancing is fantastic," I say. "I
seriously don't know anyone in Miami who can dance like that."

"I like to practice after school while I'm
waiting for my mom to pick me up," he says.

"That's when I practice too! I dance with my
friends while waiting for my ride."

We walk towards the atrium of the building,
where there are stairs overlooking the lobby. I peer down and see
Nasreen right away. Her spikes tower over the bangs of all the
women around her. "Nasreen," I say over the din. "Nasreen!" I get
her attention and she looks up. Her raccoon eyes scare me from this
height. It's like looking at two pools of oil.

"What are you doing there?" she asks. "Get
your ass down here."

"Come up here," I yell back. I don't want to
lose her again.

"No! I'm afraid of heights."

She wouldn't want to be at the balcony-like
overhang above the lobby. "All right, I'll be right there," I
say.

The atrium's stairs have heavy traffic. Abe
grabs me by the hand to steer me towards the one closest to us. My
hand. I can't even remember the last time I held a guy's hand. It
must have been in kindergarten when we had to walk in two straight
lines to and from the classroom. To the side of the stairs there
are windows giving me a glimpse of the outdoors. I get that same
buzz I feel every time I look at busy New York streets: people are
leaving work, coming back from it, sitting at outdoor restaurants,
drinking coffee, shopping, singing on the streets, playing violin
for change. This area is far busier than Uncle's neighborhood. The
excitement grips my heart, and I stand still, even though I feel
Abe's gentle pull down the stairs as people walk around us.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Nothing," I say, feeling the city while I'm
indoors. "Let's go."

We walk down. Abe is holding the railing
while I walk by his side. Halfway down there's a twinge in my
ankle. The pain I thought was gone is back. It begins at the bony
knob of my ankle and shoots up my leg. I'm only a few steps away
from the lobby when I can't take the weight pressed down on my
foot. I start to tumble, but Abe grips me hard.

He gets in front of me, holding me. He eases
me down the steps, my chest against his, and once we're off the
steps he continues to hold me. I look into his eyes. This is
probably the last time I'll see him. We're two random strangers.
The same electricity I feel from looking at the city radiates from
his hands and through my body. I believe he's concerned about my
welfare, which is why he's not letting go of me. That small tumble,
that second of tripping down the stairs, turns into something else.
When his face gets closer to mine, I don't flinch or think
anything's strange. He kisses me on the lips. This is nothing like
the Dorito-laden kiss of last year with unromantic Brad. I close my
eyes, hold him for a moment, and then we break away. People
surround us, but I don't see or hear them.