Ameera, Unveiled (6 page)

The rest of the performance was a blur. I was blessed to connect with strangers through my eyes and short dance. When we assumed our final pose, the audience clapped (the older gentleman was still snoring) and the staff whistled. We stayed in character as we walked confidently to the back of the room, softly giggling.

I looked at my dance sisters and said, “Piece of cake. One show down, one to go.”

“See, Kat, you did it. I can’t wait to dance at the other home, can you?” Polly whispered.

We settled against the back wall to watch the other students bravely try to convince the audience that their “Hips Don’t Lie” too.

Ameera was smiling.

Leela pushed the stop button on the CD player as the second group posed for the residents.

Sybil stepped to the front of the room. “Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays,” she said. “We hope you enjoyed our show.” She looked over her shoulder, motioning for my group to join her Wednesday class. “Take a bow, ladies.”

I noted that most of the audience, except for my snoring fan, was still awake.

As we left the building, I felt a sense of relief and satisfaction.

“What a neat thing to do for Christmas,” Polly said, pulling the visor open to check her hair and makeup. “Kat, I almost lost it when that man snored as you were introducing yourself.”

We all giggled.

“I messed up a little on staying in line,” admitted Cheryl. “But I liked how the choo-choo shimmy looked.”

“Here we are, guys,” I said, pulling into the second parking lot. The bushes were draped in icicle lights. My stomach knotted again as I stared at the wreath-laden front door. The cold air encouraged us not to linger at the door, and the warm room greeted our chilled midriffs. As we waved at those in the room, I saw an elderly gentleman sitting isolated along the left wall.

“Hey, my name’s Bob,” he said loudly to us. He rested his hands on an ornate cane. “Make sure I can see you dance.”

“Hello, Bob,” Polly said, flashing a flirtatious grin. “We’ll take care of you.”

He pulled his shoulders back and blew her a kiss.

Soft giggles filled the room. The women residents sat in chairs placed around the perimeter of our dance area. They were dressed in holiday finery and were whispering about us or maybe Bob. I couldn’t be sure.

Like a well-oiled machine, Sybil and her troupe members took center stage.

I became lightheaded, and the old fears tried to overwhelm me. I pushed Ameera outside, reminding myself that this would be over in less than ten minutes. During my internal meltdown, I missed Sybil’s greeting . . . except that the Wednesday class was first.

We watched the performance and the reaction of the residents as the students wound around the stage with their choo-choo shimmy. Bob nodded and looked at each girl as the class transitioned for the final dance steps. The ladies in the audience were subtle with their facial expressions. I tried to read them but got mixed signals. As the students held the final pose for pictures, the room was filled with healthy applause and heads nodding in approval. I looked at Polly and Cheryl and felt reassuring pats on my back.

“Now, we have my students from Monday class,” Sybil said, motioning us to the dance area. “Introduce yourselves and let’s dance!”

Minutes later—not sure how I’d made it through—we mingled with the residents and gathered our bags.

We returned to TBonz. As we entered, I saw Sybil, Jessamyn, and Leela seated at the end of a long, dark-wood table. I coveted their bold fashion statements. They hadn’t bothered to change and looked completely comfortable in their belly-dance garb.

Cheryl beamed. “That was so much fun. Did you see how happy we made them?”

“Kat, you did great,” Polly praised me. “I know you were nervous. I thought we were better . . .” she stopped short when she noticed the girls from the other class sitting a couple chairs from our end of the table.

Sybil stood and raised her glass to all of us. “Ladies, thank you so much for participating. I suspect you all love belly dancing, or are falling in love with it, like we did,” she said, motioning to Jessamyn and Leela. “Again, I can’t tell you how much it meant to the residents.”

We cheered and gave our best baby zaghareets, the sound mingling with that from the experienced zaghareeters. Each of us covered our mouths as we yelled and wagged our tongues. A few servers turned their heads toward us to see what was happening. They probably didn’t realize it was belly dancer applause.

“And further, I have great New Year’s goals for all of you,” Sybil said, a facetious twinkle in her eye. “Here’s to belly dancing in 2007!” My stomach lurched with what performance plans she might be cooking up, but I told myself to be Scarlett O’Hara. I’d think about that tomorrow.

“Let’s take a picture,” suggested Polly. She took my camera from the table and approached the veterans. “Can we have a picture of y’all?”

They huddled and waited for the camera to capture the moment. As I watched Polly take the photos, I admired such photogenic confidence.

“Will you take one with us and Sybil?” Polly asked.

“Absolutely,” Jessamyn said, taking the camera with graceful hands. Sybil moved to our end of the table and flashed a dimpled smile. “One more,” Jessamyn said, pushing the button with a sexy belly-dance finger, and I felt three simultaneous sighs of envy. We stayed in the pose and waited for one more camera flash. I knew then that I wanted to be Jessamyn when I grew up.

5

Over the next few days, friends and family bombarded me with questions about the nursing home performances. Most knew of my stage fright and lack of confidence, not to mention my inability to recall choreography. I told them all the same thing: My favorite part of the experience had been the shining eyes and silver crowns of the audience.

But on post-performance Monday, I felt different, more relaxed, as I walked through the maze to Sybil’s home studio. I opened the back door to see that everyone was already there and Sybil was shooing her dog Pappy out of the studio.

“Hey, Kat,” she said before turning to address the group. “Okay, ladies, let’s chat about Wednesday night.” Sybil snapped the hallway door shut as we all sat down. “How does everyone feel about it?”

Cheryl and Polly blurted, “Awesome!”

Not wanting to be Debbie Downer, I jumped in behind them. “It was very fulfilling. I don’t know why I had the performance so built up in my head.”

Sybil smiled and nodded. “Good. So does everyone want to keep taking lessons on Monday?” She cast the question out like a glimmering net.

Without pause, we unanimously agreed that there were no quitters in the room.

“Good. Tonight, I wanna give each of you a short report card. I do this for each member after troupe performances. I’ll start with Polly.”

Polly, her eyes still focused on a dance cloud, looked fearlessly but respectfully toward Sybil.

“Polly, your past dance experience has definitely helped you grasp the idea of isolation,” Sybil said. “I know the overachiever in you will push you to excel, but I want you to find a softer mindset. You love strong moves. I want more focus on the hands and hips—in a soft way. Also, you don’t need any help in stage presence. You’ve got it, girl!”

She then turned to Cheryl. “Cheryl, you looked beautiful. Your makeup showed off those fantastic eyes, so I want you to work on looking at the audience. Make them want to be you! Don’t look at the floor. Give them that beautiful Mediterranean smile.” Sybil flashed her own dimpled smile as she spoke.

Cheryl basked in her praise.

I gulped, waiting my turn.

“Kat . . . your determination is fierce. For the next session, I want you to work on posture and arms. The three of you blend together well as a group. I see sisters bonding.”

Phew, nothing I don’t already know,
I thought.

While each of us processed Sybil’s words, she stood to write on the mirrored doors with a red dry-erase pen, starting a list of goals for us. “Confident walks, posture, eye contact, energy. That’s what we’re gonna start on after the holidays. Tonight will be our last class for the year, until the second Monday after New Year’s. If you haven’t gotten a veil yet, please look online and have one in your bag in the New Year.”

We obediently grabbed pens and journals and started to record our dancing orders. I wrote the list of goals, surprisingly eager for the direction Sybil was offering.

“Just one more thing you should know as advancing students. When someone joins the troupe, we take families and relationships very seriously. December suspends practices, but we hit the dance year hard in January. Thursday attendance is mandatory. For several years now, we’ve been asked to perform at the North Charleston Performing Arts Festival in May. Troupe members have been choreographing new dances to submit in January. We’ll sign up for dances and prepare to start practicing intensively for the show.”

Why’s she telling us this?
I asked myself.

Sybil took a breath and turned back from her mirror notes. “I want to add new troupe members next year and would like you to consider auditioning . . .” She stopped and looked at each of us individually.

My stomach lurched. I asked myself the obvious question: Did she just say “audition”? I stared at Polly and Cheryl, who were already reacting with excitement. I had too eagerly lapsed into my weekly dance-class mentality minus any more performance pressure. Suddenly, I was feeling pushed into another on-stage scenario. What the hell?

Cheryl spoke up. “What do we have to do?” It sounded like a reasonable question, but there was—in my view—way too much excitement in her voice.

“You’ve gotta choreograph a two-minute solo on your own,” Sybil answered. “And it has to be original. In addition, one of the troupe members will show you a set of combinations, and you’ll have an opportunity to show how fast you learn. If you make it, you’ll have to attend mandatory practices.”

My mind was spinning like a slot machine. Mandatory practices would be easy to manage or make up. But original choreography? A solo? I wouldn’t be able to hide behind my dance mates. What had happened to that sense of relief I’d felt moments ago? I wanted to move forward with dancing, to improve my moves, sure. But now, out of the blue, Sybil had raised the stakes and I wasn’t sure I wanted to play this new dance hand I’d been dealt.

Sybil said, “I know you’ve got a lot to think about. So do you wanna run through the nursing home choreography or just head home and meet in January?”

“I’m certainly digesting a lot of information right now,” I confessed as I fiddled with my coin scarf. I could hear Pappy panting behind the closed door. Suddenly, I wanted to scratch my way out of the room as much as he wanted to scratch his way in.

Sybil looked at Cheryl.

“Let’s start fresh in January,” Cheryl said, flashing a positive smile.

Polly shrugged. “I’ll be practicing no matter what.”

The room filled with the noise of coin scarves returning to dance bags as we hugged and left the studio.

“Boy, it’s colder and darker already,” I commented, as I closed the gate. It was funny how my comment could also describe my mood since Sybil had uttered that dreaded “audition” word.

Cheryl used a remote to unlock her car door so she could toss her dance treasures inside. “Imagine being in a belly dance troupe next year!”

My brain was screaming, Are you crazy? Have you looked in the mirror at how we dance? Folding my arms to keep my hands warm, I said, “I don’t know. I’d have to be a whole lot better than I am today. I’m not sure I’ll audition. I just wanted to take classes.”

Cheryl and Polly jumped on me. “You can’t not try out with us! It wouldn’t be the same. You’re too hard on yourself.”

I sighed, wishing I could convey how terrifying the thought of an audition was after my experiences as a little girl. “Sweet thoughts, guys, but I felt so good going to class with nothing at stake. Now I feel like I did when I overreacted to the nursing home performance. I just . . . I don’t like pressure.”

I looked over at the oak tree across the street to avoid seeing their disappointment.

Polly exercised her nurse-management muscles as she gave me a gentle hug. “Kat, we don’t have to decide any of this right now. Let’s enjoy class and not worry about it yet, okay?”

We all nodded, wished each other happy holidays, and climbed into our cars with calls of “See you next year!”