Free Ameera, Unveiled by Kathleen Varn

performance on a Saturday doesn’t call my name,” I said. “But I’d hate to miss seeing them dance.”
    “I’m up by seven anyway. Let’s do it, Kat!” Polly urged.
    “Maybe traffic will be lighter since it’s early,” I agreed. I knew my curiosity would push me there. “Anyone own a camera that does video? We could show you it later,” I said to Cheryl.
    “I’ve got one,” Polly volunteered. “I should be able to find it by this weekend.”
    “Thanks, guys, I really hate missing this one,” Cheryl said.
    “Okay, the mall on Saturday,” I said. “Solo songs next Monday. New song to listen to in the car. And find a black skirt.”
    Polly and Cheryl laughed as we parted.
    I wasn’t sure what everyone else in Charleston was doing, but odds were they weren’t shopping for gypsy skirts or giving up a Saturday morning to watch belly dancing.

7
    Since seeing Saturday’s Day of Dance, I’d been answering queries from friends and family about how the belly dancers looked at the mall. Tirelessly, I’d recalled the amazing costumes and described the synchronization of glittery skirts to the forward motion of their dance. The dancers had opened the performance adorned with veils, finger cymbals, and Isis wings. Each presented a prop to eager, anticipating eyes. They free-styled, whetting the audience’s appetite for what was to come. By the end of their performance, I could no longer deny that my heart wanted to be a part of it.
    I’d reluctantly embraced the idea of tryouts—of developing a solo and committing to my song, “Drama Queen.” I needed to challenge Ameera, who’d hidden for too long behind dutiful personae outside the spotlight. I vowed that I’d let her be the goddess she needed to be. A two-minute solo scared the hell out of me, but I hoped the time would fly by.
    For three days, in an effort to alleviate my fear, I’d searched the Internet for videos of belly dance performances. Most of the posts I found showed young girls who’d obviously been exposed to dance since potty training. But they’d stirred the virginal choreography juices awakened in my neglected dance veins. I’d listened to my solo song in my car, at my house, and in my private dance space in the poolroom. I’d looked for moves online and offline. I’d counted eight counts.
    So now I’d thrown my dance journal and veil in the practice bag to share my solo ideas with Sybil during our private class on Valentine’s Day.
    Walking with newfound courage as I rounded the corner to the studio, I heard the Gypsy music. Approaching the glass door, I saw Sybil practicing a dance alone, smiling at herself in the mirrored closet doors.
    I paused before entering. I knew the end of the song was near. Our semiprivate class hadn’t gotten quite this far yet, but I was thrilled to anticipate the next move. Sybil twirled and swished her skirt to the final pose. I gently opened the back door.
    “Morning, Sybil,” I said, heading to drop my dance bag. “I’m impressed with your Gypsy dance.”
    Sybil lost her gypsy persona and became my instructor. She peeled off the gypsy skirt and stopped the CD player. “Hey, Kat, got your skirt yet?”
    “Not yet. I’m having a time with the skirt you lent me though,” I replied, changing shoes. “I’m short, but I’ve got long legs and arms. I can’t raise the skirt over my head on some of the moves, but I fixed the drawstring.”
    “Search the Internet for a twenty-five-yard skirt . . . they’re fuller,” Sybil said, hanging the black gypsy skirt in the closet.
    So it wasn’t a lack of skill but a legitimate wardrobe malfunction that was frustrating my attempts. I was glad I hadn’t wasted money on skirt homework in light of the fact I wouldn’t have been able to properly use it.
    “Awesome! I’ll look for one tonight,” I promised and dug into my dance bag for my solo music and dance journal.
    She looked over her shoulder. I think she’d spied my hot-pink veil and