Read Hot Pink in the City for Free Online Page B

I'm on the top level of the bunk bed, yet I'm looking
straight through a window, where the curtains have opened, probably
from the movements of my tossing and turning. Between the exterior
bars of the window and the iron fence that's a barrier between the
stairway and the street, I see people's headless bodies float by. A
woman talks into a payphone, which is right outside the window.
Payphone users have disturbed my sleep during previous visits.
    "I have no money for a taxi!" the woman
screams.
    I'm not the only one with money problems, I
see.
    Memories of what I've done hit me hard. The
tape. Omar's greedy hands reaching out for money. My mom thinking
everything's okay when clearly I messed up on arrival. What am I
going to do?
    I scoot closer to the window and part the
curtains some more. It's past midnight, but people are still out,
walking, alone or with others, in sneakers, in pumps, in sandals.
Someone walks by with a boom box blaring, the large eyes of the
speaker meeting my own eyes. Angling my head to look down the
street, I see lights of restaurants and bars that are still open.
It's hard finding places in Miami that are open this late, but in
New York anything's possible. That's what I need to believe: the
possibilities that lie in this city and how anything can be fixed.
I'm in a big city, not my hokey little suburb in Miami. Somewhere
in Manhattan there has to be another Umm Kulthum tape I can
purchase to replace the one I destroyed.
    A huge moth the size of a cockroach lands on
the window, and I have to stifle a scream. Insects scare the crap
out of me. I pull the curtains together and lie back down, feeling
a little bit better. I dip my head underneath my upper tier to
check on Nasreen. She's curled up in a ball. I'm about to lie back
down again, but then her eyes fly wide open, the whites bright and
illuminated by a nightlight. I jump, gripping the sides of my
mattress. "What are you doing up?" I ask.
    "What are you doing up, young lady?" she
counters.
    "I can't sleep."
    "Neither can I. So what shall we do about
this sleeplessness?"
    "I don't know." I shrug. "Can we watch
TV?"
    "Not unless you want the Wizard of Oz
snitching to my parents," Nasreen whispers.
    I chuckle, but not too loud. Uncle is the
noise Nazi, and Omar hides behind his curtain like a fascist
tyrant. Even though he's in the alcove, I wouldn't be surprised if
he's up at this time to watch us.
    "If you want to watch TV, it has to be my
way," she says.
    "What way is that?" I ask.
    "Come to my lair..."
    I climb down, intrigued. I didn't know
Nasreen had a lair. The apartment isn't that big, so I wonder where
she'll take me to watch TV. Omar dominates the living room, since
he has his curtained nook there, and the kitchen and dining area
are too close to the master bedroom, where Auntie and Uncle
are.
    Expecting Nasreen to take me somewhere, she
instead opens her closet. It's a large closet or maybe a small
walk-in. She invites me into the darkness. Inside, she pulls a
lightbulb chain that illuminates us and puts a towel at the bottom
of the door. "We can't have any light escape," she says.
    Whoa, she's really against having Uncle find
out what she does. What parents don't understand is that their
children have secret selves, secret lives. My parents would never
believe what I paste in my scrapbook, the thoughts in my head, my
dreams of being a famous singer and dancer, and the boys who woo me
in my daydreams. Now Nasreen is showing me another side to her, but
I'm still confused. "Why are we here?" I ask.
    "Sit down," she says. She sits on the floor,
and I follow suit, crossing my legs. I notice the walls, which have
crayon drawings all over them. Looking at the doodles Nasreen did
as a child, I feel like I'm studying prehistoric man. She drew the
sun and moon, and people with circles, triangles, and squares for
heads.
    "I didn't know you were an artist," I
say.
    "Trust me that I received punishment for my
artwork as a kid," she says. "My parents