Ameera, Unveiled by Kathleen Varn

deployed for months,” I argued.
    “Pooh!” she dismissed my argument. “I know you remember how that teacher whispered to Mom that we didn’t have any natural talent. She even sucked the joy out of our morning dances with our sisters.”
    I approached my left turn and hit the blinker. The light turned yellow then red.
    My ghost folded her hands and flexed her toes in their pink leather slippers. “Your heart wants to dance. If you’re willing, I’m still happy to wear the costume.” Then she faded away, leaving me to think about her words.
    I decided that the Ghost of the Girl That Was Me was right. Whatever fear my head clung to, my heart wanted to dance.

6
    My December attention was focused on two events: Steve’s fiftieth birthday party and the New Year’s family ski trip to Park City, Utah. I’d seen no more ghosts, just experienced plenty of thoughts and dread passing between the dancing devil and angel on my shoulder.
    Event planning pulled me further away from my dance class countdown. My efforts to practice were sporadic at best. I’d resigned myself to listening to music to get the musicality down as I fulfilled duties and obligations. The jury was still out on the audition idea.
    Two days after Christmas, we celebrated Steve’s birthday. I’d planned a shindig worthy of him in the DoubleTree ballroom. The theme was a presidential election for the Sexy Baby Boomers Club. Tables were loaded with candy, soft drinks, cheap wine, and memorabilia from the 1950s to the 1990s. Guests cast ballots at the front door and left him birthday comments. In lieu of gifts, we accepted donations to the Turtle Hospital at the City Aquarium.
    Steve wore a tuxedo, like any presidential candidate, and I was in a beautiful floor-length, black-velvet gown, like any first lady. We looked elegant and slim. As planned, we were fashionably late, so most of the guests were present when Steve arrived and greeted his constituents.
    After checking my makeup and dress again in our hotel room, I called to the star of the evening, “Ready to go, Mr. President?” I’d decided to add a little more body glitter to my chest.
    Steve checked his bowtie. “Let’s go, Ameera,” he said.
    I warmed to the thrill of him using my dance name.
    We took the elevator to the ballroom, the band cued, and the new president of the Sexy Baby Boomers Club entered his amazing post-election party. After toasts, Steve took me by the hand and led me to the dance floor. Signaling to the band, he asked me for the spotlight solo. All our friends and family circled us and watched as we merged into a ballroom dance couple.
    I felt their eyes following us as we drifted across the dance floor. In spite of my beautiful black dress, “Lady in Red” crooned us along. It felt easy and natural. Now, why can’t I surrender to the belly dance goddess the same way ? I wondered.
    As the song ended, Steve dipped me and whispered, “You’re awesome. Great job on my party.” He kissed me as our guests applauded.
    We retired from the dance floor. Why, I wondered again, can I accept a spotlight following Steve’s lead but dread the same proverbial spotlight on an audition solo?
    How would I feel on January 8?

    At 6:30 p.m. on January 8, 2007, Cheryl, Polly, and I pulled onto Sybil’s residential street. I’d survived 2006—the year in which I’d begun to initiate my change. We parked and gathered our coin scarves. The winter sun was setting as leaves tumbled across the oak-shadowed asphalt road. A cold front was approaching. We shouldered our dance bags and eagerly hugged each other before we opened the backyard gate.
    Sybil was drawing stick figures and funny descriptive names on the mirrors as we entered her studio. She brushed a blonde lock of hair from her eye, never letting her attention stray from her drawings. “Hello, ladies!” she called after briefly glancing our way.
    As I switched out of my shoes and added coins, my eyes were drawn to hieroglyphics