Life on base away from the United States was a bit of a culture shock. Because they divided the grades differently, I was outraged to find myself back in middle school while Jan went to General H. H. Arnold High School. We were free to venture out and explore the country around us, but most people seemed scared to do that. I wasn’t about to be stuck at home all the time. Struggling through the language barrier that kept most of my classmates on base, I researched the schedules and took the bus into Wiesbaden, a bustling city famous for its grandly ancient architecture and natural hot springs.
In Germany, the arts were highly respected and well funded. Every town had a big theater, so I joined one and started picking up some German. Before long I was conversational, working toward fluent. Mama searched out a challenging ballet class for me and then went around to all the Turkish and Moroccan restaurants, asking, “Do you hire belly dancers?” The response was more enthusiastic than we could have imagined. Turns out belly dancing was even more popular in Germany than it was back home, so I was soon back to a steady schedule of appearances. Mama danced, too, but we were rarely at the same place at the same time.
I danced at birthday parties, weddings, and corporate events. I danced at hotels, restaurants, and convention centers. I learned the difference between the Turkish customs and the Persian customs, and tailored my style to accommodate the two completely different styles of dance and dress. The money rolled in. I usually got paid in cash, and for lack of a better idea, I kept tucking it into a little metal lockbox. If I wanted a book or a record or tampons, I just peeled a little off this wad of cash and tucked it away again. I was too young to understand or care about the money—I just loved dancing—so Daddy did all the bookkeeping. When I had several thousand dollars sitting there under his desk, he took me to the bank to hook up my own checking account and then to the PX to write my very first check, which the cashier assumed was fake.
She peered at me over her reading glasses. “Is this real?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “It’s my check.”
“Really.”
“Yes!”
She looked over my head at Daddy, who had gotten in line behind me, anticipating that he might have to vouch for me. Her reaction was understandable, because walking down the street, I looked like any other twelve-year-old kid. In my costume and makeup, I looked older, and I was coming in as a professional, dancing at restaurants and events until ten or eleven at night, so the people hiring me readily believed Mama when she told them I was sixteen. Like my first ballet teacher, they either believed it or believed I could make it work. It raised only a few eyebrows each time I celebrated another sixteenth birthday.
“Wait…” the bookers sometimes said. “Weren’t you sixteen last year?”
“No, no. Fifteen. Fifteen last year.”
Dad was always with me, nodding and smiling, backing me up. Mr. Rockefeller. He was my wingman in all things, with me at every gig. We were a little team, he and I. While I prepared, he’d get the sound and video equipment set up and assess the audience, and we’d formulate a strategy, crackling back and forth on walkie-talkies.
“You’ve got a square dance floor. Wood. The good party table is on the left.”
“Okay, cool.”
“Birthday girl is twenty-one. Table five. Seated with parents. Grandparents. Looks like a boyfriend, a couple siblings. They’ve definitely had a few, but it’s a family thing. They seem okay.”
“Thanks, Daddy.”
I stayed out of sight until I heard my music. Mama was adamant about that as a rule—and Prince always was, too. It made Mama crazy when costumed dancers strolled around and mingled with people before a performance.
“Where’s the mystery then?” she’d ask in a huff. “Where’s the illusion? Shattered, that’s where. Destroyed! Why even bother making a dramatic entrance if you’ve already been seen at the bar giggling with the waiters?”
By the time I finally got to take my rightful place at General H. H. Arnold High School, the sizable chunk of money with which I’d started my checking account had swelled to more than $100,000, because I didn’t spend much. I never did much other than go to school and dance. I did pay for my own business expenses, costumes, and dance classes. When I turned fifteen, I got my learner’s permit and bought my first car. I could have bought myself a house if I’d wanted to. (Sometimes I wish I had.) After Jan started college, I shifted some cash her way whenever she needed it, and Daddy told me, “She gets an allowance, you know.”
I was genuinely confused. “Allowance? What’s that?”
It hadn’t really occurred to me that most kids my age looked to their parents to pay for things like clothes and a car. I liked funding my own life, but the money wasn’t what made me love dancing. First and foremost for me at that age was that it was fun. My good friends Stephanie and Allison loved to go with me. Free food, dancing, parties—come on! What teenage girl is going to complain about that as a lifestyle?