by Natasha Deen
“No.”
The look Grandma shoots me is a total go with God.
I frown at her because I don’t understand why she’s giving me that look and I wish she’d open her mouth. “Sure. Do you need me to bring anything?”
“Matches.”
Oh, jeez.
The matches, thank god, are not to burn down the house or any of Dad’s possessions. They’re for the small camping BBQ sitting by the house, under the kitchen window. “Oh, it’s cute.”
“Your father,” she spits the words. “Why does he have to be like that?”
“Stubborn? Dictatorial? Recalcitrant?”
“Eh, don’t vex me. Now’s not the time to prove your vocabulary.” She hefts a bag of charcoal and rips it open with her bare hands.
I step out of her range and go with the instinctual, “Sorry.”
“Why does he have to be like that?”
I hold the metal grill as she tosses the bricks into the black bin. No point in talking to her when she’s on the repetitive loop.
“Is it so bad? Tell me, is it so bad?” She wrenches the grill from my hand, and I thank any gods in the vicinity for saving me from a broken finger. Or three.
“No, it’s not so bad.” Safe response.
“I know.” She tosses a lit match on the charcoal and watches the embers burn out. “But he’s so—”
I don’t offer any synonyms and hope she’ll put me out of my misery by telling me what it is they’re fighting about.
She lights another match. “What is so bad with making do?”
I’m lost.
“What’s the big deal if we can’t afford that gargantuan BBQ like Raj?”
Oh.
“What’s wrong with having a little one like this?” She waves at the grill with the slick motion of a professional model. “Who cares what it looks like? What matters is what it cooks like. And charcoal is charcoal. It all tastes the same.”
“Right.” I’m glad Dad’s not here to see another match burn out without having lit the charcoal. He’d lecture us for days on how it’s proof the BBQ is crap. “I’m on your side, but we’re still without a fire in the grill.”
“It needs help. Get me some newspaper.”
But that doesn’t work. Neither do the white blocks of whatever that is she shoves between the bricks. As she works, she complains about Dad.
“I know we have to save for some things. But not everything—not everything has to have a brand name and a big price tag. Sometimes the no name is just as good.”
I disagree, but I need her on my side.
“You don’t care.” Another match dies. “You and your designer jeans.”
“That’s not fair,” I tell the back of her as she turns and bends toward a plastic bag. “Just because I like brand names doesn’t mean I can’t understand where you’re coming from. Some things are—” She whips out a bag with the ferocity of a Samurai wielding a sword. “What the—?”
She’s pulled out a giant bottle of lighter fluid. “I’m tired of your dad telling me I’m bad for not wanting to wait on every little thing. Why can’t we have fun with what we have?” As she’s talking, she’s spraying the charcoal with fluid. The more she talks, the harder she pushes on the bottle.
“Mom, I think that’s enough.”
“It is enough, Nira. I’m not letting him talk to me like that anymore—”
“I mean, there’s going to be a fire.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. Your father and I aren’t going to self-destruct.”
“No, I mean the—”
“I’ll show him.” Another squirt of fluid on the BBQ. “I’ll prove to him this thing’s just as good as Raj’s Colossus.” Another shot on the charcoal. “You can do a lot with a little.”
I grab the bottle out of her hand.
“Look at you with your toy trumpet.”
Uh-oh.
“Listen to the great music you play, even though it’s not expensive or pretty to look at. You do a great job. You don’t need anything else.”
Outstanding. Just what I least needed to hear.
“It’s what you said. With some things, you don’t need to spend hundreds or get a brand name.”
I eye the bottle in my hand and consider dousing myself with it. “But some things, quality things, you need to spend money.”
“Nira.” Her impatient gaze rubs me like sandpaper. “Are you with me or not?”
“I’m with both of you.”
“You can’t be with both of us.”
“Why not?”
“Because one of us is wrong.” Another glare. “And I’m the one who gave birth to you.”
Ugh. Parents. “You can prove your point with the food.”
“Go get me the chicken.”
“Stop drowning the bricks with lighter fluid.”
When I come back, I see her sprinkling the bricks with the liquid. “What did I say about the fluid?” I set down the dish of chicken legs. “With the amount you’ve sprayed—” Then I remember I’m supposed to have her onside. “Can I help?”
“I’ll start it, then you can watch it while I make the potatoes.” She reaches for the matches. “Unless you want to peel them?”
No, no, and more no. All I’ll hear is how I peel too thick and need to cut more of the eyes out. “I’ll watch.”
With a flick of her wrist, the match flames to life. Another flick, and it’s spiraling through the air and touches the bricks. There’s a loud foom, an apocalyptic cloud of smoke and flame, and black clouds explode to the sky.
A second later, as the haze clears, the fire’s burning with cheerful orange and red in the BBQ. Our eyes travel upward, tracking the path of soot that’s been licked into the white wall.
“You still have that twenty? The one I gave you for your jeans?”
“Yeah.”
“Go get paint. And a brush.”
“He’s going to be home soon. The store’s a half hour away.”
She turns to the chicken. “Run.”
I don’t get back in time, and dinner’s full of unspoken words. The weird thing is that each of my parents thinks they’ve won the argument. Dad looks self-satisfied because of the swatch of black on the exterior of our house. Mom’s smug because the chicken is deliciousness itself.
Grandma eats. I wonder how she can be so placid, but I guess if she survived raising Dad and Uncle Raj, nothing can phase her. After dinner, I help with the dishes. When I go outside, I find Dad in the backyard, staring at the cloud of doom left by the BBQ. He shakes his head when he sees me. “Your mother. Why can’t she wait?”
“Because if you look up ‘impatient’ in the dictionary, there’s a picture of her.”
He grunts. “Look at this. We’ll have to scrape the paint, then put more on. And you know what’ll happen? It’s going to look terrible because it’ll be brand-new and the rest of the house is old white. We’re going to have to paint the entire wall. Maybe the entire house.”
I’m still stuck on “we.” “We?”
“Yes, Nira. You helped her.”
“Helped! I was trying to talk her off the ledge.”
“Good.” He nods. “Then you’ll help.”
“I—” Why am I fighting this? I can flip being a good daughter into a negotiation for the trumpet and the jazz band. “Fine, I’ll help.”
His focus is on the wall, and he looks like he’s trying not to cry. “I don’t know how we’ll afford all the paint and the equipment. This is hundreds of dollars of damage.”
I’m tempted to twist his words, to point out that if I had a job, I could help with the money. But he’s in a fragile state, and I worry about his reaction.
He’s still staring at the wall. The setting sun casts its orange-red light and imbues the house with shades of underworld chic. “What’s so bad with having some patience?”
“I guess you miss stuff if all you do is wait.”
“Of course, you agree with her.” He gives himself a shak
e, and the father I know—staid, implacable—reemerges.
“What? No. I’m just saying I understand why she wants to do stuff now. Just like I understand why you’d want to wait. Some things—quality things—you have to save up for.”
He nods, satisfied.
“We’re a lot alike,” I tell him. I smile for emphasis and hope I don’t look like a slimy saleslady. “We have an idea of the kind of life we want, and we don’t mind working hard to get it.”
Another nod. And a smile.
“Dad”—I take a breath to quiet my increasing heart rate, which is one beat below a heart attack—“I want something.”
“The clothes? Not again—”
“No, no. Something else. Something… big.” Before he can say anything, my mouth gets ahead of my brain. “It’s not school related, so I don’t expect you to shell out the money. I want an after-school job to pay for it.”
He doesn’t reply, only stares.
I’ve never been in a hurricane before, but I think this is what it must be like. People talk about the hush when you’re in the middle of the storm, but it’s not an accurate word. There’s no hush between Dad and me. It’s a lack of sound that’s loud and thunderous in its silence, and it’s making my ears pound.
“You want a what?” He asks the question like I’ve not only confessed to being pregnant but admitted that the father in question is Satan and my child will bring about the end times.
“I want a job, to save up for something.”
“What kind of something?”
He’s talking without moving his lips, and it’s freaking me out. “It’s—”
“You’re saving money?” He steps closer. “Is this for a boy?”
“You can’t buy people anymore, Dad. Besides, brown folks owning other folks will cause talk in the neighborhood.”
“Don’t get fresh. You know what I mean. You saving up for something you want to do with a boy?”
I shake my head.
His eyes narrow. “Or a girl? Don’t play word games with me, Nira. Boy, girl. You know what I’m asking. Are you doing things you’re not supposed to be doing?”
“Of course not! When do I have the time to do anything other than study? I’m not saving up to do anything with anyone.” That’s not true. Playing the trumpet would be even cooler if there were other instruments. My thoughts must show on my face because my dad’s eyes go snaky.
“Safiya! Come here! Your daughter’s eyes pass me.”
Why does everything have to be so hard with them? Trust him to see my expression and misread it.
Mom shushes us as she comes out the door. “It’s getting late. You want to get the neighbors mad?”
“Tell her. Tell her what’s so important you need a job—”
“A job!” She says it like I’ve cussed at her. “School is your job.”
“—to save up. For something personal.”
“Is it a boy?”
“I’m not buying—no.”
Her dark eyes probe my face. “A girl?”
“No.”
“What is it for?”
“It’s something I want.”
“More clothes?” She steps closer to Dad.
“She’d tell us if it were clothes.” He closes the space between them.
Boy, nothing like a kid asking for something to make parents forget their fight and bond together.
“You’re sure you’re not dating? Have you been lying to us about the bus ride? You’ve been going somewhere to meet someone?”
“No, no.” Dad claps his hands. “Hear the joke. She’s too busy to date, she has no time after she’s done studying, but somehow, she’s going to find time for a job.”
“It’s a trumpet.” I blurt the words out before I can process my thoughts.
They stare, as though I’ve spoken in Russian. As though I’ve grown another head, and it’s speaking Russian, too.
“Trumpet?” says my mother. “What’s wrong with the one you have?”
“It’s a pocket trumpet, it’s not the standard size for band.”
“It’s almost as big as a real trumpet—”
“I love—” I almost say “Georgia,” but stop myself in time. My parents don’t need to know I’ve named my trumpet. “I love my trumpet, but it’s a hundred years old.”
“Why do you need a new one?”
“Why does Dad need a BBQ? We have a stove.”
“Eh, don’t get fresh.”
Right, I’m disrespectful for pointing out the obvious.
Mom rolls her eyes. “Like the jeans. Always want, want, want.”
I exhale my angry breath. “That’s why I’d like a job. Because then it’s my money and I can spend it on anything I want.” Whoa. Dumb thing to say.
They take a synchronous step my way. “On anything you want.”
“Is this about drugs?” asks Dad. “Are you experimenting?”
“Is this about The Pot?”
God help me. How do two adults who come from a country where marijuana is considered a staple call it The Pot? “No.”
“We didn’t come here for you to fry your brain on Canadian grass. This isn’t like the ganja from back home—”
“I just want a trumpet.”
There’s a long look between them where they communicate telepathically. Who knows, maybe they even contact the mother ship. Then they speak with one voice. “No.”
“What!”
“No,” says my dad. “You have to go to school. That’s your job.”
“But it doesn’t pay!” The wind picks up and blows cold kisses on the back of my neck.
“But it will,” says Mom. “When you go to university and become a neurosurgeon.”
“I don’t want to be a neurosurgeon.”
She waves her hand, dismisses me. “Fine. Fine. Be a heart surgeon. Plastic surgeon. General surgeon. Any kind of surgeon you want. It’s your life.”
“Yeah, right.” My words are bitter. “That’s why I’m begging for permission to have an after-school job. My marks are great. What’s the big deal if I work part-time?”
“Your marks will drop. We didn’t come here for you to end up in a gutter.”
“God, Dad! Who are these kids that end up in the gutter? I’m a good kid—”
“And you’ll stay that way if you stay in school.”
“It’s part of the Canadian experience.” I’m growing desperate. “Don’t you want me to be Canadian?”
“Not that Canadian,” says Mom. “Besides, who will take you to this job?”
“The bus,” I tell her.
“More time wasted,” she says. “You’re riding the bus when you should be studying.”
“I can study on the bus.”
“With all that noise and people breathing beside you?” Her eyebrows go up.
“Trust me,” I tell her. “As long as they’re breathing, I’m fine. It’s the guy beside me who’s not breathing who’s going to worry me.”
“Fresh,” mutters Dad. “You see what happens when we let her watch those stupid shows on TV?”
All this, just because I want something that doesn’t have a direct connection to academics. Last year, I tried to convince them that I should have more than school courses on my résumé. They were willing to bend for me for volunteering at a hospital or a vet clinic. But when I asked about music, they built a wall that would have made Shihuangdi jealous, which is saying a lot, since he built the Great Wall of China. In my parents’ world, the arts have no place except as an excuse for those who don’t want “real” jobs.
“You’re shivering.” Mom rubs my arm. “Let’s go inside and discuss this.” She drops her voice and whispers, “Away from the neighbors.”
“No one’s pressed up against their kitchen window, Mom.” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Me wanting a trumpet isn’t that interesting.”
“It is to me.” She beams a smile.
Shoot me.
“We’ll go in and tal
k.”
“No.” I’m such an idiot. Why not say okay and go inside? My fingers are turning to brown icicles, and my boobs are so cold my nipples are going to shatter.
“Nira, we didn’t raise you to pout and throw tantrums. You want this, come inside and talk to us like an adult.”
Song number two on the Ghani family playlist. Look like a child, act like a grown-up. Talk like an adult, think like an adult, make decisions like an adult. I have all the responsibilities and obligations of the graying crowd without any of the privileges. “Not until you agree.”
“You’re going to stay outside until we let you have a trumpet?”
I nod.
They shrug. “Okay,” and go inside.
The kitchen light comes on. Warm yellow spills onto the concrete. I sit on the tree stump and wrap my arms around myself as the sun sets and the dark creeps in. A few minutes later, Grandma’s beside me, a cup of tea in her hand.
“How much for the trumpet?”
“A lot.” I take the cup from her and swallow a mouthful of sweet tea. It burns my mouth, scalds my throat, but I don’t care. It’s hot, and I need it. And at least this time it’s not so sweet it’ll put me in a diabetic coma. My stomach blooms with its warmth. “I need the job because I can’t save it up.”
“Maybe I can help.”
Tears sting my eyes. “It’s too much.”
“Maybe I can help.”
I shake my head.
“They only want what’s best for you.”
“No, they don’t. They want me to live their dream. Science. Math. Grow up to be a doctor. I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to cut into anybody.” Not that I don’t want to touch people’s hearts—I just want to do it differently. But I need courage and confidence. And I need magic for that. Magic is the trumpet.
“They sacrificed so you could have a better life—”
“What kind of life? I’m the only brown girl in school. The only other brown kid is some guy in the next grade. And he’s actual brown, full Indian, not some weird mix of a bunch of races, like me.”
“It’s not a weird mix. It’s exotic ethnicities—”
“That no one cares about except you.”
She clasps my hand, and her skin is as cold as mine.
I wrap my fingers around her to warm her up.
“It’s not about what you look like and who else looks like you. It’s about opportunity and taking your chances in this country.”
