In the Key of Nira Ghani

by Natasha Deen

  He gets nothing from me.

  There’s another knock. Softer. “Please, Nira,” says Grandma. “Open the door.”

  I do, then step into the hallway. “If I’m going to get yelled at again, I don’t want to be yelled at in my room. Oh. Sorry. I mean your room that I get to live in because I decided to be born. No, wait, that was your decision. Just like moving us here. Just like throwing out my clothes.”

  I move to the kitchen table and challenge him with a look.

  Grandma goes to the kettle.

  “No,” I tell her. “No tea. Not everything can be solved with tea.”

  “I’m thirsty,” she replies, and adds with a lift of her mouth, “And you ain’t my mother.”

  “I don’t talk a lot about myself or how I grew up.” Dad sits across from me. “That’s not my style.”

  “If this is about the poverty you grew up in, Grandma already told me.”

  His eyes slide in her direction but come back to me. Dad clasps his hands and rests them between his knees. “You can’t explain being poor. It’s something you feel, and you experience. It gets in your bones and blood, and it changes your DNA. Your toilet is a bush. You save rainwater because it’s all the water you get.” His mouth softens as he looks at Grandma. “One tea bag for three people and it has to last the day.” His attention returns to the table. “The poor we were, Nira, you can’t understand.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but he’s still talking.

  “I’m sorry we’re still poor, but money was the price we paid to move here. We don’t have money for the clothes you want or the life you want, but we have money to put food on the table and for you to have a fresh cup of tea whenever you want.”

  His smile is a spear of guilt in my heart. I don’t want to understand him or forgive him, but the images of the child-him are in my brain and shredding down my resentment.

  “My clothes are gone. My money is gone. You talk about being poor and being responsible, but I spent the money, and now it’s nowhere. How is that being good?”

  The smile fades. “It’s not. I acted badly.”

  That’s as much of an “I’m sorry” as I’ll ever get from him. “This place isn’t like Guyana, okay? Wearing used clothes is…” I don’t want to say cool. “… not an uncool thing.” I get up. “It’s okay to recycle and reuse. You talk about how hard it is for you guys. Do you ever think about what it’s like for me? There’s a world between these walls that doesn’t exist once I walk out the door. Little Guyana smack in the middle of America.” I can’t say it right, can’t make him see. But I don’t want to stay in the kitchen anymore because the longer I look at him, the more he looks like a kid. The more he reminds me of me, poor and trying to fit in, railing against the life he didn’t choose.

  I go to my room and spend the rest of the night doing homework and practicing with Georgia. When I wake up, the clothes I bought are at the foot of the bed and folded in precise lines. My gaze goes around the room. The work clothes have been pressed and put on hangers on the closet knob. I lift a shirt to my nose and inhale. It smells of detergent and dryer sheets, but there’s another scent.

  My dad’s cologne.

  He took the clothes out of the garbage. He washed and dried them. He folded them. Maybe in other houses, that’s nothing. In our family, my dad doing laundry is headline news. I stumble from my bed and run through the house, looking for him. He’s at the sink, drinking his tea, and he turns when he hears me. I run into his arms, crying. Dad hugs me tight, and that’s all the sorry I need.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  RESENTMENT IS A TOXIC CLOUD

  I’m at work on Saturday night when Emily comes in for our night together.

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d realize we were waiting for you.”

  “We?”

  “I thought it would be fun to bring Mac and Noah.”

  Is she kidding? Tonight was just supposed to be the two of us—and what’s up with calling her Mac? “It was supposed to be you and me, not you, me, and everyone else.”

  “It’s fine. They wanted to join in, and I don’t see the problem.” She turns as they come in.

  I swallow the rising anxiety, but it won’t stay down. The gap is growing between Emily and me, and I don’t know how to stop it.

  “So, you’re hanging out with Emie and me, hey?” asks McKenzie.

  I press my lips together and stay quiet. What’s with her calling my friend Emie? Was there a nickname meeting and no one invited me?

  “It’s going to be so much fun,” says Emily. “You should hear Mac’s impressions. She’s hilarious.”

  Quick, someone put a piece of coal between my lips, because I’m pressing them together so hard I could make a diamond.

  “Ready to party?” asks Noah as he walks up.

  “It’s been a long day, and I’m not sure—”

  “It’s dinner and a movie,” he says, “all you have to do is sit. Promise.”

  Hanging with Noah would be awesome. Hanging with McKenzie will be an exercise in torment. I hedge my indecision. “Yeah, that’s what Emily and I had planned.”

  “I know.” He grins. “My master plan to get you to say yes.”

  My skin flashes hot and cold. I don’t know which topic to focus on, Emily suddenly calling my nemesis “Mac,” or that Noah wants me to say yes to something.

  “Did you get the e-mail from Mr. Nam?” asks McKenzie. “Or did you lose it again?”

  “I never lost—” Why do I bother? I take out my phone and check. “No, nothing.”

  “The auditions are pushed back again,” says Noah.

  “Again!” God. Mr. Nam’s cancelled my instrument inspection twice. Plus, Dad’s making rumblings. He wants to change his mind, and the only thing stopping him is knowing the audition is coming up. If I go and tell him it’s been changed—again—I know what will happen. He’ll twist it around and say that Mr. Nam is irresponsible, and then I’ll never get to play.

  Emily’s face crumples. “Oh, no, because of his family?”

  Noah nods, and I sink into the floor. Trust Emily to put it in perspective for me. Way to go, Nira. Lose your mind on your stuff. Meanwhile, the guy’s worried about a wife and a near-death baby. “Is there anything we can do for him?”

  “You’re sweet.” Noah throws his arm around my shoulder.

  If only he knew the thoughts that go through my head. “You obviously don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

  “And whose fault is that, Super Spy?”

  His arm is around my shoulder. I become aware of how close he is to me and stop talking.

  “We should go,” says Noah. “I want to eat before the movie—”

  I lock down my station, tell Alec good-bye, then ask if he’d like to join us. He smiles but declines, and the group heads outside.

  I’m in the parking lot when I hear a rapid car honk behind me. Everyone turns. I catch sight of the Mercedes emblem and the cream-colored car and send up a prayer it’s not Farah. The car comes to a stop, and my cousin gets out.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask as she comes up to us.

  “Your mom said you were working, so I came over.”

  That’s not an answer, that’s just more acid for my stomach to chew on. “Why are you here?”

  “I came for you.”

  I gesture to the group. “We’re heading out, so…”

  “Great. Where are we going?”

  “We are going to hang out,” I say. “You’re—”

  “Cool. Am I good to leave the car here?”

  “Sure,” Noah says before I can talk. “Masao won’t mind.”

  “Great, better to carpool and save the environment, right? The car chirps as she locks it. She tucks the fob into her purse. Her bracelets glitter and jangle in the falling dark.

  “Ready to go?” asks McKenzie.

  “Cool.” Noah speaks, and the rest of them echo his word.

  The end of the world is coming, not with fire and b
rimstone and Death riding a horse, but in the resounding chorus of “cool.”

  They head to McKenzie’s truck, but I pull Farah back. “Why are you here?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about the NASA trip.”

  “Not this again—”

  “Just think about it.”

  “Why do you even want me to go?”

  “I want to do stuff,” she says. “Stuff they’d never let me do. If you’re there—”

  I wave off the rest of the words because I don’t want to hear it. She wants me there as a cover for her to run around and be an idiot, while I entertain the folks at the hotel.

  “What do you say? Will you come?”

  “I have the audition,” I say as I move toward Emily’s car. “I’m not missing it for anything.”

  Thank god that shuts her down. We pile into the back seat, and she makes sure to get in beside Noah. I watch the streets pass me by and listen to her flirt and charm her way into a friendship with him, and try not to be jealous that she can do in twenty minutes what I still wouldn’t feel comfortable doing after twenty eons.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SYMPATHY IS A BOOMERANG

  Just my luck, Farah decides to not only drive me home but come inside as well. “Aren’t your parents waiting for you or something?”

  “I told them I was sleeping at your place.” She shuts off the car.

  Wait. What? “Did you ask my parents if you could?”

  She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Duh.”

  Farah’s sleeping over. When it comes time, I’m putting my parents in a crappy nursing home. In fact, if I can swing it, I’m going to see if I can’t make them share a room with Aunty Gul and Uncle Raj. The thought makes me smile as I lead the way to the house.

  “Nira.” Mom and Dad are in the foyer.

  “You’re late,” says Mom. She notices Farah behind me and relaxes to an at-ease position. “Farah, nice to see you, sweetheart.” Mom gives her a hug, then waits as Dad does the same. “Grandma is in the kitchen making tea.”

  Oh, jeez. More tea.

  “Thank you, Aunty.” Farah gives me one last look over her shoulder and leaves.

  “It’s nice to have her here, but you shouldn’t use her company as a reason to break curfew,” says Mom.

  Yep. The crappiest nursing home, ever, is coming their way. I break from them and head to the kitchen.

  Grandma has the cups set out and a half bowl of sugar on the table. I take heart at the half bowl. The more sugar, the worse the scenario. Maybe tonight won’t be too bad.

  “Are you hungry?” she asks. “We have curry and rice.”

  Both Farah and I tell her we don’t need dinner.

  “Fine, I’ll make you a small plate.” Grandma moves to the fridge.

  There’s a smile on Farah’s mouth that mirrors mine. It’s weird to think she and I are smiling over the same thing.

  Farah thanks Grandma as she sets a plate of food down. Grandma smooths Farah’s hair.

  I try not to throw a temper tantrum. The mental-parentals talk to Farah, loving her up. I chew my food and choke down my jealousy.

  Farah finishes eating and pushes away her plate. “Aunty, Uncle, I want Nira to come to the NASA trip with me.”

  There goes my appetite. “I told you, I have the audition—”

  “But Mac says it’s on hold because of the teacher’s family.”

  I don’t know what’s making me more irritated, Farah not dropping the stupid NASA trip, revealing the audition’s been rescheduled, or calling McKenzie “Mac,” as though they’ve been BFFs since pre-K.

  “How long is the delay?” Mom asks.

  “It doesn’t matter. I need the time to practice.” Once again, I’m the Incredible Invisible Girl because no one is paying attention to me. Worse, they’re talking about me like I’m not even at the table. Before I know what’s going on, my parents have agreed for me to take the trip.

  The thought of spending four days with Aunty and Uncle Let’s List the Ways We’re Better than You is a task not even Hercules would take. “Listen—”

  “Nira.” Grandma points at the food. “Eat.”

  “But—”

  “Eat.”

  It’s not the word, it’s the two-word command behind it: Shut Up. I can stare down a lot of people, but Grandma’s never been one of them.

  It gets worse through the night. Farah parks her skinny butt in between Mom and Dad when we stream a movie. I want a new release, but Dad’s all hot and bothered over some eighties comedy with Bette Midler and Danny DeVito. Farah breaks the tie by—no surprise—siding with my dad.

  When one of my parents pauses the TV to comment or critique, she acts as though they’re the first people to teach her something. She’s quick to laugh when they make a joke. If this is what it’s like to have a sibling, then I’m glad I’m an only child. I’m also glad she’s only staying for one night. Another day and I’d be tempted to shove her down the steps.

  Halfway through the movie, I’ve had enough. I slip away and climb from the basement back to the main floor, and take refuge in my room. What I need is someone to share my troubles. I text Emily and tell her Farah’s over. A minute later, the text bings: SO COOL! I’M HERE WITH MAC!

  Before I can digest her hanging out with McKenzie, another text comes up. MAC SAYS IF WE’D KNOWN, THE FOUR OF US COULD’VE KEPT HANGING OUT. I HAVEN’T SEEN YOUR FOLKS AND GRANDMA IN AGES!

  Hanging out. I mouth the words. McKenzie’s never wanted to hang out with me before. Amazing how having a cool cousin can up my street cred. I SHOULD GO, I text back. C U L8R. It sounds abrupt, so I add HAVE FUN WITH MCKENZIE.

  When I read U 2! AND SHE SAYS CALL HER MAC, I debate the merits of flushing my phone down the toilet. In the end, I decide to shut it off.

  I have no human to share my woes, but music is forever loyal. The new trumpet’s there, but at a time like this, I need the familiar friendship of Georgia. I take him out and cradle him on my lap.

  “Nira.” Grandma’s voice comes from the kitchen.

  I set down Georgia and go to her.

  “Help me make tea.”

  “God, Grandma, no one needs more tea.”

  “Put the kettle on.”

  “We just had two pots over dinner—”

  “Fetch me the cups.”

  Why am I fighting this? I do as she instructs.

  She covers her mouth and sneezes.

  “You need to see a doctor.”

  “For a cold? Girl, get some sense.”

  “Old woman, you first. At your age—”

  “Really?”

  “Nothing. Sorry, ma’am.”

  “You’re a good person.” Grandma reaches into her pocket and pulls out a handful of foil-wrapped chocolate. She hands them to me. “It’s nice, what you’re doing for Farah.”

  I pause in the middle of unwrapping the candy. “What am I doing for her?”

  “Being nice.”

  No one can make me behave and be honest like my grandmother. “I’m not nice.” I stuff the chocolate in my mouth to sweeten the bitterness of my confession. “I don’t like her.”

  She hands me more candy. “That’s why I’m proud of you. Come on, let’s go back.”

  “I’d rather practice.” I wait until the tea is made and help Grandma arrange it all, along with a plate of mithai. After I take everything downstairs, I go to my room.

  “Don’t be jealous,” I tell Georgia as I open the case of the new trumpet. “It’s just for show. You’ll always be my first love.”

  Georgia has no argument with this.

  I take out the instrument and spend a couple of minutes polishing it. That’s not only to clean it up and get rid of any previous-renter gunk, but it gives my fingers a chance to learn the feel of the metal curves. I want to play “Hallelujah,” and make it sound the way it does on Georgia. As I put the piece to my mouth, Farah barges in.

  “You’re practicing? Even though the audition’s been dela
yed?” She flops down on my bed.

  “It’s muscle memory. The more I play, the more ingrained it gets.”

  “You’re so good.” She sits up. “I didn’t bring any clothes. Can I borrow some sleeping clothes from you?”

  Great. My bargain basement polyblends on Miss Natural Fibers. “Sure, but I’m not sure I’ll have anything that’ll fit—”

  “I don’t mind if it’s a little big.”

  Why does she say it as though I’m the size of the Titanic? I dig through my drawers, looking for the newest and nicest stuff. Trust Farah to hip-check me out of the way and grab for my rattiest pajama set.

  “Don’t you want something better?” I pull out a serviceable plaid set.

  She shakes her head and holds the other shirt close. It’s got a faded image of Armstrong. Time’s worn down the graphic so it looks like Louis’s winking at her. “This one is good. It looks like your favorite.”

  “It is.”

  “Then it’s perfect.”

  I’m too tired to decipher why she wants my favorite things. “Why did you sleep over?”

  She shrugs. “You get Grandma all the time. She only comes over to our place a couple of times a month.”

  “She’d come over more if you wanted.”

  Farah wants to say something—I can tell by the way her mouth falls open. But she closes it, fakes a smile. “It’s hard with everyone’s schedule. Me coming over here is easier for everyone.” She stands and strips off her shirt.

  “You wanted to say something else, didn’t you?”

  Her bra falls to the floor, and her face is buried as she pulls on the pajama top. “Isn’t that our life? Wanting to say something but keeping quiet instead?”

  “You don’t have to stay silent with me.” I’m not sure why I’m saying this. Of all the things I want, a close relationship with her is at the bottom of my list.

  “Nira. You’re so nice.”

  For the first time, it doesn’t sound like trash talk. She finishes changing. I do the same. We go back downstairs. When the movie time’s over and Dad’s exhausted everyone’s patience with eighties movies, we go to my room.

  “Will you play something for me?” Farah takes the left side of the bed and crawls under the covers.