In the Key of Nira Ghani

by Natasha Deen

  “Because I’m always sharing. When you sleep over, you’re in my bed. My clothes—I still don’t have back those pajamas. Grandma. Mom and Dad.”

  “I’d share my family and house.” Her voice is straining to stay light. “But my toys are broken and should be recalled for toxic materials.”

  “And what about my friends?” Before I can stop myself, it’s out. “What about Noah?”

  “What about Noah?”

  “Give me a break, Farah. All the texting, the touching, the food sharing. Isn’t it enough that you’ve hijacked Emily and McKenzie, and my house and my family? You have to take Noah, too? When is it enough for you? Or are you going to keep throwing trips and brand-name bags my way in exchange for my life?”

  She blinks fast, and her jaw clenches tight.

  We don’t talk for the rest of the ride. The blood thrums in my ears and pounds in my veins. But deeper still is the inner voice that wonders why I have to be so like my dad. Why can’t I keep my mouth shut, and why do I feel like I’m always setting fire to things that are already smoldering?

  She pulls onto the driveway, but when I go to unlock the door, she hits the button and locks it again. Once more, I unlock it, but she revs the engine. The lock snaps back in place.

  Farah turns, and her dark gaze is bright with unnamed emotion. “I’m not a dog, Nira, and Noah’s not a bone. You don’t get to possess people just because you saw them first, and you don’t get to be their only friend.” She hits the button and unlocks the door. “Get out.”

  I take my bag and head up the stairs, and I don’t look back.

  “Where’s Farah?” Mom comes into the foyer.

  “She went home.”

  “Home?” Her mom gaze goes into hypermode. “What happened?”

  “Nothing, okay?” I kick off my shoes and head to my bedroom, my bag in hand.

  “Nira, what happened? Talk to me—”

  “I’m sick of talking to people,” I say. “I want some time alone.”

  “I’ll make you some tea.”

  “I don’t want—!” I lower my voice. “I don’t want any tea. I want to be alone.” I go to my room and close the door. Farah’s still driving home, but I check my phone anyway to see if she left a text. Nothing.

  Good.

  I’m tired of always playing nice so everyone else can be happy. It’s my time now. I take the clothes out of the bag, rip off the tags, and try not to think of my cousin’s smile as she handed me the bracelets.

  “Nira?” Grandma’s tap at the door follows the question. She opens the door, a cup of tea in her hand.

  “Don’t start with me, old woman.” I point to the cup. “I’m not thirsty.”

  The side of her mouth twists. “This is my tea.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  She holds it out. “Try it. Mine, not yours.”

  “What does it matter? We both take it the same way.”

  She lifts it higher. “Try, you’ll see.”

  I take the cup and have a swig. It’s hot and sweet.

  Grandma makes a face. “Gross, now it has your juju in it. I don’t want it, anymore. You drink the rest, don’t let it go to waste.”

  Foiled by a senior citizen once again. “I don’t want to talk. You love Farah—”

  “So do you.”

  I ignore her words. “I don’t want you in the middle.”

  “I’m already in the middle.” She sits on the bed. “Nice stuff. Farah helped you buy them?”

  “I have homework, and I should practice for the audition.”

  “Who’s stopping you?”

  “You.”

  Her eyebrows rise. “I take up so much space?”

  “You know you do.”

  She shrugs and stands. For a minute, I think she’s going to leave. But she crawls to the top of the bed, moves the pillows, lies down, then covers herself with them.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Sharing space with the pillows. Now I’m not taking up any room.” She coughs, and the pillows jiggle.

  “In some places, I could have you committed.”

  “Good. I believe a person should always be committed to the things they believe in.”

  “She’s taking everything. She’s here all the time, and I can’t even see my friends without her there.”

  “Farah?” Her voice is muffled from the pillows on her face.

  “No, my invisible friend, Mary the Moose.”

  “It bears asking. Crazy runs in this family. I heard you have a grandmother who pretends to be bedding accessories.”

  “Take those off your face.” I move the pillows. “I have visions of you suffocating.”

  She sits up, pats the spot next to her, and covers her mouth as she coughs.

  “You should see a doctor.”

  “Can’t. I’m a medical miracle. A doctor looks at me, and all he’ll want to do is document my magnificence. His whole career, just me. We’re in a health-care crisis; I can’t do that to the rest of the people.”

  “I feel like I’m in crisis.”

  She hands me a square of wrapped chocolate. “What happened with you and Farah?”

  “The same thing that always happens.” I punch the pillow and lean back on it. “She has everything, and it’s not enough. Now she has to have my friends and family.” I stare at the ceiling. “She’s such a pot salt. Sleeping over every weekend, texting Emily, being friends with McKenzie—” Noah’s name is on my lips, but I keep quiet.

  “And a crush. There’s always a matter of the heart involved. Is it a boy or a girl?”

  “It’s not a crush; it’s just this boy. Noah.”

  “You both like him, and I guess he likes Farah?”

  I shrug.

  “You like him more?”

  “Not like that—it’s just different when it’s a guy who’s your friend, and your cousin’s flirting with him all the time. How am I supposed to compete with that?” I pick at my jeans. “She even takes my clothes.”

  “She wears your clothes, borrows your friends, loves the boy you love—”

  “I’m not in love.”

  The look she gives me is pure snark. “She’s using your mom and dad as surrogates, and of course, there’s me.”

  “Of course.”

  She digs into her robe and hands me a piece of candy. “Put it together. What’s the answer to why Farah’s doing this?”

  The crinkle of the wrapper fills the silence. “I don’t know.”

  “Nira! You are an A-plus student—you don’t know the answer?”

  I shake my head.

  She sucks her teeth and rises as Mom calls us for dinner. I go to the bathroom to wash my hands. When I get to the table, there’s a black-and-white photo on my plate. Me, drenched in Grandma’s costume jewelry, my feet drowning in her shoes, and her makeup smeared all over my face. “What’s this?”

  “One of my favorite pictures of you.” Grandma sits beside me. “Look at you.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, I was something all right.” I trace the lines of the photo. “I just wanted to be like you—”

  Grandma smiles and pats my arm.

  Bested by the old lady, once again.

  I spend the next two days texting Farah and telling her sorry, but I get no reply. When the day of the audition comes, I’m frazzled and nervous. I burn myself in the shower and cut my legs shaving. Even when I try to take a breath and slow down, I still manage to stub my toe on the dresser.

  School is even worse. I have no patience for the McKenzie and Emily show at lunch. I try to hold in the sarcasm, but it’s hard, especially when they’re sharing their fries and drinks, and giving each other special looks I can’t decode. My short temper leaves Emily staring at me like a puppy who’s been scolded and doesn’t know why.

  But there’s McKenzie to pat her arm and say, “Don’t worry. She’s just nervous.” Then she shoots me a look full of ill intent. “You’ll do just fine, won’t you?”

  “Yeah, I’ll b
e fine.” I grab my tray and stand. “I’m going to walk around for a bit.”

  I leave them. The thunder’s rolling, the lightning’s flashing, and I still don’t have my umbrella.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  RESOLUTION IS A WALL OF BRICKS

  I sit in the gym with the crowd of hopefuls, waiting for my turn to get up and play. Mr. Nam is rough, hard-core. He barely cleared my rented instrument for auditions. Now I’m wondering how I’m going to measure up to his exacting standards. Georgia rests beside me, patient and waiting for our time.

  Georgia is next to me.

  Oh god. I brought the wrong trumpet.

  Now I’m staring at the case. I’m such an idiot. The whole point of getting the job and renting from Reynolds was so I didn’t walk onstage and embarrass myself and Georgia. I’m still staring at the case, as though I can will it to be the new trumpet.

  “Don’t sit there like a ninny,” says a voice. “Take it out and warm up or something.”

  I spin around. “Farah!” I stumble to my feet and lock my arms around her neck.

  “Chill, weirdo. It’s only been a couple of days.”

  “I’m so sorry. I was such a jerk.” I speak the words into her skin and inhale the scent of her.

  “God, you’re so emotional. It’s fine.” She pries herself from my grip, but I catch the smile that tugs the edges of her mouth.

  “I brought the wrong trumpet,” I tell her, and try not to cry.

  “The wrong one? Is it broken?”

  “No, it’s Georgia. I brought Georgia.”

  Farah shrugs. “It’s a trumpet, and it plays. Besides, it’s your Georgia. You guys know each other.”

  “But he’s a pocket trumpet.” I’m one breath away from wringing my hands or fainting. Maybe both. “Mr. Nam’s never going to put me in band if I pull out a pocket trumpet.”

  “He’s never going to have the chance to decide if you don’t take out any trumpet.”

  The clash of cymbals jerks my attention to the front. Everyone’s staring at us. Noah’s eyes are full of concern and worry. My gaze tracks to Mr. Nam, and he’s a symphony of irritation.

  “Thank you, Miss Ghani. Perhaps if you’re done with your BFF time, you can lend us peasants some of it?”

  I’m so glad I’m colored and no one can see me blush. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Apologies aren’t anything but stale air. We’ve been waiting and calling you. Get up onstage or stop wasting everyone’s time.”

  I grab my case and scurry to my spot, ignoring McKenzie. She’s doing something with her hands, but I’m positive it’s some blond girl voodoo to mess up my audition.

  I get to the stage. My legs are like overcooked spaghetti. This is the moment, and I’m terrified. This is the moment, and I’m petrified he’s going to take one look at my trumpet and kick me off the stage. Or that the kids will laugh. Or both.

  I didn’t think it would be like this. I thought I’d feel powerful and victorious. That, at the least, I’d feel like a conquering hero. Reality is a kick in the crotch.

  With shaking hands, I undo the latch. And for a second, that’s all I can do. I’m scared into paralysis. My heart stops. The world stops. Then I take a breath and move to the case.

  “That’s enough,” says Mr. Nam. “Next.”

  I’m sure I’ve heard wrong. “Sorry?”

  “Off the stage, Nira. Time for someone else.”

  “But I haven’t auditioned—”

  “You did, and thanks. Now it’s time for someone else.”

  I open my mouth, but the look on his face stops me. I lock the case, and my hands are shaking, but for an entirely different reason. I can’t get my fingers to grasp the handle. The next kid is onstage, coming toward me with his sax in his hands, and sympathy on his face.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers as he takes my place.

  I nod and stumble to the stage exit. Emily is there, her arms open. “I’m so sorry. What a jerk!”

  I fall into her embrace, the empty holes inside me filling with her love, but she’s not enough to plug all the spaces. This can’t be how the story ends. I’ve worked too hard, sacrificed too much, done too much fighting with Mom and Dad to come back a failure. I’m not going to fall to some teacher who’s full of smug self-satisfaction. I breathe the scent of Emily’s perfume and come up with a plan.

  The gang finds me at the water fountain.

  “That was a garbage move.” Farah spits the words. “Your parents should complain.”

  Noah shakes his head. “That’s typical of Mr. Nam. He’s hard-core.”

  “How did you guys do?” I ask and get awkward looks from him and McKenzie.

  “They got in.” Emily waves her hand in dismissal. “The question is how to get you in.”

  “No, wait. We need to take a second.” I hug Noah, which feels awesome, and then I force myself to hug McKenzie, which is way less awesome. “Congrats. We should celebrate. Just because I didn’t get in doesn’t mean we ignore what you did.” The words are hard as cement to get out, but I don’t want the focus to be me. And besides, they did good. I don’t want to be the person who dismisses their victories.

  “We were thinking of pizza,” says Noah. “My treat.”

  “Dessert’s on me,” says McKenzie, then nudges Emily and whispers something to her that makes her giggle.

  My handle on zen-Nira is slipping, and I need the gang gone before I go to pieces. “You guys go ahead; I’ll meet you later.”

  Emily says, “No, first we take on Mr. Nam.” She slaps her back pockets. “Okay, first we find my phone, then we take on Mr. Nam.”

  “Maybe we can start a petition—” Noah.

  “I still think your parents should step in—” Farah.

  “Maybe a stern letter?” McKenzie, looking constipated at the complex thought.

  I hold up my hand. “Guys, it’s okay. I’m going to talk to him.”

  “We’ll all talk to him,” says Noah.

  “No, it’s fine, I’ve got it handled. You guys go ahead. Just text me the address of where you go.”

  “I’ll stay.” Farah plants her feet. “You’ll need a ride.”

  “No.” I feel like I’m a dim-witted parrot who knows only one word. “No. You go ahead. Maybe you and Noah can carpool?” God, that hurt to say. But she was right—he’s not a bone, and we’re not a pack of dogs. If he’d rather be friends with her than me, so be it, even if it’ll leave me sobbing into my pillow.

  Farah blinks and catches the subtext. “Um—okay.”

  I don’t know if she agrees because she loves Noah that much, or if it’s because she respects the olive branch I’m holding out.

  She takes my hand and squeezes it. “Good luck.”

  “I don’t like this,” says Noah. “Mac or I should be with you. We know him better.”

  “Guys, some dragons you slay on your own.” I grin to cover up the nerves. Then I rush them off, still grinning like an idiot. As soon as they’re out of sight, the fake emotions drop. The truth is, I’m terrified. I’m not built to argue with adults. Guyanese are all about respecting the elders, but I want a spot in the band. If I have to go toe to toe with a teacher who’s scary enough to make me feel nauseous, then so be it.

  I heft Georgia, go to Mr. Nam’s office, and knock on the partially opened door. “Mr. Nam?”

  “Nira. I thought you’d stop by.” His back is to me. He swivels in his seat but doesn’t stand. “If your trumpet playing is anything like your academics, I bet you’re amazing. I’m sorry I won’t get a chance to find out.”

  It’s a dismissal, but I’m not moving. Not so much because I’m feeling brave. More like my legs are paralyzed, and Mr. Nam’s going to have to call the janitor to wheel me out. “I want to talk to you about my audition.”

  “What about it? You had your chance. Just like all the other kids.”

  “No, I didn’t. They got to play.”

  He shakes his head. “No, they got time on the stage, just l
ike you.”

  “I was nervous—”

  “I understand, but I’m not your parent or your therapist. You had your chance on the stage. I’m not responsible for what you did when you were on it.”

  “But—”

  He stands. “Nira, look, I know you think you wanted to be in jazz band, and that’s fine. But it’s not about want. Lots of people want things. It’s about what you do with the want—”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Not fair? You were there to audition. Your mind should have been on the task at hand. Instead, we were left waiting for you to finish your conversation. I called and called you, but your friend was what had your focus, not the audition.”

  “That’s not true. I brought the wrong trumpet—that’s what I was talking about.”

  His bushy eyebrows go up. “You weren’t paying attention enough to bring the correct trumpet. Tell me again how much you wanted to be in the band.”

  “It’s not that—” I’m feeling desperate, and I’m sweating through my tunic. “The other trumpet is new. This one”—I lift Georgia’s case—“I’ve had this one forever. It was just habit that made me pick it up.”

  “So why didn’t you use it?”

  “I—” I sigh. “It’s a pocket trumpet.”

  “Does it make music?”

  I nod.

  “Then why didn’t you use it?”

  My mouth is dry, and my tongue feels like a wad of sandpaper. “I thought—I thought if you saw it, you wouldn’t think I was a real musician.”

  He shakes his head, and the movement is full of sadness. “Nira, are you a musician or someone who just carries an instrument? Music originates from anywhere and everywhere, and it’s about what’s inside of you coming out as melody, not about how shiny your instrument is.”

  “I know.” I blink back the tears. “That’s what I realized, but just as I was reaching for Georgia—my trumpet—you told me to step down.”

  “You get on the stage, and you have thirty seconds to start playing. It’s my rule for auditions. That’s what keeps it fair.”

  “I know, but—” I keep trying to make him understand. I tell him about how much I fought with my parents to get the chance to try out, then fought with them to get the job to pay for the new trumpet.

  And all he says is, “Why didn’t you bring that fighter’s spirt to the audition?”