In the Key of Nira Ghani

by Natasha Deen

  Then I try to tell him about how nervous I was, how hard I’d practiced and worked.

  “It was your moment, Nira, and your fear came through. And that’s okay. Sometimes we’re scared. It happens. We’re human. But a moment comes, and then it’s gone. If it was what you’re waiting for, you can’t hesitate. You have to take it. That’s life. If you become a bomb expert, you can’t hesitate when it comes to cutting the wires.”

  I swipe my eyes. “But I’m not a bomb expert—”

  “Maybe not, but those thirty seconds were your chance to set it off, and you didn’t. Life is about focus, it’s about being in the moment. At that time, your job was to be present in the audition, because your job in the band will be to be present for your fellow members.”

  I want to argue that a moment of hesitation shouldn’t disqualify me. That sometimes it’s about trying, then failing, then trying again. And I open my mouth to say all those things, when it hits me.

  He’s here, talking to me while his baby is in the Natal Intensive Care Unit. He was here at the school, listening to the kids audition when the obvious choice was to be at his son’s bedside. He’s here, with me, calm and reasonable, when I’m sure inside, he’s freaking out, and negotiating with any and all the gods that they not take his baby from him.

  I hold out my hand. “Thanks, Mr. Nam. You’ll see me, again, next year.”

  He smiles and shakes it.

  “Go see your son.”

  Emotion flickers on his face, and the way he squeezes my hand transmits his gratitude, his hope, and his fears.

  I head down the hallway, turn the corner, and almost run into the gang. “What the—didn’t I say to go ahead?”

  “You say a lot of things,” says Farah. “Most of it is just blah, blah, blah.”

  “Like we’d leave when you were fighting a dragon.” Noah throws his arm around my shoulder. “What if you needed a distraction?”

  “I’m starving,” says McKenzie. “Let’s go eat.”

  “Hey, Emily, wait up.”

  She waves the rest of the group off and leans against a locker. “How are you?”

  “Okay, I guess. It sucks, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” Now that we’re at the moment, I can’t find the words or the courage.

  She grins. “Is this our psychic twin thing?”

  “It’s McKenzie,” I blurt out, then start sweating when her smile fades.

  “What about Mac?” Her voice is a monotone warning, but there’s no getting off this track now.

  “I feel like—I feel like I’m being pushed out. We don’t hang out like we used to.”

  “Our group is growing, but we still hang—look at us now. We’re hanging.”

  “Emily, you know what I mean. McKenzie’s—”

  “Mac. Her name is Mac. Why can’t you call her that?”

  “Because I don’t like her!” I don’t mean for the confession to slip out, but the words hang between us, and there’s no way to take them back. “She’s mean to me. She’s always making racist jokes and being snotty.”

  “Why can’t you give her a chance?”

  “Why should I? She can’t even get my religion right.”

  “What about you?” Emily faces me. “Do you know what Mac’s religion is?”

  “What?”

  “What’s her faith?”

  I can’t believe she’s turning this around so I’m the one at fault. “I don’t know.”

  Emily sighs. “Maybe if you paid attention to her, she’d pay attention to you. Maybe then you’d see she’s not all that bad.”

  What’s happening here?

  “Come on.” She steps away from the locker and starts down the hallway. “They’re waiting.”

  “Emily—”

  “Don’t make me choose.” The rest of the sentence lies unspoken. Don’t make me choose because I’ll choose her over you.

  I trail behind her, and when we get to the group, I fake happiness. McKenzie and Emily have a telepathic conversation, aided by side glances at me. All of it does me in. I’m losing Emily, losing Noah, and Farah.

  How much longer will I have as part of their group? How much longer until they rid themselves of the pesky fifth wheel? Poetry from English class floats in my brain. The bards sing their sonnets and verses in my ear, reminding me life is about loss, that all good things come to an end. But it’s all so unfair. It’s ending for me but beginning for everyone else. I choke down my food, say the right things, laugh at the right times, but inside I’m breaking. The storm is here, and I’m nothing but the invisible girl, getting soaked in the rain.

  The conversation at home is what I expect. Mom’s at the kitchen table, spinning the cup in her hand, her emotions conflicted. She’s ticked at Mr. Nam for not letting me into the band—“You’re perfect. What? The man doesn’t want to win awards or place first?” But she’s also sympathetic to his reasoning—“You need to concentrate, and be prepared.”

  Grandma says nothing.

  Dad’s pure happiness. “This trumpet thing was a waste of time, anyway. Now you can go back to studying. Your grades have suffered—”

  “A two-percent drop?”

  “Your entrance to an Ivy League school lives and dies in that two percent.”

  “Dad—”

  “Nira, you wanted to try out for the band, and you have your answer. The discussion is over.” He stands.

  “No, it’s not. I didn’t want to audition for the band; I wanted to play the trumpet. That’s what I want, not being a doctor.”

  “You didn’t ask for that, you asked for a band audition, and you got it. The trumpet goes back into the case.”

  I shake my head. “No, Dad. This is what I want.”

  His face darkens. “We didn’t bring you here to end up in the gutter.”

  “You didn’t bring me here to live your dreams, either.”

  “Don’t get fresh with me!”

  “I’m not—God, why is it every time I voice my opinion I’m disrespectful?”

  Grandma rises and heads to the kettle. Mom’s struck dumb, her eyes moving from her husband to her daughter, unsure of who she should side with.

  “Because you’re disrespectful,” says Dad. “This is over now.”

  I bolt to my feet. “No, that’s not fair!”

  “Keep going, and I’ll take both your job and the trumpet.” The skin on his face is tight, and there’s a light in his eyes that says he means business.

  But I’m his child, stubborn and unable to back down, just like him. “I earned the right to do this.”

  “You earned nothing. Even your teacher knows. You tried out, and you weren’t good enough. It’s done.” He shoves the chair out of the way and storms off.

  “It’s not done,” I mutter to myself and wave down Grandma as she holds up a cup. “No, no tea.”

  “Okay,” she says, “a small cup.”

  “No, no I don’t want tea. I’m not thirsty and drinking tea isn’t going to solve my problems.”

  Mom takes a sip from her mug.

  “Tea solves all problems,” Grandma says. “When you’re drinking, you can’t talk. Sometimes it’s good for you to keep your mouth closed.”

  Mom chokes on her drink.

  “Please,” I tell my mother, “like you’ve never said that to me.”

  “Leave me out of this.” Mom walks away.

  I watch my grandmother, the hunch of her back, her deliberate movements as she pours hot water into the teapot to warm it up for the tea. “Do you really think I should stop fighting?”

  “You think that’s what I said?”

  “You told me to shut up.”

  “I said when you’re drinking, you can’t talk. So, if you can’t talk, what else can you do?”

  “You know, old woman, your riddles would be a lot more fun if they involved a flying carpet, a temple of doom, some kind of treasure map, or some superhot guy.”

  “Don’t you already have that Noah boy?”
>
  I hide my flush behind my hand. “No, you should provide one of those things, a whip, treasure map, danger—”

  She tosses a smile over her shoulder. “Your father’s mouth isn’t doom enough?”

  I laugh. We sit in comfortable silence as she makes the tea. When it’s ready, she sits beside me and pats my hand. “What can you do when you’re not talking?”

  “Stew and fester in the unfairness of my life.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “Think?”

  “Good, now you’re using the brains I gave you.”

  “Don’t you mean the brains my parents gave me?”

  She raises an eyebrow so high, it almost disappears into her hairline.

  I sip my tea and point at the cup. “See? Not talking.”

  “Was your dream to be in the band?”

  “My dream? No, it’s what I told Dad. I don’t want to be a doctor. I want to be a musician. I’d love to be in an orchestra, but the big dream is to be part of a quartet like Bond or Escala. It would be so awesome to take jazz and blues, maybe even classical, and create something, like what Verve Records did when they put out their Verve Remix collection.” I trace the handle of my cup with my finger. I’ve never spoken that dream to anyone, and speaking it out loud is like being in a cave and having the words echo back.

  I’m in the dark and alone, and my heart is pounding, but if I squint, I can see the light, the way to make my dream a reality. “But maybe he’s right. It’s not like I’m stepping into a field where there’s a ton of growth or even opportunity. How many philharmonic orchestras are in the world?” It’s a question I’ve never thought of answering, until now. “Maybe a few hundred?”

  “You don’t need a hundred jobs; you only need one.”

  “But the health-care field, science. If I got a doctor’s degree, worked in the emergency ward for a few years to get experience, I could flip that into anything I wanted. I bet I could get a job in a resort. I could even create my own business—visit patients in their homes rather than in an office. I could set my hours, pick my clients.”

  “Maybe you could hum them a tune while you take their temperature.”

  I squint at her sarcasm.

  She meets my gaze with an unerring stare. “Close your eyes; imagine yourself at forty. Will you be happy?”

  I do as she asks. “I’d have a decent retirement plan, have worked down my mortgage.”

  “That’s what your father wants for you, financial security, and that’s fine. Is it what you want?”

  I imagine sitting at someone’s house, listening to them tell me about their aches and pains. It’s a pleasant image, and I like the idea of helping someone. But when the other picture sneaks into my brain—the one with me under the pink and orange lights, blowing a melody and making the crowd swoon—it takes me to a whole other level. I’m weightless and floating in the dream. “I don’t want that. Mom and Dad made it work with not much money. It’s what I know and learned, why can’t I do that?”

  “One day you’ll be old, and you’ll think of your mistakes and regrets. The biggest ones that will haunt you are the times you could have tried, but you didn’t.” She takes my hand. “You only have this life, Nira. What will you make of it?”

  I take the Reynolds trumpet with me when I head to work. Alec glances at the case as I come through the door. “Upgrading already? Anything left or is it all smoldering metal?”

  “Returning.”

  Concern sweeps across his face. “Something wrong with it?”

  “No, Georgia is who I play, and he’s what I know.”

  He nods, then frowns. “Georgia?”

  “Sorry, my trumpet. I named him Georgia.” It’s weird to tell my secret, but it feels good. I survived not getting into the band, telling Grandma my big dream. Calling myself out on what I play doesn’t feel like a big deal.

  “Cool. What kind is it?”

  “It’s not a kind; it’s a pocket trumpet.”

  “Really? That is cool. You know, a lot of the professional guys use them during performances.”

  “Don Cherry did, but he was old-school classic cool. I am not.”

  “And Patrick Boyle, Médéric Collignon—”

  “All well-known, all established enough to do the eccentric thing.”

  “Yeah, but there was a time when no one knew their name. You just have to play and play until you’re part of the establishment.”

  “Well, that’s an easy solution. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  He takes the case from me. “Because you’re a closet instrumentalist. You play, but you’d deny that you’re a musician to the public.”

  It hurts to think that everyone knows how quickly I’d abandon who and what I really am. “Not anymore. I think my dad will disown me, but I got to own this.”

  “Your dad won’t disown you. You’re smart. If you do this, you’ll make it work. He should know that.”

  “We’ll see.” I shove my coat and bag in the corner and get ready for the day. A stack of pink flyers catch my eye. “What’s this?”

  “Tell me you can read. I’ve been cheering you on to follow your dreams based on the assumption you’re literate.”

  “Everyone’s a comedian.” It’s a call out for amateur night. A bistro a few blocks down. I scan the announcement, then turn back to Alec. “What do you think of this?”

  “I’ve been to it a few times; it’s pretty good. The bistro’s got good eats. They give you a free latte and muffin.”

  “Payment in service. I’m already a professional.” I take the sheet and spend the rest of the day fretting how to get permission from Dad.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  DUPLICITY IS MULTIFORKED

  When the weekend comes, there’s no way to avoid dinner at Uncle Raj’s, so I go and hope he’ll leave me alone. As soon as I step in the door, I know that’s a fantasy. He’s watching me, and the fevered light in his eyes reminds me of the tales Grandma tells of Ole Higue, a jumby who sucks the blood of children and babies.

  I hook my arm through Farah’s, and we run up the stairs. After she closes the door, I say, “I need your help,” and take the flyer for the amateur night out of my pocket.

  She reads it. “What do you want me to do? Sing backup?”

  “Thanks”—I snatch the paper from her hand—“but I’m trying to win.”

  “You’ve never heard me sing.”

  “Can you?”

  She leans back against the pillows and closes her eyes. “This is about you, not me.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Her eyes pop open. “What do you want from me?”

  “Help.”

  “No duh, ninny.”

  “I want to go to this.”

  “So? Go.”

  I explain Dad’s ban on trumpet playing. “I can’t even play in the house.”

  “Sic Grandma on him.”

  “She won’t step in.”

  That makes her sit up. “She’s not doing anything?”

  I shake my head.

  “Nothing at all?”

  “What part of ‘she’s not doing anything’ are you missing? Am I not enunciating properly?”

  Her phone bings and she glances at it.

  “You need to take it?”

  “It’s just Noah. I’ll catch him later.”

  I don’t think the words “just” and “Noah” will ever be together in any sentence I speak, but I shove down the jealousy by reminding myself that at this moment, she’s choosing to be with me, not him. Instinct says these moments will be fewer and farther between, and I better enjoy them.

  “Why isn’t Grandma stepping in for you?”

  “Trust me, I’ve begged, but she just smiles and pats my cheek.”

  “I hate it when she does that.”

  “Me too.”

  We sit, not talking, and I try to keep my thoughts away from why Noah’s texting Farah and not me.

  “She must want you to fix it. Ther
e’s no way she agrees with him.”

  “No duh, ninny.” It feels good to throw her words back, then less good when she launches a pillow at my face.

  “So, fix it.”

  “If I could fix it, I would. That’s why I’m here, talking to you.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Oh my god, we just had that conversation. I need your help. You managed to get me to go on the trip to Florida without your parents figuring out what was really going on, and you pocketed the cash your dad gave you at the hotel. If anyone can help me, it’s you.”

  “I can’t help. My way is lying.”

  “I know. Teach me, oh wise and venerable master.”

  She shakes her head. “I can lie to my parents. Who cares? But your parents—Nira—” Her voice softens. “Don’t do that to them. Not them. They’re… pure.”

  I open my mouth to argue, then realize to her they are concentrated love and goodness. “Great. Now what? I want to go to this.”

  “Go. It’s not like the event’s at midnight.”

  “Yeah, but—” Grandma calls us for dinner. There’s no time to tell Farah that Dad will ask where I’m going and what I’m doing, and once he finds out, he’ll take away Georgia.

  We head downstairs, and it’s the usual garbage. Amazing food and ulcer-inducing conversation. Aunty Gul, who seems incapable of answering any question with a direct answer. Mom, her smile brittle as she feigns interest in the conversation. Me, Farah, and Grandma quietly eating, pretending we don’t notice the tension, the rivalry so intense it takes the taste of the plait bread and chicken stew.

  Uncle Raj and Dad are fighting over something stupid, two dogs pulling on a bone that no one wants to eat. Dad’s winning, which means Uncle Raj pulls out his favorite weapon.

  “How are the house renovations coming?”

  Dad stutters into silence. DIY home renovations. A deception told long ago to explain away the cracks in the countertops, the peeling paint on the landing.

  “You know how it is,” says Dad. “Trying to find time between work and family. Some of those projects need a whole weekend, more, and where do I find the time? There’s always something going on. And now with Nira putting down that blasted trumpet, it’s even more work for me, trying to get her to catch up on all the schoolwork she missed.”