In the Key of Nira Ghani

by Natasha Deen

  “I didn’t miss any schoolwork.” I don’t point out that Dad hasn’t helped me with homework since I was in grade four.

  “Your marks dropped,” says Dad.

  He flinches when Uncle Raj crows, “Oh, dropped? What happened? Can’t do more than one thing at a time?”

  “I do just fine, a two-percent drop is nothing—” I catch the hint when Mom shoves bread at me—shut up, Nira—and do as she telepathically suggests.

  “Two percent?” Uncle Raj screws up his face. “That’s the difference between those who make it”—he sweeps his hand around the house, using himself as an example—“and those who don’t.” He glances at Dad, smirks, then reaches for his rum.

  “I’m still the smartest kid in my classes.” Why am I falling into the black hole of their rivalry?

  “So is Farah, and she plays soccer and tutors.” Uncle Raj holds up his fingers. “Three things and she’s still the best.”

  Dad takes a breath and launches the next volley, and it hits me, how stupid this is. How hypocritical they are. Fighting and more fighting, so caught up in the war, they don’t even see the reality of the land for which they battle. Especially Dad. Talking about how things don’t matter, and eating his stomach with envy for Uncle Raj’s possessions.

  I look at Farah. She says I shouldn’t lie, that Mom and Dad are pure, but they’re not. They’re as sullied as her parents. I know the truth of Uncle Raj and Aunty Gul, but I’m not saying a word. Isn’t a lie of omission as bad as a lie explicitly told? If I’m keeping the truth from my parents by staying silent, then what does it matter if I stay silent about the things that matter to me?

  “Farah and I are going out tomorrow night,” I tell the family. “Not exactly sure what we’re getting up to, but I’ll probably invite Mac and a couple of others.”

  “What do you mean you’re not sure what you’re doing?” asks Dad. “You make the plan, then you invite people.”

  I smile. “Knowing this group, we’ll end up at a café somewhere drinking lattes and listening to whatever music’s coming through the speaker.” I make eye contact with Farah. “In fact, how’s that for the plan? You okay eating some danish and drinking coffee?”

  She nods, her gaze on me, watching, weighing.

  My easy smile’s back on Dad. “That’s the plan. I’ll be home by nine. Maybe Farah can sleep over?” It’s a good question. While the adults argue the logistics of Farah sleeping over, and whether she should spend the whole weekend, my heart slows its racing pace.

  I haven’t lied, and technically, I’ve told the truth. I just haven’t given them a detailed itinerary of the night’s plan. But I’m on the razor’s edge between a liar and a truth-teller. On one side is Grandma, who speaks her mind. On the other side are my uncle and father, liars for life. I’m in the middle, and one false move might cut me in two.

  The bistro is eclectic with a decorative style that leans on the French countryside. White-and-blue theme, clean lines, and mismatched chairs that somehow end up being harmonious. A glass enclosure at the front is lined with colorful pastries. I check my wallet and make sure I have enough to bring Grandma home something full of chocolate and frosting. But I’m hoping she’ll show up. I trod lightly with her because I didn’t know how she’d feel about my walking the razor’s edge, and mentioned that if she was going to go for a walk, she might enjoy stopping in at the bistro for a drink. Then followed it with a look that was heavy on the hint.

  Georgia is in my hand, and I grip the case handle a little tighter. I thread my way past the tables to where Alec, Farah, Noah, Emily, and McKenzie sit. “You didn’t all have to be here,” I tell them as I drag a chair in between Emily and McKenzie, and sit down.

  McKenzie gives my outfit a once-over. “That’s what you’re wearing?”

  I stand. “I should check in.” The barista at the counter takes my name and signs me up. In return for playing, I get a free medium latte and a muffin. I thank her, but I don’t eat or drink. Too nervous, and the milk will mess with my throat when it comes time to play.

  I take the food and drink back to the group, let them split it how they want, and pretend not to be jealous when Emily and McKenzie share the latte. The night starts, and I war between excitement and anxiety.

  Some of the people who get up are amateurs. Poets whose prose needed a little more time on the editing floor, singers whose voices crack. A couple of members in the crowd throw each other snotty looks, silently judging and laughing.

  I’m not. It’s hard to get up there, and talent is a subjective thing. Still, I’m glad some people suck at their artistry. It gives me hope I won’t be the worst.

  Then there are the amateurs who are a breath away from making it professionally. A singer who brings everyone to tears with her rendition of Dana Glover’s “It Is You (I Have Loved)” and a slam poet who raises the roof with his hilarious take on walking the streets of New York.

  Then it’s my turn. I take a breath, remind myself I’m not as bad as the worst person, not as good as the best. And it’s all okay. We all have our place at this event. I take the trumpet case to the front, say to the crowd, “Just give me a second,” smile, and breathe in relief when they smile back. I set up the accompaniment playlist and Bluetooth it to the portable speaker.

  Then I take Georgia from the case. He’s sleek and golden, shining under the string of white lights, and glinting with excitement. I take him in my hands, and it all feels right. So what if he’s not a “real” trumpet? So what if he’s a little dented in places? He’s mine, and I’m his, and together we’ve made Grandma happy and Farah sigh, and maybe at the end of the day that’ll be enough.

  But right now, right now, it’s the moment Mr. Nam talked about, and I’m not going to squander it. I’ve got thirty seconds before my heart slams its way out of my chest. I lift Georgia to my lips and blow, do a quick scale. Then I close my eyes and forget about the crowd. I listen to the heartbeat of Georgia—steady and calm—and he slows mine, too.

  I take a breath and blow, and the note is pure starlight, rising to the heavens and taking my soul with it. The crowd’s eclectic, as diverse as the mismatched chairs they fill. I take another breath and start in with the first bars of “Over the Rainbow.” It’s an easy pick because most people know the song. And it’s an easy pick, because cheesy or not, it’s got the sentiment we all connect with—a land where troubles don’t exist, a place of ultimate peace and love.

  A few bars to connect, then I’m song melding with “Somewhere Out There.” The garage band mix is coming in, drums and guitar, adding layers, fueling me. Then—I don’t know what happens—maybe it’s the joy of my soul and my dreams and my reality meeting up at this crossroads, the euphoric high of setting myself free to do the thing I want—but I stop worrying about the crowd. I’m focused, not on their faces, not on their thoughts or their judgment; I’m focused on their emotions. For one manic second, it’s as though I can hear and feel every heartbeat in the crowd, and we’re all beating the same rhythm. It’s a crescendo wave, slamming against the ocean rocks; it’s the roar of the thunderstorm hurtling across the prairie. It’s the big bang, it’s comets and stars, galaxies and the Milky Way. It’s life, it’s rhythm, and it electrifies my molecules.

  Another breath, another high note. My fingers are slip-sliding along the keys, rifling up and down, triplet notes, eighth notes, jumping octaves and worlds. And suddenly, I’m off the script of the music. Something in me is rising and taking over, and I’m connected with every heartbeat, telling them my fears and worries, my dreams and hopes. I’m painting the sky with my story. My life is in the melody, my existence is in the breaths between the notes.

  I tell them about the fights with my parents, the insecurity with McKenzie and Emily, the sadness of Noah and Farah. The notes rise and fall, building on each other until it’s not just a story I’m telling, it’s an epic.

  My time with Georgia, all the days and nights practicing, has given my internal clock military efficie
ncy. I only have a minute left, it says. I use the time, take the audience down, but leave them high, pull them with my music from the sadness and longing. With my last note, I leave them with hope and the possibility of a happy ending.

  I open my eyes as the playlist melts into silence. Blink and blink again. The café has more people in it now than before. They’re crowded around the doors and backed into the corner.

  And no one is moving. They’re all staring.

  For a sick minute, I think I’ve done it wrong. My panicked gaze searches, seeking the eyes of those I know. Before I can see them, the crowd moves. They erupt. Whooping and hollering. Clapping, cheering.

  For me.

  For Georgia.

  And I realize the full truth of what Mr. Nam said. It never mattered about what Georgia looked like, no one would ever care because he is music, and so am I.

  I’m crying so hard, I can’t see my case or my phone. My blurred vision registers someone beside me. Noah pulls me into a hug and whispers, “I knew you could do it, Super Spy.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  OPPORTUNITY COMES WITH HEART PADDLES

  I fall into an easy pattern with my family, and it only takes a couple of “We’ll probably just hang out at a restaurant or something,” for Dad to decide it’s the regular thing with my friends and me. Part of it is the magical effect of having a job and keeping up my marks. Part of it is because Farah’s always around, and he figures there’s no way I’m getting into trouble if she’s with me. I’m glad Dad’s willing to loosen up. But a lot of it is Grandma.

  I hadn’t seen her at the bistro, but when I got home that night, she said, “I always loved ‘Over the Rainbow.’” Since then, she’s been on Dad to let me go out more, and he’s listening. But his permission always comes at a cost, just like tonight, and it’s always some kind of lecture or commentary on how I’m not reaching my potential.

  “Doing nothing but sitting around, drinking expensive drinks and eating food you can get at home.” He shakes his head. “Your kind has no direction.”

  “Raul, please.” Mom turns from the stove where the hassa curry simmers. “We used to stand under the awning of Fogarty’s, liming until the rain stopped.”

  “I wasn’t liming,” says Dad. “I was window shopping.”

  Mom looks at me and rolls her eyes.

  Dad tries a few more half-hearted volleys, but he doesn’t really care about what we’re doing. My marks are up, thanks to a couple of extra-credit papers. At the last family dinner, I was ahead of Farah, so he’s benevolent.

  I’m drowning in ecstasy. I have to be careful not to do too many talent nights or amateur callouts. Going out during the weekend is one thing, but if I push too hard, Dad will get suspicious. It takes everything not to ask for permission, though. Playing is a drug, and I’m addicted.

  Not every gig has been as great as the one at the bistro, and not every crowd has cheered like they did. Some of the people have been hostile, but there’s always one person who appreciates what I did, and I focus on them. Besides, every time I play, I connect with Georgia, to the iridescent part of myself, and the music. It doesn’t even matter that other than the latte and muffin, I haven’t received any kind of payment for my playing.

  I’m playing. I’m under the lights, Georgia wailing to a willing crowd, and for now, that’s all the payment I need. More than that, I need the joy, the euphoria. Emily’s pulling away. I know it, feel it, see it.

  She won’t meet my eyes when we talk. McKenzie doesn’t even try to have a conversation with me anymore. They’re a world of two, a coupe sedan with no seating for a third. I tell my sorrows to Georgia, and we share our pain with the crowds. The audience gives back, and by the end of each night, I walk away taller and stronger.

  I’m at Reynolds, closing out the cash register for the night when a guy comes in just as Alec’s going to lock the door. “We’re a minute from the end of the night,” he tells the man.

  “I’ll just be a second, promise.” He smiles and leans on the door.

  Alec sighs but steps back, and shoots me a look that’s a combination of exasperation and apology.

  “Nira?” The man comes over.

  “Uh, yeah.” I shut the cash drawer and tuck the money under the counter.

  “Jerry Caplan.” He holds out his hand. “I was at the café—Brockman’s—the other night, and I heard you play. You were fabulous.”

  “Oh, thanks.” I shake his hand.

  Alec gives me a wink, and a thumbs-up from behind Jerry’s back.

  “I was wondering”—Jerry reaches into his blazer and pulls out a business card—“I own the Ambassador Hotel. It’s down on—”

  “I know where it is.” Glass and metal, mixed with stone and wood. It’s the go-to place for celebrities and dignitaries.

  He holds the card, and I take it. “I wonder if I might talk to you about performing in our restaurant.”

  “You want me to play at your hotel?” I’m an idiot, repeating his words, but I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  He nods. “Maybe we can work out a schedule with your other job and school.” Jerry smiles at Alec, who smiles back.

  “Uh, sure, I’d like that,” I say.

  “There’s a catch.”

  Of course, there is.

  “I want you to be exclusive to the hotel.”

  I frown. “So, no more playing amateur nights or talent shows?”

  “No, no, that’s fine. I just don’t want you to play at another restaurant.” He takes a fast breath. “You have a gift, something special. I think you would help boost patronage.”

  My head feels like someone has tossed it in the heavy load cycle of a washing machine, and I’m struggling to stay upright. He thinks I can bring people in. He thinks I’ll be good for business.

  “If you’re here, they’ll come back.”

  “But you have celebrities staying at your hotel.” Holy crap. I could play in front of someone famous. “Do you really need me?”

  Jerry’s mouth screws to the side. “The famous crowd can be flaky. My hotel one day, next day, it’s someone else they love. But you, your music, you would bring people in.”

  I nod, too stunned to do anything else.

  “You’ll have to sign a contract—”

  “A contract?” The good feeling evaporates into the air. I’m not eighteen, which means I have to have a parent sign for me. And neither will.

  Jerry nods.

  I don’t want to turn down the chance, but I can’t tell him I’m playing on the sly. “Before we talk about contracts and exclusivity, I think I’d like to come and visit, maybe do a gig and see how I feel.”

  “That’s fair.” He points at his card. “Check your schedule and let me know?”

  “Done.”

  “We should grab a pic.” Alec pulls out his phone. “Nira’s first big break.”

  We smile for the camera, and Jerry leaves. When he’s gone, Alec locks the door. “Smart, delaying him.”

  “What?”

  “It could be a con.” He holds up his hands. “I hope not, but he could have sneaked into the hotel office, taken a bunch of business cards. It happens all the time in doctors’ offices.”

  The good feeling’s turned to salt, and it’s corroding me.

  “Nira.” Alec snaps his fingers. “Chill. That’s why I took the picture.” He airdrops it to my phone. “Go to the hotel, ask around, and find out if he’s legit. If he is, then play your session, see how you feel. If it’s good, sign the contract.”

  “You don’t understand.” I tell him about my dad.

  “Tell him.”

  “You’re kidding. Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll tell him, he’ll be thrilled, and the contract is signed.” I hand Alec the night’s cash out. “He’s going to freak.”

  “Nira, I saw you at the bistro. This is what you love.”

  “He’s not going to care.”

  “But you should. You should care enough, love the music an
d Georgia enough to step into the fray, and face the freak-outs.”

  I think about what Alec says as I get on the bus and head to the Ambassador. He’s right, but I still want to deny his truth. My dad will freak, and freak hard. I could lose Georgia. If I keep going the way I have, playing in the dark and the shadows, I can keep going until I’m strong enough to take on my father. But Jerry’s offer dangles, sparkling starlight I can almost touch.

  I text Emily and ask if she has time to talk.

  NOT FEELING SO GOOD. MAYBE LATER?

  I send her a happy face and tell her I’ll try again, in a bit. The bus halts at my stop, and I head down the street to the hotel. A gray-suited doorman tips his hat and opens one of the glass doors for me. I scan the walls and decor for a picture of Jerry but don’t see one. Hoping Alec is wrong, hoping he’s right, I move to the front desk.

  “Can I help you?” The man behind the counter smiles, and his accent makes me think of savannahs, elephants, and rhinos.

  “Hi, uh, I have a weird question.” I open my phone and show him the picture of Jerry and me. “Do you know him?”

  He grins. “Jerry’s the owner.”

  “Oh.” I breathe out the tension. “Thanks.”

  “You took a photo with a stranger?” Curiosity plays in his words.

  “Yes—no—he came to my work, asked me if I would play at the restaurant—”

  His grin widens. “Oh, the trumpet girl.”

  “What?”

  “I bartend when we’re short-staffed.” He glances around, then pulls a biology textbook from under the counter. “I need all the hours I can get to pay for school. When I was on shift last week, Jerry told me about you.”

  We talk for a bit, and I get an idea of Jerry as a boss. Fair but tough, generous but exacting. I could live with that. When we’re done, I thank him, then head to the restaurant. I want to take a look, see what the stage might look like. The doors to the restaurant are dark wood with long golden handles. I imagine the inside looks like a forties snapshot, large, circular booths where couples can get lost in each other. Or maybe it’s oiled walnut counters at the bar and Tiffany lamps in the middle of the tables.