In the Key of Nira Ghani

by Natasha Deen

  He texts back one word. OKAY!

  When I get in the house, Mom’s in the kitchen, making dinner. “Your grandmother tells me all is mended with you and Emily.”

  I nod. “Yeah, it’s all good.”

  “Good. I like Emily; I like who you are when you’re with her.”

  I sit and talk with her—random stuff about her day, what is she cooking, then I ask if she’s still working until five tomorrow.

  “Yes,” she says. “Why?”

  “I have to run an errand. Would you mind picking me up from downtown? I’ll be at a hotel called the Ambassador.”

  “The Ambassador, where all the stars sleep? What are you doing there?”

  “Something for Grandma and me. You’ll get me at six?”

  She glances up from the pot of stew that she’s stirring. “Sure.”

  “I’ll tell Grandma. Thanks.” I dash from the chair before she starts asking any hard questions. I knock on my grandmother’s door, then go inside when I hear her voice. “I’m doing something big tomorrow. I want you to be there.”

  She sets down her knitting. “We’ll all be there.”

  “No, it’s you and Mom. For now.” I go to my room, take Georgia from his case, and hold him tight. After tonight, I’ll either have him forever or I won’t have him at all.

  Mom and Grandma step through the revolving door, their gazes searching for me in the expansive lobby.

  “Hi, thanks.” I lean in, give them both a kiss.

  Mom glances down and sees the trumpet case in my hand, and her smile vanishes. “What’s going on?”

  “I want you to come with me for a couple of minutes—”

  “Nira, no.” Anger and hurt chase their way across her face. “You know what your father said about the playing, what we both said. I can’t believe you’ve disobeyed us! And dragging your grandmother into this!”

  “No one drags me anywhere.” Grandma turns away to cough. “I’m my own person.”

  “Mom, I—”

  “No, no, no!” She steps close. “This is what you’ve been doing, isn’t it? All those times when you said you were going out for coffee? I thought you had a boyfriend. I didn’t like it, but I was a teenager once, I remember. So, I let it go. But this, Nira, this. After everything we talked about—this is your life; this is your future!”

  “That’s exactly it. It is my life and my future. Mom, please—”

  “I’m done. Get in the car.” She turns and walks away.

  “This is my BBQ!” I call after her.

  Her steps falter, and I chase her. “This is my BBQ. Maybe it’s not the kind Dad wants; maybe it’s not the quality or the price he thinks, but—”

  She turns to face me.

  “—your BBQ was good enough, wasn’t it? Even though—”

  “It’s not the same. You can’t compare your future with some stupid thing that cooks chicken.”

  “Yes, I can, because you did. Because both of them are about making choices and deciding your own future.”

  “Nira, don’t be silly—”

  “You wanted it, you wanted it, and you took it, even though you knew Dad would be upset.”

  “But—”

  “The chicken was very good,” Grandma says. “Delicious and juicy.”

  “Her life isn’t chicken,” Mom says wearily.

  “Just sit for ten minutes,” I plead. “If you want to leave after that, you can. I’ll finish my set, and I’ll tell Jerry I won’t do the job.”

  She blinks. “Someone wants to pay you for this?”

  I nod. “Sit, Mom. Please?”

  She hesitates, but Grandma doesn’t. “Where are you playing? My feet are tired.”

  Mom gives her a sideways glare. “Really? Your feet are tired from walking for thirty seconds? This, from a woman who walks for hours around the neighborhood?”

  “It’s strange, isn’t it?” Grandma takes my hand. “It must be the difference in the ground.”

  I lead her to the restaurant and breathe out the tightness in my chest when I hear the sound of Mom’s heels following us. We step inside, and I help Grandma out of her neon pink coat.

  “Is this new?” I ask as I fold it over my arm.

  “Brand-new. Bought it just for tonight.”

  “Why? We’re inside?”

  “Look how dark this place is. You can’t see a foot in front of you. This—” She jabs the coat. “You can find me anywhere.”

  “Old woman, aliens on Pluto can find you. This is toxic neon.”

  “But it looks good on me, doesn’t it?”

  I kiss her cheek, then flash Mom a smile as she comes through the door. She doesn’t smile back.

  The restaurant is full, six o’clock is prime time for the dinner rush. Jerry’s at the front, waiting. He shakes hands with Mom and Grandma, gushes over my playing. After he seats them and insists on paying for their dinner, he takes me to the stage.

  “Mom doesn’t seem thrilled to be here. I put them in the back. You won’t see her.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Has she ever heard you play? Really play?”

  I shake my head. “I have ten minutes. If she’s not impressed, I can’t take the job.”

  “If this doesn’t sway her, then it’s because she’s deaf.” He smiles and leaves me to my work with a parting, “Good luck.”

  The plug-ins are built-in, and it only takes me a couple of minutes to set up. Then it’s showtime. The first song set is a no-brainer. A combination of “Georgia on My Mind,” “Fly Me to the Moon,” and “What’ll I Do?”

  I slip into some Adele and Joss Stone because who doesn’t love them, then toss in some Al Green for good measure. As I blow the last note, Jerry walks by.

  “Your ten minutes are up, and both your mother and grandmother are crying. Keep playing.”

  And I do.

  “Your father will need convincing,” Mom says as she turns the car into our neighborhood.

  “It’s three against one,” says Grandma. “What is he going to do?”

  “Throw a tantrum, like always.” Mom’s worried; I see it in her eyes, but there’s pride, too, when she looks at me. “You were really good, honey. Really good. Those people at the restaurant, they stopped eating just to hear you play. They were whispering about you, taking video. You really moved them.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But I don’t know what your father will—” She stops midsentence. Uncle Raj’s Tesla is in the driveway.

  “This can’t be good.” Grandma unbuckles from the passenger seat and leads us into the house.

  I text Farah, then follow my grandmother in.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  INTEGRITY IS GELATINOUS GOO

  I drop my stuff at the closet door and trail Mom and Grandma into the kitchen. Uncle Raj and Dad are sitting at the table.

  “Your daughter has something to tell you,” Dad says.

  Mom and I exchange an uncomfortable glance.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.

  “Tell her; tell your mother where you were tonight.” He pauses, deliberately, and adds, “At six tonight.”

  “I know where she was, Raul,” says Mom.

  “She told you she was at the hotel.” He turns his focus to her.

  Mom nods.

  “But did she tell you what she was doing there?” He rises. “Did she tell you she was playing that blasted trumpet? The one we expressly forbade her from playing?”

  My gaze falls to Uncle Raj, to the smug smile on his face. “You were there.”

  “Client meeting.”

  I want to ask which of them was the client, but that would cross a line. I can’t stand him, and I’m furious that he hijacked the event just to get back at me for knowing his stupid, dirty secret. But if someone is going to rip off my dad’s blinders and show him what a jerk his brother is, it’ll have to be Uncle Raj.

  He spreads his hands wide. “We’re family, Nira. I’m responsible for hel
ping raise you. I know your father and mother told you to stop playing, and I know you defied them.” The smile grows. “What kind of brother, what kind of uncle, would I be if I kept quiet?”

  “This isn’t about my defiance,” I say. “This is about your deception, and that I know all about it.”

  His smile flickers. “You’ve been caught, don’t make up wild tales to swing the attention from yourself.”

  “I can’t believe you defied me, that you disobeyed me.” Dad’s an angry bull about to charge. “I’ve been so good—so has your mom. We let you have the trumpet, try out for that stupid band, go to Florida—”

  “Florida? That was never for me! That was all about you, and forcing me to live the life you want me to live!”

  “Do you hear the way she talks to you?” Raj is standing, speaking in Dad’s ears. “Back-chatting you, in front of everyone. No decency, no respect.”

  “You’re grounded,” Dad says.

  “That’s not enough,” says Raj. “You should take the trumpet.”

  “That’s mine. You can’t have it.” I search for Grandma. She’s on the sidelines, watching, and she looks like a ref waiting to call foul but letting the players have the field.

  “Her trumpet, listen to that.” Uncle Raj laughs. “Everything you have is thanks to your parents, Nira.”

  “He’s right,” says Dad. “I’m taking the trumpet.”

  “Raul.” Mom holds up a warning hand.

  “Get it,” says Dad. “Bring it to me.”

  I shake my head.

  “Raul.”

  “Get it!”

  “Raul!”

  Dad’s head snaps in Mom’s direction.

  “I know what Nira was doing,” she says. “She asked me if she could, and I said yes. Your mother and I were there with her.”

  The smile slips from Uncle Raj’s face.

  Dad stands frozen. “You knew? You knew?” The questions come out as a whisper.

  Mom nods.

  Uncle Raj is smiling, again.

  “And you didn’t talk to me about this? You told her to lie to me?” Dad’s humiliation is complete. His daughter has been lying to him, his wife is part of it, and so is his mother—and now his brother knows.

  I’m so tired of this stupidity. “No one told anyone to lie. I asked Mom to come. If she thought it was worthwhile, then we were going to talk to you—”

  “If she thought it was worthwhile—” Dad sneers. “She and I discussed it; we decided your marks are more important. And now, the two of you are deciding how you’re to be raised.”

  “It’s not like that—” I hold up my hand.

  Uncle Raj strokes the lapels of his blazer. “My god, Raul, what is going on in your house.”

  “Let’s talk about this later,” says Mom. “When we’re alone.”

  “Oh, now you want family time. He knows, Safiya. He knows you’ve told your daughter to lie to her father.”

  Uncle Raj is watching the scene, smiling at the chaos he’s created.

  Mom and Dad are arguing, and I go to my uncle. “I would never have told anyone. Why would you do this?”

  He ignores me and steps away. “Raul, I don’t know what’s going on in your house, but I don’t want my family around it. Farah won’t be sleeping over anymore, and she’s not to spend any time with Nira any longer.”

  So that’s it. He’s threatened because Farah likes us better, worried that she’ll eventually spill his secret to the family.

  “Nira won’t be around anyone, anymore,” says Dad. “No more sleeping over, no more Emily, no more anything but school. I let your mother and grandmother steer me away from what’s right for you—”

  “This isn’t about what’s right for me. This is about you and this idiotic rivalry with your brother.”

  “Don’t get fresh with me!”

  “It’s not fresh! It’s truth, and you know it.” I sweep my hand around the kitchen. “We all know it. Always fighting about who has the bigger thing, the better thing. Whose daughter has the higher marks. If you want to fight, fine, but leave Farah and me out of it—”

  Dad whirls on Mom. “Are you happy now? You see what you’ve done?”

  “I didn’t do anything—”

  “Leave her out of it, too.”

  Dad dances backward. “Leave her, leave you. Who do you think you are to talk to me like that?”

  “I’m the kid pulling down As, and who wants a little freedom to be who she wants to be.”

  “You think the Ivy League schools are okay with just As? Everyone has As at that school. You have to be better, and blowing on a piece of tin isn’t going to get you an admission.”

  “Yeah?” I can’t hide the disdain in my voice. “And when I get into that Ivy League, how am I supposed to pay for it?”

  The blood drains from Dad’s face. “Scholarships, and don’t you ever speak to me in that tone, ever again.”

  “I’m going to get the scholarships, and I’m going to get into the best schools, but it won’t be for math or science or medicine. It will be for music.”

  “Don’t be stupid!”

  “I’m not. This is what I want.”

  “Trumpet? When you can save lives or make a difference—”

  “Music saves lives; art makes a difference,” I say.

  He scowls and waves me down.

  “I want this, Dad. You think it’ll be any easier to get into those Ivy League schools or get funding if I go into science? Everything’s a competition; everything’s hard. At least I’ll be doing something I love.”

  “The world will always need doctors—”

  “The world will always need music,” I say.

  “No,” he says. “No. You put it down.”

  “No, I won’t. I want this, and I’m going to do this.”

  “Not if I take your trumpet.”

  “You can.” I shrug even though the idea of losing Georgia shatters my heart and makes me want to howl. “But I’ll buy a new one.”

  “Not if I make you quit your job.”

  “I’ll get another one.”

  “I forbid it.”

  “You can’t stop me,” I tell him. “One way or another, I’m doing this.”

  “And you’ll fail!”

  “So? At least I’ll have tried.”

  “Nira.” He’s disgusted. “This is your life, not some stupid kids’ movie.”

  “That’s it, exactly. It’s my life.”

  “You want this so bad you’re willing to lie to your father to do it.” Trust Uncle Raj to be the snake in the den.

  “I want it,” I say, hoping it will be the last time I have to speak the words.

  “I forbid it,” he replies.

  I shake my head. “It won’t matter. I’ll find a way.”

  “Even if it hurts me?”

  I force myself not to cry and nod.

  “Even if it’s caused this problem between your mother and me?” He gestures to where Mom stands. “This thing is more important than your family.”

  “It’s my face in the mirror, Dad, and I have to do what’s right for me.”

  “Raul,” Mom speaks, but he raises his hand.

  “Do what you want, Nira. I don’t care anymore. End up in the gutter; it doesn’t matter what I think.”

  “Dad, that’s not true!”

  But he shakes his head and walks away from me.

  My confrontation with Dad fractures the house. He stops talking to me, to Mom, and to Grandma. The next few days are spent in the frost of his icy silence. He won’t look at me. When dinner is made, he takes his plate and eats in front of the TV.

  Mom signs the hotel contract on my behalf, and she lets me keep my job with Reynolds.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her when she hands me the paper. “I’m sorry it happened this way.”

  She nods but doesn’t say anything because she’s not speaking to me, either. My only consolation is Grandma. I escape the tension in the house by going on walks with
her. Which is a deception, too.

  Most of the time, we meet Farah at the corner and go out. It’s the only way the two of them get to see each other. Uncle Raj is in full lockdown, and even Grandma’s not allowed at his house anymore.

  “I don’t know why you didn’t step in, Grandma.” Farah takes a right, and we head to the Ambassador. My job gives me a giant discount on the restaurant, so we’re going for dessert and hot chocolate.

  “Why would I have done that?”

  “Because Nira needed help,” she says.

  “Nira?” Grandma twists in the front seat, turning to face me. “What did you want that night?”

  “Permission to play at the restaurant.”

  She sucks her teeth. “Really? That’s it?”

  “Freedom to be a trumpet player.”

  “Did you get it?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  Grandma turns back to Farah. “What did she need me for?”

  “You could have smoothed it out, made it easier—”

  “Sometimes there’s no easy way,” says Grandma. “Sometimes, you just pay the price.”

  “Farah has a point,” I say. “You could have told them to behave.”

  Grandma arches her eyebrow. “Your father told you to behave. How did that work out for him?”

  A few weeks later, I’m exhausted. Not from the added hours of work, or the extra credit I’m doing at school. I’m weary from my dad. He still won’t talk to me, barely acknowledges Mom. Grandma can make him talk, but then again, who can stand against that woman?

  I’m on the bus, nodding off, hoping for a hot cup of tea when I get home, eager for the rare night of doing nothing. The rhythm of the vehicle rocks me into relaxation, and I’m almost asleep when it slows and wakes me. I lean left to look through the front windshield. Traffic’s backed up.

  “Great,” mutters the burly man in front of me. He raises his voice and shouts down the length of the bus, “How long you think we got?”

  “It just happened,” calls back the driver. “Half hour, at least.”