In the Key of Nira Ghani

by Natasha Deen

  McKenzie takes the phone back. “It’s weird how the cutbacks worked out in everyone’s favor. You know your instrument better than anything the school might let you rent.”

  Rent. I can rent a real trumpet from Reynolds. If my memory’s right, then I have time to pick it up before the inspection. The shaky feeling disappears, and the food in my stomach stops dancing. Renting an instrument means a monthly cost. Which means I’ll blow my allowance on one thing.

  The gastrointestinal rumba picks up again. Now, more than ever, I have to get a job, and I don’t have time to learn all the instruments and accessories at Reynolds. It’ll have to be a position at the mall. After school, I’ll print off more résumés and then take them around. I have less than two weeks to get work, but one way or another, I’m going to make it happen.

  Junta is the last place I drop off my résumé—I need the time to screw up my courage. The manager is there and says, “It’s quiet. Why don’t we talk now?”

  I’m not dressed for an interview and I’m not in the correct mental space, but I say, “Sure.” When she’s not looking, I wipe the dampness from my hands on my jeans. We go to a set of red leather couches that sits in front of a fast-food burger kiosk. I wait while she looks over my information. I check my teeth with my tongue to make sure there’s nothing hidden or stuck between them.

  “Bibi?” Her gaze lifts.

  “Yes.” I stick my hand out.

  She shakes, and I can tell by the look in her eye that I’ve scored a point.

  “I go by Nira.”

  “Hmm.” The tip of her pen slips between her lips as she scans the pages again. “Bibi is easier for people to read and pronounce than Nira.” She smiles my way.

  I don’t think that’s true, but I’m pretty sure this is a test. So I smile back. “That’s fine. I’m happy to go with Bibi if that’s easier for the clientele.”

  “We like to think of them as friends. We push a fun, bestie, intimate atmosphere. Here at Junta, we’re not just engaging in a consumer interaction; we’re about the experience. It’s about connection, seeing each other as individuals but also seeing the commonality, the essence we share as fellow human beings.”

  That’s a lot of pressure for two meters of cotton and several yards of thread, but okay.

  “Junta’s about changing the world through our brand, one shirt at a time. When you see someone wearing Junta, you know they’re just like you.”

  Okay, now I’m worried about (1) why I’m so hung up on clothes, and (2) whether I’m applying for a job or joining some kind of cotton religion. But I remind myself there’s a trumpet at stake. “Of course. I apologize for calling them clients.”

  The interview continues. Some of the answers I know: “I can work Friday afternoons, all day Saturday, and Sunday afternoon.” She pushes for more hours, but I tell her I can’t because of my studies. That sounds better than “I can’t. My mom and dad won’t let me.” Just so she doesn’t write me off, I give her the best spiel I can about my desire for world change and how I believe a combination of education, work, and the right clothes from Junta can bring us world peace.

  Some of the answers are harder to find, like when she asks what I can offer as an employee that others can’t. Pledging my undying devotion and eternal loyalty seems needy, so I say, “I take my job seriously and will endeavor to make sure I am the best representation of your brand.” I want to add, “Plus, I’m colored, so there’s diversity.” But I’ve seen the models on their walls and in their magazine. Diversity for them stops with redheads.

  “Tell me about some of your favorite fashion looks.”

  Favorite fashion looks? Great. Another job I should have studied for. “My look is casual”—I ignore the three lines that form in her forehead and plunge ahead—“fun sweaters, worn jeans.” I’m describing one of the billboards, but I don’t want to be obvious about it. “I like outfits that do double duty. A pair of faded jeans, button-up white shirt. Pair it with sandals for a relaxed look or add heels and some sparkle for a night out.” I say it all like I’m not wearing old jeans and a beat-up hoodie.

  She nods.

  I hold my breath and hope I’ve nailed it.

  She looks at my clothes and my inner glow dims. “We do require our family members to wear our brand.”

  I’m starting to feel like I’m signing up for a cult. New vocabulary—not customers, friends. Not employees, family. And we have to dress the same. Plus, there’s the whole affecting global change with our smile. “That’s not a problem.”

  “Which of our clothing line do you have now?”

  I’m sure she can see the rising red of embarrassment through my dark skin.

  “If you want to update your look, you’re welcome to shop beforehand. Some stores will put it on your account, then take it out of your first paycheck, but we don’t operate like that. However, you’ll get a thirty-five percent discount.”

  I can’t wait to go home and tell my parents that I got a job and I’ll have my own money, and, uh, could they please front me a couple hundred dollars to update my wardrobe.

  My thoughts must show on my face.

  “We’re looking for members who will add to our collective, not kids looking to expand their wardrobe at our expense.”

  She didn’t understand my look. “That’s not what I was thinking.”

  “Then what was it?”

  I want to tell her that, for my family, a couple hundred dollars is a king’s ransom, that it’s food for a week, and not everyone’s born into a family where buying jeans and shirts is a nothing event, and maybe her “family” should wake up and understand that. But I don’t. I can’t. I just mumble, “Thanks for your time,” and leave.

  When I get home, Mom asks, “How did it go?”

  “Like everything else, I guess.” I go to my room and cry. When the tears are done, I take my sorrows to Georgia. Together, we play “Almost Blue.” He tells me he understands my pain in the round tone of his bell and the smooth slide of the valves against my fingertips. I return the love with every breath, with every pause between the notes. We don’t get a lot of time together because we have to go to Farah’s house for dinner. Grandma calls my name, and I clean up Georgia and set him down in the blue velvet-lined case.

  When we get to the house, I see no other shoes by the door. Thank god, it’s just them and us. After my day, I can’t handle any Farahbots. My cousin’s waiting for me at the foot of the stairs. As soon as I put away my coat, she takes me to her room.

  I follow her up the stairs, and have one of those moments when I wish they would come to our place, so I didn’t have to be surrounded by all her stuff. Then I think about our yellow bathroom with the seventies taps, the fake wood panel of my bedroom wall, the neon sunflower paper in the kitchen, and I’m happy they rarely see the inside of our house. Anyway, with the way my uncle drinks, it’s probably a good thing to keep him contained within his walls instead of out on the road.

  “What’s going on with you and Noah?” She takes a drag of her cigarette and exhales the smoke through the open window.

  “We’re friends.”

  “Just friends?”

  I can’t hide my irritation. “Why? Do you want him or something?”

  “Or something,” she speaks more to the night air than me.

  “What does that mean?” I perch on the edge of her bed, too intimidated to put a dent in the perfect fluff of her down duvet.

  “I saw you with those other girls, too, in the mall. The two blondes.”

  “So, what are you? The people police?”

  “What do you even talk about?” She takes another drag.

  “I don’t know.” My irritation’s growing. “The same things as you and your friends, I guess.”

  She gives me that smile—the one I always want to punch off her face. “I doubt it.”

  I stand. “I should see if Mom or Aunty Gul need help with dinner or setting the table.”

  “Nira.” The smile hasn’t l
eft her face. “Always so good.”

  I leave her to her cancer stick and go downstairs. Grandma is setting the table.

  “I thought you were with Farah.”

  “I did my penance.” I take the dishes from her and shoo her to a chair.

  She sits with a tired sigh. “Nira, such a good girl.”

  When she says it, it doesn’t sound like a taunt.

  “Did you and Farah fight?”

  The question is a version of the coded message she asks every time we come here. Why can’t you and Farah get along? I can never bring myself to tell Grandma the truth of Farah. “Are you okay?”

  “The price of getting old. Your joints hurt and your bones tell you if it’s going to rain.”

  “I’ll finish setting the table.” It’s a sacrifice because that means going into the heart of the kitchen with Aunty Gul and Mom. When I get there, they’re too busy arguing over the consistency of the cassava pone to pay attention to me.

  Fifteen minutes later, everyone’s sitting down to dinner.

  “So, Nira.” Uncle Raj unfolds his white napkin and sets it in his lap. “How is school going for you?”

  “Good.” I break off a piece of sada roti.

  “Didn’t you have a chemistry test?”

  Amazing. The man can’t remember my birthday, but he remembers my school curriculum better than I do. “Yeah, it was fine.”

  “What was your mark?”

  Dad pauses. He’s just remembered about the test. The look on his face is part panic, part exasperation. Raj is younger than him, and their sibling rivalry trickles down to their children. It’s not just my honor on the line. It’s his, too.

  “A-minus.”

  My uncle’s eyes go wide. “A-minus?”

  I nod.

  He smirks. “Where did the missing points go? Did they fall off your desk?”

  “I did my best,” I tell him.

  “Did your best.” His lips twist as he mimics me. “How Canadian of you. But you’re not Canadian, Nira. You’re Guyanese, and your parents didn’t bring you here to do your best. They brought you here to do better than your best.”

  Farah’s eyes glaze over. She’s heard this rant before.

  “It’s physically impossible to do better than my best,” I say. “Best is a binary function. It either is or isn’t.”

  The smirk freezes on his mouth. He knows I’m insolent, but since I’m not belligerent, he can’t do anything. Until Noah and McKenzie came into my life, I’d never have dared talk to him like this. But there must be something in numbers, in having a pack—even if you’re not a hundred percent sure they’re your pack—that makes a person bold.

  Dad’s expression warns me I’m treading close to the wrong side of the line. I can’t risk him getting mad enough to ground me or take away the job or the audition.

  I smile. “Next time I’ll do better. After all, I’m a Ghani, right? We’re born to be the best.” Then to make sure I’m out of the danger zone, I nod in Farah’s direction and add, “Even if I’m always chasing that one.”

  Dad relaxes, and Uncle Raj is back to full smirk. The world is turning as it should.

  “Can Nira come with us to Cape Canaveral?” Farah asks, and the earth screeches to a stop.

  “What?” I stammer. Mom’s glaring at me. So is Dad. There’s no way to tell them I didn’t approve of her request.

  Mom’s laugh is high and forced. “Nira, the pot salt, always has to be in the mix.”

  “That’s not fair,” I say. “I’m not a pot salt.” In this scenario, I’m more like the lobster trying to escape the pot.

  “There are four tickets,” says Farah. “Nira and I were talking about it—”

  God, I’m going to suffer third-degree burns from my parents’ glares. “I only told her congratulations.” I hold up my hands in surrender.

  I know how the politics of our two families work. We’re not the share and share alike household. We may eat dinner together once a week, but it’s not out of familial piety. It’s to compare scores and see who won the game of life for the week. Which kid got the higher mark? Whose wife got the better deal at the store? We don’t go on vacation together, and for sure, there’s no sharing of bounty.

  Uncle Raj weighs the con of having me tag along. Then again, his eyes seem to say, I’ve got my older brother’s daughter in a five-star hotel with a five-star pool and food. And I can lord that over him for years. The decision is made in the blink of his eye.

  “It’s an extra ticket,” he says. “It would be a shame to waste it.”

  “Maybe you should take one of your friends,” I tell Farah. Or anyone who won’t try to smother you in your sleep.

  “No,” says Aunty Gul, picking up on the opportunity to shove their wealth in our faces. “It should be family.”

  “Take Grandma,” I say, and the old lady shoots me a look of panic. Oops. I figured since it was her son, she wouldn’t care, but it’s obvious she finds him as insufferable as the rest of us.

  “It would be a great opportunity for Nira.” My uncle spreads his hands. “She’ll be able to take the tour of NASA with Farah and talk to the scientists.”

  Ugh. That’s a genius play. Mom and Dad go quiet. A life of listening to Raj and Gul gloat about how they spoiled me at their own expense, versus the chance for me to expand my learning and talk to actual astronauts. They don’t have to blink for me to know what their decision will be. They sacrificed good jobs, money, and a big house so I could have a better life in Canada. What’s a bit of their pride?

  “When is the trip?” I ask.

  “Why?” Uncle Raj tips the sides of his mouth. “Big test coming up? You need extra time to study and make up for your terrible marks?”

  “I have an audition in a few weeks—”

  “Audition?” Aunty Gul turns to Mom. “You didn’t say anything about that.”

  “It’s for band,” I blurt out, then catch my dad’s pressed mouth and squinting eyes—his trademark signal for shut up.

  Uncle Raj chokes on his rum. “Band? Band? You’re letting her play in band?”

  “It’s good for her university application,” says Dad. “More rounded.”

  He snorts. “Big whoop. Band. It’s not a trip to Florida to meet the people who make the space shuttle.” Uncle Raj smiles at me. “You’ll come, betee.”

  I grit my teeth at him calling me daughter. “I can’t. I’ve signed up.”

  “Nira,” says Dad. “Your uncle and aunty are being very generous.”

  It’s tempting to point out that passing on a ticket they didn’t pay for is recycling, not generosity, but I keep my mouth closed. “I know, and I appreciate it, but I’m on the list.”

  “Big deal,” presses Uncle Raj. “It’s not like you’re the only one who plays—whatever you play—at school. Besides, you’re not even formally trained. Do you think you’ll get a spot?”

  The subtext of his words splinters us into a strained silence. Your family can’t afford to pay for lessons. You’re too stupid to teach yourself. No one will want you.

  “I have the brains my parents gave me,” I tell him. “I know how to search out tutorials on the Internet, and I know how to play by ear.”

  “She’s a true musician.” Grandma takes my hand. “A skinny Louis Armstrong.”

  Uncle Raj is smiling at her. He looks like a kid whose had his hand slapped, knows he deserves it, but isn’t willing to back down. “I’m sure she’s good. But NASA—”

  “The trip won’t mess with the audition,” Farah says. “You can come.”

  “Band,” sneers Uncle Raj. “Listen to me—”

  “How was your day, Farah?” Grandma talks over him like he’s not even there. The matriarch has spoken, and we all fall in line with Grandma’s hint to change the subject. But even as the conversation turns from soccer to politics and the coming winter, my uncle’s words and his attempt to embarrass my parents casts its shadow over us. All I can do is hope to leave it behind when the
night finishes.

  “Nira.” Dad knocks on my door and steps inside. “I want to talk to you about tonight.”

  “I’m not going on that stupid trip.”

  He raises his hand, placating. “Your aunty and uncle are difficult to deal with, but this opportunity—”

  “Opportunity? Opportunity? For what? To have them buy Farah a bunch of clothes and souvenirs and I get to watch?”

  He sits on my bed. “I’m sure they would buy you things as well—”

  “Won’t that be great?” The bitterness is on my tongue and in my words. “They can talk about it every time I see them.”

  “Your mother and I can give you money.”

  “I don’t want money.” I fold my arms across my chest, part defiance, part protective. “I don’t want to go.”

  “Put your pride in your pocket for a minute,” he says. “Think of what you can learn—”

  “I’m always learning! My whole stupid life is learning! For once, just once in my loser life—”

  “Don’t say that! You’re not a loser, and this life isn’t stupid.”

  “Maybe not.” I’m rubbing my arms to keep myself from crying. “But this isn’t my life.”

  He mutters to himself and rolls his eyes. “Not again. This is an opportunity.” He holds up his hand when I try to talk. “You won’t be able to do any of these things when you’re older. You’ll have work and the expense of travel. Now is the time to learn as much as you can.”

  “You told me I could try out for jazz band.”

  “That will come again next year when you’re a senior. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance.”

  No amount of arm rubbing can stop the tears pricking my eyes. “You said I could.”

  “Nira.” His tone is exasperated but loving. “Do you know what I would have done for a chance like this?”

  “Probably the same thing I would do for a chance at jazz band.”

  His mouth thins into a flat line. “I won’t tell you what to do—” He stops talking as Grandma comes into the room, carrying two cups of tea. She sets mine down on the desk and takes the second cup to Dad.