In the Key of Nira Ghani

by Natasha Deen

  “You’re called to do big things. If you want to waste your time blowing on a piece of tin, fine. But your life will pass you by, and you will look back on this with regret.”

  “I won’t ever regret doing the things that make me happy.”

  “I want to stay home and watch cricket all day.” He balances the cup on his lap, then shifts it to his knees when the heat burns him. “That will make me happy, but it will also make me homeless. You must learn now to sacrifice—”

  “I have sacrificed!” I hear the shrillness in my voice and tone it down. “I don’t go to parties or sleepovers. I’m not on any teams—all I do is study. Why do I have to fight you on this one thing I want, when I do everything you ask me?”

  He shoots me an impatient look that asks how can I be so monumentally stupid. “All this talk of happiness. No discussion of responsibility. That’s—”

  “How kids end up in the gutter,” I finish.

  “Don’t get fresh with me. It’s true.”

  “Yeah?” The challenge is in the lift of my eyebrows. “You see a lot of kids in the gutters?”

  “Maybe not here, but back home, yes. You think the white bank managers want to hire a brown kid when they can hire a white one? You had to be smarter and work harder—”

  “Back then skin color mattered. But now it doesn’t matter like it did before.” I take a deep breath. “I deserve this, Dad. I’m a good kid with good marks, and I don’t cause you trouble.”

  He snorts.

  “I’m a good kid.” My mouth is dry, but I’m pushing. I want my parents to be happy and proud of me, but I need this. “All I want is a sliver,” I tell my dad. “Just a piece of this world that can be mine.”

  I see the connection on his face, and for a minute, I think I’ve won.

  He frowns. “You’re not like anyone else and being different always matters. The only way you fight it is with hard work and education.”

  Grandma and I exchange a glance. She sits in the chair by the desk and watches, ready to step in, but this fight is mine.

  “It’s not about being different,” I say to him. “It’s about being myself. I want to play in jazz band—”

  “Nira—”

  “Life’s also about having character and keeping your word.” I’m sweating through my clothes, but I refuse to back down. “Did your word not mean anything? Did you lie to me?”

  He scowls. “No, but—”

  “Sometimes I’m going to say no to one thing because I’ve said yes to something else.” My voice is a dim drone, drowned out by the thumping of my heart. “I committed to the audition. If the trip doesn’t conflict, I’ll go, but this is my priority.”

  He glares at me, and it takes all my strength to maintain eye contact. After a minute, Dad sighs and leaves the room.

  I lift the cup of tea with shaking hands and take a sip. Hot, with just the right amount of sugar and milk.

  Grandma puts her hand on my shoulder. “I knew you could win this fight. You and me, girl, we’re cut from the same cloth. Play me some Irving Berlin. Later, come for a walk with me.”

  I nod, and she leaves. I get Georgia and hold him close; I take a breath, and the opening of “What’ll I Do?” fills the space and my heart. Another breath and I blow, hoping the tune fills my grandmother’s heart as well.

  As soon as the weekend hits, I head to Reynolds.

  “I talked to Masao,” Alec says. “It’s sorted. You can work here.”

  “But I don’t know anything about”—I wave my hand around the room—“any of it.”

  “You know music, right? You know what a trombone is and what a violin is—”

  “Yeah, but you said Masao wants experts.”

  “You will be.” He smiles. “He’s gone for a while, so I have time to teach you everything.”

  “But—”

  “Nira, trust me, you’ll be golden. I knew it from the first time we talked. You belong here.”

  Why am I fighting this? Why am I arguing when it’s exactly what I want? I push down the insecurity and let the happiness take flight. “Okay, I’m in.”

  I fill out the paperwork and get a name tag. Then we spend the morning with him showing me how to work the cash register, what the guitar picks look like, the difference in violin bows. It’s like trying to shower under a waterfall—too much of everything and too powerful, and it’s all going to drown me—but what a way to go.

  As I’m leaving, I ask about the employee discount and about buying a new trumpet. He gives me a wicked discount on a Bach TR200S. Alec tells me I can rent it and he’ll take it out of my first paycheck. I e-mail Mr. Nam to set up an inspection time for the trumpet, then head home.

  “You should come with me,” says Emily when I tell her about what happened at Junta, and how much I hate not having money to buy stuff.

  I wait for her to fill in the blanks, then sigh and wave my hand in a circle when I realize she’s doing her psychic twin thing. “I’m too upset to read your mind.”

  “You should come to the consignment shop with me.”

  “Consignment?”

  “You know, used.”

  “I’m not sure buying secondhand will be better than bargain basement stuff.”

  “It’s not that kind of place. It’s high-end stuff.” She takes a bite of her hoagie. “Most of it is suburban mom stuff. You know, wealthy ladies who’re going through a divorce and are selling off their designer stuff until the alimony comes through. Mom took me to it when she was divorcing Roger.” She pauses in midchew. “Maybe it was Bill. No, wait. Michael. It was Michael.”

  “What are the prices like?”

  “Joel! It was Joel.” She splays her hands and starts counting on her fingers. “Hold on. Roger, Bill—”

  I cover her fingers and ask my question again.

  “The prices are excellent. Better than discount and the shop owner is psycho about making sure everything looks brand-new. You can’t tell the clothes are used. Some of them still have price tags.” She smiles and goes back to eating.

  It takes two days of negotiating with Mom and Dad, but I get permission to go shopping with Emily after school.

  “This is a big deal,” says my mom. “I expect your marks to stay the same.”

  “One day of hanging out after school won’t drop my grades.”

  “It’s not one day.” Dad’s voice sounds from behind the newspaper. “It’s how one day rolls into two then three. Soon, you’re skipping school. That’s how kids end up in the gutter.”

  “But think how good I’ll look with my new clothes.”

  The paper flips down with a crinkle, and he stares me down.

  I toss a grin his way.

  “What is this place called?” The paper covers his face once more.

  “No idea.”

  “Weird name.”

  Everyone’s a comedian. “That’s not the name. I don’t know the name. She just said she’d take me shopping.”

  He sets down his paper. “Did you hear what your daughter said?”

  Mom and I exchange a confused glance. Bad things happen when he talks about me like he’s not responsible for fifty percent of my DNA.

  “She’s going off with some girl we don’t know—”

  “Raul, the girl sleeps over! You know her!”

  “—and she’s going to someplace where she doesn’t know the name.”

  “Before you tell me how this will end me up in a gutter, it’s safe. Emily and her mom go there all the time.”

  “Serial killers love unprotected girls who adhere to a routine,” says Dad.

  “I’m a brown girl in a city full of white people. Statistically speaking, the murderer is most likely to be white, and serial killers tend to prefer victims of their color.”

  His eyes go wide. “What have you been reading?”

  “Everything since you won’t spring for premium cable or Internet.”

  “Books are better than TV, anyway,” he grunts. “Uplift your mind.�
��

  “Tell that to Lady Chatterley.”

  “Eh?”

  “Nothing. Thanks for letting me go.”

  “I expect you to be responsible about your purchases,” he says. “None of these shorty shorts with half your cheesecake hanging out.”

  I’m not sure what body part the cheesecake is, but I nod. “No showing the desserts.”

  “And remember, just because you have the money doesn’t mean you have to spend it.”

  “Right.”

  “It’s not like it’s burning a hole in your pocket.”

  “Right.”

  “You can think about the clothes and go back.”

  I shoot a look at Mom. Is this going to end, or is he going to keep talking until I decide to repurpose the rice bags and use the money for a registered education saving plan? I dash for escape before he can change his mind.

  “Make sure your homework’s done,” is his final parting shot.

  The Nu4U store might end up being my new favorite place. Emily was right on about the prices and the clothes. I figured I’d only get a couple of things because I don’t have loads to spend, but I get tons of stuff.

  I blow my budget but get two fabulous interview outfits—black skirt, cardi, and white button-down, a pair of skinny crepe pants and a printed peasant blouse. I love them because they’ll do double duty for casual school outfits, but I also love them because they’re high quality. The kind of brand name that doesn’t need a logo sprayed on the front. Plus, I got other stuff—jeans, leggings, shirts. I can’t wait to walk into school. I’m flying high as I head home, glide through the door, and head into the kitchen

  Mom turns from the stove and smiles at the bags. “Success. Did you leave anything in the store?”

  “A saleslady with the happy afterglow of having earned her minimum wage.”

  “Let me make tea, and then you give us a show.”

  Grandma is already up from the table, setting out the cups and milk.

  Dad comes in, eyes me up and down. “Is anything left in your bank account?”

  “Yes—”

  “How much?”

  “It’ll carry me to my next paycheck”

  “All your money, on clothes? Nothing saved, you wasted it all—”

  “But it’s not a waste.” I set down the bags. “The saleslady said the pieces are classic, so later I can use them at college interviews.”

  His expression of disgust is so exquisite, Google maps could GPS every pore on his skin. “You’re so naive. It’s her job. Nira, I trusted you to be responsible—”

  “I am responsible! Look at all the stuff I got for the money.”

  “Cheap clothes that will fall apart in the wash. You could’ve gotten a microscope with the money. I can’t believe you wasted money like this.”

  Why can’t I ever win with him? “For what? To study the soap scum on the bathroom tile? Wanting fun stuff isn’t a bad thing!”

  “I told you to save some of your money.”

  “It’s my money!”

  “That we give you!”

  “That I earn! God, this is why I wanted a job of my own. Then you can’t tell me how to spend my money!”

  He takes one of the bags from my grasp and dumps it on the table.

  What is his damage?

  He picks up the clothing, one at a time, then drops them like they’re dirty cleaning rags.

  It’s taking everything in me not to yell and scream.

  “They don’t even have proper tags. What happens if you change your mind?”

  “I won’t change my mind, and even if I did, there are no refunds.”

  His eyes go raging bull-wide, and he spins to face Mom. “You let your daughter do this?”

  “Do what, Raul? It’s fun for her, and she needs to enjoy—”

  “For this? What kind of place doesn’t have refunds?”

  “It’s a consignment shop.” I grab the clothes from him and stuff them in the bag.

  Three horizontal lines form on his forehead. “What’s consignment?”

  “People sell their clothes.”

  He’s giving me a blank look. “Isn’t that a regular store?”

  “No, it’s—reselling.”

  The blood drains from his face so completely that he turns a chalky shade of white. “Resell?” He whispers the word. “This is used? You bought other people’s garbage?”

  “It’s not garbage—”

  “The garbage they don’t want! Things they would dump, you buy it!”

  I’m going to give myself whiplash, trying to look at Mom, Grandma, and Dad, trying to look at them all at once.

  He’s yelling, but the weird kind of screaming parents do. The kind when they’re so angry, they can’t even turn up the volume because their vocal cords are tight with rage. And I can’t catch what he’s saying. He’s switched to Guyanese Creole, and I’m rusty with the language.

  “Dad, Dad, talk to me. I don’t understand.”

  “How could you do this, Nira? How could you take everything we’ve done for you and throw it away?”

  “On clothes?” I’m not angry anymore. I’m too scared and confused. Mom and Grandma aren’t any help. Mom’s staring, as worried and frightened as I am. Grandma’s expression I can’t read, and I don’t have time to figure it out because Dad’s consuming my attention.

  “Do you know what we sacrificed to get here?”

  “What? Dad—” I can’t get the rest of the words out because the tears clog my throat. I’ve never seen him like this, and I don’t know what to do.

  “We may be poor.” He stabs the clothes. “But we will never be this poor.”

  “This isn’t about poor—lots of kids—”

  But he’s not listening, he’s not even here in the kitchen, anymore. He’s in some other world where no one can reach him. Dad hefts the bags off the table and storms for the back door.

  “What are you doing?” I chase after him and try to free one of the bags.

  “We will never wear other people’s castoffs!”

  He bursts through the door, the bags swinging at his side. He wrenches open the garbage lid.

  Horror stops me midstride. “What are you doing?” I blink, and suddenly my clothes are falling through plastic and into discarded banana peels, rotting meat, and used tissues.

  “What are you doing? What are you doing?” I run to the garbage, but he’s tying the bag and hefting it out. “That’s my stuff! You can’t do that to my stuff!”

  “It’s not yours, it’s someone else’s, and this is where it belongs.” He pushes past me.

  “What is wrong with you? That was mine!”

  “As long as you’re under my care, it’s all my stuff.”

  “Are you going to pay me back for the money I spent?” I yell at his retreating figure.

  But he’s out the yard and heading to the garage. Mom chases after him. Grandma comes out of the house. Blurred vision and salty tears takes me to the tree stump.

  “It’s my fault.” Grandma presses the cup into my hand.

  “I doubt it.”

  “We were so poor, so poor, anything we got was because of other people. Clothes, food. Sometimes even water.” She wipes the tears from my face. “There are two kinds of people in the world, Nira. The people who will give to you because your heart and theirs beat together.” She takes my hand. “But then there are those who give to you, not because they want to hold their hand out to you, but because they want to hold their hand over you. To remind you of their generosity every time they see you. To remind you that you would be nothing without them.”

  “I’m sorry, Grandma, but—”

  “Your dad grew up hearing those words in his ears. That he was nothing without these people to put clothes on his back. It was humiliating. Degrading. He told me once he would rather have gone naked than have to hear one more child tell him about his used clothes.” She points to the cup. “Drink.”

  “I’m not thirsty.”

&
nbsp; “Drink.”

  I drink. The tea is hot and sweet and creamy, but it can’t take the bitter taste from my mouth, and it can’t stop the icy cold that’s spreading inside me. I want to wail and howl, but I’m afraid if I start, I’ll never stop.

  “It’s hard to let go of those things. He’s afraid for you.”

  “No, he isn’t. He’s thinking about having to explain to Uncle Raj and Aunty Gul that his daughter bought secondhand.”

  She winces. “Okay, maybe that, too, but try to understand.”

  I shake my head. “I always have to do that. Understand the life inside these walls isn’t the same as the life outside these walls. Why can’t he be the one who understands, for once?”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  “No, don’t.” I drain the last of my tea and press my warm hands up to my forehead, hoping to relieve the tight muscles. “I’m tired of talking to them and begging for everything. I hate my life. Do you think white kids have to do the same thing with their parents?”

  She pats my lap. “Every kid has to wrestle with their parents.”

  Maybe, but I doubt Noah or McKenzie have to deal with anything like this. We head inside, and I go to my room. I take out my phone and text Emily, but I don’t get a reply. She’s probably out with her mom or she’s misplaced her phone. I reach for the new trumpet, but habit makes me take Georgia. I’m okay with that. At times like these, I’d rather have an old friend to comfort me.

  I’ve just finished the last note from Louis Armstrong’s “Hello, Dolly!” when I hear the front door open and my parents’ voices in the hallway. It’s too soon for them to return. I want to play the song again, to feel my lungs burn and strain at the high notes, to weary my fingers on the keys. But to play is to shout my presence in the house. Even though they know I’m home, I don’t want to be in their minds or awareness. I want to be left alone. I blow the spit from the valve and put Georgia on the bed beside me.

  There’s a knock at my door, Dad asking to come in.

  I stay quiet.

  He knocks again. And again.