Set to Music

by Negeen Papehn

  “I’m pretty sure three times my salary is definitely my worth.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you should have me talk to them. I can get you a better deal.”

  “I bet you could.”

  I hug her, knowing this isn’t what she had planned. None of it. But life’s a bitch and we’re rolling with the punches now.

  …

  “How am I supposed to do this without you?” Niloo asks. The trepidation in my sister’s voice gives me pause. Can I leave her to go touring across the country with a band?

  Maman and I broke the news to her two nights ago after our conversation. With the band’s demanding schedule, I’ve had less than forty-eight hours to get my life in order, pack all my stuff, and convince Niloo that she can handle Maman’s situation on her own until I get back.

  Forcing her to deal with the aftermath of Maman’s treatment is horrible. But what choice do I have? I need this gig with Ternura. I’m up to my ears in debt. Once Maman is too ill to work, all the financial responsibilities will fall on me. Niloo’s part-time desk job isn’t going to cut it.

  “Look, I know it’s scary.” I reach out and grab her hand, giving it a tight squeeze. “But I know you can do it. I’ve set everything up, and you have the schedule. And if you need anything, I’ll just be a phone call away.” When she doesn’t look convinced, I add, “We’re going to need the money, Niloo. Once chemo starts, Maman’s going to get really sick. Especially with the cocktail they want to give her.” Maman is convinced she won’t need to quit her job, but I know better. Regardless of how stubborn she is, her Iranian will alone can’t outweigh the poison being pumped through her veins. “We have to keep everything going. On our own.”

  “Okay,” she concedes. “I’m really scared.”

  “I know. I am, too.” I’m about to assure her, to tell her things are going to be okay, but I stop myself. False hopes and broken promises won’t amount to anything but anger and resentment. “It’s only a few months.”

  Just then, someone rings the doorbell. Niloo’s panic-stricken expression returns full force, knowing my ride is here. I grab my bag, squeeze her hand again, and make my way to the door.

  “Dr. Zameeni?” A gentleman in a black suit greets me. “I’m Sam.” He reaches out and takes the luggage from my hand. “Are you ready to go? Everyone will be meeting us at the tour bus.”

  “We’re heading to San Francisco, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Departure is in an hour.”

  “Okay.” I turn toward Niloo. “I’ll call you as soon as I get there. I love you.”

  I pull her to my chest and run my hand tenderly down her silky brown hair while she holds on to me for dear life. As I turn to leave, I give her a confident nod, hoping she believes the conviction I’m pretending to feel.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Darya

  “Check one…two…three.” Anthony is on stage with the band, running through the microphones on their sound checks. It’s an oddly hot San Francisco afternoon so he’s in a pair of shorts and a tank top as he crosses the stage, wearing a goofy smile and cracking up at something Carlos has said.

  “No seas güey,” Anthony replies.

  Carlos answers in a flurry of Spanish words I can’t keep up with and the band bursts into laughter. The banter between brothers is comforting and quickly becoming familiar.

  “You don’t have to be right up here onstage,” Emmanuel explains as he gives me the official tour. I pull my gaze away from Ternura and try to focus on what I need to know for this job. “The venues will all be rather similar, but I’ll make sure to walk you around each one so you get the lay of the land,” he assures me.

  I have a freaking medical degree, currently working on becoming an ER specialist. I think I can figure out how to make my way around a stage.

  He smiles at me and the kindness in his gaze makes me feel guilty for my snide thoughts, even if they were just in my head.

  “And the portable EKG? Where will we be setting that up?” I ask, getting back to business. I’m here to do a job, not gawk at the superstars.

  “I was thinking maybe Carlos’s dressing room?”

  We take a few steps down from the stage and find ourselves on the lower floor where the rooms are located. Anthony and Carlos each have their own, the other two band members are paired up in the third room, and there is a larger common area for the remaining musicians, singers, and dancers.

  “That would require that I drag Carlos down here in between sets. Which you and I both know he won’t do. As is, I’m having to fight him on wearing the wireless heart monitor when he’s not onstage. But with the interference from the mics and speakers, I won’t get an accurate reading, so I’ll need the machine on hand. I think setting me up next to the stage will work best.”

  “But we’ll need you where the crowd can’t see you. We don’t want Carlos to end up on TMZ more than he already does. This heart condition is causing us enough trouble.” He chuckles as if I’m supposed to care about gossip news.

  “That’s fine. But Emmanuel, my job is to make sure Carlos is healthy, so that’s my only concern. And that was part of the deal. I get access to what I need, and to him, at all times.” I put on the best doctor voice I can muster, and Emmanuel winces at my authority. I grin as he nods.

  The craft table suddenly catches my attention, and I step around Emmanuel to get a better look. There’s an array of doughnuts and cookies, piled high on plates, a platter full of cheeses and processed meats, another serving dish of croissant sandwiches, and granola bars. As if that’s not bad enough, huge bowls of M&Ms and Starbursts adorn each end. All the shitty, processed sugar stuff Maman refused to give us when we were kids.

  “Is this seriously what they have to eat at each show?”

  “Um, yes.” The rise in Emmanuel’s voice makes it sound more like a question.

  “This isn’t going to work. Carlos can’t eat this stuff. I mean once in a while, okay, sure, but every night? Yeah, nope.” Emmanuel stares at me dumbfounded.

  I turn my attention back to the table. The contents aren’t that much better than the crap I found in the kitchen on the tour bus. Aren’t famous people supposed to have private chefs? You’d think with a bus that size, we could easily squeeze in another person. Especially since the band travels around in two of them. I make a mental note to discuss the possibility with Anthony, or at least some sort of meal service, if only for Carlos.

  “Is there someone in charge of catering who I can speak to directly?” I fear I’m currently way more overwhelming than he bargained for when he agreed to give me this tour.

  As I’m about to make my way into Carlos’s dressing room to make sure he doesn’t have any hidden goodies I should know about, edible or recreational, someone steps out of his door. It’s the Iranian guy from the hospital the first night Carlos was admitted.

  He wears a black pouch around his waist, adorned with various sized pockets and compartments. Brushes of different shapes and sizes are stacked side by side, peeking out from their sleeves. He’s dragging a rolling cosmetic case behind him, large and heavy-duty, metallic with black panels.

  “Hey Mike,” Emmanuel greets him. “This is Dr. Zameeni.”

  From this close proximity, I notice his thick, long black lashes. They circle two big, warm brown eyes that crinkle as he smiles at me with connection. He embodies that inviting Iranian energy, the one that can be felt even among strangers, solely based on a cultural understanding. Like a secret society. He reminds me of home.

  “I heard there would be a ‘nice pretty doctor lady’ on tour with us this time.” He smiles, and of course straight teeth wink at me from underneath his lips. It should be illegal for a man to be this perfect. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

  “Call me Darya.” I enunciate the short vowel sound in my name, the way you’d say it if you spoke Farsi.
<
br />   “Ocean,” he translates.

  “I knew it.”

  “Knew what?”

  “That you were Iranian.”

  “And how did you know that?” He raises a brow.

  “Um, because you have that vibe?” It comes out more as a question because at this point, I’m not sure what answer he’s looking for.

  “And here I thought I had a gay vibe.”

  “No. I mean yes. Well, I mean that’s not what I was referring to. Not that it’s a problem if you are…or not. I’m fine with, uh, whatever. Not that it matters what I’m fine with.” I stumble over myself like a blubbering fool as Mike stares at me in amusement. After a minute of letting me drown myself in a pathetic attempt at not intruding on his personal life, he finally ends my misery.

  “She’s adorable,” he directs toward Emmanuel. “I think I’m going to really like her.” To me, he says, “And yes, to answer your question, I’m Persian.”

  I’m so relieved he doesn’t hate me for my ridiculous behavior.

  “See? I knew it,” I gloat. “So what’s Mike short for? Because we both know that’s not your birth name.” This wins me an excellent chuckle, easing the awkward knot in the pit of my stomach. I think I’m really going to like him, too.

  “Mehdi.”

  “That’s your name?” Emmanuel suddenly jumps in. He looks completely baffled.

  Mike and I exchange glances and burst out laughing. Only a Persian kid with an Iranian name that’s difficult to say can understand the humor in this moment.

  “What?” Emmanuel asks. “I just didn’t know your name wasn’t Mike.”

  “We know.” I pat his arm, trying to comfort him. “It’s just funny because no one really ever knows we have these ‘other’ names.”

  “But you go by your name, right?”

  “Yeah, but for a long time I didn’t. It’s pretty common in our culture. It gets annoying to listen to people butcher your name all day long.”

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you,” Mike interrupts, “but duty calls. Have to make the boys look pretty before showtime.” He pats the handle of his cosmetic case. “I’ll see you around, Darya khanoom.” He heads toward the stage. I smile as I watch him go, feeling less alone in this foreign territory in which I’ve found myself.

  Emmanuel’s phone rings, something I’ve realized happens almost nonstop. But this time when he glances down at the screen, he apologetically says, “I have to take this one. Why don’t you explore and let me know if you have any questions.” He scurries out one of the exits.

  Everyone is bustling about minding their own business and doing their work, zigzagging around me. If it weren’t for the brief smiles and nods they give, I’d think I was invisible. I’m not entirely sure what to do with myself, feeling a bit awkward, like a fish out of water. But then I hear laughter coming from the direction of the stage and find myself moving toward it. I make it to the top step and lean against the wall, crossing my arms over my chest as I watch the band members.

  The four of them, along with the bodyguards, are currently in a big circle in the middle of the stage, playing hacky sack. I haven’t seen anyone do that since I was a senior in high school. Especially not seven grown men. Something about it being familiar, though, makes me homesick.

  “Bro, come on,” Hugo grouses as Mateo kicks it a little too high in his direction. Despite the off angle, he still manages to send it flying back to Carlos.

  Carlos expertly slows it down, tapping it against his foot a few times, then dashes between feet showing off his fancy footwork before sending it toward Anthony. Anthony does much of the same, then turns his body and kicks it over to Travis with the bottom of his foot.

  The ball continues to fly from one person to the next until all of the men have had a turn. Once the last bodyguard, James, makes his move, they all yell, “Hack!” simultaneously.

  I’m not expecting it and yelp louder than I intend to. This draws all their attention away from the ball and straight to me. I can feel my cheeks flush as the ball drops to the floor with a light thump.

  “You want a turn?” Carlos asks.

  “No thanks. I don’t know how to play.”

  “It’s easy,” Mateo adds. “We’ll teach you.”

  Anthony is watching me, a grin on his lips. Our eyes meet, and for a brief moment, I forget that there’s a group of seven men staring at me.

  “Come on Doc, let loose. You’re too serious.” Before I have a chance to defend myself against Carlos’s friendly implication that I’m uptight, Anthony does it for me.

  “Darya isn’t too serious. She’s just passionate about her job. I think more of us should be that way.” He tilts his head to the side, and the sincerity in his words is undeniable. Any hopes I had of not blushing fly out the window.

  “So, what do you say, Doc?” Hugo asks, waving the ball in my direction.

  I should say no, try to keep my doctor-patient relationship professional. I’m not here to make friends, but rather, to make sure Carlos stays healthy while making some much needed extra money in case my family falls on hard times. But there’s something in the way Anthony watches me and the playful grin on Carlos’s lips that has me questioning my decision. Hugo encourages me with his bright eyes, and Travis smiles kindly at me. Despite their non-biological relationships, this group of men is clearly a family.

  I’ve never had a large family of my own. Most of Maman’s siblings still live in Iran. Other than my aunt, her cousin, Mamanbozorg, and Bababozorg, it was rather lonely. Especially after my grandfather passed away and my grandmother went back to Iran. But the camaraderie and loyalty between these men has me yearning to be a part of something bigger.

  Mike steps into the circle. “Come on Darya, khanoom, let’s show them what the Persians can do.”

  The men hoot and holler in unison, egging one another on. Anthony’s laughing, his smile so wide and inviting now, I can’t resist.

  “Why the hell not?”

  The boys start cheering, and suddenly I feel like the superstar.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Anthony

  “What’s the score?” I ask.

  I slide into the seat across from Travis and push a bottle of beer toward him.

  “Twelve to three. Bottom of the eighth. Mariners are up.” He glances at the drink. “I’m on the clock.”

  “No you’re not,” I say. “And I’m pretty sure one beer won’t even touch you, man. How much did you bench this morning?”

  “Three fifty,” Travis mumbles.

  “Seriously bro, if I could do that, I’d definitely not be shy about it.”

  Travis grabs the bottle, rolling his eyes.

  “I’m kind of hungry.” I search the bar looking for a server, but there’s no one around. For a Thursday, the sports bar is pretty quiet. Not that I mind. Means fewer interruptions for me.

  “You’re always hungry.”

  I chuckle. “I have no idea how you’re not always starving. We do the exact same workouts and you’re much bigger than me.”

  “No I’m not. And it’s called self-control.”

  “Fuck self-control. I need some fries.” I smirk. “I’ll be back.”

  Normally, Travis would be on my heels but, since it’s so dead in here, he just nods and returns his attention to the game. I head toward the bar, feeling a false sense of freedom. It’s rare when I feel normal, like we’re two guys chilling at a bar, watching a game, and not a famous singer and his bodyguard. Even though we’re actually friends, the roles between us are usually very distinct.

  I look for the bartender, giving up on finding a server. I glance at the hostess booth and instead see Darya wander in.

  “Hey,” she says when she sees me. The tip of her nose is pink and her cheeks are burned from the cold.

  “Where are you coming from?”


  “I just went for a walk. Or at least I tried,” she answers. “But it’s freezing outside.”

  “Yup. Seattle nights can get cold, even in the summer.” I glance out the bar windows. “Surprised it’s not raining. I swear this city is always wet.”

  “I don’t think I packed properly. I’m such a California girl that I forgot other states aren’t eighty degrees every day.”

  “I can have one of the guys take you shopping if you need stuff,” I offer.

  “Thanks. I’ll figure it out.” She looks past me. “Are you here alone?”

  “I’m never alone,” I sigh. “Travis is back there. I’m trying to find a server. Are you hungry?”

  “A little. Came in to get some hot tea because I’m frozen. But now that you mention it, I could eat.”

  “Would you like to join us?”

  “I don’t want to impose.”

  “Impose? On who, Travis and me? I see that dude all day. Both of us could use the company.”

  “Okay then.” She grins, her eyes lighting up.

  Is she lonely?

  The possibility makes me feel like an asshole, because I hadn’t thought about how she’d handle being away from everyone she knows. We’ve all been together for so long that we’re family now, but it hadn’t dawned on me that she’d feel like an outsider, even if we all view her as one of us after only a few short days. I make a mental note to invite her to hang out with us more.

  Just then, a server comes through the swinging doors in the back. I raise my hand and flag her down, not wanting to yell across the restaurant. “Could we place an order, please?”

  “Sure,” she answers. She’s staring at me, and it’s obvious she knows who I am. But she doesn’t let on as she follows us to our seats.

  We tell her what we want after Darya slides into the booth beside me. I lean against the wall so I’m facing her and we can comfortably have a conversation. Travis nods at her, then meets my gaze.

  “I’m going to go do a sweep,” he says.

  “A sweep of what? No one’s here.”