Youssef
TEMPO: The speed at which a piece of music is played or performed
I pinchthe bridge of my nose and sigh into the phone. “No, Mom, I do not want to bring your favourite barista to Aaliyah’s wedding. Why do you want me to bring some random girl to my sister’s wedding? Wouldn’t that be weird? Why is this so important?”
My mom also sighs into the phone. “For many reasons, Youssef. First of all: symmetry.”
“Symmetry?” I shout before glancing at Paige’s closed bedroom door and lowering my voice. She passed out after spending half an hour trying to eat a bowl of soup with her left hand. “What do you mean,symmetry?”
Normally my discussions with my mom don’t get this heated. Normally she has a rational, logical, highly developed academic mind, but she will not let up about this wedding date thing. I ignored a few texts from her today, which resulted in this phone call.
“Yes, Youssef. For the pictures. And the table setting. And the procession.”
“I’m not in the procession!”
“I mean the pre-procession.”
“What on earth is a pre-procession? Does Aaliyah even care about any of this?” I know it’s her wedding, but my little sister seems chill enough to not need something called a pre-procession.
I can picture my mom adjusting her glasses. “Youssef, you’re getting emotional.”
“I’mgetting emotional?”
She ignores me. “You don’t really need to understand the reasons why. You just need to bring someone to the wedding. I am happy to arrange that for you. So I’ll ask you again—”
“No, Mom, do not proposition an innocent Starbucks employee on my behalf. I will find a date. I promise. Just mark it down as a blank in the seating plan for now, or whatever it is you need it for.”
“Hmm. Okay. I will need a name soon, though.”
I slump down farther on Paige’s couch and let my head rest against the wall. “Is there anything else you’d like to talk to your son about?”
She pauses. “Am I forgetting something?”
“I don’t know. Just thought you might be curious about my life and career...and hopes and dreams and aspirations. The state of my health, perhaps. You know, my general existence.”
“Well now you’re just being dramatic.”
“I’mbeing dramatic?”
She huffs, and then I can hear her sipping on something—probably coffee, even though it’s almost eight at night. “I have been a little focused on the wedding. I’m sorry.”
I hold back the urge to reply with, ‘A little?’
“Tell me about you,” she continues. “I would love to know more about your general existence. A while ago you mentioned your manager was hinting at some big news? I could getBabaand put him on speakerphone so you can tell us both. ”
“Oh, uh, no. That’s fine.” I don’t know how to segue into telling her I spent the night at the hospital, which is where I was hoping to lead us. Wedding obsessed or not, I trust my mom’s judgement in a lot of situations, and I could use it in this one. “He just got me booked to headline this big club opening. Some famous DJ dropped out, so they picked me to replace him.”
“Youssef, that’s amazing!”
“Mmm.”
A note of suspicion comes into her voice. “But?”
“But what?”
“It sounds like there’s a but here. What’s the problem?”
There shouldn’t be a problem. I should feel as excited as she sounds. I’m exactly where I always wanted to be. I’m exactly where my parents have always wanted me to be. I have probably the only parents on earth who were disappointed I went to university for engineering instead of the arts. My whole life, everyone close to me has been telling me they just know I’ll be a big music star someday.
