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Malik had already defended him once that day. The last thing Jamal needed was more pity. His brother meant well, of course, but it only made everything worse. His eyes fell on the story he had written in English class the previous day, sitting on the dresser. It was about a prince kissing a frog and turning it into a princess, a twist on the old fairy tale. He called it The Prince and the Frog. He’d also changed the setting to New Orleans. He had always wanted his parents to read his writing, but he’d never been brave enough to show it to them. He took a deep breath and reached for the pages. Maybe he’d show the story to them after dinner.
“Kids, dinnertime!”
Their father’s voice echoed through the small house. Their last house had been bigger, and Jamal had had his own bedroom. But he secretly preferred sharing a room with Malik, even though it meant less space. He didn’t say it often, but he loved his brother, and he hated that he felt dark feelings about him sometimes. He did his best to keep them stuffed down in his heart, but they always had a way of spilling out stronger than before.
“Did you hear your father?” their mother called. “Dinner’s getting cold.”
That was their second warning. And it came from Mom. That meant they needed to get in there. Now.
“Hey, let’s go eat,” Jamal said, then grinned. “If you can tear yourself away from all those autographs.”
Malik chuckled. “Well, I still don’t have the most important one.” He pointed to a blank corner. “I saved you a prime spot. You’d better sign it.”
* * *
After helping their father do the dishes, including scrubbing the stubborn residue from the gumbo pot, their mother set two wooden boxes on the kitchen table in front of Jamal and Malik. “These are the special gifts your grandmother left for you.”
Jamal studied the boxes, feeling a rush of anticipation despite his earlier fears. The box in front of Malik was larger and longer. Its polished wood surface was carved with the image of an alligator playing a trumpet.
But his box was different. It was smallish—about four inches by four inches. The wooden surface was also carved, but not with a cheerful image like his brother’s box. Instead, a creepy skull stared back at him. The eye sockets were gouged out, as if with a crude tool, leaving deep scratch marks. He felt his pulse skip.
What did the images mean?
“Look, I know your grandmother could be a bit…strange,” their mother said, struggling for words. Their father walked over and placed his hand on her shoulder in a show of support.
“The old lady never talked to us, really,” Malik snorted, “let alone remembered our birthday.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t like she had to remember more than one,” Jamal added, “since we were born on the same day.”
A sad expression passed over their mother’s face. “Like I said, she went through some things. And she was never the same after. I’m sorry you didn’t meet her when she was younger. She wasn’t always so withdrawn.”
“Yeah, me too,” Malik said, casting his gaze down. “Mom, sorry I said that. It wasn’t very nice.”
She shook her head. “No, you deserved better.” She patted his box. “But maybe this will make up for it.”
Then she slid an official-looking document across the table.
From the Estate of Norah J. Wilkins.
Jamal’s eyes scanned the document with the fancy lawyer logo at the top.
“This is from the attorney representing her estate,” their mother continued. “You each have to sign to confirm receipt of your inheritance.”
Jamal quickly scrawled his name. The pen felt slippery in his sweaty fingers. Then he passed it to his brother. His attention returned to the mystery boxes. Anticipation built inside him like water rising behind a levee, threatening to break through it.
“Okay, Malik first,” their mother said, as if this wasn’t always how it went. “Go ahead, Son. Open it.”
Malik took a deep breath, then slowly cracked open the wooden box. The top pivoted smoothly on hinges built into the box, revealing—
A trumpet.
An antique one, from the looks of it. The brassy surface shimmered like it had just been polished to a high shine.
“Oh, cool!” Malik said, lifting it out of the velvet-lined interior. He raised it to his lips and blew a few tentative notes. They sailed out effortlessly, painting the air with their melody.
“Wow, it sounds amazing,” Malik said. He played a few more notes.
“That trumpet has been in our family for generations,” their mother explained. “Your grandfather was a jazz musician. And his father. And his father’s father. They were all jazz musicians who played the trumpet.”
