Mrs. Raymond chuckled. “Oh, it’s gonna be a big one this year. It’s the twentieth anniversary, you know. Plus this year my son’s in charge, and he likes to do things big.”
Yusuf’s head was starting to throb from the rose smells around him. He fiddled with his glasses and asked, “Who’s your son?”
“Why, you must have seen him around town, tall as a lamppost. His son goes to your school.”
Yusuf had a sudden image of Jared in the bleachers, telling him about his cousin. “Mr. Grant?” he squeaked with a dry throat. “In charge of the parade?”
“Yup, that one.”
14
The following week’s Saturday club was everything Yusuf had imagined it would be. The area outside the school was deserted, and the air was crisp and fresh. Their team of six, plus Mr. Parker, assembled inside the school gym, their shoes squeaking in the silence. A big box marked LEGO EV KITS stood in the corner. Cameron looked half asleep, but everyone else was ready to get to work.
“Well, I can’t believe we finally have a shot at TRC,” Mr. Parker said as he passed out a sheaf of papers, grinning. “Gather around, kids. Let’s get started.”
Yusuf looked at the papers. Welcome to the Texas Robotics Competition 2021–22. There was so much to go through. Contest rules. Release forms. FAQs. He sat down on the gym floor and started reading, his head bent and lips moving. This was important. He didn’t want to miss a word.
“Too early for robots!” Cameron groaned as he sank down beside Yusuf.
Tony Rivera sat on the other side. “That’s why we have Yusuf.”
“Shhh!” Yusuf held up a commanding finger.
There was silence as the team sat on the floor, digesting the TRC papers. Registration deadline was November 29, 2021. Regional contest in Conroe on January 15, 2022. State contest in Austin on April 9, 2022. Yusuf wrote the dates down in a notebook. They were more important than the birthdays of all his family members combined.
Madison raised her hand. “It says we need a team name.”
“How about Cam Bots?” Cameron suggested. “You know, since y’all needed me to complete the team?”
“Ugh, Cameron.” Madison rolled her eyes at him. “Your ego needs to take a seat.”
Yusuf expected Cameron to argue, but he kept quiet. He looked almost subdued, like he wasn’t sure what he was doing with a group of self-professed nerds on school property on a Saturday morning. Finally he yawned at Madison and closed his eyes. “Whatever.”
“No names,” Danial said firmly.
Mr. Parker’s grin was back. “You mean you kids won’t even consider Team Parker?”
Danial looked at him, alarmed. “Wait, do we have to name our teams after our coaches? Is it a rule or something?”
“Don’t worry, I’m only joking.”
Madison laughed out loud, followed more uncertainly by Danial. Jared looked from one to the other in confusion. Yusuf ignored them all. “How about the Freybots?” he said slowly. It was a game he and Danial had made up when they were little. They’d dress up Amma’s brooms to look like robotic gladiators, with kitchen-cloth bandannas, stick arms, and googly eyes, and fight in her kitchen until she’d shoo them away.
Madison replied, “I like that. Show some Frey pride in front of those big-city kids.”
Jared nodded. Tony reluctantly followed. Soon they were all grinning, all except Cameron. “It’s a stupid name,” he spat.
“No, it’s not,” Danial spat back.
Mr. Parker raised a hand in warning. “Let’s take a vote, shall we? All in favor say aye!”
“AYE!” five of the six team members shouted.
Cameron bowed mockingly at them. “Whatever,” he muttered. “I don’t care.”
“Freybots, here we come!” Yusuf and Danial yelled together.
Mr. Parker reached over, opened up his box in the corner, and began taking out LEGO parts. “You know you’ll have to come up with a fight song now, don’t you? It’s not every day we get to compete in the TRC.”
Madison started humming under her breath.
“What if we win, guys?” Tony suddenly said, his face comically shocked at the idea.
Danial began lining up LEGO parts on the gym floor carefully, as if they were made of his mom’s best china from Dubai. “Let’s not kid ourselves,” he said nervously. “The chance of winning is, like, minuscule. You’d need to create an amazing machine, then win three out of three eligibility matches in the regionals, and then be one of the top five in the regionals. And the final state contest is huge. That’s where the other contestants are, like, robotics gods or something. Those guys probably drink gallons of coffee and work with robots all day long.”
Mr. Parker put a firm hand on his shoulder. “Calm down, son. Let’s take one step at a time.”
Danial took a deep breath. “Y-yes, sir.”
The team gathered around their teacher. “Okay, step one,” Mr. Parker said. “Finding out this year’s challenge. This team has at least one seventh grader—that’s you, Tony—so we can compete in the advanced level.”
Tony raised his arms above his head and said, “Whoop!” But he looked a bit scared. Yusuf swallowed. The advanced level was a big deal. It meant making a robot from scratch to solve a real-world problem. In 2020, the winning team had made a machine that collected plastic from oceans. The year before, they’d created a robot that saved children from fires. Theoretically, of course, with the trash—and children—being clunky obstacles on a gigantic course. Still, the advanced level was a very big deal.
“Are . . . are you sure we’re ready?” Jared squeaked.
Mr. Parker nodded. “Yup.”
Yusuf relaxed. If Mr. Parker thought they were ready, then they definitely were. “Yup,” he repeated firmly. Cheerfully.
Tony threw an arm around Yusuf’s shoulder. “We got this robot golden child on our team. You bet we’re ready!”
Yusuf and Danial walked home from Saturday club with light steps and eager eyes. “Man, this is going to be epic!” Yusuf sang. “I can’t wait for next week.”
For once, Danial didn’t have anything negative to say. “TRC is pretty awesome,” he agreed. “I can’t wait to get to the regional contest, see the arena where teams compete, hear all the coaches yelling.”
“I don’t think Mr. Parker would yell at us,” Yusuf protested.
“The competitions can get intense,” Danial told him darkly. “Wait and see. Parker will be a nervous wreck by January.”
There was no use arguing with Danial. He thought his powers of prediction were unmatched.
They walked in silence until they reached Main Street. The clock on the front of city hall said one o’clock, and Yusuf suddenly realized he hadn’t eaten anything since the very quick breakfast Abba had made before leaving for his store. “Don’t wake your mother,” he’d warned, whispering. “She was up last night with Aleena.”
Yusuf had nodded and swallowed his half-burnt toast quietly. Aleena’s asthma got worse in the fall, and sometimes she couldn’t breathe at night. Yusuf could hear her coughing and wheezing most nights, and when it got bad, Amma spent the night with her.
Yusuf turned to Danial. “Do you want to get some lunch?” He could smell the aroma of tacos and Mexican rice, maybe even fajitas, from the food trucks around the town square. “I got my allowance yesterday.”
Danial looked around doubtfully. “You know it’s not going to be halal.”
Yusuf was already striding toward Wicks Avenue on the far-right corner of city hall. He was sure to find some food trucks there. “It’s okay,” he called over his shoulder. “You can eat the rice.”
Danial followed him, and Yusuf could almost feel the scowl aimed at his back. “I don’t want to eat the rice. I’m starving!”
Yusuf increased his pace. He wasn’t in the mood to hear his grumpy friend complain about food options. “If you want to eat chicken, then eat chicken!” he yelled back. “Just don’t tell your parents . . .”
Yusuf stared at the utility trailer. He knew what it was, because the wheels were peeking out from under the metal parts. Abba was always looking at pictures of utility trailers on his computer and wishing he owned one to deliver supplies. On the trailer bed were a bunch of rectangle structures, like big building blocks made of white plastic. Some were short, but two were equally long and straight, and towered over the other structures in the trailer bed like proud beacons.
“Is that supposed to be a float?” Danial whispered behind him.
Of course, a parade float. The sides hadn’t been decorated yet, but that’s surely what it was. Yusuf looked at the white structures again. The two tall ones were like a distant memory, a shape he’d seen somewhere before. “Are those models of . . . buildings?” he breathed.
Danial clicked his tongue. “The Twin Towers. You know, from 9/11?”
Never forget. Of course. Next week was the anniversary of 9/11, and the local news had been reminding them of the “bigger, better parade” on Main Street for weeks now. That’s why Jared’s grandmother needed so much soil. She’d been right: they’d require a lot more flowers than usual this year. That was a big float to cover.
“What’re you kids doing here?”
At the rough voice just behind them, Yusuf turned so quickly he elbowed Danial in the ribs with force. “Ow!” whispered Danial, but without much steam.
He should apologize, but Yusuf was transfixed at the sight of Ethan’s dad—Mr. Grant—standing way too close to them. His hands were on his hips, and his face looked like it had twisted into an ugly mask. His sleeves were rolled up, and Yusuf couldn’t stop looking at those beefy forearms full of tattoos. “Why. Are. You. Here?” repeated Mr. Grant from clenched lips.
“Er, for some lunch?” squeaked Danial, pointing to the food trucks.
Yusuf’s stomach rumbled, but not from hunger. He had a feeling Mr. Grant wasn’t just talking about Wicks Avenue.
Yusuf was right. Mr. Grant leaned closer until they could smell his breath, a mix of tobacco and meat. “Your kind has been here in Frey long enough. We Patriot Sons are about to take this town back. This country back.”
Danial’s gulp was so loud Yusuf could hear his throat move up and down. “Patriot . . . Sons?” Yusuf whispered.
Mr. Grant leaned back with a grin that would be perfect on a hungry coyote’s face. He was looking at something behind them. Yusuf turned without wanting to. In the distance, right near the entrance to the park, stood a group of motorcycles, with men and women just like Mr. Grant sitting on them. Arms crossed on massive chests. Eyes glinting in the sunlight.
“Time to leave Frey, Mooz-lim,” Mr. Grant whispered behind them.
15
A week later, on the morning of September 11, 2021, Yusuf and Danial headed with their families back to the town square. It was a Saturday, but Mr. Parker had canceled the Saturday club due to “the nature of the holiday.”
Yusuf wasn’t sure a memorial event for an awful terrorist act counted as a holiday, but he was glad they weren’t having the club meeting. The sick feeling hadn’t left his stomach since the week before, when they’d run into Mr. Grant near city hall. The robotics after-school meeting on Tuesday had been difficult enough, with the other team members chattering about TRC regulations and planning matching T-shirts with FREYBOTS on the front like babies. How could anyone focus on robotics when Mr. Grant was stomping around the town square throwing threats about like they were candy?
The morning was overcast, as if a storm they couldn’t see yet loomed on the horizon. Danial and Yusuf walked behind the adults, Aleena swinging her arms between them. “Where we going?” she asked cheerfully. “Nother foo-ball game?”
Danial shook his head sadly. “Nope. Just a parade, with floats and things.”
Her smile brightened. “Floats? With princesses?”
Yusuf took a deep breath and exchanged looks with Danial. “I don’t think so.”
They reached the town square and searched the crowd for familiar faces. It looked like everyone in Frey had shown up for the parade. Main Street was decorated with little flags and streamers hanging from streetlights. Popcorn vendors scurried about, waving their arms to attract attention. City hall had a giant flag and a wreath of roses on its big wooden doorway. Signs that read NEVER FORGET and TWENTY YEARS hung from the roof of the public library, edged with red and white ribbon. On the sidewalk was a small stage with blue carpeting and a white plastic podium.
“It’s so . . . festive,” Amma murmured sadly.
Aleena pulled on Yusuf’s hand. “Where the floats?” she whined.
Yusuf looked toward Wicks Avenue, where the high school marching band waited with their instruments. Mr. Grant was nowhere to be seen, nor was his group of motorcycle friends. “The floats will come out from right there,” he pointed, trying not to shiver.
He was being silly, he told himself. It was just an annual parade, even if it was way bigger and more elaborate than ever before. He’d been to one each year since he could remember, except when he was seven and stayed home with a fever. This was Frey. His hometown. His birthplace. How bad could the parade be? Then he turned to the post office and saw the other Muslim families clustered together with grim looks on their faces.
Okay. Maybe it was different this year.
Abba and Mr. Khan led them toward the others. Yusuf counted. Everyone had shown up, even Razia Begum, wrapped in a black shawl and leaning on her grandson. “Assalamo Alaikum,” they all greeted one another, minus the usual smiles.
“You’re late again,” Sameera Aunty said accusingly. “We’ve all been here since eight thirty.”
“We couldn’t find Aleena’s inhaler,” Amma replied with gritted teeth. Then she whispered under her breath, “Not that it’s any of your business.”
Yusuf looked at Amma in surprise. She never said anything mean to anybody. “Amma . . . ,” he began, but the crashing of drums drowned him out. The high school band. The parade was starting.
They all stood with hands on hearts for “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Then Mayor Chesterton walked slowly onto the stage and gave a speech about loyalty and being true Americans. “Give me a break!” Amma grumbled, louder this time.
Abba, standing on the other side of her, whispered, “Shush, this is important stuff,” as if the mayor was the most riveting old man on earth.
Danial and Yusuf stood side by side, waiting, waiting. The crowd around them was clapping and cheering, and faint country music streamed from speakers on the streetlights. After the mayor left the stage, the band began to march, instruments waving in the air, music blaring.
When it passed them, Aleena cheered so loudly she started coughing, and Amma had to pat her back. Then a boy carrying a huge American flag more than twice his height staggered along. Behind him were the floats: a small one with Miss Frey (also known as Jodie Garrison, a twelfth grader) dressed in a white gown and a tiara with fake rubies, waving both her arms. A medium-sized one from the local grocery store, full of employees dressed as giant cans of corn and beets. Another small one with an adult-sized Mickey Mouse throwing candy at the crowd.
And then the next float rounded the corner from Wicks Avenue and came into full view. It was the Twin Towers float Yusuf had seen the week before, only now it was complete with a skirt of roses, probably straight from Mrs. Raymond’s garden. The crowd quieted down. The music changed to “The Star-Spangled Banner” again. Mr. Grant walked alongside, dressed in a cowboy outfit, his tattooed arms glinting in the sunlight.
The
float passed the Muslim families, and they all clapped respectfully, just like everyone else. Yusuf felt a tug in his chest thinking about everything he’d read in Uncle Rahman’s journal. The pain, the grief in his uncle’s words as he described what Americans had gone through twenty years ago. Maybe the signs were right. Maybe they shouldn’t ever forget what happened.
Mr. Grant stepped onto the stage and cleared his throat. He stared straight at the Muslim families as he roared into the microphone. “It’s been twenty years since we were attacked. Twenty years of tolerating the enemy that lives right among us, in our cities and towns and neighborhoods. No more. The Patriot Sons are here, and we will rid our nation of the enemy!”
They all met at Urooj Diner for brunch. Owned by a Lebanese Christian family, the diner had been a staple in Frey since 1968. After the parade, every table was packed, every seat taken. A loud buzz of chatter hung in the air. It looked like every single person in the restaurant was talking about the parade.
“That Trevor Grant is a real tool,” Mr. Khan said, digging a pita chip into his hummus with such force that it snapped. “Hasn’t even lived in Frey a year, and already thinks he owns the place.”
“What are the Patriot Sons, anyway?” Abba asked. “I’ve never even heard of them before.”
Another uncle shook his head. “They’re hooligans, that’s what they are. Going around calling us the enemy . . . how dare they? My grandfather was the first doctor this town ever had. Built the clinic I practice in every day.”
Yusuf sat with Danial, Cameron, and a couple of other boys at a back table. A platter of chicken shawarma lay steaming over a bed of rice. Cameron scooped up some chicken with a piece of bread and rolled his eyes at the uncle table. “They’re overreacting. How do they know Mr. Grant was talking about . . . us?”
Yusuf Azeem Is Not a Hero Page 8
