It was an easy decision. I felt like I already knew Hakeem. We’d been getting photos and videos of this curly-haired kid with shiny brown eyes after my mom’s first visit. Our family started sponsoring Hakeem to go to preschool. Mama wanted to do something to help the orphans she saw, and that was supposed to be it. But the more time that went by, with every update we got, we all thought about Hakeem more and more. And each of us felt that he belonged in our family.
Now I’m bringing him home with my parents, without my older brother. Bilal has summer training with his soccer team and can’t miss the first four days of his sophomore year of high school. I’m supposed to be starting middle school next week, and will have to wait until I’m back to find out where my locker is and get my schedule. But I wouldn’t trade being here for anything.
A lady with a smiling face and a blue hijab greets us with lots of nodding, and ushers us into a room that has built-in bench sofas with a busy pattern on the fabric. Another family is already inside with a toddler, who’s playing with a small red soccer ball.
“This is it,” Mama says as she squeezes my hand. “Are you ready?”
“Naam.” I practice my Arabic for “yes.” I’ve been writing down words and phrases like “kan bgreek,” which means “I love you,” into a tiny notebook since Hakeem doesn’t speak English and we don’t speak Arabic. I don’t realize I’m nervously tapping my leg against the bench until the other kid suddenly stops playing to stare at me.
“Remember,” Mama says to me. “We can’t take Hakeem with us today. We have to wait for his paperwork and passport. And that could take two weeks.”
“I know,” I reply, although it’s going to be so hard to leave for the hotel without him.
The door opens and in walks the blue hijab lady with a little boy clutching her hand. It’s Hakeem. He seems smaller than in his pictures, but is just as adorable. We’ve been sending photos and videos of ourselves, so he should be able to recognize us.
Hakeem doesn’t move at first as he scans the room. Then he suddenly lights up as he looks at me. I smile and open my arms for a hug. He runs toward me…
And runs right past me and over to…the red ball! The other kid grabs it before Hakeem can pick it up.
“Hakeem, here,” I quickly say, holding out the backpack I brought him. I unzip it and show him the stuffed dog toy that I sprayed with Mama’s perfume inside.
Hakeem glances at me for a split second, before turning back to the boy and the ball. The ball bounces on the floor and Hakeem watches it until it stops. He picks it up and throws it and watches it bounce again. It’s like we aren’t even in the room.
“Mama, what is he doing?” I whisper, although I know he can’t understand what I’m saying. “Why isn’t he coming to us?”
“It’s okay, love. I don’t think he’s seen a ball before.” Mama settles into the bench and smiles. She doesn’t seem to mind that she just traveled across the world from America to finally be with her son, and that he hasn’t noticed her. But she doesn’t take her eyes off Hakeem for a second.
* * *
—
“Aren’t you happy to see Hakeem again?” Baba searches my face on our way to the orphanage the next day.
“Yeah, but I don’t think he likes me,” I say, thinking about how he was more excited about a ball than meeting me.
“I’m sure it’s not that,” Baba says. “It’s all overwhelming for him. He’s just overstimulated.”
Overstimulated. That’s the understatement of the year. It turns out my new brother can’t sit still every time we visit him. The Cars crayon set and coloring book I bring him? They entertain him for about two minutes. The Elmo puzzle? He doesn’t understand what to do with it and throws the pieces all over the place while I try to show him.
But every day Hakeem wears the backpack I brought him when he comes into the room for our visits. He looks at us with a face filled with a mixture of joy and shyness. As each day goes by, he sits in my parents’ laps longer, hugs me harder, and repeats “kan bgreek” when it’s time for him to return to his room. I say “I love you” to him, too, so he can start to learn English.
We get to see his room one day when we go on a tour of the rest of the orphanage. The blue hijab lady who I now know is named Sister Khalida first takes us to the space for babies, filled with rows and rows of metal cribs. A couple of babies are crying, and the rest are sleeping or just lying there.
Sister Khalida stops in the middle of the room and points to a crib over and over again.
“That must be where Hakeem slept until he was two years old,” Mama says, wiping her eyes. I imagine a tinier version of him lying here with no mother or father to love him, and my eyes fill up, too.
Next we go into the room for kids who are older than two, like Hakeem. The kids aren’t there, and I’m a little relieved. It’s hard enough to see the rows of cots, arranged like the cribs, only larger. It makes my insides twist into knots.
“They have food and clothing and a place to sleep here,” Mama says aloud to no one in particular as she blows her nose. “But no playgrounds, no bath toys, no cuddle times for these kids. It’s heartbreaking.”
“Can’t we take all of them?” I suddenly blurt out. I haven’t said a word since we started the tour. “Maybe Mariya Auntie can adopt one, and Mrs. Jenkins always says how much she loves kids….”
“It’s not that simple,” Mama sighs. “We’re blessed to get to take Hakeem home, and so quickly.”
It’s almost been a year since we first talked about it, so it doesn’t feel quick at all. I can’t wait to get him out of this place.
* * *
—
“Mama!” I yell. “Hakeem messed up my room again!”
I just got back from school, and it’s like a burglar came in, searched for things to steal, and left it a complete disaster.
“It’s okay,” Mama calls from downstairs. “I’ll help you clean up.”
I sit on my bed and look around my room, which is a blur through my angry tears. Before Hakeem came home with us a month ago, it was perfect. The walls were painted exactly like I wanted: pink and gold. Now there are ugly marker scribbles that Hakeem drew everywhere that won’t wash off. Baba promised to paint over them more than a week ago, but he still hasn’t done it.
Mama rushes in.
“It’s not so bad,” she sighs as she surveys my books dumped out of the bookshelves, my hamper knocked over, and all my Legos creations smashed into pieces.
“It’s not your room.” I sniffle. “Why is he always in here? Why can’t I get a lock on my door?”
“We are not going to lock your brother out of any part of the house. He has to learn.”
He has to learn. That’s the new understatement of the year. Hakeem gets a pass for everything bad he does because he doesn’t understand English, or because he’s never seen books or Legos before. I’ve been teaching him so many things every single day, but sometimes it feels like he hasn’t learned anything since he left the orphanage weeks ago.
Before I can stop them, images of the orphanage fill my mind. I picture Hakeem’s cot, and all the kids who we left behind, like Hakeem’s best friend. I remember him crying when Hakeem said goodbye. And I start to feel guilty for a second…
Until I spot the slime.
“Ahhhhhh!” I wail. “Look!”
Right in front of my closet, all my ziplock bags of colorful scented slime are open and have oozed onto my cream-colored carpet.
“Oh no.” Mama frowns. “This is bad.”
“I know!” I start to cry. “This was my best batch of slime! It’s sugar cookie and pumpkin flavor. And I used all my glitter in it!”
“You shouldn’t have left it within Hakeem’s reach,” Mama scolds as she examines the damage to the carpet.
“So it’s my fault?” I know
I shouldn’t be yelling, but I can’t help it. I already got into big trouble when Hakeem cut his own hair, along with my favorite doll’s, for leaving scissors “within his reach.” He seems to be able to reach anything and find everything, no matter where I hide it.
“Stop shouting. You can always make more slime. This carpet is another story. Did you have to dye this stuff pink and orange?”
“All you care about is the carpet. And his feelings,” I mutter.
It’s exactly the same way with my dad and Bilal. They always take Hakeem’s side and say I’m being mean or sensitive when I get upset with him. It’s not fair, because it’s always my stuff he messes up, not theirs. And isn’t it a good thing to be “sensitive,” anyway?
Hakeem sticks his head inside the door, smiles his most charming smile, and points at me. That’s usually enough to make me smile back and forgive him. But not today.
“Get out!” I jump up and slam the door shut. While the door closes, I see Hakeem’s eyes grow bigger as he steps backward, out of the way.
My parents like to remind me of the day I said yes to adopting him whenever I complain about Hakeem ruining my life. What did I know when I wasn’t even eleven years old yet? Starting middle school has been hard enough, without having my whole world—and my room—turned upside down.
I ignore Hakeem for the rest of the day. When he makes funny faces, whispers “Leeeeeena,” and tries to get me to laugh during dinner, I look away.
* * *
—
As we pull up to the soccer field, Bilal comes running to the minivan in his training jersey.
“Can I take Hakeem to meet the team?” he asks, sticking his head through the window.
“Now? I need to get back by six for a conference call,” Mama says. “And Hakeem got up early today and didn’t nap. He’s really tired.”
Mama yawns as she says the last words and I can tell she’s tired, too. She’ll never admit that Hakeem is wearing her out. The rest of us get a break during the day when we’re at school or work, but Mama works from home. And I overheard her last week complaining to Baba that she can’t get anything done and needs time to herself.
“I’ll be quick. Come on, Hakeem, the guys want to meet you.”
“Guys,” Hakeem repeats. He’s turned into a parrot the past few days, repeating everything we say. It’s kind of cute, but I’m still mad at him. It’s been three days since the slime incident, and my carpet has a gigantic stain that we can’t scrub out. Between that and the marker on the walls, my room is a total wreck.
“Yes, we’re going to see the guys.” Bilal picks Hakeem out of his booster seat and starts to walk away. Then he turns back.
“Come on, Aleena.”
I scramble out of the car behind them. Bilal’s team is always psyched to see me, especially if I’m in my soccer uniform. I love it when they call me Little A and let me kick the ball around with them.
“There he is!” Bilal’s best friend, David, is beaming as we approach. “Hey, big guy. You know how to kick a ball?”
“Ball!” Hakeem says, and David and the rest of the team laugh at his accent.
The next thing I know, Hakeem is running all over the field and the whole team is cheering for him. I’ve been showing him how to kick the ball around in the backyard, and it’s pretty amazing to see how good he is now, especially since a month ago he didn’t know what a ball was.
“Bee-laal!” Hakeem says Bilal the way they do in Arabic and everyone starts chanting, “Bee-laal.”
I stand on the sideline, feeling invisible. The guys don’t even notice I’m here. After a couple of minutes, I walk back to the car to wait with Mama.
“Are they coming?” Mama asks.
“I don’t know,” I grumble.
“Well, what are they doing?”
“Playing soccer.”
“Didn’t I tell Bilal I have to get home? Can you please go get them?”
I’m deciding whether to protest or just get out of the car again when I see Bilal and David walking to the parking lot. David is carrying Hakeem and when they get to the car, Hakeem gives David a high five.
As he is about to walk away, David turns back and says, “Hi, Mrs. S. Hey, Little A! Next time we need you to play, too, okay?”
I nod as Hakeem mimics him and says “Little A!” Everyone laughs. And though I don’t want to, the silly way he says it and peers at me with his eyebrows raised makes me smile a little.
“Let’s go home,” Mama says.
“Home?” Hakeem asks, turning to me. I’m the one he always turns to when he doesn’t understand something.
“I’ll show you what it is when we get there,” I promise with a sigh. When we pull into the driveway, I remember to point it out.
“Home, Hakeem,” I say as I motion toward the house. “This is home.”
At bedtime, I hear Hakeem and Mama in his room. For the past week, before getting tucked in, Hakeem has been pointing at his wall with the airplane decals, his bucket of cars, his comforter, and his other stuff and saying “Thank you” to each of them. He just started doing it one day, and now it’s kind of his thing. Tonight, when he’s done, I hear him pause and then add, “Thank you, home.”
* * *
—
“Can you make sure he doesn’t bother us?”
I’ve planned out everything about my art-themed twelfth birthday party over the past three weeks. We’re going to do two craft projects in the backyard. With eight girls coming over, the last thing I want is for Hakeem to be hyper and get in the way.
“Yes.” Mama exhales slowly. “I’ll keep him inside, okay?”
The goody bags for my friends are laid out on the patio table. I decorated each bag and filled them with mini watercolor sets and notepads and my favorite candy. Mama and I made cupcakes last night and hid them on the highest shelf of the refrigerator, and I picked out candles from the party store that look like crayons.
“You’re lucky it’s a beautiful day. No rain in the forecast,” Baba says as he ties pink and gold balloons to the mailbox. Of course Baba has to give a balloon to Hakeem, and he runs around the yard, batting it into the air. I hope it tires him out enough that he’ll be happy to stay inside and watch a movie while my friends are here.
As everyone starts to arrive, Hakeem is surprisingly calm. Maybe he’s acting shy because there are so many girls, but he stands behind Mama and peeks out at them.
“He’s so cute,” Priscilla says with a little wave. “Hi, Hakeem!”
“Don’t talk to him,” I warn. “He’ll want all your attention and you’ll have to high-five him fifty times. Let’s go in the backyard.”
As we walk back there, everything looks perfect. Bilal set up his speakers, and as they fill the air with the sounds of jazz, I feel extra grown up while we work on a sand art project first. I carefully fill a bottle with layers of different-colored sand and top it with a cork. Everyone’s looks great, but Keisha is so meticulous with the funnel that her finished bottle looks professional.
“You’re so good at that!” Sabriya admires Keisha’s handiwork as we move on to paint mugs next.
I decide I’m going to paint my mug for my mom, since Hakeem broke the handle of her favorite one last week. I make a big heart in the middle and fill it in with smaller hearts.
“Are you girls thirsty?” Mama comes outside carrying pink lemonade and some cups. We take a break from painting and sit in the grass under the tree in the shade, sipping our drinks and talking.
“How about cake in half an hour?” Mama asks.
“Sure, thank you, Mrs. Siddiqui,” the girls say in a chorus. I smile at Mama and she winks as she heads back toward the sliding door to the kitchen. Everything is going perfectly so far, exactly as I imagined it. And Hakeem has been staying out of sight and out of trouble.
“I’m going to ask my parents if I can have a party like this,” Priscilla says. “It’s such a good idea.”
“Me too,” adds Sabriya.
“Thanks,” I say.
Keisha starts to tell us a story about her teacher at school who adopted a shelter dog and then had a horrible allergic reaction and now is looking for a new owner. We’re all talking about how we wish we could help, when I hear Hakeem’s voice.
“Leeeeena! Play?”
I turn around and see Hakeem beckoning me from behind Izzy.
“You’re supposed to be inside,” I say. “Go back.”
Hakeem shakes his head and waves his fingers at me like he’s casting a spell. That’s when I notice that they are covered with sand. Multicolored sand. Wait a—
“Mama!” I yell as I run to the sand art station. Sure enough, it is destroyed. Hakeem dumped out every single one of the little bottles into an empty flowerpot and made his own sandbox.
“What did you do?” I cry as my friends catch up to me.
“I can’t believe this!” someone says as we scan the damage.
“What a monster!” Priscilla declares. “You were right!”
“I thought my sister was bad. But she’s never done anything like this!” Sabriya adds.
“You ruined all our work!” Keisha accuses Hakeem, and I see him shrink from the harshness of her words. Part of me is glad. He deserves it.
Mama and Baba come running outside.
“I thought he was inside with Bilal!” Mama says. “We were getting the food ready!”
I stare angrily at Hakeem. There isn’t enough new sand left to refill the bottles.
“Leena…,” he starts to say. But then his face crumples and he runs to Mama and hides it. I’ve only ever seen him cry twice before—when he said goodbye to the kids at the orphanage and one night at home when he first arrived. And now this.
The Hero Next Door Page 5
