Rebels by Accident

by Patricia Dunn

  “Shukran means ‘thank you,’” Deanna says. “Afwan is how you say ‘you’re welcome.’”

  “Deanna, I was there too, remember?”

  Baba spent the last several days before our trip cramming Arabic down our throats, like he was trying to make up for the years when the only Arabic words I ever heard him speak were the ones muttered under his breath when he was angry or those I overheard when he talked to Sittu on the phone. Except for these endless Arabic lessons and his crash course in “How to be a proper Egyptian when in Egypt,” Baba hardly spoke to me at all since our blowup.

  Deanna shrugs. “Well, you didn’t seem to be listening.”

  After everything that had happened, I was not going to just suck it up, be happy, and learn Arabic.

  “You know, Mariam, you should at least try.” Deanna digs around in the pouch in the seat back in front of her. She pulls out a Sky Mall magazine, a safety instruction card, a barf bag, a half-empty potato chip bag, and finally our vision book.

  This is one of Deanna’s California things. We started it at the beginning of December to be sure we got what we wanted out of the upcoming year. She believes that if you write down what you want, it will happen. I wrote that I wanted to be accepted at school and not treated like a freak. Now I don’t want to have anything to do with the book. The only vision I have for this year is one of a natural disaster: Hurricane Sittu. The only hope I have is that the saying “time flies” also applies when you’re not having fun—like when you’re having the worst time of your life.

  “When my mom and I traveled to Mexico,” Deanna says, all excited, “people really appreciated it when we tried to speak their language.”

  “English works just fine for me,” I say, taking a sip of juice. Awful. Tastes like something you’d pour on Healthy O’s—plastic-tasting juice to go with cardboard-tasting cereal.

  Deanna puts the barf bag back in the pouch and takes out the tourist guide she bought when her mother told her she was going to Egypt. It’s called Let’s Go Egypt. I’d told her she should have bought one called Let’s Go Nowhere because, aside from the airport, the only traveling we’d do was to the dining room for supervised work on our school assignments, and the only sights we’d be taking in would be Sittu’s bathroom, kitchen, and bedrooms. Deanna just said, “Don’t be ridiculous,” so I dropped it.

  Deanna pulls down her tray table and starts taking notes in our vision book, flipping through the tourist book at the same time. She fills half a page before she asks, “Want to know what I’m writing?”

  I’m staring, but I’m not trying to read what she’s writing. I just have no interest in watching the in-flight movie, even though it’s 17 Again and I never saw the end because Baba made us leave in the middle because it showed a guy’s naked butt. A bunch of kids from school were in the theater too, and they all watched Baba, muttering Arabic under his breath, drag me out of the exit, right at the front of the theater. I couldn’t have been more embarrassed. Why were they showing an old movie on the plane, anyway? Obviously, we were flying on Backward Airlines. “Come on, don’t you want to know?”

  “Let me guess. You’re writing down all the awesome things you want to happen on this trip.”

  She puts the notebook up to my face.

  In big letters, it says, “Fall in love for the first time and help Mariam get her first kiss.”

  “The look on your face,” Deanna says, laughing for both of us. “Mar, we’re best friends. You don’t have to turn tomato red every time I bring up guys. It’s cool that you haven’t had any experience. But this trip will change all that.”

  “You’re a little late with your vision for me,” I lie.

  “What?!” Deanna shouts so loud that a man with salt-and-pepper hair sitting in front of her turns and looks at us over his seat.

  “Something wrong?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” she snaps.

  “Why are you so rude?” I whisper to her.

  “American tourists are always so obnoxious. Why can’t he mind his own business?” she whispers back.

  “What makes you think he’s American?”

  “Duh—his accent.”

  I think about that for a second. I didn’t think he had an accent at all.

  “Don’t change the subject,” Deanna says. “Who did you kiss? When did it happen? And why didn’t you tell me?” Deanna sounds like she’s been slapped in the face.

  “Some guy at the party,” I say, totally lying. But the idea of Deanna trying to get me kissed by some sleazy Egyptian guy makes me sick to my stomach.

  “How could you not tell me?”

  “When could I? My parents didn’t let me out of their sight until this plane took off.”

  “You could have texted me!”

  “My parents read all my texts, remember?”

  “Well, you should have found a way, somehow.”

  “Next time, I’ll use Morse code,” I joke. But Deanna’s not finding any of this funny.

  “What was it like?”

  “It was okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “All right, it was amazing!” I grin—the big, goofy grin I always use when I’m lying. I’m sure Deanna knows this, but she plays along with me.

  “I’m so happy for you,” she says.

  Deanna crosses out “first” on her list and writes “second” in its place.

  “We kissed three times, actually.” Why stop lying now?

  “Three times?” I’ve never seen her eyes so wide. She definitely knows I’m lying. “Well, that’s great, but I’m talking about kissing another guy.”

  “I don’t want another guy.”

  “Look, Mariam, we’re going to Egypt. Have you seen how cute Egyptian guys are? You can always hook up with that guy when we get back to New York. I just can’t let you give up the chance to have the most romantic time of your life.”

  “Look, Deanna, I know you don’t get this, but I’m not interested in Egyptian guys, okay?”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  I open my mouth to tell her we won’t see about anything, but then remember Sittu and how locked down we’re going to be, so arguing about meeting some Egyptian hottie is a total waste of time. Because unless he comes walking through Sittu’s living room, it’s just not happening. This goes for Deanna meeting her first love too. But why crush her dreams now? We will be landing in Cairo soon enough.

  • • •

  A new attendant stands over me. She’s wearing one of those little hats I’ve only seen flight attendants wear in movies from the sixties, back when they were called “stewardesses.”

  “I only speak English,” I say before she has a chance to speak.

  “Please pull down your tray table. Fish or beef?” she asks with a British accent.

  “I’m not hungry, thank you.”

  “I speak a little Arabic…shway shway,” Deanna says. “Fish. Shukran.”

  The flight attendant flashes Deanna one of those phony, it’s-my-job-to-smile smiles. “Good accent,” she says, and passes Deanna her fish.

  “You don’t speak any Arabic?” the flight attendant asks, looking down at me.

  I shake my head.

  “Well, you are a good pair. You look Egyptian, and your friend here sounds Egyptian.”

  “Did you hear that?” Deanna says. “I sound Egyptian. How awesome?” Deanna raises her hand to high-five me, but I let her hand hang. I’ve looked Egyptian all my life, and all it’s ever gotten me is trouble.

  “Ahlan wa sahlan,” the flight attendant says with a smile, then continues down the aisle.

  I look at Deanna for translation.

  She shrugs. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Welcome,” says the man sitting in the seat in front of Deanna. This time, he doesn’t even turn around.
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  “Excuse me?” Deanna leans closer to the back of his seat.

  “Ahlan wa sahlan,” he says louder, but still doesn’t turn toward us. “She’s welcoming you to Egypt.”

  “Shukran!” Deanna shouts back at flight attendant.

  “You’re welcome,” replies the man.

  “He speaks Arabic,” Deanna says, sounding impressed. “Ahlan wa sahlan,” Deanna repeats to herself. “Welcome to Egypt.”

  For the rest of the flight, I close my eyes and try to sleep, but all I think about is how I’d rather be flying over the Bermuda Triangle. Disappearing forever would be better than what’s ahead of us.

  When the wheels of the plane hit the runway, all the passengers applaud. I tap Deanna, who has just finished reading The Rough Guide to Egypt, the other guidebook she brought with her. It was a gift from my mother, who wanted me to have it, but I told her the only travel book I needed was The Rough Guide to Sittu’s Apartment. “What’s that all about?”

  “People are just thanking the pilot for getting us here safely,” Deanna says. “They did that when I went to Paris last summer.”

  “I didn’t know you went to Paris.”

  “I’ve been to lots of places in Europe. Before my mom took the job in New York, she had lots more time to travel.”

  “Welcome to Cairo. Please remain seated until the seat belt sign is turned off,” says an unseen voice in a heavy British accent. “We are waiting for clearance to taxi to the gate.” The Arabic that follows starts with Ahlan wa sahlan, so I assume it’s the same announcement.

  “You okay?” Deanna asks, staring at my hand.

  I’m pressing the volume buttons on the armrest, up and down, up and down. “Fine.”

  “You know what F-I-N-E stands for: Freaked out, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional.”

  All of the above. But I say, “It’s nothing.”

  “I know you don’t want to be here, but give it a chance. You might be surprised.”

  “I hate surprises.”

  The man sitting in front of Deanna bangs his armrest and stands up. “This is ridiculous. Like our time means nothing to these Egyptians.” He climbs over the person sitting in the aisle seat with an, “excuse me,” but he doesn’t sound as if he cares if he’s excused or not.

  Once he’s in the aisle, he pulls down his carry-on luggage from the overhead compartment. The flight attendant who gave me the juice comes running over to him.

  “Sir, please stay in your seat until the seat belt sign is turned off. It’s for your own safety.” He responds in Arabic and doesn’t sit down.

  The flight attendant looks at him like she’s trying to figure out her next move, but before there’s a showdown, the seat belt sign turns off. The cabin door opens, and the man strides up the aisle away from us.

  “Come on,” Deanna says, grabbing her backpack and making her way up the aisle too.

  “What’s the hurry?” I shout after her. But she doesn’t turn around.

  Now everyone seems to be in a rush to exit the plane, so I have to wait, standing in front of my seat until a woman with a baby in her arms motions for me to step out of my row. I gesture for her to go on, but she refuses. I take my backpack down from the overhead compartment, then turn to her and say, “Shukran.”

  “Afwan,” she says, and smiles.

  I smile back and run off to find Deanna.

  chapter

  FIVE

  When I exit the plane, Deanna is waving like she hasn’t seen me in years.

  The airport looks normal so far. I mean, nothing seems strange or old, like I expected. It doesn’t look all that different from the terminal at JFK in New York.

  “Why did you run off like that?”

  “I was trying to catch up with that guy. He was just so rude.”

  “So what were you planning to do? Give him a lesson in manners?”

  “You’d better believe it.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Doesn’t it bother you how American tourists can be so obnoxious? I mean, they give us all a bad name. When my mom and I travel anywhere, if we hear someone complain or act like a total jerk to a waitress or a hotel person, we know they’re American. My mom says it’s like Americans think they’re so much better than everyone else.”

  “Let’s not exaggerate.”

  “I’m not. You’ll see. Next time we hear some pushy person yelling at someone who is just trying to help, I’ll bet you anything he’s American.”

  “Deanna, we’re Americans too,” I point out.

  “Exactly. And that’s why people like that man make us all look bad. He’s probably some business guy or government person who learned Arabic to come here and cheat people out of their money. Worse than a tourist.”

  “You know all that from just looking at the guy. What’s that smell?” I cup my hand over my face.

  “I like it. I think it’s him,” Deanna says, nodding to a tall man a few feet from us. He’s wearing a fancy suit and tie, talking on his cell phone.

  “His cologne, my God—”

  “I love it when guys wear cologne.”

  “It smells like he took a bath in it.” I prefer a guy to smell clean, like he just bathed with hypoallergenic and environmentally friendly soap. “Let’s just get our luggage and get out of here,” I say.

  It takes us a while to find the baggage area because Deanna insists on asking for directions in Arabic. It’s not until I finally ask someone in good old American English that we’re directed to the right place.

  When we get there, instead of conveyor belts helping you easily find your bags, the luggage is just scattered all over the ground. What a mess.

  Deanna and I walk around, like, hundreds of suitcases and boxes, trying to find the red suitcase Mom bought when we went to Disney World. It’s a blinding red, so it should be easy to spot, along with Deanna’s banana-yellow bags. But I don’t see it anywhere.

  “Listen,” Deanna says. “Do you hear that?”

  “All I hear are lots of people speaking Arabic.” I step around an overstuffed suitcase with rope holding it together. “Here’s a question. Where’s our luggage? I bet they lost it.”

  “But, Mariam, doesn’t it sound cool? All the—”

  “There!” We point at the exact same time.

  Deanna chatters on, but I’m not listening. A man in gray overalls follows us to our bags. He says something in Arabic, and then takes Deanna’s bag. She pulls it away from him.

  “Help!” I scream. A few people turn to look at me, but when the man yells something else to us in Arabic, they turn away.

  “Shukran. Yalla,” Deanna says.

  “Yalla,” the man says, pulling harder on Deanna’s suitcase.

  “Yal-la,” Deanna says slower. This time she yanks her suitcase free. “Mar, get your luggage. Hurry!”

  I try pulling out the extendable handle to roll my suitcase, but it’s stuck, so I just grab the regular handle. Deanna picks up her other suitcase, and we run.

  We don’t stop until we reach customs, which looks like a total mob. Deanna wheels her suitcases behind her. I try my handle again—still stuck. Of course, I think.

  “Wow, I can’t believe that guy tried to steal your luggage,” I say, as we pass a family going in the direction we just came from. The mother is holding two babies in her arms; both are crying, but she seems too determined to get where she’s going to notice.

  “He probably thought it was his.”

  “Deanna, come on. How many people have banana-yellow suitcases?”

  “Well, it was strange—I kept saying ‘yalla’ to him, and instead of letting it go, he just kept saying ‘yalla’ back to me.”

  “What does yalla mean?”

  “You should have paid more attention to your Arabic lessons. Yalla means ‘I go.’�
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  “See? I told you. He was trying to take your suitcase. He was saying ‘I go’ back to you.”

  “Maybe,” Deanna says, “but right there in front of all those people?”

  “Mom says sometimes the worst crimes happen in front of a whole lot of witnesses who do nothing. Hey, do you think we’re in the right place?”

  “The signs say ‘Customs.’” Sarcasm oozes out of her. “And see those guys up front, sitting behind the brown tables, checking passports? Well, I bet they’re customs officials.”

  “I know this is customs, but how do we know when it’s our turn?”

  “Let’s wait here a few minutes and see what happens.”

  I agree, not knowing what else to do.

  “The galabeya looks so much more comfortable than a suit.” Deanna nods her head toward the man standing next to us.

  “You mean the man dress,” I say.

  “It’s traditional clothing for Arab men.”

  “How do you know these things?”

  “Internet. I did a lot of research. And your dad answered a lot of questions for me.”

  “At least he’s talking to you.”

  “He was talking to you too.”

  “No, he was talking at me.” I look at the galabeya again. “They do look comfortable,” I say.

  “A lot more than those do.” Deanna points to a man wearing Bermuda shorts. “And those look so tight they just have to hurt.” This time she points to a policeman who’s carrying a machine gun. This would freak me out—the machine gun, not the pants—had Baba not warned me the police here carry guns, like soldiers. The machine gun does seem like overkill though. And where was this guy when we were almost robbed?

  “At least with the galabeya,” she says, “guys don’t have to worry about getting caught in their zippers.”

  “Deanna!”

  “What?”

  “Watch what you say. We’re not in New York, where people are used to—”

  “Obnoxious Americans?” she says, like she just proved her point. “Speaking of obnoxious,” Deanna says, staring at a woman who is walking our way in a tight shirt and a skirt so short it can hardly be called a mini.