But we already have a home back in Karachi. I don’t say this, because even though Ammi wears a smile, her eyes are shiny. My heart feels like it’s stuck in my throat.
“Come on, Hira.” We stand, and the swing knocks into the back of my legs.
Ammi takes Hira’s hand. “Besides, the sooner you clean your rooms, the sooner you will get to taste Auntie’s cookies.”
After a month of the adults fasting until sundown, it sounds strange to hear Ammi talk about eating in the middle of the day.
When I get to my room—Jalaal’s and my room—it is a mess. Clothes have been tossed on both beds and the floor. One clean-looking stack of folded clothes sits on Jalaal’s desk. Others are definitely dirty, like Jalaal’s camp uniform dumped in the middle of the carpet. None of these clothes are mine.
I start to leave but find Ammi in the hall. “Have you finished?”
“No, but—”
“I’m done!” Hira calls from her doorway.
Ammi peeks into my room. “Bilal, get going.”
“They’re all Jalaal’s clothes, Ammi!”
She lowers her voice. “It doesn’t matter, Bilal. I don’t want Auntie walking by and thinking this mess is yours.”
I bite my lip. I am not cleaning up Jalaal’s mess.
Ammi’s face softens. “Just drape his clothes on the back of his desk chair, and then come down and join us.”
I step back into the room and sigh. I never had to keep my room so clean before. Now here I am in a room that’s not even mine, picking up someone else’s dirty socks.
I finish piling Jalaal’s clothes on his chair and add the last T-shirt to the pile just as my cousin walks in.
“Hey, little buddy.” He stops short. “Wow! You didn’t have to pick up my stuff.”
I fold my arms. “Yes, I did. Ammi said I had to.”
Jalaal’s face falls. “Oh, man. Sorry. I was looking for my camp T-shirt this morning and couldn’t find it.”
“That’s okay,” I say.
Jalaal grabs his car keys and heads out, calling, “Catch you later, little buddy!”
I don’t want to play catch later. Just like I don’t want to live in someone else’s room. Of all the things I miss about Karachi, I never guessed I would miss picking up my own dirty clothes off my own bedroom floor.
Seven
A fter one week of baseball camp, I am still no good at hitting a ball with a bat. But I have been practicing my English and learning all kinds of new baseball words from Akash and the other kids—words like grand slam and strike zone and home run. I also learned new meanings for words I thought I already knew—like safe, single, double, triple, base, and home.
After camp today Akash catches up with me on my way to the parking lot.
“Man, it’s a hot one today.”
I have noticed Americans say man a lot, so I say, “Yes, man. It is hot.”
“Hey, you wanna hit the pool later?”
Maybe hitting the pool means hitting the water, like a dive or a belly flop. Whatever it means, I think this is my first chance at having a real friend in America, so I say yes, I will come to the pool.
Akash comes over later with another boy from camp named Henry, and the three of us head out, towels slung over our shoulders.The whole way to the pool, all they can talk about is how Jordan beat Henry in the batting contest yesterday.
“You were just having an off day, man.” Akash shrugs. “Don’t worry about it.”
Henry sighs. “Easy for you to say—she didn’t beat you.”
“You both beat me,” I offer. But then again, so did everyone else.
Henry nods. “Yeah, but only because you’ve been playing baseball for exactly one week your whole entire life.”
That makes me feel a little better.
We turn down another street that leads to a parking lot. A low, white building sits at the end. A big sign posted next to the open double doors reads, “Swim Meet Tomorrow—Go Marlins!”
Swim meet? Do swimmers go there to meet each other?
We duck out of the sun into the lifeguard office. Waves of light from the pool shimmer across the ceiling, and the smell of sun cream mingles with steaming pizza. We have to sign our names in a book. My hand hovers over the right side of the paper for a second before I remember to write my name in English letters starting on the left.
The boys’ locker room smells exactly like the one at the pool I used to go to in Karachi—part soap, part cleaning solution, and part chlorine. Once we step out into the pool area, I squint in the bright sun. Akash and Henry toss their towels onto lounge chairs and head for the diving board. I drop my towel next to theirs and turn to follow, but then I stop. I blink. I cannot believe it.
Everyone is wearing a bathing suit. And not just kids, but fathers and mothers and grandparents, too.
Back in Karachi we went to the beach all the time, but adults always covered themselves with regular clothes—light shalwar kameez trousers and long shirts, no arms or legs or shoulders sticking out. At the club pool there were swimming hours for ladies and children, and swimming hours for men and children, but never together.
But here, in America? Aren’t the adults embarrassed to be half-naked in front of everyone? This will definitely go on my American list of things for Baba to know. I will tell him not to share it with Daddo, because I think my grandmother would have a heart attack.
I head to the diving board, my eyes focusing on my feet slapping across the wet pavement.
It turns out we’re so busy jumping and diving and flipping off the board that I almost forget about the half-naked adults. Akash and Henry teach me how to do jumps called cannonball and jackknife. I teach them how to dive headfirst, arms at our sides, until one lifeguard blows his whistle and tells us we are not allowed to do that.
We’re in the middle of a new game called Marco Polo when both lifeguards stand on high platforms and blow their whistles at the same time—high, then low, then high.
Akash groans. “Already?”
“Come on, Bilal.” Henry pulls himself out of the water. “It’s break.”
Why do we have to take a break? I climb up the ladder, wiping the water from my eyes. From somewhere behind me near the diving board, Henry calls, “Hey, Mrs. Wu!”
I turn to see Akash waving. He doesn’t seem to care that he is talking to a lady in a bathing suit.
“Fancy meeting you boys here—again.” The lady laughs as she squeezes water from her ponytail and adjusts her white plastic sunglasses. “How is baseball camp going?”
“Pretty good,” Henry says, then turns to me. “This is Bilal—he just moved here.”
“Bilal, did you say?” She holds her hand out.
I cannot believe I am shaking hands with a lady wearing a bathing suit. “Hello, Madam.” But I don’t meet her eyes—I can’t. Instead, I stare at her bright yellow flip-flops. Her toenails are painted sky blue, with a white cloud on each big toe.
Akash shakes his head like he has water in his ear. “Do you know if we’re in your class next year?”
Mrs. Wu shakes her head. “We won’t get our class lists until next month, in August.” She waves to someone across the pool. “Enjoy your afternoon, boys.” And then she’s off.
Class lists?
“Mrs. Wu’s one of the best teachers in the school,” Henry says. “My sister had her two years ago. I hope we’re all in her class this year.”
We sit at the side of the pool, our legs dangling in the water, as the guys fill me in on the rest of the fifth-grade teachers. I can’t remember all of their names, but I do remember that I don’t want to get Mr. Fike, who makes kids do unfinished homework during recess.
As we head back to our chairs, Henry mutters, “Oh, great.”
I follow his gaze past the fence to the bike racks, where Jordan frees her curly ponytail from underneath her helmet.
She spots us and waves.
The others turn and pretend not to see her. I wave back and she smil
es.
“Bilal!” Henry whisper-yells. “Now she’s gonna come over.”
Jordan disappears into the lifeguard office, and Henry acts fast, spreading our towels out on three chairs. A fourth chair is still open. “Quick—hand me your goggles,” he says to Akash. With the goggles sitting in the middle of the last chair, it looks like all four lounge chairs are taken.
Jordan emerges from the locker room with a towel over one shoulder and sunglasses perched on top of her head.
Henry sighs. “I can’t believe this.”
“Let it go, man,” Akash says under his breath. “There’s no room for her over here—she’ll have to find somewhere else to put her stuff.”
“Hi, guys,” Jordan says.
“Hey,” they mumble, looking toward the pool, back at the snack bar, anywhere but at the girl standing in front of them.
“Hi, Jordan,” I say.
Her smile fades as she glances at the other guys.
The lifeguards’ whistle signals the end of break, followed by the sound of a hundred splashes as kids jump back into the pool.
Jordan unties one tennis shoe and slips it off, hopping on one foot, then does the same with the other. “Are these your chairs?” she asks, her shoes now dangling from her fingers.
Akash and Henry look at each other. “Um, yeah, they are.” Henry crosses his arms.
“Great.” Jordan tucks her shoes under a chair.
Henry swipes his towel from the same chair. “Look, guys, I got to get going.”
Akash slides his feet into his shoes and grabs his towel. “Me, too.”
Jordan looks at the clock. “It’s only five. You guys have to leave already?”
Akash nods. “See you around at camp.”
They walk away, but my feet aren’t ready to move yet. Jordan puts her hands on her hips and looks out at the water. “Are you staying?”
“Hey, Bilal,” Henry calls. “Come on!”
I look at the guys waiting for me and then back at Jordan, who slides her sunglasses from the top of her head onto her face. “Looks like you gotta go. I’ll see you later.”
Halfway to the locker room, I turn back and see Jordan standing alone in front of four empty chairs. Part of me wants to go back, because maybe Jordan is missing a faraway friend like I am missing Mudassar. But even if she is, at least Jordan could still call her friend back home. Baba says I still can’t talk to Mudassar.
“Bilal!” Akash sticks his head out from the locker room. “You coming or what?”
Turning away from Jordan, I duck into the shade of the locker room and follow Akash and Henry back outside. All the way home they joke and talk about baseball. I understand some of their words and none of their punch lines. The blazing sun begins to slip behind the tallest trees. I wish I were looking at a Karachi moon instead, talking and laughing with Mudassar.
Eight
I have to take an English test before I start school next month. If it is the kind of English I learned in Karachi, then I will do well. If it is the kind of English everyone has been using at baseball camp for the past three weeks, then I am in trouble. I thought I would learn more English here in America; instead, I have learned how much English I still don’t understand.
I pause in the steamy heat outside a low, brick building where my fate will be decided. A bead of sweat rolls down the back of my neck. My only consolation is that Hira has to take this test, too. Auntie pulls the front door open and my sister skips into the building.
“Bilal?” Ammi beckons me to hurry inside. “We don’t want to be late.”
We? I would actually love to be late.
I sigh, passing under an arctic blast of air-conditioning that makes me shiver. Hira and I follow Auntie and Ammi down a hallway and into an office. Behind a tall counter I can see the top of a pair of glasses worn by a woman with hair gathered into a sleek bun. My mother fills out some forms as Humza plays with the strap of her sandal. The lady leads Hira and me to separate rooms for our tests. My sister doesn’t look nervous at all. I shake my head. She has no idea how much English she still has to learn.
When I enter my testing room, I almost fall over in surprise when one lady greets me in Urdu.
“Hello! I’m Mrs. Fayad. It is nice to meet you . . .”—she glances at the papers in her hand—“Bilal.”
I recover in time to say, “It is nice to meet you, too, Madam.”
She smiles and looks to another woman standing beside her. “Mrs. Wilson will be administering your English test today, Bilal. I’ll be translating for you as needed.”
Why does she need to translate in Urdu if it’s supposed to be a test of English?
Mrs. Wilson begins with easy questions, asking me where I am from and what I like to do. When I talk about cricket, she looks confused, and I hope this does not lower my score. But Mrs. Fayad smiles and nods, so maybe it will all turn out okay.
Mrs. Wilson hands me a book and tells me a little bit about the story, then asks me what I think will happen in the story.
How am I supposed to know? I glance at the picture of the boy and the dog on the book’s cover. The dog does not look like he will bite the boy, but I don’t know for sure—maybe the boy found the dog wandering in the street. Maybe when the boy’s mother finds out he is touching the dog, she will get very mad and make the boy take an extra-long shower. Then I remember that Americans have dogs for pets. I decide this is a trick question, so to be safe, I say, “I don’t know what will happen in the story.”
Mrs. Wilson nods, then asks me to read the story aloud. I freeze. What if I make mistakes? How many mistakes can I make and still pass the test?
I look at the first sentence, and I don’t even know how to say the first word. I read the whole first sentence in my head and realize the first word is the dog’s name. I have never heard of this name, and I am not sure how to say it.
“Anytime you’re ready to begin,” Mrs. Wilson says, tapping the eraser side of her pencil on the paper in front of her.
I take a breath. “Har—Har—vay?” I begin, then wait for her to correct me.
“Harvey.” She nods like she’s agreeing with me, but the name she said was different from the way I said it.
I swallow. “Harvey was a good dog—” Then I get to another word I don’t know. “Us . . . usoo . . . usoo-a-lee?”
“Usually,” Mrs. Wilson says, with that same nod.
It goes like this for another few sentences, until she finally says,“You’re doing a great job, Bilal, but let’s try a different book.”
I am not doing a great job. Mrs. Wilson never thought I was doing a great job, either, because next she gives me a baby book—a story with only one sentence on each page. I read every single word with no mistakes.
“Hmm,” Mrs. Wilson says. “Let’s try something in the middle.”
So then I have to read another book with some hard words but not too many. Mrs. Wilson seems happy with that, and I let out a breath. Maybe now the test is over. Except it’s not—now I have to tell what happened in the story. After that Mrs. Wilson asks me if I have a connection to the story. I don’t know what this means, so I say no. Then she asks me what message the author is trying to tell me. Is there a secret message in the story? If so, I have no idea what it is.
“Now on to the writing,” Mrs. Wilson says. She slides a piece of lined paper and a pencil over to me and says, “Write about what you’ve done over the summer.”
I look at that single sheet of paper and think there are not enough lines for everything I could write about this summer. I could write that when my father disappeared, it was the worst three days of my entire life. And the day he came back was the best day. I could write that I thought everything would go back to normal once Baba came back, but then it didn’t; we left almost everything we owned and came to America, where I don’t understand most of what people are saying, and I am learning a game called baseball that doesn’t make any sense, and I miss playing cricket with my friends.
&nb
sp; The lines swim before my eyes, and suddenly I am tired. Tired of English and tired of not feeling smart, tired of missing my father, and tired of living in a house that is not mine. Just tired.
“Bilal?” Mrs. Fayad says my name softly, then continues in Urdu: “This is for writing.” She pats the paper. “Here is where you can write about what you did this summer.”
“Whenever you’re ready, Bilal,” Mrs. Wilson says.
I nod, then write:
This summer I move to America. I learn baseball.
I miss Pakistan.
I hand her the paper. She looks surprised, but she takes it from me and scans my writing. “Do you want to add anything else?”
“No, thank you, Madam.”
I stand.
Mrs. Fayad smiles and says, “Well done,” but I can tell Mrs. Wilson doesn’t think I did well at all. She leads me out to where my mother and Auntie are waiting. As soon as they see me, their eyes open wide in a way that means, “How did it go?” I shrug and slip into the seat next to my mother. Humza sleeps in his stroller. He is lucky to be so little. He does not have to take tests or go to school or learn more English.
Five minutes later Hira comes bounding out the door, holding a lady’s hand and looking like she’s won a prize.
We get the results of our tests, and now I know why Hira is so happy. “Her English is coming along beautifully,” says the lady, who introduces herself in Urdu as Mrs. Hakim.
Auntie smiles at Hira. “My niece and nephew were learning English in school back in Pakistan and are good students.”
Mrs. Hakim beams at my sister. “Hira is a level 3 ESL student, which means she’ll likely be monitored in her regular classroom by an ESL teacher in case she needs support. She will only be pulled out of class for extra help when she needs it, not on a regular basis. She should do fine in the regular classroom setting.”
Ammi smiles at Hira. “She is very talkative.”
Mrs. Hakim laughs. “This is an advantage; you will see. She is not afraid to make mistakes, and that is how she will learn English even more quickly.”
Mrs. Hakim exchanges thanks with Auntie and my mother, then leaves us with Mrs. Fayad. After the glowing words Mrs. Hakim had for Hira, Mrs. Fayad looks sorry for whatever she is about to say.
A Long Pitch Home Page 5
