“Bilal did a nice job, too,” she says, looking like I didn’t do a nice job at all. “He does have a solid base in English.”
My mother nods.
“He will start the year as a level 2 ESL student.”
My mother’s smile fades, and I wish I could fade right into the carpet. Hira slips her hand into mine. Even she feels bad for me.
Mrs. Fayad continues in Urdu: “Bilal will receive special instruction from an ESL teacher. He’ll spend most of his time in his fifth-grade class, but he’ll meet with the ESL teacher for anywhere from sixty to ninety minutes each day, depending on how quickly he progresses.”
Sixty to ninety minutes? A day?
I have studied English four more years than Hira has, yet I am the one who needs extra help? I know none of this is Hira’s fault. But when she looks up at me with a sad face, I turn away.
My mother thanks Mrs. Fayad and nudges me to do the same. “Thank you,” I mumble, slipping my hand from Hira’s and putting both hands in my pockets. But thanks for what? For proving my little sister is better at English than I am? We leave the room and head back down the hall in silence.
You take English for five years and you think you know something, but then you come to a place where people speak a different kind of English, and you realize you know nothing.
Nine
E very morning after saying all the words in the Fajr prayer, I ask Allah for this to be the day that Baba tells us he is coming to America. For the last forty-five days, the answer has been “Not yet.”
These last few weeks have been a blur of baseball camp, more new English words, and hanging out at the pool with the guys. I don’t run into Jordan at the pool again, and I wonder if maybe she has made some non-baseball friends. I hope so.
The best thing about baseball camp is that tomorrow is the last day.
When Jalaal told me baseball is kind of like cricket, he was wrong. Sure, baseball has a bat and a ball, but even those are different in cricket. After six long weeks of camp, I still can’t hit a ball with a round bat. I mean, I can hit it; I just can’t hit the ball where it is supposed to go. Jalaal said I should give it time, but six weeks is time enough.
If Mudassar ever comes to America to visit, this is the baseball advice I will give him:
1. Baseball players only bat one at a time. If you ask where the second batter is, people will look at you funny.
2. If you get a hit, do not carry your bat when you run around the bases.
3. If you hit the ball and it pops up and over the line behind home plate, you do not earn four runs for your team. In fact, this is called a foulball, and it is not a good thing. If this happens to you, do not jump and cheer and pump your fist in the air. Just get ready to bat again.
4. Home runs are worth four points at the most, and only if the bases are loaded. If someone hits a home run with the bases loaded, do not high-five everyone as they cross home plate, and yell, “Six points for us!”
The only thing I am okay at is pitching.
But Jordan is better. She is also better at hitting the ball than I am. Then again, so is everyone else.
“Hey, Bilal!” I turn to see Akash running across the field. He catches up to me, breathing hard, and jabs his thumb over his shoulder toward the gym doors. “Why didn’t you sign up? Travel tryouts are tomorrow.”
I shake my head. “I would not make the team anyway.”
I have had enough humiliation for one summer, thank you very much. I don’t need to try out for a travel baseball team to remind everyone how much I stink at this sport. I just want to forget all about baseball.
“Aw, come on, man.” Akash spits onto the grass. “You’re just getting used to the rules. And batting. And, you know, catching with a glove.”
There is nothing I can say to that.
“We need a good pitcher.” Akash raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to speak.
“Thank you, Akash. But Jordan will make your team. Everyone knows she is the best pitcher.” I look behind me to make sure Henry isn’t nearby, and lower my voice just in case. “She can also bat better than most everyone else.”
Akash shakes his head. “Girls don’t play baseball. Softball, sure. Baseball? No way.” He shrugs. “Look, Bilal, last year we went all the way to the state finals down in Richmond. We lost to some team from Loudoun County.”
I have no idea where these places are, but I do know having me on their team will not help them win. I would be fine with pitching, if only I didn’t have to bat. Coach Matt already explained that all players have to bat, even the pitcher. It’s the rule.
Jalaal saves me from more conversation when he shouts my name from the parking lot, waving both hands over his head.
Akash glances at Jalaal and then turns back to me. “Will you at least think about it?”
“Okay,” I say, but the only thing I am thinking about is how I am not going to try out.
Akash seems satisfied with my answer, and we agree to meet tomorrow morning at the field.
I head over toward Jalaal, relief flowing through me with every step. After tomorrow, the last day of camp, I won’t have to pick up another baseball bat as long as I live.
“Hey, little buddy. Vámonos?” Jalaal claps his hand on my shoulder.
“Vámonos.” I grin at this strange, new English word.
Jalaal has a plan to speak to me in English so I can learn more before school starts. So far he speaks to me mostly in English and I answer him mostly in Urdu, especially when I’m tired.Thinking in English hurts my brain after a while. I know Jalaal is trying to be helpful, but I also think maybe he doesn’t feel comfortable speaking Urdu anymore—kind of like a favorite T-shirt you used to wear everywhere, even to bed, and now it just doesn’t fit.
We throw our bags into the back, and Jalaal starts the car. “You ready for tomorrow?”
I nod. Ready for camp to be over.
Jalaal slows the car at a stop sign and then rolls through the empty intersection. “We can throw some pitches in the backyard later, if you want.”
“Sounds good.” As long as we just pitch—no batting.
“You’ll blow them away tomorrow, Bilal.”
I look at Jalaal. “Blow who away?”
“The competition, my friend. No doubt you’ll make the team.”
“What? But I didn’t write my name down,” I say.
His smile returns. “Don’t worry—I signed you up.”
“Jalaal!”
His eyes open wide with pretend innocence. “What?”
“I didn’t sign up on purpose.”
“Bilal, you’re kidding. You’re an amazing pitcher.”
But I’m also amazingly bad at batting. I guess Jalaal knows, because he says, “We’ll work on the batting. You’ll be fine.
“The travel team is called the Fairfax Cardinals, but they’re opening up a developmental team this year, too.”
“Cardinals?”
“They’re birds.” Jalaal glances out his side window. “I don’t see any now, but they’re red—at least the males are. The females are brown.”
Birds don’t sound like a very ferocious mascot. But I think I have seen the kind of bird that Jalaal is talking about—they like to eat from Auntie’s bird feeder in the backyard.
“What is the developmental team?”
Jalaal looks both ways before cruising through another stop sign. “The developmental team works more on basic skills. No official games, only scrimmages—kind of like practice games that don’t count.”
Games that don’t count? I just want to play cricket, and that is all.
I roll down the window and prop my elbow in the open space, leaning my head against my hand. The houses gliding by remind me of the plastic pieces in the Monopoly game we played after dinner last night—each house looks the same, except for their color. Every garden is neat and trim, and I’ll bet someone sweeps the streets every morning, because there isn’t any trash. No one beeps their horn or passes
anyone on these streets, which are wide enough for four cars. Almost everyone stops at the stop signs, even when no cars are coming. A man and his daughter hose off their already-clean car. There are no donkeys pulling carts or skinny, stray dogs sniffing for food—these American dogs have collars and leashes and families.
“Bilal?” Jalaal sounds concerned. “You okay?”
I shrug, and Jalaal sighs.
“I got you,” he says. “I missed Pakistan at first, too. But you’ll get used to it here.”
I am not so sure I will ever get used to America.
“And hey, once you make the team, you’ll get to know all the guys even better.”
I know he’s right, but making friends in English is exhausting. I pretend to understand everything they say, but they talk too fast, use words I don’t know, and use words I do know in ways I don’t understand. At least Jalaal mixes in some Urdu every once in a while, and he teaches me new English words.
“Besides,” he says, “baseball is a totally American sport. It’ll help you fit in.”
I’m not sure I want to fit in. I mean, I do, but I don’t. If I become American, will I still be Pakistani?
Jalaal glances in the rearview mirror. “In a few months, you’ll be as American as mom, baseball, and apple pie.”
“What?”
Jalaal laughs at the look on my face. “It’s a saying. If something is really American, they say it’s like mom, baseball, and apple pie.”
I have never tried apple pie, but why are moms so American? Moms are everywhere, including Pakistan.
Jalaal keeps glancing my way; I can tell he is worried about me. I smile so he won’t worry, and also so he’ll stop looking at me and watch the road.
Jalaal turns onto our street—his street—and that’s when we see Olivia heading down her driveway, toward a Jeep where some other kids are waiting.
Olivia’s face brightens when she sees us. I wave and call, “Hi, Olivia!” out the window.
Olivia ducks her head into the Jeep, says something to the driver, then crosses the lawn. Jalaal is out of the car before I even unbuckle my seat belt.
“Hey, Jalaal.” Olivia smiles and tucks some hair behind her ear. “We’re going to the lake for a swim. Want to come?”
I wonder for a second if Jalaal even heard her, because he’s standing there looking like he’s forgotten how to speak.
Olivia gives my shoulder a gentle punch. “Hey, Bilal. How’s baseball camp going?”
I tilt my head while I think of how to answer. “The last day is tomorrow.”
She smiles. “That bad, huh?”
I like Olivia.
The Jeep’s horn beeps twice. Olivia looks back, holds up her index finger, then turns back to Jalaal. “So do you want to come with us?”
Jalaal finds his voice. “Sounds fun—but I can’t.”
The light in Olivia’s eyes dims. “Okay. Maybe another time.”
Jalaal shoves his hands into his front pockets, and now he and Olivia look like drooping mirror images of each other. “Sure. Another time.”
Olivia takes a deep breath. “Okay.” She smiles at me. “See you guys around.”
Before I can wave, she’s halfway to the Jeep. The boy in the driver’s seat starts the engine, and they back out of the driveway. Jalaal looks like that Jeep is dragging his heart right down the street with Olivia. I reach up and clap my hand on his shoulder, like he does to me when he knows I’m feeling down.
It seems to work, because he blinks and opens the back door of the car. We pull out our baseball bags and lug them into the garage before heading into the kitchen.
Auntie is waiting for us with tea. “Boys!” She smiles.
From the living room my mother’s voice mixes with Hira’s laughter and another girl’s voice that’s kind of familiar. “Bilal?” my mother calls. “Is that you?”
I stride into the living room and stop short.
There on the couch, talking to Hira, is Jordan.
Ten
What surprises me most is Jordan’s hair. I’ve only ever seen it in a dark, curly ponytail, or tucked up inside her cap. But now her hair is loose, almost touching her shoulders. She definitely has that thing Jalaal calls hat head.
Eventually I find my voice. “Why you are here?”
My mother smiles but says, “Bilal! Don’t be rude.” Thankfully, she says this in Urdu, which I assume Jordan does not understand.
Until Hira translates: “My mother says Bilal is being rude.” My sister shakes her head, as if the burden of having a rude brother is just too much to bear.
“Hira,” my mother whispers, and gives her a look that stops Hira’s head-shaking.
Jordan stands, her face red. “I have to go, actually.”
I know I should say something, but I can’t stop staring at her red face. I mean, it really is red. I’ve never seen a face change colors that quickly.
My mother clears her throat. “Bilal, why don’t you offer our guest some more tea?”
I reach out to take Jordan’s almost-full cup.
“Uh, no thank you.” Jordan hands over the tea. “I really need to get home.”
She picks up my Nationals cap from the coffee table. “This was sitting on the bench when Uncle—er, Coach—Matt and Kyle were bringing in the equipment. I thought you might need it for tomorrow.”
“Oh, thank you.” I hadn’t even realized I’d left it behind. I step forward and take it from her.
Jordan thanks my mom for the tea, smiles at Hira, and heads for the door.
Humza’s cry from upstairs announces his nap is over, and Ammi excuses herself. Before leaving the room, she mouths to me, “Walk her to the door.”
All the way down the hall, I try to think of something to say to Jordan. After that day at the pool last month, she keeps to herself at baseball camp. I don’t think the guys even notice. They are too busy avoiding her.
She must be trying out for a travel softball team, so I say, “Good luck with the trying out.”
Or should I have said tryouts? While I am debating this, she smiles and looks surprised.
“Thanks, Bilal.” She steps onto the porch and reaches for her bat and glove, which are leaning against the brick wall of the house. “At first I thought I’d hold on to your cap until tomorrow, but then I wondered if it’s your lucky charm.”
“Lucky charm?”
She shrugs, threading her bat through her cap and glove before resting it on her shoulder. “If it’s a lucky cap, I figured you’d want it back.”
I don’t know the word charm, but she obviously realizes I need lots of luck.
She nods. “See you tomorrow, then.”
“Oh, I am not trying out.”
Her eyebrows rise. “But I saw your name on the list.”
I shrug. “Jalaal signed me up. But I will not make the team.”
“How do you know? You’re a great pitcher.”
“Thank you. But even you say I need luck.”
She shakes her head, sending her curls bobbing. “We all could use some luck.”
Maybe, but Jordan needs a lot less luck than I do.
“Anyway, you should think about it.” Jordan turns and heads toward the sidewalk, her glove and cap swinging from the bat over her shoulder.
She’s halfway down the front walk when she turns and comes back. “So do you want to practice pitching sometime?”
Her question catches me by surprise. Does she mean practice with her?
When I don’t answer right away, two bright spots of red appear on her cheeks and she puts her cap back on over her curls. “I know your cousin practices with you, and I’ve got Uncle Matt. But since we’re both new . . . just thought I’d ask.”
While I try to figure out the right words to say, she props one fist on her hip.
Why does she want to practice baseball anyway, when Akash says she is going to play softball? Maybe she thinks I need help, which is right. Maybe she just likes to play, and Coach Matt is too busy t
o practice with her.
I am about to say that I’ll practice with her when Hira’s voice drifts down the hall from the living room: “Baba!”
I step back inside. In Urdu, I call, “Tell Baba I want to talk, too!”
Jordan shifts from one foot to the other. “Or there are these batting cages, if you haven’t been.”
Ammi swoops down the stairs with Humza. “Yes, Humza—it’s Baba!” She hurries down the hall and disappears into the living room.
Jordan stands on tiptoe to see what’s happening behind me, but I know she didn’t understand Ammi’s Urdu words.
“I must go.” I close the door and then open it again quickly, because I know I seem rude. “Sorry!” I close the door again and race into the living room.
Hira leans toward the computer, arms around Humza, giggling and nodding as Baba smiles from the screen. “That’s right, Baba—camping. It’s what Girl Scouts do. Ammi says I have to be older first, so I thought of a great idea! I’m going to camp in the backyard in a tent all night long with my new friend, Lizzie. We’ll bring a Girl Scout snack called trail mix so we won’t get hungry, and we have sleeping bags . . .”
Even though Humza keeps crawling up to the screen to give Baba kisses, Hira still manages to tell Baba everything there is to know about Girl Scouts. Finally Ammi ushers them out of the room so I can have my turn.
Baba smiles. “I have a Karachi memory for you, Bilal.”
I lean in. “What is it?”
He holds up his palm to reveal a fluffy, bright blue chick. It peeps and takes a few steps before cocking its head.
“You’re going to the farm!” I wish I could go with him. Every time we visit the wheat farm where my grandmother grew up, we buy a chick from a street vendor and take it with us. Baba figures it’s ten rupees well spent, and Daddo’s brother is always happy to add a new member to the chicken coop. By the time the chick loses its dyed fluff, it will look like all the rest of the chickens.
Baba gently places the chick back into the box. “Okay, now it is your turn.”
A Long Pitch Home Page 6
