A Long Pitch Home

by Natalie Dias Lorenzi

  Snowballs fly until Jalaal begs for mercy and Auntie opens the door.

  “Hot chocolate, anyone?” Her smile wavers a little when she sees Olivia.

  “Me!” Hira raises her hand and races toward the door. As Auntie helps Hira take off her wet coat, gloves, and hat, Jalaal turns to Olivia.

  “Want to come in?”

  Olivia glances at Auntie, who is now unwinding Hira’s scarf, then looks at Jalaal. He nods.

  “Um, sure. I’d love some hot chocolate. Thanks.”

  Auntie looks surprised that Olivia said yes, but there’s nothing she can say about it now.

  We arrange our wet gloves and hats and jackets on the fireplace hearth and head to the kitchen, where mugs of steaming chocolate are waiting.

  “Wow—are these marshmallows?” Jordan points to a plate in the middle of the table with white, star-shaped puffs.

  I can’t answer since I don’t know what a marshmallow is, but Jalaal grabs one and plops it into his mug. “My mom made these.”

  Olivia’s eyes grow wide. “You made these?” She turns to Auntie. “I’ve never even heard of homemade marshmallows.”

  Auntie smiles. “They are fun to make, actually. We can’t use the store-bought kind because they contain pork.”

  Jordan’s smile fades. “Pork? In marshmallows?”

  Jalaal grins. “They grind up the hooves and other parts of cows and pigs to make the gelatin. You can’t taste it—”

  Auntie raises an eyebrow, and he adds, “I mean, so I’ve heard.”

  Jordan grimaces. “Hooves? Ew.”

  “We don’t eat pork,” Auntie explains, “so we buy a special kind of gelatin at the store.”

  Jordan stirs in a marshmallow and takes a sip. “These kind are way better.”

  “Mmm,” Olivia agrees. “I’ve never tasted marshmallows this good before.”

  “Thank you.” Auntie smiles and places another marshmallow beside Jordan’s mug and another near Olivia’s.

  “Who’s up for sledding?” Jalaal asks.

  “Sledding?” I ask.

  Jordan stares at me, then nods. “Right—this is your first snow, isn’t it?”

  “Mine, too!” Hira adds.

  “You’ll love it.” Olivia takes her last sip of cocoa.

  “How many sleds do we have in the garage?” Auntie asks.

  Jalaal stands, spooning out the last of his hot chocolate from the bottom of his mug. “I’ll check.”

  “We’ve got some, too,” Jordan says.

  Olivia gathers the mugs and rinses them in the sink. She reaches for the other mugs to rinse them, too, but Auntie turns off the water. “I’ll finish up here.”

  Olivia looks unsure, but Auntie smiles. “Bilal and Hira need some expert sledding instructors. Go on and have fun.”

  “Thank you.” Olivia dries her hands. “The hot chocolate was delicious.”

  Hira tugs on Olivia’s sleeve. “Let’s go!”

  Ten minutes later we’re trudging down the street toward the park. Jalaal and Olivia take turns pulling Hira on one sled, and Jordan and I tote her two sleds behind us.

  Jalaal nods at Jordan. “Judging by that snowball fight, it looks like you’re keeping up that pitching arm.”

  Jordan shrugs. “My uncle practices with me sometimes. He’s pretty busy with work, though.”

  “Hey.” Jalaal glances at me like I’ve given him an idea. “Jordan, you should come to the indoor batting cages with us sometime,” he says. “I’ve been meaning to take Bilal.”

  Jordan grins. “That would be great!”

  It would be great; I could learn a lot from her. But why did Jalaal have to suggest a place so public? What if other guys from our team come by?

  “Bilal?” Jalaal is obviously waiting for me to speak.

  “What? Batting cages? Oh—I mean, great. Or we could maybe practice in our backyard, or yours.”

  Where no one can see me practicing with a girl—the girl who also happens to be the MVP of a team that doesn’t like her.

  Jordan’s smile dims a shade.

  “Look!” Hira points toward the park and the hill dotted with kids in colorful winter jackets. When we get to the top, we peer down the steep side, where all the big kids are. There must be fifty people here—sledding down the center of the hill, picking themselves up at the bottom, or pulling their sleds back up for another run.

  Jalaal tells Hira she’ll have to stick with the gentler hill on the other side, and I expect her to protest. But judging by her wide eyes and clenched jaw as she grips the saucer sled, I think the smaller hill is perfect for her.

  Jalaal and Olivia offer to stay with Hira so Jordan and I can tackle the big slope.

  Jordan stuffs the tops of her gloves into the cuffs of her sleeves and pulls her hat down over her ears. “Wanna race?”

  Of course I do.

  We each settle into a sled, bits of snow falling from our boots onto the slick orange plastic. I brace my feet against the curved lip of the sled and grab the yellow rope, wrapping it once around my gloves.

  “On your mark.” Jordan’s eyes narrow. “Get set.” She looks down the hill. If these sleds had engines, they’d be revving up loud and long.

  “Go!” I say, laughing at her surprise as I steal a head start. After all, this is my first time ever on a sled.

  She passes me one second later. Her gloved hands paw the snowy ground faster and faster. I do the same, but as I catch up to her, she reaches for the edge of my sled. I yank on my rope to steer the sled from her path, but I lean too far. My sled tips over, spraying snow down the hill and into my face. Jordan’s sled speeds ahead, but when she raises her arms in victory, she loses her balance and tumbles into the snow.

  “Ha!” I say, throwing a snowball that splats against her knee. She returns a snowball of her own, and soon we’re laughing and dodging and it almost feels like the fun I used to have with Mudassar. Only with snow.

  My arm is pulled back, ready to let another snowball fly, when I hear my name.

  It’s Henry and Akash.

  “Hey, Bilal,” Akash says. He gives Jordan a nod, and her smile disappears.

  “Hi, guys,” I say, catching my breath.

  “So,” Henry says. “You want to sled with us?” He folds his arms across his chest.

  He doesn’t look at Jordan.

  “Sure,” I say, meaning we can all sled together.

  Jordan picks up her sled. “I got to go.” She brushes the snow off her jacket.

  I want to tell her to stay, but I can see the guys don’t want her to. They don’t say it, but Jordan must know, too.

  She turns to leave.

  “Wait!” I hold out her sled.

  She shakes her head. “Just drop it off at my house when you’re done.”

  “Thank you,” I call after her, hoping she’ll change her mind and stay.

  She doesn’t.

  “Come on, man,” Henry says. “You’ll have way more fun with us.”

  We sled for another hour, and the funny thing is I don’t have more fun with them; in fact, I don’t have much fun at all. As they slide down the hill, they shout things I don’t know: words like “Banzai!” and phrases that don’t make sense, like, “You’re going down, sucker!”

  Aren’t we all going down the hill?

  Although I would never admit this to anyone, I wish the guys had never showed up. Sledding was a lot more fun with Jordan.

  Twenty

  It’s official: I don’t need ESL class anymore. When I left Mr. Jacobs’s room yesterday for the last time, he high-fived me on my way out the door. “Bilal! This is it, my man!”

  But to tell the truth, I am going to miss ESL. In Mr. Jacobs’s class, I felt smart. In Mrs. Wu’s class, I still don’t understand everything. But Mr. Jacobs says I understand enough. I hope he is right.

  Today is a holiday called Valentine’s Day, so Mrs. Wu says my first full day in her class won’t be a typical one. I was happy to learn we have another holida
y, until I found out we don’t have a day off from school for this one. Also, it’s all about hearts and love, red and pink, and some white paper lace called doilies.

  In other words, it is a holiday made for Hira.

  I had to buy valentines for everyone in my class, sign them, fold them over, and close them up with a sticker. We also had to decorate a box at home to hold the valentines. Mrs. Wu said we could decorate it any way we wanted, so mine is covered with drawings of baseballs and cricket balls.

  For my first official language arts lesson, Mrs. Wu brings out a jar of candy hearts. Some kids applaud; others ask if they can eat some. She holds up a hand. “Today we’ll be talking about imperative statements.”

  Impera-what statements? Maybe I left ESL too soon.

  “Who wants to choose a heart from the jar?”

  Mrs. Wu calls on José. “Choose a heart, but no peeking!”

  José dips his hand into the jar and pulls out a pink heart.

  “What does it say?” Mrs. Wu leans in closer to inspect the candy in José’s palm.

  “Be mine.” José does not look happy about this message.

  “One of the most famous imperative statements ever,” Mrs. Wu claims. “Imperative statements are requests or commands.” She takes out five plastic containers, one labeled Imperative Statements and the others with blank labels.

  She thanks José, then asks for another volunteer. Teah raises her hand.

  “Pick a heart,” Mrs. Wu says, “any heart.”

  Teah chooses one that says “Angel.” Mrs. Wu holds it up, even though the letters are too small to read. “Imperative statement, or something else?”

  I know “Angel” is not a command or request, but I don’t know what to call it in English.

  “It’s a noun,” someone calls out.

  “Correct, Lucas.” Mrs. Wu puts the heart into a different bucket and prints “Nouns” on the label.

  Teah sits down, and Mrs. Wu gives each table group a paper cup filled with candy hearts. “You’ll be grouping your hearts into parts of speech. Later on, we’ll figure out how we’ll need to label these other containers.”

  Our group works together and finds imperative statements like “Hug Me” and “Text Me,” but we also find more embarrassing ones, like “Kiss Me.” We find nouns with adjectives, like “Sweet Pea” and “Love Bug,” and plain adjectives, like “Cute.” And then we find some we don’t know how to label, including “Hey Babe.”

  In the end, we each get to keep five hearts to munch on while we do our independent practice: coming up with five imperative statements of our own. Everyone starts on their lists as Jordan leans over and whispers, “We could come up with baseball ones—like ‘Play ball!’”

  I nod. “Or one I always hear: ‘You’re out!’”

  Jordan laughs, then says, “I think that’s declarative, though, not imperative.”

  Before I can ask her what that means, Mrs. Wu approaches our desks. “Jordan and Bilal, please respect those around you. Group work is over; this is independent work.”

  My face feels as red as Jordan’s looks.

  I number my paper from one to five. What can I write for my first answer? While I’m thinking, a candy heart hits Jordan’s desk and bounces onto mine. We both look around to see who threw it, but everyone is bent over their papers, scribbling away. Not even Mrs. Wu noticed.

  I shrug, and pick up the heart.

  It reads “Love Birds.”

  I don’t get it. I think it would go in the adjective/noun bucket, but I don’t get the message. Jordan must see my confusion, because she holds out her hand. I give her the candy, she reads it, frowns, then rolls her eyes and shakes her head like it’s no big deal.

  I somehow come up with five imperative statements, and then it’s time for the party. Mrs. Wu sets a cupcake platter, bowls of chips, and bottles of juice on the back table.

  “Time to set out your valentine boxes, everyone!” Mrs. Wu even has one of her own, covered in shiny red paper. “Once your box is out on your desk, it’s time to distribute your valentines!”

  I dig out the valentines from my backpack and start putting them into people’s boxes. The store didn’t have any valentines about cricket, so I got some baseball ones instead.

  Once we finish, we get our food and open our boxes. Mine has a jumble of small white envelopes, some with candy or pencils taped to them. Others are folded over and closed with stickers.

  Jordan holds up my card, a picture of a baseball that reads “Have a ball, Valentine!”

  “Thanks,” she says, grinning.

  I dig through the box and find the one from Jordan—a picture of a baseball mitt that reads “You’re a catch, Valentine!” I don’t really get it, but I smile at the way she signed her name in bubble letters; that must have taken a long time. At the bottom, she’s written “Practice today—my house?”

  I nod. “I definitely need help with my curveball.”

  Jordan gives me a thumbs-up.

  On the bus ride home, I slide into the seat with Akash, across the aisle from Henry. “So, did you guys get anything good at your party?” Akash asks, pulling a valentine from his bag. “I love these.” He rips off the miniature chocolate bar taped to the valentine, tosses the card back into the bag along with the wrapper, and pops the chocolate into his mouth.

  Henry takes out his bag, and I open the lid to my box. Akash peers inside, rummages around, and pulls out a lollipop. “These are good,” he says through a mouthful of chocolate. “I like the bubble gum in the center.”

  I’m about to say he can have it when the bus goes over a bump, and some of my valentines spill into the aisle.

  Henry reaches down and picks them up.

  “Thanks.” I hold out my hand for the valentines, but Henry pauses, reading one of the cards—the one from Jordan.

  He raises an eyebrow. “You guys practice together?”

  I wish he would keep his voice down. I glance back at Jordan who sits two seats behind us, reading a book.

  I snatch the valentines from Henry’s hand and stuff them back into my box.

  Akash leans over to look at Henry. “Who practices together?”

  Henry nods in Jordan’s direction. “Jordan and Bilal.” He looks like I’ve just punched him.

  Akash shakes his head. “You practice with her? Why?”

  I should say because she’s a good pitcher, and because I have fun with Jordan.

  But Akash says, “She took Henry’s spot on the team, man.”

  Jordan looks up from her book. She glares at Henry.

  I guess he could say that I took his spot, too. I know how much Henry wants to be a Cardinal, but it’s not Jordan’s fault that he will still be a Phoenix in the spring. Maybe next fall he will have a better tryout.

  “So is it true?” Akash asks. “Do you guys practice together?”

  I turn toward Akash so Jordan can’t see me. In a low voice, I say, “Nah, she just wrote that.” I shrug, hoping Henry will believe me.

  My lie seems to satisfy Akash.

  Akash leans out into the aisle. “Maybe we should all practice, though—the season starts up again next month.”

  Henry stays silent.

  I don’t look back at Jordan. When I get off the bus, Akash watches me through the windows. Without waiting for Jordan, I head up the sidewalk. When the bus finally pulls away and I know the guys can’t see me anymore, I turn. But Jordan isn’t walking behind me. I recognize Coach Matt’s pickup truck pulling away from the curb with Jordan in the front seat.

  I stop by Jordan’s house later. As soon as she answers the door and folds her arms, I know she knows.

  I pray to Allah she didn’t hear my ugly words on the bus. Maybe she only heard what Henry and Akash said.

  I force myself to look at her, even though she might hate me. I can picture her handwriting on the valentine card, and I hope the invitation still stands.

  “Um, do you still want to practice?”

  Jordan
tilts her head. “Nah,” she says. “I just wrote that.”

  And she goes to close the door.

  “Wait!” I put out my hand, and she almost closes my fingers in the door.

  “Take your hand away.”

  “Okay, but can you listen first?”

  She appears to think about this for a few seconds. “Fine.”

  I take my hand back, relieved to still have my fingers. “I am sorry for my words on the bus.”

  She tilts her head and narrows her eyes. “So why’d you say that?”

  I take a deep breath, but it doesn’t help me think of the right words to say.

  When I don’t answer, she says, “I’ll tell you why.” She unfolds her arms and puts one hand back on the doorknob and the other on her hip. “It’s because you don’t want to be seen with me. Because I’m a girl, and obviously everyone on the team has a problem with that.”

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

  Jordan shakes her head. “I thought you were different. You didn’t really fit in, either. I thought we could be friends.”

  I find my voice. “But we are friends.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, when no one else is around. I don’t need friends like that.”

  I think I see her eyes go shiny, but she looks down before I can tell. Two seconds later she looks back up again, and I think I must have been mistaken.

  “I only practiced with you because I could tell you needed it.”

  Her words sting. I think of the times we laughed with Coach Pablo during the pitching clinics. But now I wonder if she was laughing at me instead of with me.

  I slide my hands into my jacket pockets. “Well, you do not have to feel sorry for me anymore.”

  And with that I turn and walk back down the front walk. When I reach the sidewalk, I stop. Maybe I should try to apologize again. Jordan is right—she doesn’t need friends who don’t want to be seen with her. But I also don’t need friends who feel sorry for me.

  I walk all the way home without turning around.

  I tell Ammi I have homework to do, and take the laptop up to my room. But what I really need to do is talk to Baba. I double-click the Skype app and go to Baba’s icon, which says Offline. I try calling on the regular phone, but the power must be out again in Karachi, because a recorded message says, “The number you have dialed cannot be reached at this time.”