We’ve got one week left of fifth grade. Mrs. Wu says middle school will open our worlds to new opportunities—clubs and elective classes and new friends. We’ll have lockers with combination locks, seven different teachers, PE uniforms and locker rooms, and a library filled to bursting with books just for older kids—us.
Akash dumps his backpack on the bus seat in front of me and opens his window. “Want to hit the pool after practice?”
“Did someone say pool? I’m in.” Henry plops down next to me. “You coming, Bilal?”
I shake my head. “Jalaal’s going to the prom, and my mom says we have to be there to take pictures before he goes.”
Jordan takes the seat behind Henry. “Olivia’s really nice.”
I nod. I couldn’t believe it when Auntie said he could go. Jalaal claims they’re only going as friends and will be at the dance with a big group, so maybe that’s how he convinced her. I think Humza’s Band-Aid may have had something to do with it, too.
Instead of driving me to practice, Jalaal is out picking up flowers for Olivia, so Jordan’s dad drives us. He can’t bend his left leg very well, but he says he only needs his right leg for driving anyway.
Even though this is only a practice and not a real game, Jordan keeps glancing at her dad on the bleachers, like she wants to make sure he’s still there. Every time she does, he gives her a smile. And every time that happens, my heart swells and breaks at the same time.
“He’s not going back, you know,” Jordan says as we jog out toward Coach Pablo for pitching practice. “He’s looking for a different job now.”
It never occurred to me that Jordan might move away now that her dad is back. “A job where—back in Illinois?”
She shakes her head. “Around here, where we’re close to family.”
I smile.
“And friends.” She friendship-punches my shoulder.
I have never seen Jalaal this nervous. Auntie straightens his seafoam green bow tie. Uncle checks the battery level on the camera. Hira opens the refrigerator and takes out the plastic box containing Olivia’s flowers, holding it like it’s made of glass. Ammi keeps Humza and his yogurt-covered fingers away from Jalaal’s black tuxedo. I’m in charge of the iPad as we Skype with Baba, Daddo, and everyone else back in Karachi. I pan around the room before zooming in on Jalaal as Auntie smooths the lapels of his jacket. She turns him toward the camera and smiles. Applause and a murmur of approval come from the iPad, which I can’t see since I’m the one filming.
“Okay.” Jalaal takes a deep breath. “I’m heading out.”
Auntie hands him the plastic box with Olivia’s flowers. “We’re coming with you.”
Panic flashes across Jalaal’s face until Auntie grins and says, “Only outside to take pictures.”
Jalaal lets out a breath and kisses Auntie on the cheek.
We trail behind Jalaal out the front door, with the Karachi relatives and me bringing up the rear.
Hira points to the teenagers and parents standing in Olivia’s driveway. “Look!” She squeals and covers her mouth. “They’re so fancy!”
Jalaal looks like he’d rather not have our family parade outside with him, but his face changes completely when he sees Olivia.They walk toward each other, grinning.They don’t even notice when I zoom in on their faces with the iPad.
Now I get why Jalaal’s bow tie is seafoam green—it matches Olivia’s flowy dress.
Hira claps. “Olivia’s a princess!”
We laugh, and Jalaal says, “Agreed.”
“What’s going on?” Daddo’s voice comes from the iPad. I translate what Hira said about Olivia being a princess, and they all murmur and nod. Daddo’s eyes are shiny as she blows a kiss. Jalaal and Olivia wave into the camera, and the relatives wave back and talk at once. Jalaal tells them he wishes they were here with us, and Daddo shakes her head and clasps her hands together, her eyes smiling.
Olivia watches in awe as Jalaal speaks in Urdu, like he’s some kind of genius.
We join the other families on Olivia’s front lawn for pictures of all the prom couples. Then the other teenagers climb into a long car called a limo, even nicer than Omar Khan’s car. Jalaal and Olivia get into our car because they aren’t going straight to dinner. Since it’s still Ramadan and Jalaal needs to wait for sundown to eat, Olivia suggested they take a walk in DC near the monuments while they wait for the sun to set.Then they’ll eat at some famous restaurant at the very top of a tall building. After dessert, they will join their friends at the dance.
Jalaal drives past us, giving a honk, and we wave.The adults stay out on Olivia’s lawn, talking and laughing and shaking their heads when someone says something about how fast kids grow up. I bring the Karachi relatives inside for now, and they all sign off except for Baba.
“Bilal jaan, I have another Karachi memory for you.” Baba smiles. “Remember the rickshaws?”
“Yes, Baba—I almost forgot! I have not seen a single one here.”
“I think that Jalaal and Olivia should have taken a rickshaw ride to their dance.”
Baba and I laugh picturing Jalaal and Olivia all dressed up, squished into an open rickshaw cab pulled by a loud, stinky motor scooter.
“Now it’s your turn, Bilal. What American tidbit do you have for me?” Baba’s smile is still wide, but I can feel mine starting to fade.
There are lots of things I could tell Baba, like how the pools are open again or how I took my end-of-year school exams on a computer. I could tell him about the giant elephant statue I saw on our museum field trip to DC or the tornado drill we had at school.
“Bilal?” Baba’s smile is gone. “Are you all right?”
I shrug. “I can’t think of any more American things for your list, Baba.”
Because he needs to come and see America for himself. I don’t say this, but looking at his face, I can tell Baba agrees.
Thirty
“How would you like to celebrate your birthday, Bilal?” Ammi sits at the kitchen table, a pen poised above a clean pad of paper. “We can invite your friends over, go to the pool—whatever you’d like.”
She writes Bilal’s 11th birthday and underlines it twice. “Of course, your big game is at noon that day, but your friends can come over afterward—maybe for fireworks that evening?”
I slump into the chair across from her. “I don’t really feel like celebrating this year.”
She sets her pen down. “I know, Bilal.”
And that’s all she needs to say.
All the summer birthdays are announced on the last day of school, so people know I’ll be eleven soon. Jordan and the guys ask what I’m doing for my birthday, but I tell them I haven’t decided yet. Hopefully they’ll forget and stop asking.
These last days of Ramadan feel different this year. On last year’s Eid, we thought Baba would be joining us soon. This year, it feels like he never will. Maybe Omar Khan’s connections didn’t work. Maybe not even the world’s greatest cricket player can get Baba here.
Auntie, Ammi, and Hira get swirly henna designs on their hands, and I go to the batting cages whenever I can. There’s only a week and a half left before the state championship game, but Coach Matt and Coach Pablo give us Sunday off, just in time for Eid.
When the holiday arrives, after the pre-dawn morning prayer, I wish everyone Eid Mubarak. I hug each of them three times, then crawl back into bed. I want this day to be over.
Ammi comes in as the morning light begins to glow behind my window shade. She sits on the edge of my bed, then touches my forehead and rests her hand for a moment on my cheek.
“Are you hungry, Bilal jaan? Suhoor is on the table.”
I shake my head. I used to love the pre-dawn meal, where everyone starts off hungry and sleepy and ends up full and happy.
Ammi sighs and adjusts my covers like she used to when she tucked me in for the night. “Oh, Bilal.” Her voice catches, and she presses her fingers to her mouth. The festive henna swirls across her hand seem lost,
out of place. Baba always loved to see which design Ammi and Hira would choose on Chaand Raat, the Night of the Moon right before Eid. Baba would trace the lines on Hira’s hands until she couldn’t hold her giggles in any longer.
I reach for Ammi’s hand, and she gives mine a squeeze.
Sometimes I forget that I am not the only one who misses Baba.
I get up, not because I want to, but because this makes Ammi smile, her eyes bright with tears.
I get through it all—prayers at the mosque, visiting friends, and eating pounds of sheer khorma. After the second house, I’ve already had enough of the creamy milk pudding.
When it is time to Skype with the family back in Karachi, Hira actually lets Humza steal the show with his big, wet kisses right on the screen. Everyone applauds on the Karachi side, while Hira whispers, “Ew.” She doesn’t try to elbow her way into the conversation like she used to, and I know it’s because she’s losing more and more Urdu words.
I get through more prayers, the dinner feast, the gifts, and finally I am back in bed. I don’t dream about the next Eid. In fact, I don’t have any dreams at all.
In the week leading up to the tournament, I run my fastest and swing my hardest. When I’m on the pitching mound, everyone says I’m on fire, including Jordan.
Sunday we have another day off, and I don’t know what to do with myself.The tournament is in two days, and it feels like it will never get here. Just like Baba.
Everyone is busy except for me. Even Jordan is away for the day with her family. Jalaal is hardly around anymore since he got a summer job at the nursery and garden center with Olivia.
Uncle has errands to run. Ammi and Auntie haven’t stopped cooking all morning, and Hira chases Humza around the backyard.
Telling Ammi I’m bored turns out to be a big mistake. I have to set the table even though dinner isn’t for hours, then sweep the garage and pull weeds from the flower bed out back.
Finally Ammi calls me inside to wash up.
Jalaal is already back from the nursery, and he gets to the shower first.
Auntie announces that since summer has now arrived, all of us should read. “Every day for thirty minutes—adults, too,” Auntie says, beaming like this is the world’s all-time greatest idea.
Hira actually does think it’s a great idea. Jalaal looks less thrilled, but he cheers up when Auntie says he can download a baseball book. I would volunteer to read to Humza, but he’s taking a nap. Ammi flips through a magazine too fast to read anything, and I wonder if just looking at the pictures counts. What am I going to read?
Then I remember my issues of Sports Illustrated Kids, so I bring a stack into the living room. I flip to the table of contents and sigh. There are no articles on cricket.
I hear Uncle’s car pull up, and I wonder if he knows about Auntie’s new summer reading plan. He’d better have something to read. He hasn’t come through the door yet, and I almost wish I could warn him.
And then I hear it.
Two fast raps on the door—pause—another quick knock like a hiccup, followed by two slow thunks.
Baba’s special knock.
My head snaps up, not daring to believe. I look at Ammi, who smiles through tears. She nods. “Go, Bilal.”
I scramble to my feet and race down the hall.
There are no locks to undo, not like last time; I fling the door open.
There, standing on the porch, is Baba.
I throw my arms around him and he laughs, swinging me off my feet. All the things I thought I’d forgotten come back in an instant—Baba’s strong arms, the way his laughter sounds in my ear, the smell of cologne on his collar.
The stampede in the hallway announces the arrival of everyone else, and there are hugs and tears and more hugs. Baba and Ammi look at each other like they are seeing a lost treasure found.
Baba is home.
Thirty-one
Baba doesn’t talk about the days when he went missing, at least not to me. But he does talk about the day he got the news that he was coming to us at last.
“It was because of you, Bilal.” His eyes still shine when he smiles, just like I remember.
“My friend Jack says politicians can pull strings.”
Baba smiles. “Omar Khan did not just pull strings, he cut right through them as if they were threads from a spider web.”
Baba and I laugh, and it is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.
Baba unzips his suitcase and takes something from the side pocket that crinkles. “From Daddo.” He holds up a familiar purple packet with the dancing chili peppers on the front.
“Chili Milis!”
He tosses me the spicy gummy candies shaped like peppers, and I rip open the bag.
“Daddo remembers how much you love these.”
I put one Chili Mili in my mouth and chew, my eyes watering at the spicy kick. I wish I could thank Daddo in person. I roll the bag closed and promise myself that I will only eat one a day to make them last.
“Will Daddo ever come to live with us here in America one day?”
Baba sits on the bed, next to his suitcase. “No, Bilal. As much as she loves us, she wants to stay in her home and in Karachi with the rest of the family.”
“Can she visit?”
Baba nods. “I have no doubt that she will.”
Maybe I should start a list of things to know about America for Daddo when she comes.
I ask Baba about Mudassar.
Baba nods like he knew this question was coming. “Mudassar could use a good friend like you right about now.”
I frown. “His father?”
Baba rubs his face with his hands before looking me in the eye. “His father has gone to prison, Bilal jaan.”
I would think Baba would be relieved about this; now he doesn’t have to worry that he’ll be blamed for what Mudassar’s father did. But Baba only looks sad.
I will call Mudassar. But first I need time to catch up with Baba and show him all the things that he’s missed here in America.
I open my desk drawer and take out my list of things for Baba to know about America. Baba laughs and takes out his list, too. We pin them side by side on my bulletin board.
“Close your eyes, Bilal jaan, and hold out your hands.”
I hear Baba rise from the bed and rummage through his suitcase.
Then I feel it. My fingers close around the smooth wood, and even with my eyes closed, I know there is nothing else it could be—my cricket bat.
I run my fingers over the signatures of my faraway friends—Karachi Youth Tournament champions, every one of us. My bat took up suitcase space that Baba could have used for other things. “Baba—thank you.”
My father smiles. “I promised, didn’t I?”
I nod, my heart so full I cannot speak.
“And one more thing.” He reaches into his carry-on bag and pulls out a cricket ball.
I grin. “Now we can teach Jalaal to play.”
Baba laughs. “Perhaps not with this.”
He turns the ball, revealing something scrawled in permanent marker:
For Bilal the Brave
Your friend,
Omar Khan
I gape at the ball, at this gift from the great Omar Khan. And then I hug Baba, because he is the real gift.
I thought I would be nervous to have Baba watch me play baseball. Although I have improved so much in one year, I am still not as good at baseball as I once was at cricket.
For the state championship game, I would like to say I struck out more batters than Jordan did. I would like to say I made it past second base. I would like to say I was the star of the game. I was not. My whole team was the star of that game, because together we beat the Williamsburg Wombats, seven to six. Baba says it’s the most exciting game he has ever seen in his entire life.
My favorite part wasn’t when I struck out two batters, or when I made it to second base with one hit. The best part was when I took the mound and saw Baba there in the stan
ds. When he patted his heart twice, I patted mine twice, too. It wasn’t for luck; it was his way of saying, “I love watching you play baseball,” and it was my way of saying back, “Thank you for being here.”
That evening, we celebrate the Cardinals’ win, America’s birthday, and my birthday all rolled into one. Neighborhood friends come by for food and to watch the fireworks from the high school. I introduce Baba to Jordan and her family, who all say, “Welcome to America!” Baba shakes hands with Akash and Henry. Jordan unties the yellow ribbon, and together we put it in the trash can.
This year I don’t sit in a lawn chair with the grown-ups; I run and whoop and laugh with my friends as pinpoint lights soar skyward, burst, and fall back to earth.
Right before the big fireworks finale, everyone sings “Happy Birthday” to me, and Baba’s voice is as loud as Hira’s.
Jalaal points as the final rockets of light rise into the night and join the stars high above us before exploding into a hundred colors—the best birthday candle I have ever had. Last year I made a wish on my birthday; this year I don’t need to.
The sparks wink themselves out as they float back down, and everyone claps at the grand finale. For my family, though, this is our grand beginning. I have decided that sometimes America means mom, baseball, and apple pie; sometimes it means Baba, cricket, and jalebi.
Baba once said the fourth of July would be the best day of my life.
He is right.
Acknowledgments
This book would not exist without the input and encouragement from a whole team of folks. My thanks begin with my agent, Erin Murphy, who encouraged me to write a proposal for this story. When it sold to Charlesbridge, my giddiness over selling three chapters and a synopsis quickly turned to mild panic as the reality of crafting an entire novel set in. All of a sudden I had deadlines, which were set (and, mercifully, revised) by my editor, Julie Bliven. I first met this novel’s main character, Bilal, in a handful of scenes from my first novel, Flying the Dragon. In that story, he was a minor character, but I knew he had his own story to tell. Thanks to Julie’s support, guidance, and encouragement, I found the space and the inspiration I needed to delve into Bilal’s world. I also appreciate Emily Mitchell’s proofreading prowess, Diane Earley’s diligence with this book’s design, and copyeditor Josette Haddad’s knowledge of baseball (among a multitude of other topics) that helped wrangle some of this story’s details into line. I am so grateful for Kelly Murphy, artist extraordinaire, whose talent has graced yet another children’s-book cover.
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