by Hena Khan
Mama is a blur of activity as she minces a huge pile of onions and garlic in a mini chopper and puts a jumbo pot on the stove. When the onions are sizzling in the pot, Mama throws in fresh ginger, tomatoes, and spices to create the masala that forms the base of all her meals. Even with the window open and the kitchen exhaust fan running, the house will soon be filled with the scent. I’ve already made sure that my bedroom door is shut tight so my clothes won’t absorb the smell. And luckily I’m not going anywhere else today, since it’s probably already penetrated my hair.
I learned my lesson about the cooking smell the hard way after I left my hoodie in the kitchen one morning in fourth grade while Mama was up early cooking before work. When I got to the elementary school’s all-purpose room to wait for the first morning bell, Julie took a big, exaggerated sniff from across the room and asked, “Did somebody bring in Chinese food?” Then, like a bloodhound working a trail, she made her way over to me, where she finally said in her most offended tone, “Oh my God. It’s you.”
Everyone started to laugh. And then Luke, always the most obnoxious kid in the class, started calling me “Hunan Express,” which Emily thought was hilarious and kept repeating over and over again. Even though the nickname didn’t stick, I was humiliated for at least three days, until Luke forgot about me and moved on to his next victim. My face burns with the memory as my eyes sting from the spices.
“What are you making?” I ask Mama, trying not to think about Emily or why Soojin is acting like she is okay with her all of a sudden. The big pots are usually reserved for dinner parties, and Mama hasn’t mentioned having one any time soon.
“I’m making food to freeze for when Thaya Jaan comes.”
“Really? Why don’t you just cook when he’s here?” I ask. “How much extra is one man going to eat?”
“I don’t want to serve him leftovers. I’m going to freeze this for the days I don’t have time to cook.”
Baba walks in from the garage, holding a dust-covered mini vacuum.
“Do you want this?” he asks Mama.
“No, it doesn’t work. Just throw it away.” Mama waves her hand. “How do we collect so much rubbish?”
“Is someone coming over for dinner?” Baba asks, peering into the pots on the stove.
“No!” Mama grumbles. “I’m cooking for your brother.”
Baba laughs. “I told you already, don’t overdo it. . . .”
Mama, beads of sweat covering her forehead, lets out a long sigh. “First you talk about how Bhai Jaan is like a father to you and how you are worried he won’t be happy here. And now you tell me not to get ready for him?”
“I’m not worried that he won’t like the food or how clean the house is. I’m worried he won’t like the way things are here or the way we live!”
What’s wrong with the way we live?
I stop polishing and freeze in my seat, hoping my parents won’t make me leave the room like they usually do when they have an argument.
“There’s nothing wrong with the way we live.” Mama stirs the food in the pot hard, and her spoon hits the sides. “We work hard and have raised good, decent children.”
“I know, I know. But Bhai Jaan is so . . . traditional. He worries about us turning away from Islam. And you know everything to him is black and white.” Baba speaks in a hush, as if his brother might overhear him from thousands of miles away.
“Do you think he won’t want us to go trick-or-treating?” I interrupt without thinking.
Baba turns around, startled to see me. “What do you mean, geeta?” His voice is suddenly soft.
“Well, remember last year at Sunday school, a few of the parents and teachers were saying that trick-or-treating was haram? That Halloween came from devil worshipping or something, and that we shouldn’t do it?”
Baba frowns, even though his eyes look amused. “I don’t know if Thaya Jaan has ever heard of Halloween or trick-or-treating, but I’m guessing he wouldn’t like it much.”
“If he’s here on Halloween, can we still go?” Soojin and I already decided that we’re going to dress up together, as ketchup and mustard bottles.
“Yes, yes, of course you can go.” Now it’s Baba’s turn to sigh. He looks at Mama, who sits down with a glass of water across from me.
“You’re right, jaani,” he says to Mama. “We’re both worried about Bhai Jaan’s visit for different reasons. But it will be fine.”
“I hope so,” Mama says. But she sounds totally unconvinced.
“And besides,” Baba continues as Mustafa walks into the kitchen, “my brother memorized the Quran when we were young and hasn’t forgotten a letter. He can help the kids prepare for the competition.”
“What competition?” Mustafa asks. He grabs an apple from the fruit bowl and tears a chunk out of it with his teeth.
“Didn’t you hear Imam Malik talk about it before prayer?”
“Oh, um, I must have been concentrating on prayer,” Mustafa says quickly between chews. “I didn’t hear him.” He looks at the ground as he speaks.
“Well, the center is hosting a statewide Quran competition for the students, and I signed you both up.”
“You did what?” Mustafa spits out the words. “I’m not doing it!”
“Mustafa, watch your mouth,” Mama warns.
“Shouldn’t I have a say in this?” Mustafa asks, looking back and forth at Mama and Baba with raised eyebrows.
My stomach starts to churn, and not from the food smells or because I’m getting hungry for dinner. It’s a mixture of hating to see Mustafa argue with our parents and dreading the idea of the competition.
But maybe Mustafa can get us both out of it.
“Imam Malik specifically asked that you and Amina participate. He wants our support, and we should give it to him.” Baba isn’t about to take a request from the imam lightly. Even though there’s a big age difference between them, he’s a good friend of Baba’s, and he used to visit us often before he got married last year. He even taught Mustafa how to ice-skate when he was little.
“You know I have school? And homework? This is going to take up a lot of my time,” Mustafa argues.
“You make time for basketball,” Baba warns. “You will make time for this, too.” Since Mustafa got the permission he needed to try out and made the team, he’s been extra good about getting his homework done and taking out the trash and recycling without being nagged. He’s also stopped talking back as often as usual. Until right now.
“Aw, come on! I don’t want to stand up and recite Arabic in front of a bunch of random people. I’m not that good at it, and it’s just . . . awkward.”
Amen, brother.
“Not people, Mustafa. This is your community,” Mama corrects. “It’s just as important as your team or your friends. You are an example for the younger kids.”
“So basically you’re saying I have no choice?” Mustafa waves his half-eaten apple in exasperation.
“Yes, we are saying that,” Baba says firmly.
Mustafa stares at him and opens his mouth to say something else. But instead, he takes another big bite of his apple, turns, and leaves the kitchen.
I don’t dare say a word. My parents are clearly united on this and convinced that the competition is something their kids have to do. There’s no point trying to tell them that speaking in front of a crowd is something I haven’t gotten over, as much as everyone tells me I need to, or warning them that my Arabic performance is just going to embarrass them anyway. Baba would just say his piece about “What’s this embarrassing?” and “Why do you care what other people think?” I wouldn’t dare point out that he cares a whole lot what Thaya Jaan and Imam Malik think. Plus, at this point, they would just think I was making excuses like Mustafa. I bite my nails, deep in thought.
One way or another, I’m going to find some way to get out of the competition.
7
Soojin turns the key in the front door of her house and pushes it open, setting off a loud b
eeping.
“Hold on a sec.” She runs to punch a code into the alarm panel. “Come on in. Mom’s got class this afternoon, and Grandpa’s probably asleep upstairs.”
I pull off my sneakers and line them up on the small carpet near the front door. Soojin’s house always reminds me of mine. No one wears shoes indoors, and there’s always the faint scent of food lingering in the air.
“I’m so hungry,” Soojin moans. She drops her backpack with a thud at the foot of the stairs and hurries into the kitchen.
I follow her after leaving my book bag by the door, and Soojin is already inside the pantry. “What do you want? Chips? Rice crackers? Oreos?”
“Chips sound good. Can I get a drink?” I make sure to open the refrigerator near the sink. The first time I visited Soojin after school, I hadn’t realized that there were two refrigerators in the kitchen. The extra fridge is reserved for making kimchi, fermented vegetables that sit in there for weeks. I pulled open the door without any warning, got a big whiff of the overwhelming pickled odor, and yelled, “AAH!” Soojin and Mrs. Park laughed as I slammed the door shut.
After pouring two glasses of apple juice, I sit next to Soojin on a barstool, and we munch on cheese-flavored chips. Actually, I munch while she inhales hers and then waits for me to finish.
“Where’s Kyung Mi?” I ask. Soojin’s sister, a fourth grader, reminds me of a mini, shyer, and quieter version of Soojin and often makes me wish I had a real little sister—in addition to Rabiya. But Soojin finds her annoying.
“She has art class.”
“How come you don’t take art classes anymore?” Soojin used to be into making crafts, and I still have the handmade block-print birthday card she made me last year.
“I like dancing more.” Soojin has jazz and ballet classes twice a week after school, and any chance she has she leaps down the empty hallways at school.
I hear a floorboard squeak and see an older man in a brown cardigan shuffling into the room with his arms held behind his back. Soojin quickly stands up and bows deeply.
“An-yŏng-ha-se-yo,” she greets her grandfather.
I stand up and bow too. Soojin’s grandfather doesn’t speak much English, but like always, he smiles warmly and bends slightly in return.
Over the years Soojin has taught me enough phrases of Korean that I understand when Soojin asks her grandfather if he wants her to get him anything to eat. He shakes his head, makes himself some tea, and cuts up a pear in precise quarters before shuffling into the family room. There he settles into an armchair and flips on a Korean satellite channel with the volume turned up extra loud.
“Let’s go to my room,” Soojin says. “We won’t be able to hear anything in here.” The overdramatic music that accompanies the show sounds like the mind-numbing background tracks of the Urdu dramas that my parents watch at home, so I’m glad to leave.
I always like hanging out in Soojin’s room, which is smaller than mine and painted a pretty green. Two prints in red frames hang over the bed, each with one bold black Korean letter. The first time I came over I asked Soojin what the letters meant, and she explained that they spelled her name, which meant “treasure.” Since I thought that was so cool, I’d given her a silver necklace with a little treasure-chest charm for her tenth birthday. Soojin has worn it every day since, but now I wonder how it will all be different when she changes her name.
Will she still wear my necklace? Will she take down those frames and decorate with a tacky mug that says Melanie on it?
“They’re saying that this is going to be the snowiest winter we’ve had in decades,” I say. “I hope we get lots of snow days.”
“Me too. We didn’t get any last year.”
I live for snow days. We have to get at least a foot in Milwaukee, but when things do shut down, it’s like a block party. We have epic snowball fights, Mama and I go cross-country skiing, and Mustafa makes tons of money shoveling driveways.
“We didn’t get any science or math homework today,” I say.
“Yeah, but Mrs. Barton said we have to read up for our next wagon trail assignment.”
“I have been. Do you know the pioneers used to eat squirrels?”
“Gross. Except I can see Bradley being into that!” Soojin flops on top of her bed. “Although, did you notice that he actually has some good ideas?”
“I know. He was totally right about how to cross the river. I think he’s a Boy Scout or something in real life.”
“And Emily’s been pretty good too,” Soojin says.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean she’s a good partner and is helping us win.”
I pause, trying to convince myself not to say anything. “So do you . . . like want to be friends with her now?” It just comes out.
“I don’t know. She used to be really immature. But I think she’s changed. She’s making an effort, and she’s not so bad.”
Not so bad? I chew on my lip, afraid to say anything else. Emily has made me so angry—and been obnoxious to Soojin and me—for so long. And now Soojin seems to be forgetting so easily.
“Are you, um, going to go to her house this week?” I stare down at my book so she can’t see my face.
“I don’t know. I forgot to ask my mom.”
I exhale slowly. Soojin isn’t rushing to spend extra time with Emily. But I can’t help wishing again, no matter how much better it has been than I expected, that I had suggested someone else to join our group first. That way I wouldn’t have to feel like a bad person for being unwelcoming. And like the Oregon Trail, I wouldn’t have to pioneer the uncharted territory of Soojin finding Emily “not so bad.”
8
“We got it!” Soojin shouts two days later, rushing into the gym, where the rest of us are waiting for the morning bell to ring. Her face is flushed with excitement.
“Got what?” I ask.
“Our date for our swearing-in. It’s official—I’m going to be a citizen!” Soojin does a little leap of joy.
“That’s great!” I say as some of the other kids came over to find out what the commotion is about.
“My dad is so excited. Yesterday afternoon he bought us all these.” Soojin points to a little American flag pin on her sweatshirt.
I can imagine Baba doing something like that too. But my parents became citizens when I was much younger, so I don’t remember it.
“When is it? What do you have to do?” Margot asks.
“October twentieth—just two weeks! Hundreds of people will be there, and I think we all pledge allegiance to the flag together. I get to miss school and everything.”
“Lucky!” Allison says.
“That’s really cool,” I say.
As the bell rings and everyone starts filing out to class, Soojin grabs my arm.
“And . . . I’ve decided on my new name!” she whispers in my ear.
“What is it? Melanie?” I try to act like it’s no big deal.
“Susan.” Soojin looks at me expectantly.
“Susan?”
“Yeah, what do you think?”
“That’s not one of the names you liked before, is it?”
“I know. I just thought of it last night. It’s pretty close to Soojin, right?” Soojin grins.
“Yeah. But then . . . why don’t you just stay Soojin?” I wish I could take the words back as Soojin’s expression instantly sours.
“I thought you would get it by now,” she complains.
“I do, I do,” I agree. “Susan is a really nice name.” My eyes fall on the treasure chest charm hanging around Soojin’s neck.
“Thanks.” Soojin squeezes my arm. “I think so too.”
“Hi, guys!” Emily calls out as we pass her in the hall.
We aren’t guys.
Soojin goes over to talk with Emily at her locker, and, as I keep walking down the hall, I hear them discussing the swearing-in. An uneasy feeling settles over me that lasts throughout the day, and bubbles up inside me again during social studies
. I’m sitting next to Bradley and trying to concentrate on our assignment, which is hard enough. But as I watch the girls chatting out of the corner of my eye and see Emily lean in and say something to Soojin that makes her smile, a spark of unmistakable jealousy shoots through my chest.
Then, to make matters worse, Bradley delivers unexpected challenges to our westward journey.
“Amina has cholera. And our wagon lost a wheel.”
9
“I see him!” Baba strains his neck to peer through the security exit at the arrivals terminal of Chicago O’Hare International Airport.
A stout Latino man in a black sport coat trudges through the automatic sliding doors.
I giggle, but Baba ignores me. He’s so nervous about his brother’s arrival that he’s been pacing the hall and jumping whenever he spots someone with a tan complexion or a white beard. He made us leave four hours early and drove us the hour and a half to Chicago way before Thaya Jaan’s flight was due to arrive.
“Why isn’t he out yet? The plane landed an hour ago,” Baba repeats for the fifth time as he runs his hand through his hair like he does whenever he’s anxious.
“He will be here soon,” Mama says. She’s carefully resting on an airport chair, trying not to wrinkle her fancy maroon-and-black shalwar kameez.
“What if Immigration is giving him a hard time? Or maybe they are going through his bags in Customs?” Baba asks.
“It’ll be fine. Don’t worry,” Mama says.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen Baba this jumpy. He’s wearing his navy tweed blazer and shiny, polished shoes. At Mama’s insistence, I’m in a velvet party dress, and even Mustafa grudgingly agreed to put on an ironed shirt and some jeans without any holes. Waiting together, we look like the families I see at the mall posing with Santa, dressed in their holiday best, even though it’s only the first week of October.
