Owen and Eleanor Meet the New Kid

by H. M. Bouwman

  “Why are they dressed so weird?” asked Eleanor.

  “It’s probably not weird to them,” said Owen. “My dad said that Muslim people sometimes wear a scarf over their hair. The girls do, I mean, and the grown-up women. So maybe they’re Muslim.” He wrote it down.

  “Do you think the woman is the mom of the girl?” Eleanor asked.

  Owen wrote it down. “And maybe the grown-up man is the dad?”

  “He has gray hair!” said Eleanor. “Some gray hair,” she corrected herself. “Anyway, I think gray is more of a grandpa thing.”

  “Maybe he’s an old dad,” said Owen. “Or maybe that’s just his hair color. Like yours is black and mine is yellow-brown.”

  “Mine is brown,” said Eleanor. “Super-dark brown.” She pulled some out from her head and crossed her eyes looking at it. “Yep, dark brown.”

  Owen wrote down the theories about the man (“Maybe a dad with gray hairs?” And “Maybe a grandpa?”) and the theory about the woman (“Maybe a mom?”). Then he wrote down “THE KID: looks like a girl.

  Maybe Muslim. Maybe just like wearing things on her hair. Maybe covering her hair because unpacking is a dusty job.” Then he was out of ideas.

  “That’s a good one,” said Eleanor, looking over his shoulder as he wrote. “My mom used to wear a scarf on her head when she cleaned the garage at our old house. What’s Muslim?”

  “It’s a religion,” said Owen.

  “What kind of religion?”

  “I’m not sure exactly.” Owen felt kind of bad, like he should know. He had asked his dad one day, at the grocery store, why a group of ladies had scarves on their heads even though it wasn’t cold out, and his dad had said, “Maybe they’re Muslim—that’s a religion,” and Owen had been about to ask what that meant, but then Michael had fallen out of the grocery cart, which he was trying to crawl into even though Dad said not to, and when he fell, his arm hit some soup cans, which slid off the shelf and rolled down the aisle, and Owen and Dad had never gotten back to their discussion.

  “Look!” Eleanor whispered loudly, jabbing Owen with her elbow and pointing through the branches. Then they both shushed, because the people were coming back out of the house, smiling and talking.

  They went toward the big truck and opened the back. The woman laughed and said something, and the girl replied. The girl was facing toward Owen and Eleanor even though she was talking to her mom, so Owen and Eleanor could hear her really well.

  She was speaking a different language.

  It was definitely not English. And it was not Spanish either. Owen knew that because he had already learned a little bit of Spanish in homeschool. Eleanor knew a ton of Spanish from having a dad who talked Spanish,

  and Owen could tell from her face that she didn’t recognize this new girl’s language either. Eleanor elbowed Owen again, and he nodded.

  The girl went to the truck and climbed inside the back as the man and teenage boy started unloading furniture. Eleanor muttered under her breath, naming the items as they unloaded them and brought them into the house: “Small table, another chair.” Like she was trying to memorize clues.

  The girl handed down an armload of clothes on hangers to the mom, who carried them in. Then the girl wheeled a bike down the ramp, a bike that looked too big for her. Then she wheeled down another bike that looked like her size. She parked them next to the truck, looking up and down the street like she was checking to make sure there were no bike thieves. The teenage boy came out from the house and said something in the foreign language, and the girl wheeled the bikes onto the porch while he unloaded a dresser with the older man.

  More and more stuff came off the truck. Under her breath, Eleanor was naming and counting it all: “One bookcase, three mattresses, two rugs, one more dresser.”

  The new girl called something out to the teenager, who said something back to her. Owen wished he could tell what they were saying. The language was pretty, with rolling r’s and long vowels in places he didn’t expect them.

  “She doesn’t speak English,” said Eleanor.

  “We don’t know that,” said Owen.

  “She’s talking in that other language!” said Eleanor.

  “But to her dad and her brother. Sometimes you talk in Spanish to your dad, but you still know English.”

  Eleanor was scrunching up her face now to listen. Owen did the same. Maybe if they listened hard enough, the new people would say something they could understand.

  Then the big brother walked to the truck and said something that must have been funny, because the girl laughed and made a fist and pumped her arm.

  “I know what that means,” murmured Owen.

  “It probably means something totally different in their country,” said Eleanor.

  “What country?”

  “I don’t know. Wherever they are from.”

  The new kid ran up to the truck, and the teenager handed down a bag that was half as big as she was. She dragged it to the sidewalk and bent over it.

  “What is that?” said Owen. He moved a branch aside to see.

  “Probably something from her country,” said Eleanor.

  The girl pulled a red thing out of the bag and tossed the bag back to her brother. It was hard to see what the red thing was through the pine branches, but it was flat. And it had little wheels . . .

  It was a skateboard.

  The girl stepped onto the skateboard and zoomed off down the sidewalk, waving to her brother. She was really good at skateboarding.

  She skateboarded all the way to the corner and back, then back toward Owen and Eleanor and past their pine tree and to the other corner and back. Like she owned the whole block. Like she belonged there.

  Chapter 7

  Eleanor

  Hidden in the pine tree with Owen, Eleanor watched the girl with the skateboard roll up and down the sidewalk. The girl skated fast, down to the near corner and back. She skated slow, looking at each house as she passed it. She rolled medium-fast right past the pine tree Eleanor and Owen were hiding in—and she didn’t even look in their direction. She weaved and she went in a straight line and she weaved again, all the way down to the far corner.

  “I deduce that she’s not allowed to cross the street by herself,” said Eleanor, when the new girl turned around at the far corner and started skateboarding back toward them. “I bet she’s not allowed to go around the block by herself either.”

  “Shhh,” said Owen as the new kid got nearer.

  The new girl was humming. Owen could hear the music as she got closer again. He didn’t recognize the tune, but the girl had a nice voice. She held her arms out for balance.

  Owen sneezed.

  The new girl hopped off her skateboard and looked all around. Owen and Eleanor shuffled back, hiding behind the trunk of the tree as much as they could. For a minute it looked like the girl was staring right at them.

  Then she got on her skateboard and rolled away, her back straight and her skirt flapping in the breeze.

  “That was close,” whispered Eleanor.

  Just as the new kid got to the corner, Alicia yelled for Eleanor to come in to lunch. Anxiously, Eleanor and Owen watched the new girl to see if they could sneak out without her noticing.

  The new girl kept going—around the corner.

  “She gets to go around the block by herself,” said Eleanor. “No fair!” Owen and Eleanor weren’t allowed to go very many places ever since their running-away incident last summer. They definitely weren’t allowed to go around the block by themselves.

  Then Owen’s dad called Owen from the upstairs window. “Lunchtime!”

  Owen and Eleanor both peeked out to make sure no one from the new family could see them, but there was no one in sight. The rest of the family must be unpacking things inside. So they ducked out from the tree and ran toward their own house.

  When they got inside, they both paused on the bottom landing before going into their own apartments. “Did you see her skateboarding
?” asked Eleanor.

  “Of course,” said Owen. “She was good, wasn’t she?”

  “And did you see her biking?”

  Owen looked confused. “She didn’t ride the bikes. Neither of them.”

  “Exactly,” said Eleanor. The new kid not riding a bike was important. It was weird. “We ride bikes.”

  Owen didn’t seem to be listening very much. “What language was she talking?”

  “Exactly,” said Eleanor. “Exactly.” What language was she talking? Something that they didn’t know. Something different.

  Owen nodded, but he looked confused. “Exactly . . . what?”

  From inside, Alicia yelled, “FOOOOOOD. WE ARE ALL WAITING!” She was yelling at Eleanor in Spanish and rolling the r of esperando in a very impatient way. Then she yelled, even louder, “TORTUGA!” and she rolled the r again.

  “That’s turtle!” said Owen in surprise. “I just learned this word in Spanish homework! She’s calling you a turtle!”

  “I’M STARVING!” yelled Alicia, now in English.

  Eleanor ran inside her apartment, and Owen ran upstairs to his.

  After they prayed, which Eleanor barely listened to because she was too busy being mad at Alicia, Eleanor said, “I think calling someone a turtle is name-calling.”

  “Not if you’re actually as slow as a turtle,” said Alicia.

  “No fighting,” said Eleanor’s mom.

  Aaron ate his sandwich in big bites. He worked as a bagger at the grocery store down the street, and he had to go to work right after lunch.

  Dad said, “It looks like the new neighbors are moving in.”

  Eleanor nodded. “And they dress funny and talk a funny language.”

  “Eleanor,” said Dad. He said her name in that voice he used when he was disappointed.

  “What?”

  Dad said, “Maybe I talk a funny language too, to some people. Verdad?”

  “You talk Spanish—and English. Those aren’t funny. They’re normal.”

  Alicia rolled her eyes. “Also, maybe you dress funny.”

  Eleanor wore glittery things. Glittery things weren’t funny. They were cool. “Maybe your face dresses funny,” said Eleanor.

  “Enough,” said Mom. “Really.”

  Dad said, “I think I’ll see if our new neighbors want any help with unloading. Anyone want to go over there with me?”

  Aaron shrugged. “I gotta get to work, sorry. Oh, I’ll bring some milk home.”

  Mom said, “Alicia and I are going to volunteer at the rummage sale, remember?” It was like a big garage sale, but in the church basement instead of in a garage.

  “Eleanor? Corazoncito?” said Dad. “Want to see if you and I can help the new neighbors?”

  Eleanor swallowed her sandwich bite, which tasted dry and made her cough. She took a gulp of milk. “Nope, sorry. Owen and me are busy.”

  “Owen and I,” said Dad.

  “Owen and I. Are too busy.” It was true, kind of. They were busy collecting clues about the new people. Besides, did she really want to help them move in? Did this neighborhood really need or want a new kid—a weird new kid with a different language and different clothes—to move in? Owen’s question was getting bigger and bigger in her head. A kid who was so different-looking from Eleanor and Owen would definitely want to do lots of things differently. What would happen to Eleanor and Owen’s cool games? The new kid might wreck everything.

  “Well, if you change your mind, you can always come over and help,” said Dad. “And then you can welcome the new people into the neighborhood.”

  Eleanor took a giant bite of her sandwich, nodding like she agreed. But did she want to welcome the new kid?

  Chapter 8

  Owen

  Owen and his dad had lunch by themselves, because Michael was sleeping and Mom was still at work. She was a paramedic, so she always worked for a whole night and day and then she didn’t work for a couple of days. This was her night and day to work.

  Dad made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and carrot sticks and apple slices. He was a writer. If he made sandwiches,

  that meant his writing was going well. If he made a fancy meal, that meant his writing was not going well and you should not ask about it.

  Dad prayed before they started eating. He thanked God for good food. He asked God to help Michael feel better and help Mom have a good day at work. He asked God to take care of the new neighbors and welcome them to the neighborhood.

  When he finished, Owen said, “Did you meet the new neighbors for real yet?”

  “Not yet,” said Dad. “Eleanor’s dad is going to head over there this afternoon to see if they need help unloading, but I’m staying inside with the sick kiddo.” He paused. “Maybe I’ll make cookies.”

  Owen said, “I don’t know if they eat cookies.”

  “No?”

  “They’re . . . they’re different from us.”

  Dad set his sandwich down to listen.

  “The girl and the mom are wearing scarves on their heads and long dresses. Like the ladies at the grocery store that one time.”

  “Hmm.” Dad picked up his sandwich again and took a bite, thinking. “Well, you might be right.”

  “That they’re different?”

  “That they don’t eat cookies. There might be special foods they eat or don’t eat. It sounds like they might be Muslim. Some Muslims have certain foods they don’t eat.”

  “Like Peter.” Peter went to their church. “He doesn’t eat peanut butter.”

  “Because he’s allergic. This is a little different, because it has to do with religious beliefs. But yeah, I wouldn’t make peanut butter cookies for Peter. And I don’t want to make foods for Muslims that they can’t eat.”

  They ate a little more in silence. Dad was staring at the wall and chewing. When Dad was in the middle of writing a book, he daydreamed a lot. Owen liked that, because then Owen could daydream at the same time.

  For his daydream, he thought about the new girl. Did she eat peanut butter? What kinds of things didn’t she eat? When did she learn to skateboard? Could she do jumps and tricks? Did she also ride a bike? Would she want to bike down the sidewalk with Owen and Eleanor? Or maybe she’d want to walk to the park with them and one of their parents and bike up and down the cracked-up basketball courts that no one used during the day? Could she do a wheelie? Would her skirt get caught in the spokes? Did she talk English? How would they understand each other if she didn’t?

  And did he and Eleanor really want someone new in the neighborhood? Someone they maybe couldn’t understand?

  Dad must have been still daydreaming about food because after a while he said, “Well, we have a lot of grapes and some apples and bananas. I’ll dig that little white basket out of the closet and bring over some fruit. That should probably be okay.” He pulled out his phone and tapped into it. “Yeah, it looks like that would probably be okay if they’re Muslim. And bread too, maybe. I’ll make some rolls while Michael’s sleeping.”

  “Is he feeling better?”

  “Yep, he has a cold and a little fever. I think he’ll be fine by tomorrow.” Dad stretched. “Want to walk the food over with me when the bread is done? Meet the new folks?”

  Did he want to meet the new kid? Today? And without knowing exactly what she was like first? Maybe he and Eleanor should do more detecting first. Then they would know if they wanted to be friends with her. “Um, Eleanor and I have some plans. But maybe later.”

  “I’ll let you know before I head over there. Don’t you two leave the yard without permission.” That was because of last summer.

  Owen nodded. “We’ll stay in the yard.” They would, for sure. They’d be under the tree, watching the new girl.

  Dad looked like he might start picking up dishes, but Owen suddenly wanted to sit for a few more minutes. He wasn’t quite ready to go outside yet. And he wasn’t done with his sandwich. “Will you read more Charlotte’s Web?” That was the book he and Michael an
d Dad were reading together right now.

  Dad shook his head. “Not without Michael.”

  “Will you reread the last chapter? I really liked it.”

  Dad smiled. He liked rereading. Sometimes he reread a whole book for himself just for fun. “Sure.” He got out the book and read aloud while Owen slowly finished his sandwich. It was the chapter where Wilbur the pig meets Charlotte the spider. Dad read even when Owen was done with his sandwich and got out his coloring pages from last week’s Sunday school. The coloring pages were pictures of people doing nice things for other people, and the verse at the bottom said to love your neighbor.

  The verse never said exactly who your neighbor was, though. Was it anyone who moved in next door, no matter who they were? Charlotte the spider and Wilbur the pig were neighbors in the barn, and now they were starting to be really good friends. They were completely different from each other, too. Charlotte actually ate other bugs. For a living. And Wilbur was a pig who didn’t know how to spell. And they were still friends. Owen wondered if they would stay friends through the whole book.

  While Owen was thinking all these thoughts, he colored so hard his crayon broke.

  * * *

  When Owen finally ran downstairs to find Eleanor, she was running upstairs to find him.

  They peeked out the front window to make sure no one was outside on the sidewalk. Then they raced out to the tree. The girl was still on her skateboard—or maybe she was on her skateboard again. Maybe she’d had lunch too, while they were eating. Anyway, she was on her skateboard rolling toward them from far down the street, almost to the corner. She was wearing jeans now, it looked like.

  Owen almost thought the new girl saw them; she stuttered on the skateboard and just about fell over, and then she fixed herself

  and rolled even faster. She was going the fastest ever when she passed the pine tree this time, and her head was way up in the air. She really looked like she knew what she was doing.