Bounce Back

by Hena Khan

  It’s weird to see Mama bossing around the oldest people in the house. I can’t imagine telling my parents what to do, or them listening to me.

  But Naano wins. Until we sit down for dinner.

  “What is this?” she asks, wearing a frown as Mama puts out a big bowl of salad. “Where’s the food?”

  “Salad is food,” Mama says.

  “Salad is what food eats,” Naano mutters. Everyone laughs except for Mama. Well, Baba kind of cough-laughs into his napkin.

  “I have grilled chicken breast and steamed broccoli, too. After the salad. We need to eat more veggies and cut down on salt for heart health, right?” Mama stares at all of us.

  “I love salad,” Zara says smugly as she scoops some onto her plate.

  Naano gives me a gigantic eye roll. I could kiss her.

  Every meal has been similar to this for the past few days. Naano asks for salt and butter and Mama refuses, arguing that in her house they have to eat her food. Naano threatens to leave or to smuggle in parathas and extra-greasy halwa. Mama tries to ignore Naano, while we secretly give her thumbs up.

  The best part of the bickering is watching Nana Abu smile through it all. It might be because he isn’t wearing his hearing aid. But I think it’s because he’s happy to be home. I’m happy we get to do our exercises and complain about healthy food together. Later I might try to sneak us some ice cream.

  10

  I’m in the middle of naming my avatar in NBA 2K Wizzy the Wall-rus after my favorite basketball player, John Wall, when Baba yells from upstairs.

  “Zayd! We’re leaving in five minutes. Where are you?”

  “Do I have to go?”

  “Excuse me? Are you yelling to me from downstairs? Get up here.”

  I turn off the game and drag my feet up the stairs slowly. Not because my ankle hurts—because it doesn’t. I’m just not in a hurry to leave.

  “I don’t want to go to the game if I’m not playing, Baba. Please?” I don’t add how going to practice was miserable. I missed the last couple of practices and games because of Nana Abu getting sick. Now, since life is mostly back to normal, Baba is forcing me to go to the last game of the season. My team has to win to make the playoffs.

  “We already talked about this.” Baba frowns.

  “Yeah, but . . .” I pause. “You don’t know how horrible it feels to sit there and watch and not play.”

  Baba runs his hand through his hair and pauses before speaking.

  “You remember when John Wall hurt his knee, right?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Wasn’t he there, for every game? Cheering on his teammates?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And wasn’t he still a leader?”

  “I guess so.”

  “And isn’t he your favorite player?”

  “Yeah.” I don’t mention I was just naming my avatar after him.

  “So get dressed already. Come on. No arguments.”

  “What should I wear? A suit and tie?” I figure if Baba wants me to imitate John Wall, I might as well go all the way.

  “If you want. Whatever you wear, brush your teeth, please. There’s some serious stench coming out of your face.”

  I put on an old basketball camp T-shirt and shorts and quickly brush my teeth. On the drive to the game, I think about what Baba said. John Wall is my favorite player in the NBA. Ever since I’ve been playing point guard, I’ve been watching his moves extra closely. I love the way he plays with heart and passion. And I suppose he’s always there for his team.

  But he also gets paid millions of dollars. He gets to be on TV. He doesn’t have to go to school. There aren’t thousands of fans waiting for me to arrive at the game. Plus, there aren’t any cameras around, unless you count Chris’s mom, who brings a gigantic lens to every game and takes a million pictures of her kid.

  “Hey, Zayd,” Coach Wheeler says as we walk into the gym. “Good to see you. How’s the ankle?”

  “Getting better,” I say. “I should be back soon.”

  I start to follow Baba up the bleachers, but Coach points to the bench.

  “Sit with the team.”

  I do what I’m told. Everyone else says “hey” to me when they come back to the bench after shooting around. As they crowd around Coach for the pregame pep talk, I stand awkwardly to one side.

  “Zayd’s going to take us out.” Coach surprises me when he’s done speaking.

  Everyone opens up the circle, and I step forward to put my hand in the middle like I usually do for games.

  “One two three . . . ,” I say.

  “MD HOOPS!” everyone shouts.

  I look back at Baba, and he smiles at me from the bleachers. It does feel kind of good to be here. When I smile back at Baba, he knows I’m admitting it.

  11

  Coach Wheeler asks me to stand next to him during the game. Actually, he doesn’t stand a whole lot. During all our games, he paces the sidelines and motions and sweats a bunch.

  “Great rebounding!” he yells.

  I can’t keep up with him since I’ve just started walking normally again. So I stay in one place. But he keeps coming up to me and commenting on the game like I’m an assistant coach or something. I realize I never got to ask him about being the new team captain after I got hurt. Right now doesn’t seem like the right time.

  “We need to keep shooting while we’re hot,” Coach mumbles to me. I agree. Our team is on a run.

  I felt a twinge of jealousy when Sam started the game at point guard instead of me. Now, a few minutes into the game, I can tell he’s been working on his skills. He’s moving the ball really well. We need to win to clinch our playoff spot, so everyone has to play their best, including Sam.

  But if Sam plays really well, will Coach keep him in my spot when I’m better? What if he picks him to be the new team captain?

  “Subs!” Coach yells, and he puts in a couple of second-string players. Sam is still in the game, and my eyes are glued on him as I wonder what I would do if I was playing in his place. I notice all the good things he does. He has an awesome assist and a smooth no-look pass. I also see him rush a shot when he had time and flub his crossover.

  One thing stands out on offense. Whenever a defender rushes at Sam, he looks to his right and passes to Blake on that side. A couple of times Blake had someone covering him tight, and he lost the ball. Meanwhile, Matthew was wide open on the left side of the basket.

  This happens three different times, and the third time, the defender is anticipating Sam’s pass and blocks it. It’s right before halftime, and I’m sure Coach is going to point it out during the break. Instead he talks about other things, including everyone’s energy level and remembering not to reach in on defense.

  “We’re up by eight,” Coach wraps up. “But don’t get fooled by the score. They’re outhustling us, and we could be doing better. We need to finish strong if we want to do well in the playoffs. Let’s give it our all this second half.”

  Coach has Sam take everyone out this time. I know I already had my turn at the beginning of the game. But it still stings a little bit.

  Sam walks by me to put his water bottle back on the bench. I hesitate for a second, wondering what to do.

  “Hey, Sam,” I finally say.

  “Hey.” Sam looks at me.

  “Good game so far.”

  “Thanks.” Sam smiles and takes a sip of his water.

  “I . . . um . . .”

  I pause, wondering if I should say something about his passing or not. If Coach didn’t say anything to him, why should I? He probably won’t want to hear it from me. Besides, we’re winning anyway.

  “Yeah?” Sam looks at me and then at the court. It’s time to go back on.

  “Nice handles.”

  “Thanks.” Sam’s smile grows bigger.

  During the second half, I try to squash the feeling of jealousy whenever Coach praises Sam. I make sure to yell extra loudly for everyone else on the team when the
y do something well. We pull out the win, and everyone is grinning at the end of the game. I’m happy too, because it means our season isn’t over. But I down look at my foot and pray it’s better in time for me to return for the playoffs. I’m dying to get back in the game.

  12

  “No, no, no, not that way. This way.” Aliya, Mama’s friend’s daughter, hops as she flicks out her hand.

  A line of girls, including Zara, are standing behind her and trying to mimic her actions. It’s not working, and they’re all doing the moves at different times.

  “Okay, now show me.” Aliya turns around and watches them. She doesn’t say anything as she watches but kind of groans.

  “Let’s skip to the next part. We’re going to be in a line. Move your hands like this.” Aliya demonstrates.

  A group of kids are crowded into our family room, where the coffee table is pushed out of the way. We’re practicing dances for Jamal Mamoo’s mehndi, which is on Friday night, only three days away. Zara insists we need at least three planned dances, based on the last one of these singing-and-dancing henna parties we went to. I don’t think she remembers how the people at those parties could have easily been professional Bollywood dancers, not a bunch of kids who’ve never danced desi style before.

  The worst part is the first dance is a cheesy love song. Zara thought it would be cute to include it. Aliya is the only one who speaks Urdu and understands what it’s saying, so she’s in charge of deciding the steps.

  “At this part, when it says ‘you’re my heart and my life,’ put your hands over your heart and make it thump like this.”

  Zara and the other girls look at one another. I wonder if Zara is thinking it’s a mistake to have Aliya call the shots. I do. I watch while Zara nods her head and goes along and copies the moves. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. It looks ridiculous.

  Aliya’s younger brother, Sulaiman, is the only guy who is almost as into dancing as she is. He doesn’t seem to mind prancing around and pretending to be one of the dudes in love who act like fools in Naano’s favorite Pakistani dramas. But he’s seven.

  Musa, a seventh grader who was probably dragged here by his parents, is sitting on the side next to me, watching with eyebrows raised.

  “I’m not doing that,” he says.

  “Me neither,” I agree. “I can’t jump around. Doctor’s orders.”

  “You can walk, Zayd,” Aliya says. “But Sulaiman and Musa, you two jump.”

  “Not happening,” Musa says.

  Sulaiman looks slightly disappointed but says, “Yeah, let’s do something else.”

  “We already agreed on this!” Aliya throws up her hands. “Do YOU have any better ideas?”

  “How about we do a mash-up of songs?” I suggest. The idea just pops into my head. “We can use some of Jamal Mamoo’s favorite hip-hop songs and mix them with Bollywood. What are those old-school movies he said he watched with Naano when he was a kid?”

  Zara looks doubtful at first but then starts to get excited.

  “I know a good mash-up app!” she says.

  “Wait, wait. What about THIS dance?” Aliya glares at everyone. “We already worked so hard on it. I have all the steps done.”

  “I think this will be easier, and Jamal Mamoo will love it. We can do one big mash-up song instead of three different ones and be done,” Zara soothes. “Is that okay?”

  “Fine.” Aliya doesn’t look happy about it at all.

  I get to work picking out the songs. I throw in “Heart of the City” by Jay-Z, since we always listen to it when we play 2K, and a bunch of my uncle’s other favorites. Zara runs upstairs to ask Mama for the names of old Bollywood songs they listened to as kids. Within an hour we have a professional-sounding mash-up. Aliya finally gets into it too.

  Next comes the dancing part. Somehow I end up being the one in charge, probably since I’m the one not dancing. I throw up some music videos on Zara’s tablet and piece together a dance, picking out the coolest moves from each clip. Surprisingly, it feels like I’m coaching and designing basketball plays. Except the plays involve people jumping past one another instead of making jump shots and spinning around in a circle instead of trying a spin move to the hoop. Either way, everyone listens to me, and it actually comes together.

  “My legs hurt,” a girl named Fatima complains after we’ve been at it for another hour.

  “I need water,” Musa says. He wipes sweat off his brow.

  “Okay, how about a fifteen-minute water break before we do it one more time,” I suggest. “Let’s give it our all until the end of practice.”

  As the words come out of my mouth, they sound familiar. I suddenly realize exactly who I sound like: Coach Wheeler! I can live with that. If I’m half as good of a coach as he is, this dance is going to be epic.

  13

  “Come on, Abu, please?” Mama is leaning over Nana Abu, who is sitting in his favorite chair.

  “Maybe later,” Nana Abu mumbles.

  “But you didn’t do it yesterday, either. The doctor says—”

  “I will later.” Nana Abu cuts Mama off. He settles back into the recliner, pulls a throw blanket up to his chin, and falls asleep.

  Mama looks at me and sighs as she walks into the kitchen.

  “I’m worried about him,” she whispers.

  “What’s the matter?” I feel dread spreading inside me. “Is Nana Abu sick again?”

  “No. But he’s not motivated to exercise. He hasn’t showered, and he’s sitting around in his pajamas. It’s not like him.”

  “Maybe he’s tired,” I say.

  “I know, but the doctor said it’s important for him to keep moving.”

  “Is he going to be okay?” I ask.

  Mama looks at me and forces a smile.

  “Of course he is, sweetie. You’re right. He’s probably just tired. You want a snack?”

  “No thanks.”

  Mama starts rummaging through the fridge, but I head back into the family room and watch Nana Abu snoozing for a few minutes. I suddenly have an idea and go upstairs to look for Zara. She’s in her room wearing headphones and doesn’t hear me until I’m almost yelling her name.

  “WHAT?” she yells back.

  “I. NEED. YOUR. HELP.”

  Zara frees one of her ears. “I’m busy,” she says.

  “It’s for Nana Abu,” I add.

  That works. Zara gives me her full attention while I tell her my plan. We head to the garage and start to search through boxes of junk.

  “Here it is!” I hold up a dust-covered bat. This isn’t any old bat. It’s a cricket bat Nana Abu used to play with on his team when he was young in Pakistan. He gave it to Baba ages ago, but no one has used it in years.

  “Nana Abu!” Zara and I race into the family room. “We need you!”

  “What is it?” Nana Abu opens his eyes slowly.

  “I’m trying to show Zara how to bowl, but she’s doing it all wrong. She says she’s right. But I know I am!” I hold up the bat.

  “You’re playing cricket?” Nana Abu is fully awake now.

  “Yeah. I know all the rules from watching matches at your house. Zara and I want to play. Can you help us?”

  In cricket, which is similar to baseball, bowling is the same as pitching, except you hit the ground with the ball and make it bounce. Cricket players hold the bat upside down, and there are things called wickets instead of bases. Players go back and forth between two wickets and can score hundreds of runs in a game.

  “I was captain of my cricket team,” Nana Abu says, not moving.

  “I know.” Zara tugs on his blanket. “That’s why we need you to teach us. Please?”

  “Where?” Nana Abu looks reluctant.

  “Right outside.”

  “Well okay. I have to change my clothes.” Nana Abu gets out of the chair and shuffles to the guest room. Ten minutes later he returns in a tracksuit.

  We head outside to the lawn.

  “Watch this,” Zara says. She runs as fast
as she can and hurls a tennis ball into the grass about two feet in front of me. I’m standing, holding the bat the way I would position a hockey stick. The ball rolls to my feet and stops.

  “No, no, this won’t do.” Nana Abu shakes his head. “We need a hard surface.”

  “Can we go down to the little park and play on the basketball court?” Zara suggests.

  “Yes, all right,” Nana Abu agrees. “But first show me the ball.”

  I hand Nana Abu the tennis ball, and he grips it in his right hand.

  “See how my fingers are? Try holding the ball like this. And the most important thing is your follow-through.”

  “Like in basketball?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  As we walk to the park, Zara gives me a secret high five. We got Nana Abu to change his clothes and exercise! And he didn’t even realize it because he was playing his favorite sport. Even though I still prefer basketball, cricket might be my second favorite. Especially if I get to play with my grandfather.

  14

  “We’re on next,” Zara announces. Her pink outfit is sparkly, and she’s wearing a jeweled clip in her hair.

  We’re gathered around a dance floor in front of the small stage at the mehndi where Jamal Mamoo and Nadia Auntie sit on a carved bench swing. Red, gold, and dark green curtains are hanging behind them. Their fancy outfits match the colors of the decorations. Low tables filled with candles and trays of henna are arranged around their feet.

  “Actually the aunties want to go next,” Zara says as a bunch of older ladies get up and crowd the dance floor. I watch as they tug on Naano’s hand, trying to get her to join them. She shakes her head and crosses her arms. Naano doesn’t dance.

  The deejay plays some song I don’t recognize, and the aunties form a big circle. I can’t help but think of basketball, the way they all put their hands together in the middle like my team does. Except they pull their hands up and put them back in again over and over. In between, they snap and clap and touch their elbows as they dance around. The thought of my team doing that makes me smile.