Flying Over Water

by N. H. Senzai

  Before I could bring it up, Baba’s cell phone rang. He ran to the kitchen counter and snatched it up, not wanting to wake Ismail.

  “Hello,” he said, then listened intently, his face creasing into a pleased smile. “Yes, I can come in for an interview on Friday,” he added, picking up a pen to scribble down the address.

  Excitement mingled with relief flowed through me. Baba had applied to over sixty jobs and had been on two interviews, but nothing had come of them. “An interview? That’s so great,” I said as he hung up.

  “It’s at a hotel,” he said, standing taller.

  “Are you going to be the manager?” I asked.

  “No, habibti,” he chuckled. “The position is for a bellhop.”

  Bellhop? I thought. You ring a bell while hopping? “What’s that?”

  “Someone who helps the guests with their luggage,” he explained.

  “What?” I gasped. “Do they know who you are? That you ran one of the best hotels in Aleppo?”

  Baba sighed. “That was a different time and place, my love. I have to work my way up in America. And frankly, any honest job that takes care of our family’s needs is a good job—full of blessings from Allah.”

  I nodded, not wanting him to feel bad. I’d heard him and Mama talking about the $2,718 they owed the American government for the cost of our travel to the United States. The debt weighed heavily upon him, and he wanted to pay it back as soon as possible.

  But still, I couldn’t imagine him carrying anyone’s luggage. Back in Aleppo, Baba had been renowned for managing Beit Zafran, one of the city’s finest hotels. He and his cousins had renovated an old, run-down mansion near the city’s most important historical sites: the Great Mosque, the Citadel, and the sprawling souk, which had been my favorite place to shop with Mama.

  They’d transformed the mansion into a five-star property with gleaming wooden panels, hand-painted tiles, and plush carpets. Guests from all over the world arrived through golden metal gates and were treated like royalty. In addition to their luxurious suites, they relaxed in the gardens, ate at the award-winning restaurant, and lounged in the courtyard. The courtyard was my favorite place, where I’d sit on cushioned seats after I fed the songbirds.

  It was such a peaceful space, soothed by the sounds of the fountain, the air heavy with the scent of orange blossoms from the citrus trees, along with jasmine and roses. Baba had been at the hotel’s helm, graciously conversing in multiple languages, making them feel at home. But then war had come to Aleppo, and after an onslaught of bombing, Baba’s beloved hotel had been reduced to rubble …

  The front door swung open, pulling me back from my bittersweet memories. Ammar walked in all sweaty with his hair ruffled and grass stains on his long shorts.

  “How was practice?” Baba asked eagerly.

  “Yes, how was it?” I echoed, not particularly interested in football, or soccer, as they called it here. Ammar had explained that in America, they had their own version of football, played with a ball with pointy ends. We were all relieved to see Ammar smile. Mama, in particular, had started crying and hidden her face when Ammar casually mentioned he’d decided to coach the little kids in our apartment building. Three of the boys were Mrs. Muamba’s sons, another an Afghan refugee, and then two other kids rounded out the team. This was the first time since coming to America that Ammar had voluntarily left his room.

  “Practice was good,” Ammar said, grabbing a glass of water. “Some of the little ones have more enthusiasm than skill, but they’ll get better.”

  After draining the glass, he collapsed on the floor in front of the television and switched it on. Because of Baba, it was fixed to a news station. Ammar picked up the remote to change the channel, but Baba held up his hand. “No, wait,” he said as the words BREAKING NEWS flashed on the screen.

  A newscaster with bright red lips and a serious tone to her voice stared back at us. “In another defeat for President Trump, the appeals court in the state of Washington has refused to reinstate the Muslim ban.” The camera panned to a guest sitting beside her, Emily Wang—legal director of the American Civil Liberties Union, Washington Office. “Ms. Wang, what are your thoughts?”

  “We applaud the Washington State Appeals Court decision,” Ms. Wang said. “The president’s Muslim travel ban is not only unconstitutional, it violates American values and has taken a great toll on innocent individuals. It has ripped apart families in our state and across the country.”

  “What is she saying? Muslim what?” came Mama’s worried voice. She’d put Ismail to sleep and was standing in the hallway.

  “Nothing, my dear, don’t worry about it,” Baba said.

  Mama’s lips tightened. “Don’t pretend to keep me from worrying. I remember the protestors at the airport.”

  Baba looked anxiously at us and cleared his throat. “You’re right, it is something. It appears that America’s president doesn’t want Muslims to come here. But many American people don’t agree. They are fighting against his law in the courts. They say his Muslim ban goes against what Americans believe.”

  “But he is the president,” said Mama, her eyes wide. “He controls the country and his words and actions will bring anger and discontent.”

  “It’s okay, Mama,” said Ammar in a soothing voice as he rose to take her hand. “The American president is not like that dog Bashar al-Assad who killed his own people and destroyed Syria to keep power.”

  “Ammar, watch your language,” admonished our father.

  I hid a smile. Baba did not approve of bad language, even for an evil monster like the Syrian president Bashar al-Assad.

  As soon as I saw the dark circles under Mom’s eyes, I knew she hadn’t slept at all. She was in the kitchen making my usual breakfast before a swim meet: scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and oatmeal. “Breakfast of champions coming right up,” she said.

  I shrugged, staring out the window at water that seemed to go on forever—Tampa Bay. I liked our condo being on the seventh floor. It wasn’t too high up, or too close to the ground.

  “Bay’s calm,” Mom said. “Good day for boating. I’ll bet a lot of people will be out on the water.”

  I wished I were one of them. A ride on Dad’s boat up the Hillsborough River, or over to St. Pete, would be a lot more fun than a swim meet, though I never used to feel that way.

  “Jordyn, eggs are ready,” Mom said. I grabbed a plate, wishing she had washed her hair and put on nice clothes. Instead, she was wearing a T-shirt all stretched out from when she was pregnant. I knew what the other moms would whisper as soon as they saw her. Poor Lori Johnson. She hasn’t been the same since she lost the baby.

  Mom scooped scrambled eggs onto my plate. “Sorry, the bacon’s a little burned. I can’t seem to focus.”

  I carried my breakfast over to the table and pushed the eggs around with my fork. Mom sighed. “Jordyn, honey, stop playing with your eggs.”

  I forced myself to take a couple of bites. “Mom, you don’t have to go. Dad can take me, or I can catch a ride with Lea.”

  Mom hugged her stomach. “Don’t be silly,” she said in a trembling voice. “We’ve never missed one of your meets. I’m looking forward to it.”

  I wasn’t looking forward to swimming any more than Mom was looking forward to watching me, but I didn’t know how to tell her without making things worse.

  The Nyad Aquatics Center was named after a long-distance swimmer, Diana Nyad. She’s famous for swimming from Cuba to Florida without a shark cage. I used to think of the NAC as my second home. Before Bailey’s brother, Bryan, joined the army, he used to work there. Sometimes I can still hear his voice. “Hey, G! You keep growing, you’re gonna be taller than me.” I always laughed when he said that, because I was already taller than him. Now the NAC was full of painful memories for Bailey, and for me.

  After changing into my lucky Speedo and favorite swim cap, I stowed my duffel bag on deck. It held everything I might possibly need: three towels, two pairs of gog
gles, two swim caps, a parka, and slides. I breathed in the scent of chlorine and zeroed in on lane four. Lea would be swimming beside me in lane five, and Bailey was in lane eight.

  I turned and scanned the bleachers, looking for Mom and Dad. They were sitting in their usual spot about halfway up. Everything was the way it was supposed to be, only Mom and I had changed.

  Lea stood beside me. “Tranquila,” she said.

  “I am relaxed.”

  Lea arched her right eyebrow. I’ve never been able to do that, but Lea’s good at it. “G, you can’t fool me. We’ve been swimming together for too long.”

  Lea and I had started competitive swimming when we were seven. The butterfly became our favorite stroke because we were obsessed with Ariel and The Little Mermaid.

  Coach headed toward us, stopping to check on each swimmer. When it was my turn, she put her hand on my shoulder. “Your skin is clammy. Are you feeling okay?”

  “Just a little nervous.”

  Coach stood toe to toe with me, peering into my eyes. “Don’t let holding a state record mess with your head. I need you to swim your heart out.”

  I looked away from Coach and up at Mom. It wasn’t the state record that was messing with my head—or with my heart. It was like the swimmer I used to be had died, but nobody had realized it yet.

  A few minutes later, I climbed on the starting block, waiting for the beep. I felt the kind of lonely you feel in a crowd. I dove in, but my mind was a million miles away. As my arms rose out of the water, I took a breath, kicking twice for each stroke. I wondered if Mom was okay, or if like me, she was reliving what happened.

  On the second lap, the old G took the lead. I thought maybe I had a shot at winning, but my arms and legs grew heavy. I needed to breathe on every stroke. After the third turn, I totally ran out of steam. When I touched the wall and pushed up my goggles, Coach was running toward Lea. Lea had won, and she’d tied my state record!

  While Coach pumped her fist in the air, I was stunned. Something was seriously wrong with me. I took a couple of ragged breaths. When I stopped shaking, I swam over and congratulated Lea. She had never swum faster than me in competition before and whispered, “G, what happened?”

  I blinked back tears, realizing on top of everything else, I was jealous of my best friend. “Nothing happened. You swam a great race, Bailey came in fifth, and I’m having a bad day.”

  After the swim meet, I was lying on my bed, staring at the fish swimming around in my aquarium, when Dad knocked. “Jordyn, can I come in?”

  I really wanted to be left alone, but I knew he would keep checking back until I agreed to talk to him.

  Dad pulled my desk chair over beside the bed and sat down. He stared at his hands, clasped between his knees. “Honey, I know what happened today hurts. Nobody likes to come up short.”

  I shrugged.

  Dad ran his hand through his thick sand-colored hair. “None of us are the same since the miscarriage, and we’re all handling it differently. Your mom hardly wants to leave the condo, but it makes me feel better to go to work. You’ve been quieter than usual, and your swimming’s a little off. I’m sorry for not paying more attention.”

  “It’s okay.” I brushed tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand. The way I had swum was more than a little off, but I couldn’t tell Dad the truth or he’d know what a horrible person I was. I hadn’t really wanted Mom to have a baby. When I was younger, I wanted a baby like Lea’s sister, Gaby, but I was already twelve when Mom got pregnant, and suddenly, she was paying less attention to me and obsessed with what color to paint the nursery. I wondered if somehow, my resentment had caused Mom’s miscarriage, and not swimming well was my punishment.

  Dad reached over and ruffled my hair. “Hang in there, kiddo. Mom has an appointment with a therapist, and we’re gonna get through this.” He stood up to leave. “I think you should stop by Coach Barnes’s office. She’ll know how to get your swimming back on track.”

  Coach Barnes—I grabbed on to her name like a lifeline. Maybe she knew how I could get my confidence back.

  There it was—the door to social studies class, where our exam would start in minutes. “Come on,” muttered Ammar. “We don’t want to be late.”

  I followed, feeling a little queasy. Instead of soft, gentle butterflies floating inside my stomach, angry crows with sharp beaks and claws were building their nests to make me miserable. I had wanted to skip breakfast, but Mama insisted Ammar and I have a healthy meal before our big social studies exam. Not wanting to hurt her feelings, I’d filled my plate with eggs, stewed beans, cheese, lamb sausage, olives, and bread with fig jam. My stomach groaned again and I tried my best to ignore it.

  I was so tired from staying up late that Mama had to wake me three times for fajr prayers that morning. All I’d wanted was to snuggle into my blanket and go back to sleep. Feeling guilty, I’d asked Allah to at least get 75 percent of the questions correct. I’d studied the whole weekend, memorizing facts and figures. The concepts I couldn’t understand I researched on the internet. Ammar had thought I was going overboard, but I’d told him this was important—it was our first exam in America, and I wanted to get off on the right foot.

  I followed Ammar down the hall and into Mr. Fowler’s classroom. Right away, I spotted a blond head bent toward two others, one chestnut brown, the other inky black. It was Jordyn, whispering with her friends Lea and Bailey. Snatches of their conversation floated over to me.

  “You just had a stroke of bad luck,” Lea said.

  “Exactly,” Bailey agreed. “We all go through rough spots now and then. You’ll kick butt next time and probably break your own state record.”

  Jordyn sighed and shrugged, a look of resignation on her face. I turned away and meandered toward my desk, suddenly wishing I were back at school in Aleppo. I’d be sitting with Maryam, Yasmeen, and Rania, gossiping about who we thought would win Arab Idol that season.

  “Good luck,” whispered Daksha, the girl who sat in front of me.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Good luck to you too.”

  “I never know how much to study,” Daksha said, a frown creasing her pretty features. “Of course, my mom says not enough.”

  I laughed, my heart lightening. “Mine too!”

  We gave each other a conspiratorial smile, and I pulled out my pencil case and study sheet for a final review.

  “That’s so cool,” Jordyn said, sliding into a seat beside me. “How do you write so small?”

  “Oh,” I said, lifting up the page where I’d neatly written out my notes, color-coded by topic and laid out in a series of squares. “This is how my friends and I used to write our study notes. My handwriting isn’t nearly as small as my best friend Maryam’s.” The memory of green-eyed Maryam sent a pang of anxiety through me. I didn’t want to think about her. About what had happened to her.

  “Can I take a quick look at it?” Thankfully, Jordyn dispelled the dark thoughts swirling in my mind. “I had trouble studying last night.”

  With a sense of pride, I handed my notes to her. Daksha turned around to look, and even Lea and Bailey peered down at the sheet in awe.

  “My mother would be so impressed,” sighed Daksha.

  “It is pretty cool,” Bailey said, looking both impressed and a little aghast.

  “Thanks,” I said, and held up the bright rainbow-colored eraser Baba had bought for me at the office supply store. I’d tagged along when he’d gone to purchase construction paper and colored pencils for one of Ammar’s art projects. “I brought this in case of many mistakes.”

  “All right, everyone take your seats,” Mr. Fowler squawked from the front of the room. “And put away your cell phones and review materials.”

  Before lining up my pencil and eraser, I took back the study sheet and slipped it into my backpack. Beside me, Ammar slouched in his chair, arms folded over his chest.

  “Good luck,” I whispered to him.

  “You too,” he said. “But you’ve studied
enough for both of us. You don’t need any luck.”

  I felt a surge of confidence and sat up straighter as Mr. Fowler placed a copy of the quiz on my desk.

  Before starting, I closed my eyes, took a deep, calming breath, and whispered, “Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem.” I gave my peacock brooch a quick rub for good luck and picked up my pencil to read the first question.

  1. Explain the three different ways of becoming a United States citizen.

  I knew the answer! I carefully wrote it down and moved to number two.

  When I finished, I sat back and checked the clock. Ten minutes. That’s all the time I needed to complete the quiz! With fifteen minutes still to go, I grew fidgety. I twiddled my thumbs, sneaking glances at the other kids who were still hard at work. Penny, the girl with unruly hair, sat ahead of me, biting her nails.

  A sniffle caught my attention. In the second row, a pudgy boy with sad, dark eyes wiped his nose. He wasn’t paying attention to his paper at all. Mr. Fowler walked over and bent down beside his desk. “Joel,” he whispered. “Would you like to take a break?”

  The boy shook his head and continued to stare at his paper. With a pat on Joel’s shoulder, Mr. Fowler walked back to the front of the room.

  I wondered what was wrong with Joel, but not wanting to pry, I quickly looked away and over at Ammar. He’d turned the page and was working on the last set of questions.

  I peered to the right and squinted in surprise. Jordyn sat completely still with her eyes closed, gripping her pencil. Aside from her flushed cheeks, she was as pale as the bellies of fish Grandfather had caught on his boating trips to the Euphrates. Had she had a mind freeze? That sometimes happened to me, but not very often. Then I heard her short, labored gasps. Sweat pooled along her upper lip. “Jordyn, are you all right?” I whispered.

  She blinked and stared at me with eyes the dark blue of a stormy sea. Shocked, I recognized her emotions because they mirrored my own … panic, whenever I was near water. Before I could say more, she blinked again, as if rising from an abyss where she’d battled terrible beasts.