Flying Over Water

by N. H. Senzai

  “I’m fine,” she said, color returning to her face. “It’s nothing.”

  “No talking!” ordered Mr. Fowler. I bit my lip and turned back toward my desk.

  After Mr. Fowler collected our quizzes, he flipped through all of them. “Only two students answered the extra credit question,” he said, looking a little disappointed. “Put on your thinking caps: How has climate change contributed to a worldwide refugee crisis?”

  When no one responded, he said, “Ammar, would you like to tell the class about this phenomenon?”

  Ammar’s jaw clenched and his scar turned white. I raised my hand, hoping Mr. Fowler would ask me instead. From behind me, someone muttered, “What a know-it-all.”

  Ignoring him, I blurted out, “My father told me that climate change caused years of drought, forcing over a million Syrian farmers to leave their land and move to the cities. They suffered from unemployment and abuse by the government. Many of them joined protests that led to our civil war, forcing us to become refugees.”

  “No such thing as climate change. It’s just fake news,” said Nick.

  “You’re an idiot,” Penny cried. “Climate change is true and Floridians better fight it, or we’re gonna end up underwater when the polar ice melts.”

  “Penny, no name-calling,” admonished Mr. Fowler. “But to add to what Noura said, climate change is causing severe weather pattern swings around the world. It’s causing people to leave their homes and search for new ones—creating a refugee crisis.”

  “See.” Penny smirked, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Great job keeping up with current events,” Mr. Fowler said, slipping a rubber band around the stack of test papers. “Noura and Ammar’s family have been directly affected by the refugee crisis, but I expect everyone in my class to keep up with world events. One of my goals is to develop informed global citizens.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” mumbled Nick.

  Stung, this time I couldn’t help but grumble, “It’s easy to ignore current events when they don’t personally affect you … or your family.”

  After practice, I stopped by Coach’s office. When I knocked on the doorframe, she looked up from behind her desk. “Come on in, Jordyn. I just need a sec to finish this email.”

  Since the last time I’d dropped by, Coach had added to her book collection. I wandered over and examined the shelves crammed with how-to manuals, biographies of swimmers, and photos of past swim teams. I was drawn to a picture of Coach with her arm slung around Bryan’s shoulders. I dusted it off with the hem of my T-shirt.

  When I looked up, Coach was watching me. “I’m not much of a housekeeper,” she admitted, “but Bryan was one of a kind.”

  I placed their picture back on the bookshelf. “I miss Bryan, and it has to be a thousand times worse for Bailey. He was just so young.”

  Coach nodded, her brown eyes reflecting my sadness. “I call them out-of-order deaths. When an older person dies, they’ve lived a full life, but when it’s a young person, we feel like they’ve been cheated.”

  I took a seat in front of Coach’s desk, staring at my flip-flops. “I’m in a slump.”

  “Any idea why?”

  I sighed, not sure of how much to tell her, or if the way I’d freaked out in social studies was related. “My family’s sort of a mess since Mom’s miscarriage.”

  “I understand,” Coach said. She tapped a pencil on her desk a few times. “My wife had a miscarriage about five years ago. The hardest part was how people just expected us to get over it, like our loss didn’t count in the same way as couples who had lost an older child.”

  “My mom said that too.”

  Coach put her pencil down and leaned toward me. “If you hadn’t texted me to set up a meeting, I would’ve called you. My being happy for Lea doesn’t mean I’m not sad for you. I would’ve told you that on Saturday, except I didn’t think you were ready to hear it.”

  I kept staring at my flip-flops. “Yeah, Saturday was hard.”

  “I’ll bet,” Coach said, “and now we need a plan to get you back on track.” She marched over to the whiteboard hanging on the wall behind my chair. “I’m a visual learner, so I’m gonna write this down.” She grabbed a red marker and made a list:

  With both index fingers, she pointed to the bookshelves on either side of her desk. “Every great swimmer has overcome huge setbacks. It might help if you read some of their stories.”

  Since both her bookshelves were overflowing, I had lots of choices. “Any recommendations?”

  Coach headed over to the shelf on her right and pulled Relentless Spirit. “Try this one. Missy Franklin is a lot like you. She’s an only child, her faith is important to her, and as you already know, she didn’t swim her best at the Olympics.”

  I took the book from Coach’s outstretched hand and hugged it to my chest. “Thank you. Maybe Missy’s story will help me. Sometimes it feels like I’m the only one not swimming well.”

  Coach spread her arms wide, raising a palm toward each bookshelf. “You’re far from alone. And when you finish with that memoir, there are plenty more.”

  On my way out, I turned to tell Coach one last thing. “I always feel better after talking to you.”

  She flashed a wide smile, and I was pretty sure Dad had whitened her teeth. “It’s like I always say, I have the best job in the world.”

  After biking home, I dropped my backpack by the front door and stood looking out at the boats bobbing on the bay.

  “Jordyn, is that you?”

  Mom was hidden from sight by the back of our cream-colored sofa, and as she sat up, a blue afghan fell to the floor.

  “Yeah, I’m late because I had a meeting with Coach.”

  As I got closer, I noticed Mom’s eyes were red and swollen. I kicked my shoes off and sat down on the opposite end of the sofa, tucking my legs underneath me. “I guess you had a hard day, huh?”

  Mom stared up at the ceiling and tears leaked out the corners of her eyes. “My friend Sarah is pregnant.”

  I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around Mom, trying to comfort her the same way she used to comfort me. “Should I call Dad?”

  Mom shook her head against my chest. “He’s working. There’s no reason to disturb him.”

  I held her for a long time and watched the boats.

  “I’m jealous,” Mom whispered. “How petty is that? Sarah has been my friend for nearly twenty years, and instead of being happy for her, I’m avoiding her calls.”

  That was so similar to how I’d felt when Lea tied my state record that I squeezed my eyes shut to keep from crying. “I’m sorry, Mom.” Those words sounded hollow, but I couldn’t think of any better ones.

  Mom used a wadded-up Kleenex to wipe her eyes. “I did everything right,” she said softly. “I got plenty of rest, ate properly, took my vitamins, but my body didn’t do what it was supposed to.”

  What Mom said echoed in my mind. My body didn’t do what it was supposed to. Mine hadn’t either, not at the swim meet or during the social studies test.

  “As soon as I feel ready, the doctor said I can try again,” Mom said.

  I hoped she would have another baby, but not yet. I remembered the list Coach had written on her whiteboard. Mom and I needed to do lots of the same things. “We both need a plan to get back in shape. Since your miscarriage, we haven’t been eating all that healthy. I would have never believed it, but I’m sick of pepperoni pizza.”

  Mom blew her nose hard and it honked. “I sound like a duck,” she said, “and I’m sorry we’ve been eating so much takeout, but I haven’t been grocery shopping.”

  I hopped off the sofa and padded over to the kitchen. I found some potatoes in the pantry. They were a little soft and had eyes, but I thought they were still okay. Next, I checked the freezer and found a package of green beans with almonds.

  Mom wandered into the kitchen. “Need some help?”

  “Yeah. How about peeling the potatoes, and I’ll bike to Publix fo
r a rotisserie chicken?”

  Mom studied the potatoes as if they were rocks from outer space. “Okay,” she finally said, “I can do that.”

  I rode my bike on the sidewalk along the bay, automatically dodging people who were jogging and rollerblading. Everyone else seemed so happy. I wondered if I looked that way to them too—carefree girl out for a late-afternoon ride—instead of who I was—a girl biking for dinner because her mom was too depressed to cook. Mom. She was never far from my thoughts these days. I thought back to our conversation in the condo. She hadn’t asked about my social studies quiz, or swim practice, or my meeting with Coach. Deep inside, I knew Mom loved me, but she’d stopped paying attention. I steered my bike into the parking lot, wishing I could confess how I’d really felt about the baby, but I didn’t think Mom was strong enough to deal with my problems on top of her own.

  Mr. Fowler walked down the aisle, handing back our quizzes. As he neared my desk, I slouched lower in my seat, nervously running my hands along the shiny rhinestones sewn into my new jeans. I’d been so excited when I’d found them at the thrift store Mama and I had stumbled on while taking Ismail for a walk. But I was filled with self-doubt, and the rhinestones were little comfort as I scolded myself—Noura, you are a donkey! Why did you finish the exam so quickly? I probably hadn’t read the English correctly and missed many of the questions.

  With a quick wink, Mr. Fowler slid my exam across the desk. I squinted, staring down at the top right-hand corner. In bright red, it said minus three. Eighty-five percent. But with the extra credit points, my final score was 90 percent!

  “Ammar,” I whispered, sitting up straight and showing him my page.

  “Great.” He grinned, pointing to his own. Seventy-five percent.

  I sat back, a warmth spreading through my body. Baba would be so proud. He and Mama would be relieved we were adjusting to life in America so quickly. Already, we’d made a home for ourselves and Baba had a job at the hotel, even though it was as a bellhop. We still missed our family, and Mama was on the phone a lot with her mother and sisters, but we’d made new friends.

  Daksha turned to give me a thumbs-up, and I returned it before glancing over at Jordyn, who sat staring out the window. I caught a glimpse of her paper and saw that she had missed eight questions, leaving her with 60 percent on the exam. It shocked me. It was a barely passing score.

  “Jordyn,” Bailey hissed from the other side. “How’d you do?”

  Jordyn blinked a few times and turned to her friend. “What?” she asked, as if she hadn’t heard.

  “I got a ninety-five. Just missed one. What did you get?” Lea asked.

  “I didn’t do so well,” Jordyn said, quickly flipping her exam over and hiding behind her blond hair, as if it were a curtain.

  Quickly, I looked away, not wanting Jordyn to think I was being nosy. I could tell something was bothering her. And it wasn’t just her poor performance on the exam and how anxious she’d gotten while taking it. I recognized those feelings. They were dark, chaotic emotions that pulled you under their waves, cutting off the very air you breathed. I wanted to talk to her, but I didn’t know how. She was my friend, but I’d only known her for a few weeks. I didn’t want her to get mad at me for prying into her business.

  After school, I sat at the kitchen table with my notebook and a plate of fresh fruit Mama had cut up for snacks. “Ammar,” I called. “We’ve got to start thinking about our social studies project.”

  “Yeah, I know,” came his muffled voice from his bedroom.

  “I know you know,” I shouted, feeling a little frustrated by his lack of enthusiasm.

  I didn’t want to tell Baba or he would be upset, but it seemed Ammar spent more time with his models and drawings than he did with his schoolwork. Dressed in his shorts and a T-shirt, Ammar headed toward the front door with a soccer ball under his arm.

  “Where are you going?” I asked, my temper rising.

  “I promised the kids I’d help them with goal kicking,” he said, grabbing half an apple from the plate.

  “But we have work to do!” I grumbled, then lowered my voice. “And you missed afternoon prayers.”

  Ammar gave me a dark, mutinous look. “Who are you? The prayer police?”

  I sealed my lips shut, stung by his words. It wasn’t like I didn’t miss a prayer now and then.

  “We have the whole weekend to work on it,” he added, daring me to say something. When I didn’t, he slipped through the front door.

  “What are you working on, my love?” asked Mama, carrying a clean and freshly changed Ismail. She put him down to play with a set of blocks.

  I grabbed an apple slice and gave it an angry crunch. “We’re working on a project for social studies. Ammar and I are in a group with Jordyn.”

  “That’s nice,” said Mama. “Maybe she can come over and study with you, like Maryam used to.” As soon as she said Maryam’s name, Mama’s lips tightened, and she looked down at the floor.

  “It’s okay, Mama,” I said. “Maryam …” Before I could say more, the phone rang.

  Mama grabbed it. “Hello.”

  “Yes, yes, this is Muna,” she said, looking a little confused. “Who you?”

  She paused and someone spoke on the other end. “Oh, Jordyn mother. Yes. Talk Noura,” she said, and handed me the phone.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Hello, Noura, this is Jordyn’s mom. I wanted to set up a time when I can come by to help your mother with her English lessons.”

  “Oh,” I said. “That is very nice of you.”

  “It’s no problem,” she said, her voice friendly and warm. “It’s something I’d told our church I’d like to do. When is a good time for me to stop by?”

  “Hold on, please,” I said. “I will ask my mother.” I told Mama what she’d said.

  “Oh my goodness, that is so generous of her,” said Mama. “Well, she can come tomorrow afternoon for tea. Around one o’clock. I will make my cookies.”

  I nodded and shared what she’d said with Jordyn’s mom.

  “Jordyn told me about your mom’s kibbe,” she said, with a sad sigh. “I love trying new cuisines. You know, I used to take cooking classes at Sur La Table—Cajun, French, and Thai food.”

  I was confused. I didn’t know what Cajun or Thai food was. I turned to Mama. “She likes all kinds of food and likes to learn cooking …” I frowned, feeling like I’d lost something in the translation.

  “She wants to learn how to cook? That is wonderful,” said Mama, a smile brightening her face. “Why doesn’t she just come over for a cooking lesson? She is working so hard to help me. This way I will return the favor.”

  I turned back to the phone. “My mom would like for you to come for a cooking lesson,” I said, wondering if that was something Jordyn’s mom had been hinting at, or if I’d just gotten everything really confused.

  “A cooking lesson?” Jordyn’s mom said. “That’s so generous of your mother to offer. I love hummus. And falafel. I’d enjoy learning to make food from Syria and the Middle East.”

  “Okay, then,” I said. “Please come at one o’clock.”

  “Excellent, I’ll put it on my calendar for tomorrow,” she said, sounding super excited.

  “Can you please bring Jordyn?” I asked. “We need to work on our social studies project.”

  “Absolutely,” she replied. “I’m sure she’d love to come.”

  Feeling better, I hung up the phone. Mama was already running around, happily looking into the fridge to see if she had the ingredients for the menu tomorrow.

  After Saturday-morning swim practice, Mom and I drove toward the Alwans’ apartment for our cooking lesson. I was relieved she had showered, blow-dried her hair, and put on lipstick. Except for the dark circles under her eyes, Mom looked normal.

  “How was swim practice?” she asked.

  I stared out the window as we crossed the bridge to Davis Island. “Lea swam faster than me, but it was okay.”

&
nbsp; “Speaking of Lea, you haven’t invited her over in weeks,” Mom said.

  I shrugged. I hadn’t invited Lea because there were no snacks in the pantry, and I didn’t want her to see Mom walking around like a zombie.

  A few minutes later, Mom shifted her SUV into park in front of the Alwans’ apartment building. Before getting out, she opened her pocketbook and peered inside. “Ah, there they are. I made some English flash cards for Mrs. Alwan.”

  “How will she know what the words mean?”

  “Google translate,” Mom said. “She can write the Arabic word on the other side.”

  Though Mom had signed up to tutor Mrs. Alwan, I had expected her to back out because she’d been so depressed. The flash cards were a hopeful sign.

  Mom took a deep breath, and then let it out. “Come on, Jordyn.” I trailed behind as she climbed concrete steps with black metal railings to the second floor. I had forgotten there were no elevators and that the windows were so small.

  Just as it started to rain, Mom knocked on the door of apartment 2F. Noura answered, and I almost didn’t recognize her without a hijab. Her long, dark hair hung past her shoulders, reminding me of thick black velvet. “Welcome,” she said. “Please come in.”

  Shoes were neatly stacked by the front door, and Mom and I took ours off too, even though I wondered why it was necessary. The Alwans’ apartment looked much the same as the first time I’d seen it. The only real difference was a little boy lying on his stomach, watching Thomas the Tank Engine.

  Noura spoke to him in Arabic and he waved at us. “Ismail doesn’t speak much English yet,” she explained.

  “Hi, Ismail,” I said. “Nice to meet you.” I looked around the small apartment for Ammar. “Where’s your brother?”

  “He has a football—I mean soccer game,” Noura said, “but will be back soon to work on our project.”

  Mrs. Alwan closed her bedroom door and glided toward us, wearing a long turquoise dress. She was elegant, petite with dark hair and aquamarine eyes. Clasping Mom’s hand, she murmured, “Thank you.” And then she turned toward me. “Noura and Ammar’s good friend.”