Yusuf Azeem Is Not a Hero

by Saadia Faruqi

  Dedication

  To my father, who always pushed me to do better.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  A Note from the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Saadia Faruqi

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  You suck.

  The paper lay faceup on the locker floor. White lined notebook paper. Black ink.

  Yusuf blinked and read it again. You suck.

  He wasn’t sure if the paper was meant for him or was left over by the last person to use locker 130A. He looked at the other kids walking around, smiling and high-fiving. The student lockers in the south hallway of Frey Middle School were painted blue. Not a light sky blue, which everyone knew was for babies, but a deep grayish blue. A color that announced “Welcome to middle school!” without being cheesy.

  Just a few seconds ago, Yusuf had been thrilled at opening his locker for the first time. Lockers were for big kids. They meant something more than storage: they meant you were old enough. He’d been grinning as he’d spun the dial carefully to make sure he got the numbers right. Seven zero two zero. Easy. He’d already memorized the combination written on the class schedule he’d been emailed the night before. That was also a middle school thing, apparently. An email account from the school, where he’d now get school announcements directly. His username was YUSUF_AZEEM, it said on the schedule, right next to the locker code.

  Yusuf Azeem. Son of the famous Mohammad Azeem from A to Z Dollar Store on Marbury Street.

  And now this. He pushed his glasses higher up his nose. Then he looked down and studied the inside of the locker. You suck. The paper made everything go quiet, like a movie suddenly on mute. He bent his head and studied the paper the way he studied a new LEGO instruction manual. The K had a flourish that turned into a long, straight line. The Y had a curl, as if the writer had tried to learn cursive but had given up.

  His breathing slowed. The hair on the back of his neck bristled. What should he do?

  Only for a minute, though. Someone jostled his side lightly as they passed. The world began to move again.

  Yusuf let out his breath in a whoosh. He decided the paper was a mistake. Students were streaming into the gym from the hallways, their faces bent to their schedules to figure out where to go. Nobody could have decided he sucked in the ten minutes since the school bell rang. It had to be a mistake. Middle school was going to be awesome. He knew that 2021 was going to be his year. Cafeteria food. Chromebooks. Robotics club. This blue-gray locker.

  And most important, the annual Texas Robotics Competition. Yusuf couldn’t wait for things to get started. He’d been preparing for the TRC his entire life.

  It was time for life to get interesting.

  Principal Williamson was short and energetic, with bouncy brown hair tied in a ponytail and her face thick with makeup that shone under the gym lights. She wore a silky blue jumpsuit with sequins on the collar and held a microphone in her hands like a deejay.

  At least, that was what Yusuf thought deejays dressed like. You needed to go to Houston or Austin for an actual concert, and Amma and Abba would faint if he ever suggested it. Good Muslim kids didn’t go to concerts, they’d say, frowning with disappointment.

  Danial had found a space on the floor all the way in the far corner of the gym. “Over here!” He waved to Yusuf.

  Yusuf sank down into the empty spot next to his best friend. “Why didn’t you walk to school with me?” he grumbled, fiddling with his glasses.

  Danial shrugged, his floppy black hair spilling onto his forehead and around his ears. “My mom wanted to drop me off, since it was the first day and all. I think she just wanted to show off her new Jeep.”

  Yusuf squished the tiny spark of envy inside his chest. Danial’s parents were computer engineers, and they worked in the new Exxon regional headquarters about twenty miles out of town. This was his mom’s third new car since Danial was born.

  “Come home with me after school?” Danial asked. “I got a new LEGO set we can build together.”

  Yusuf stared straight ahead at Principal Williamson. She stood on a little wooden stage, checking her microphone, whispering, “Hello? Hello?”

  “Can’t,” he replied reluctantly. “My mamoo is visiting at dinner.”

  “The uncle from Houston? He’s cool.”

  Yusuf didn’t say that a LEGO set sounded cooler. That was a given. But Uncle Rahman came a close second.

  “Did you set up your email yet?” Danial continued. “I’m thinking of changing my username to legomaniac2021.”

  Yusuf didn’t know you could change your username. Why would anyone want to do that? “I’m okay with mine. Besides, what will you do next year? Change it to 2022?”

  Danial obviously hadn’t thought of that. He shrugged like he didn’t care, but his face was scrunched up as if he’d swallowed a pickle.

  “This is so childish,” he complained, nodding to the front of the gym.

  “What? It’s middle school. It’s what they do on the first day.” Yusuf was sure this welcome assembly was a time-honored tradition. At least, that was what the email last night had said.

  The sound system crackled, making them jump. “Helloooo, boys and girls, welcome to Frey Middle! I’m your principal, Mrs. Williamson, and I’ll be your pilot for the duration of your flight.”

  There was silence. A few groans.

  Principal Williamson looked around with a pained face. “Wow, tough crowd! Okay, no worries. I realize it’s the first day of middle school for some of you, and you’re probably still in summer vacation mode. Not a problem! Now, let me go over some rules before y’all head on to your classrooms. . . .”

  Yusuf tried to listen to the rules. He really did. There were easy ones, like no running in the hallways, and no fighting ever. Wandering the school without a hall pass was the biggest crime a kid could commit, apparently. There was something about bathroom breaks, and a great deal about the sports teams you could join.

  But the note in his locker kept swimming into his vision, until Mrs. Williamson’s face resembled a lined notebook paper with black letters on it. “Did you open your locker yet?” he whispered to Danial.

  Danial was jotting down the names of all the sports clubs on the palm of his hand. Soccer on Monday. Basketball on Tuesday and Friday. Wrestling on Wednesday. Yoga on Thursday. “Why would anybody choose yoga?” he whispered back. “Yoga is for old ladies.”

  “Yoga is meditation from ancient India.”

  “I really don’t care. It’
s for old ladies.”

  Yusuf decided there was no use arguing. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, then asked again. “Locker?”

  “Dude, I didn’t even get to my locker yet,” Danial replied. “I think the last class can still access them in the first week of school.”

  Yusuf didn’t ask how Danial knew this. His father, Mr. Khan, was on the school board, so all sorts of school secrets were probably discussed at their dinner table. A wave of relief washed over Yusuf. The note in his locker could have been left over from the year before. It was meant for somebody else. Maybe someone who actually sucked.

  Definitely not Yusuf.

  “Okay, who can tell me the three values of Frey Middle School?” shouted Mrs. Williamson, the sequins on her jumpsuit glinting brightly. “The first one starts with a P.”

  The gym erupted into laughter.

  “It’s perseverance,” whispered Yusuf, but nobody could hear him over the noise.

  2

  After the assembly was over, Yusuf and Danial stood in the hallway outside the gym comparing class schedules. They weren’t in any classes together, which was the worst news. They’d been together ever since kindergarten, except in third grade, which Danial had labeled the Year of Sorrows.

  “This is a bad sign,” Danial pronounced, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “How will you function without me?”

  Yusuf ducked his head to hide his smile. “I’ll manage somehow, don’t worry.”

  They were standing right under a big white banner that said WELCOME, NEW STUDENTS! and a smaller black one that said NEVER FORGET—TWENTY YEARS. Yusuf examined the black one. Twenty years was a very long time to keep remembering something.

  Danial hefted his new Star Wars backpack higher on his shoulder. It was so shiny new, it still had the plastic wire of the tag attached to one strap. “I think this will be the middle school of sorrows.”

  Yusuf looked back at Danial. “Don’t be silly. We’ll get to see each other in lunch and PE and library.”

  “Those are all baby classes.”

  “No, they’re not,” Yusuf replied cheerfully. Firmly. “They’re the most essential classes. Nourishing the body and the brain and the spirit.”

  “Ugh, you’re so positive, it’s disgusting.”

  Yusuf said, “Remember over the summer, how we built LEGO robots and watched Texas News Network with Abba at the store?”

  “Man, those were some messed-up news reports on TNN. People hating on anybody who’s different,” Danial replied. “Why does your dad watch that all the time?”

  “He says we should know what’s going on around us. Learn about the worst and hope for the best.”

  Danial chortled. “Yeah, he’s always saying that. He should make a poster and hang it over his checkout counter next to that plaque of his. Or maybe even replace that old plaque. It’s getting rusty.”

  “He’ll never replace the plaque, not in a million years.” Yusuf started walking. “Anyway, what I’m saying is, that’s how we should begin middle school. Learn the worst and hope for the best.”

  Danial followed, his backbone bent. “I repeat: ugh.”

  They separated in the hallway outside the gym and went in opposite directions. Yusuf watched for a minute as Danial grew smaller in the distance. “Good luck!” he called out, but Danial was too far away to hear him. He hefted his backpack and walked slowly. YUSUF_AZEEM reporting for duty!

  Despite his positivity, his stomach was grumbling. Classes without his best friend. A locker with a mean note inside. And it wasn’t even nine o’clock in the morning yet. He wished he hadn’t eaten the fried eggs Amma had cooked. They always left his mouth feeling greasy.

  Pretty soon, though, the morning improved, because first period was science.

  Yusuf’s science teacher was Mr. Parker, which was the best news on the class schedule. Mr. Parker had been voted Teacher of the Year seven years in a row, his name proudly displayed on a billboard on El Paso Street where the twin buildings of Frey Elementary and Frey Middle stood. The evening news had sent a reporter to interview him this past summer. That was how Yusuf knew the teacher held a degree in chemistry from the University of Houston, had two teenage sons, and liked strawberry shortcake ice cream.

  “Science is going to be very interesting this year, kids,” Mr. Parker announced, his clipped brown mustache stretching with his smile. “We’ll do some cool science experiments right here in the classroom. How much do you know about slime?”

  A few of the kids groaned, as if Mr. Parker was being cheesy. Yusuf wanted to smile back at him, but he hesitated. Maybe smiling at teachers in middle school was frowned upon by the others? He sneaked a peek at the rest of the class. There were a few kids he already knew, like Madison Ensley, who was always picked line leader in every elementary grade class, and Cameron Abdullah, who wore one shiny earring and made the weirdest jokes. Of course, in a town the size of Frey, there were hardly ever any new kids. They all knew one another.

  Mr. Parker was writing safety instructions on the whiteboard with a blue dry-erase marker. Number one, follow rules. Number two, notify the teacher IMMEDIATELY if there’s a fire or a spill. Number three, wear safety goggles for lab activities.

  Yusuf thought the rules looked like code. Everybody knew programming code came in steps, or sequences. His hands itched to write some code, but he forced himself to copy down Mr. Parker’s safety rules instead. When he looked up, his eyes met Cameron’s, aka Kamran. Cameron wiggled his eyebrows and rolled his eyes at Mr. Parker. “Boring!” he mouthed.

  Yusuf shook his head. Mr. Parker’s safety instructions might not be exciting, but they were essential. On his last visit to Frey, Uncle Rahman had told Yusuf about a lab technician in his hospital who mixed some chemicals wrong. Not only was there a mini lab explosion, but the tech’s eyebrows had gotten singed because he forgot to wear goggles. The image made Yusuf grin. He could just imagine the poor lab assistant without eyebrows.

  “Glad my safety rules are making you laugh, young man.”

  Yusuf gulped and looked carefully at Mr. Parker. “Uh, I was thinking of something I’d heard,” he confessed. He tapped the frame of his glasses with a finger.

  “About . . . ?”

  Yusuf had no intention of starting sixth grade on the wrong foot. He ducked his head. “Nothing, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “What’s your name?” came the dreaded question.

  For a split second, Yusuf thought about using an American version of his name. Joseph? Joe? How hard could it be? After all, Kamran had managed the transformation into Cameron in fifth grade without any trouble. It was the first day of middle school. He could do this, if he wanted.

  No. Abba always said, “Be proud of who you are. Be proud of the name and everything that comes with it.” He took a deep breath and said, enunciating each syllable clearly, “Yusuf Azeem, sir.”

  Then Mr. Parker said, “Well, Yusuf Azeem sir, please listen carefully, because your first assignment will be on these safety rules.”

  Yusuf stared at Mr. Parker, and Mr. Parker stared back solemnly for six whole seconds before turning to the whiteboard. Cameron made a shocked face with both hands over his cheeks and mouthed, “Busted!”

  Yusuf stared straight ahead for the rest of the class, focusing all his energy like a laser beam at Mr. Parker’s shiny forehead.

  3

  Amma was cleaning out the garage when Yusuf got home from school. “Salaam alaikum! Just the boy I wanted to see,” she said, giving him a quick hug. Her knee-length white tunic had smudges of dirt on it.

  “I’m starving,” he announced, before she could give him a box to lug out. She’d been cleaning and reorganizing the garage all summer, bit by bit, to make room for her desk and file cabinets. She had even put in new shelves and painted the walls a cream color. Her little garage office, she called it, where she’d write her newspaper articles and essays and do all her other freelance work. The year before, she’d edited a book for a famous writer in New Yo
rk. That was when she’d decided she needed a real office, not just the kitchen table.

  The garage project had taken all summer. Every day of the seventy-five-day vacation. Yusuf had been on cleaning duty with her most of those days. Not today, though. Garage-cleaning duties had officially ended. “Can I eat something?” he asked.

  “Of course.” Amma wiped dust from her cheek. “There’s chicken pulao on the counter. Wash your hands before you eat.”

  “And raita?” he asked as he headed inside. Every plate of pulao needed a side of spicy-sweet yogurt poured over it.

  “And raita,” she replied. Then, as an afterthought: “Don’t fill your stomach, though. Rahman mamoo is already on his way here, and he promised to bring Chinese food.”

  Yusuf’s heart jumped. He’d almost forgotten. He hurried inside and put his backpack in the hallway closet, then lined up all the shoes correctly before heading to the kitchen. Aleena sat at the kitchen counter, playing with her toys. She squealed when she saw him. “Salaam, bhai!”

  “Hey, goosey, how’s my favorite baby sister?” he cooed at her, ruffling her curly hair.

  “My dolly say hi,” she told him solemnly. There were at least five dolls in front of her, so he said hello to all of them just to be safe. Aleena beamed at him.

  Yusuf washed his hands at the kitchen sink, then sat at the counter eating a steaming pile of rice with chicken. His laptop—a present from Amma and Abba on his birthday last year—was nearby, and he pulled it toward him. “Make me a game,” Aleena commanded. He opened a window to his favorite website, Scratch, and began dragging boxes of code to please her. An animated unicorn? Aleena loved unicorns.

  “Make him glow,” Aleena said.

  Yusuf ate with one hand and worked with the other. Coding with blocks was one giant shortcut, but it got the job done and made Aleena happy. She laughed at the glowing yellow unicorn dancing on its front legs, shooting rainbow farts every ten seconds.

  “Unicorns are a myth, you know, Aleena?”

  She looked up. “What’s a myth?”

  “Something a lot of people think is true, but it’s really not.”

  Aleena wagged her finger at him. “I know it true. Unicorns real.”