“Principles?” Yusuf tried to remember what he’d read in the library about Muhammad Ali’s life. How he’d won the world heavyweight championship in the 1960s. How he’d become famous in a time when African Americans were treated very badly. How he’d protested the Vietnam War and been banned from boxing.
Uncle Rahman nodded, his eyes sparkling. “Muhammad Ali always stood up for justice. He was willing to sacrifice everything for what he believed in, no matter the cost. That’s something I will always admire.”
Yusuf swallowed. “Standing up for something can be hard,” he whispered, thinking of Ethan.
“Yes, it can.” Uncle Rahman clapped him on the shoulder lightly. “That’s why he’s called the Greatest.”
Yusuf grinned shyly. “Want to play video games with me and Saleem?”
“You go ahead. I’ll be right there!”
At dinner time, Amma and Sarah khala talked about their childhoods like they always did at Thanksgiving. “Remember how Abba would take us to that bakery on Richmond Street and buy those little cinnamon cakes without telling Ammi?” Sarah khala giggled.
Amma laughed. “Ammi would get so mad, because we wouldn’t have room for dinner!”
“And Rahman would spill the secret as soon as we got home!”
“Hey, I was little!” Uncle Rahman protested.
Nani shook her head. “Your father was never doing what he was supposed to!”
Amma patted her hand. “That’s why he was such a fun dad.”
There was a little silence, and Yusuf wondered if Amma was feeling sad. He couldn’t imagine not having her and Abba around all the time. “What happen to your abba?” Aleena asked. She didn’t really remember Nana anymore.
“He went to Allah,” Nani told her firmly, and stood up. “He’s waiting there for all of us.”
“Can I go to Allah too?” Aleena asked.
Amma hugged her quickly. “No, not yet. Only when you are very old and wrinkled.”
Aleena roared with laughter, and then everyone laughed. They began talking again, only stopping to eat more. Yusuf relaxed. Being away from Frey had never felt this good. He could feel the warmth of his family’s laughter like a blanket of goose feathers around his body.
After dinner, as they sat in the living room with cupcakes for the kids and chai for the adults, Amma turned to Uncle Rahman. “Tell us about Seattle,” she teased. “How’s your girlfriend?”
Uncle Rahman turned beet red. “She’s not . . . oof, baji! She’s fine. Her family is great.”
The teasing continued until Nani sternly scolded them all. “Talk about something else! All this nonsense of girlfriends is going to give your children ideas.”
It was midnight before everyone went to bed, yawning and smiling. Yusuf peeked into Uncle Rahman’s bedroom one more time to say good night. “Can we do a video chat sometime next week?” he asked. “I wanna show you my TRC robot. It’s really cool.”
“You’re competing in TRC?” Uncle Rahman gave a big smile. “That’s amazing, Yusuf! Congratulations!”
Yusuf’s cheeks puffed. “Thank you. The contest is in January. Maybe you can come?”
“I’ll try my best. Text me the date and time, okay?”
“Okay.”
Uncle Rahman lowered his voice and looked intently at Yusuf. “And hey . . . don’t worry about things, all right? I survived 9/11, didn’t I? You can survive twenty years later.”
Yusuf thought about this as he lay awake in Amma’s old bedroom. Uncle Rahman was right. He could survive everything that was happening in Frey. All he had to do was stay on the sidelines, not get involved. Not try to be a hero.
30
It was easier said than done, Yusuf found, to not get involved in something. On the Monday after Thanksgiving, he came back to school to see Ethan Grant and his friend Sammy teasing a little second grader in the shared parking lot between schools. “Just walk away,” he muttered under his breath, but he couldn’t help but give Ethan a dark glare as he passed him.
Danial gave him a clap on the back. “Good job, you’re learning!”
“Doesn’t feel very good,” Yusuf told him bitterly.
“But you’re safe, that’s the important thing.”
They went their separate ways for classes, and then met up for lunch. “So, how was everybody’s Thanksgiving?” Ethan boomed from the front of the cafeteria. “All you Americans, that is. We know the Mooz-lims don’t celebrate Thanksgiving.”
Yusuf clenched his hands under the table. “Just ignore it,” he told himself.
Cameron shook his head beside Yusuf. “He’s baiting you,” he whispered.
Yusuf took in a sharp breath. “Me?”
Cameron nodded. “Yes. You think he’s going to forget all the times you’ve challenged him?”
“At least Yusuf’s trying to keep his mouth shut,” Danial protested.
“Won’t do any good,” Cameron replied darkly. “The damage is already done.”
Yusuf stood up and grabbed his lunch. “I’m tired of everyone telling me how to behave,” he grumbled as he walked away. “See you later.”
He peeked into the quiet haven of the library. “Can I eat here, please, Mrs. Levy?” he asked the librarian.
She was sitting at her desk, reading. “Of course. Just don’t get my books dirty.”
“I won’t.”
He ate in silence, the feel of books on the shelves and colorful posters on the walls comforting him. He remembered coming in here in September to research 9/11. It seemed like a century ago.
Mrs. Levy was looking at him with warm blue eyes. “Needed some solitude, eh?”
“I guess.” He looked at his lunch, then back at her. She was clearly expecting more. “Uh, just thinking about a project I was supposed to hand in weeks ago.”
She nodded. “Ah, that 9/11 one.”
“Yes.”
She sighed. “You know, I remember that day. September 11. We were all so shocked, it was like a silence descended on the town. People stopped laughing in the streets, stopped meeting each other for coffee or lunch. Just walked around for weeks afterward, reliving the image of the towers on fire, day after day after day.”
Yusuf gulped. He’d been so involved in reading Uncle Rahman’s account, he hadn’t bothered to ask other people about their experiences. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, not sure what he was apologizing for.
Mrs. Levy looked straight at him. “Why should you be sorry? You weren’t even alive then. It’s those terrorists who should be sorry, and others like them.”
“I suppose.”
She leaned across her desk to Yusuf. “Listen, Yusuf. Never you mind what people say about you. You’re a good boy from a good family, just like all the other people living here.”
His breath sounded almost like a sob. “Doesn’t feel like I’m a part of Frey right now.”
“My ancestors came from Poland in the 1800s. My grandfather used to say the same thing; he never felt like he really belonged. He shortened his name and made his children speak only English, but at the end of the day they were still called dirty Jews.”
Mrs. Levy glared at Yusuf with glittering eyes. “Never you mind what people call you, okay? Be proud of who you are. Because if you’re not proud of yourself, how can you expect others to see you that way?”
Yusuf’s eyes welled up. For some reason, Mrs. Levy reminded him of Amma. He whispered, “Everyone says to keep quiet, not get involved.”
“Ah! Everybody’s dead wrong!” She gave an angry wave of her hand. “Some of my grandfather’s family died in the Holocaust, you know. So many people had the same attitude then too. Don’t say anything. Don’t get involved. And look what happened.”
Yusuf had only a vague idea of what the Holocaust was. He hadn’t learned about it in social studies in elementary school, but their fourth-grade teacher had taken them to the little Jewish history museum in Conroe for a field trip.
He could feel an idea forming in his mind. He poin
ted toward the computer in the library. “Can you show me how to do research on the Holocaust?” he asked.
That Monday after school, Amma decided to go to the park on Wicks Avenue. “We finally got good weather,” she said as she made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. “Let’s not waste it.”
Good weather in Frey meant anything below eighty degrees. Aleena took her dollies, and Yusuf brought his bike, their little picnic basket hanging off the handlebar. “Look, birdies!” Aleena pointed to the grass.
“Those are sparrows,” Yusuf told her.
She laughed and ran toward them, and laughed some more when they scattered about. “Here, birdie!” she shouted.
Amma spread a cloth on the grass and they sat down. “Sandwiches, anyone?”
Yusuf saw some kids from school near the fountain. “I’ll be right back,” he told her.
Jared was sitting at the edge of the pond, throwing pebbles into the water. “Hey, Jared, how’s everything?”
Jared jerked his head toward Yusuf. “Oh, it’s you! You scared me.”
“Sorry.” Yusuf sat down next to him. “So, how’s the painting going? You weren’t at school today. Is everything all right?”
Jared turned away again. “My mom came back for Thanksgiving.”
Yusuf grinned. “That’s amazing! You must be so happy!”
Jared shrugged. “I guess. She’s not the same mom, though. Grandma says the war changes people.”
Yusuf thought of his research on the Holocaust. “Yes, it really does.”
Jared went back to his pebble throwing. Yusuf watched him for a few minutes. “Wanna come over to my house again? We had fun, remember?”
Jared’s back stiffened. “I can’t. I’m not even supposed to be talking to you right now.”
“What? Why?”
“Uncle Trevor said I can’t.”
Yusuf stood up so suddenly he almost pushed Jared into the pond. “That’s . . . that’s ridiculous! Why does he get to tell everybody in the town what to do? How to think?”
Jared straightened up but didn’t reply.
“Fine, suit yourself.” Yusuf gave a frustrated sound in his throat and stomped back to his family.
In social studies class on Thursday, Miss Terrance called on Yusuf with an anxious little smile. “Is your report ready, Yusuf?”
Yusuf nodded. He’d been working on the report for a while now. He handed a thin stack of papers to Miss Terrance, but she shook her head. “I want you to read it out loud.”
His breathing stopped for a second. “I can’t!”
She narrowed her eyes. “Okay, not the whole report. Maybe just a summary of what you learned.”
Yusuf gulped, then turned to face the class. Everyone looked bored already, which was a good thing. It meant they weren’t listening and wouldn’t care what he said. “I’ve lived in Frey since the day I was born. So has my sister, Aleena. My mom was born in Houston. My dad is an immigrant, but he got his citizenship years ago. Still, lots of people treat us like outsiders.”
“What’s this got to do with 9/11?” someone asked. Okay, they were listening.
“Quiet, please!” Miss Terrance frowned.
Yusuf willed his hands to stop trembling. “It’s got a lot to do with 9/11, actually,” he said. “We all saw the parade on September 11 to honor the fallen, but we don’t realize how we treat our neighbors and friends who are still alive. We look at Muslims with suspicion, even if they’ve lived among us all our lives.”
Madison raised her hand. “I agree with that. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
Yusuf gave her a grateful look. “The worst thing is that if we see something bad happen to someone, like, say, pulling off a hijab or something else, nobody wants to say anything. We all act like we didn’t even see it.”
“Nobody wants to get into trouble,” someone argued.
“Yeah, my mom says the bullies just want attention,” someone else called out. “Best to ignore them.”
Yusuf tried to calm his breathing. “That’s easy to say, if it’s not happening to you.”
The class was quiet. Miss Terrance nodded.
Yusuf continued. “I also learned about the Holocaust. You know, the terrible thing that happened in Europe during World War Two? In the beginning, so many people just ignored how Jews were being treated. It was the little things, like name-calling and stereotyping. But here’s the thing: when nobody stands up to the bullies, they get even bolder. And they think they can do whatever they want because other people just won’t get involved.”
Journal entry 10
November 27, 2001
The priest we met at the church on Thanksgiving Day showed up at our house today. I opened the door and stood staring at him, wondering where I’d seen him before. “Is your father home?” he asked, his eyes crinkling in the corners, and I ran to get Abba. It’s not every day white people show up at our house for a visit.
Abba and the priest—Father Hancock—spent the whole afternoon chatting in the living room. I brought them chai from the kitchen, and small chocolate crackers, and then settled in the window seat to read. I’m halfway through Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, and it’s just as good as the previous books.
The men in the room were making reading difficult, though. Father Hancock told Abba that he was worried about his Muslim friends. It took me a minute to realize he meant us. “No need to worry, Father,” Abba told him. “We are coping. We’ll be fine.”
“I want you to know, we are all together in this as Americans,” Father Hancock insisted. Abba nodded and said thank you. I wasn’t sure what they were really talking about. What are we all together in?
Then Father Hancock said something really interesting. “I wish there was a way for this neighborhood to come together ‘Desi Street’ and the ‘African American street,’ and all the other streets where the white people live. To meet each other and become friends. Remain united. We are still reeling from the shock of 9/11 and we need to be reminded that we’re all one nation under God.”
Abba asked, “Do you have any actual ideas, or do you just like to give speeches?”
Father Hancock laughed a little and replied that he was indeed planning something. “I have a friend who’s a rabbi,” he said, “and I just met a Hindu at a party last week.”
Abba smiled. “So you want to start a band, then?” he joked.
Father Hancock didn’t get the joke, I think. He just replied, “Maybe.”
31
On December 4, Aleena danced into Yusuf’s room singing the happy birthday song. “Wake up, bhai, it’s your birthday!” she shouted, pulling at his covers.
Yusuf woke up, groaning. His head was splitting. “Leave me alone,” he mumbled.
Aleena’s face fell. “Birthday bhai!” she told him, but her smile was gone.
He groaned again. “Sorry, I’m just . . . not feeling well. Thank you for the song.”
“You welcome.”
“Aleena!” Amma called from the kitchen. “Leave your brother alone; let him sleep.”
He stayed in bed for another thirty minutes, telling himself what a bad big brother he was being. Finally delicious smells from the kitchen pulled him up. He washed and changed, then headed to Aleena and Amma with a bright smile.
“Happy birthday!” Aleena yelled when she saw him.
“Thank you, my darling sister!” He hugged her close. “Sorry I was being mean before.”
“It’s okay,” she told him cheerfully. “You get dolly!”
Amma laughed. “She’s insisting on giving you one of her dolls as a birthday present.”
Yusuf bowed. “It will be my pleasure!”
Aleena took forever to choose the right doll. Eventually she gave him her best one: a white-skinned Barbie with red hair and a long blue gown. “Here.”
Yusuf kissed the Barbie on its head. “Thank you. I will be a good mommy to her.”
Aleena went into peals of laughter again. “Silly bhai!”
&n
bsp; They sat down for breakfast. Abba had already gone to the store, but he’d left a small package for Yusuf on the counter. Yusuf waited until Amma took Aleena to the bathroom to wash her sticky hands, then opened the package. It was a slim book, with a colorful cover. Handmade Robots from Everyday Objects.
Yusuf smiled as he riffled through the pages. Abba had written a little note inside the front cover. Now you can make me that robot to clean the store. Then his smile faded. “Saturday club!” he gasped. He was already late. Very late.
Amma came back with Aleena in tow. “Not today,” she said. “I already called Mr. Parker. Told him you were going to take the day off because it’s your birthday.”
Yusuf frowned. “What did he say?”
“He told me to tell you that they can survive one day without you.”
Yusuf doubted that.
Amma began clearing the breakfast dishes from the table. “I also told your friends to come by after the club for some cake.”
“You did what?” Yusuf couldn’t remember the last time he’d raised his voice to his mother. “Sorry.”
“What’s wrong with that?” she asked, surprised.
He thought of the way Jared had turned away from him at the fountain. “Never mind,” he mumbled. “Can I go work on my robotics now?”
Amma stood with hands on hips. “Absolutely not! I have a whole morning planned.”
When the dishes were washed, they strapped Aleena into her umbrella stroller and walked downtown. Amma had errands to run, but she stopped at Olde Oaks Emporium to buy new shirts and pants for Yusuf. “You seem to be growing at the speed of light,” she told him. “Consider this your birthday present.”
“Clothes aren’t presents,” Yusuf grumbled, but he stood still as she held up shirt after shirt in front of his body. “Thanks anyway.”
“Go try these out. There’s a good boy!”
They reached downtown just before noon. Aleena was whining by now, so they ate lunch at a little café with a blue-and-white-striped awning and wooden chairs on the pavement outside. “This is nothing like DQ,” Yusuf remarked, examining the triangular chicken salad sandwiches made with soft white bread.
Yusuf Azeem Is Not a Hero Page 17