I remember Jalaal pointing to the old men on American dollar bills. One of them is the father of America, but I cannot remember which one.
Now everyone is looking at me, so I have to say something. “He helped make Pakistan when Pakistan left India.”
“Oh!” Miss Salinas tilts her head. “He sounds like a very important person. And Pakistan used to be part of India? How interesting!”
I stare at Miss Salinas, then glance around. None of my classmates have any idea what I am talking about. I guess since I don’t know who is the father of America, then maybe it’s fair that Americans don’t know the father of Pakistan, or that Pakistan and India used to be one British colony. But still.
Miss Salinas breaks the silence. “That leads right into our next holiday. Who celebrates Diwali, the festival of lights?” That holiday isn’t in December; Akash and his family celebrated it about a month ago, near Halloween time.
Miss Salinas holds up her finger like she’s ready to count all the kids who celebrate Diwali.
No one raises a hand.
“Okay.” Miss Salinas looks around. “How about Ramadan, then?”
I raise my hand; I am the only one.
“Wonderful, Bilal! We’ll be singing a Ramadan song, too.”
A Ramadan song? In December? This year Ramadan was during the summer. It moves back about eleven days every year, but I’ll be old before Ramadan ever falls in December.
“Okay, then!” Miss Salinas’s eyes rest on Jordan. “Does anyone celebrate a holiday not on our list?”
Jordan folds her arms and looks at her shoes.
“No? Okay, then, our program is set. Let’s begin, shall we?”
Miss Salinas plays recordings of all four songs. Most of the kids sing along to the Christmas and Hanukkah songs—one about a little town somewhere and the other about a clay thing called a dreidel. No one sings along with the Diwali song. And the Ramadan song? I’ve never even heard of it. It’s in Arabic, so I don’t understand most of it.
Later, when I get off the school bus, I have to jog to catch up with Jordan.
“Wait!”
She looks over her shoulder and slows. “Hey, Bilal.”
I fall into step beside her. “You did not raise your hand in music class.”
She picks up her pace, and I have to take long strides to keep up.
“We celebrate Christmas.”
I nod, but I do not understand. Why didn’t she raise her hand, then?
“It’s just . . . my mom and I celebrate it when my dad comes home.”
“Oh.” I wish I could say more. Although I don’t have all the English words I need, I try anyway. “We left my father one day before Eid ul-Fitr—the last day of Ramadan.”
Jordan looks confused.
“Ramadan lasts one month, and when it ends, Eid begins. Eid is a big party with your family, your friends. But this year we left Pakistan before we could celebrate Eid, and my father stayed behind.”
“That stinks.”
“Yes, so much.”
“But you got to spend the Ramadan month with your dad, right?”
I think of the three days he was missing, but decide not to tell that part to Jordan.
“Most of the month, yes.”
“So that’s good—at least you were with him for a whole holiday month.”
I shrug. “That was not the most fun part. You are supposed to fast—only eat and drink when the sun is down.”
Jordan’s eyes open wide. “Wow—you must get hungry.”
“That is the point. To understand how people feel who do not have enough to eat.”
She nods, and I think she is impressed. “I don’t know if I could do that,” she says.
“Neither do I, actually.”
Jordan looks surprised.
“I have never done the fast before—I have always been too young. This year I wanted to, but Ammi—my mother—said I should wait until next year.”
“You lucked out.”
I shrug. It’s hard to explain that fasting is not a burden; it is something grown-ups do, something I want to do.
Jordan kicks a pinecone, sending it flying into the street. “My mom and I open presents from my relatives—Uncle Matt and Aunt Carol, and my little cousins. My grandparents send gifts, too. But I save one present for my mom and she saves one for me, and we have one present for my dad. When he gets home, we put up a fake tree and open our presents.”
Jordan’s faraway smile makes it seem like she’s watching a movie of her family’s Christmas in whatever month they celebrate.
We walk in silence all the way to her house.
Stopping at her front yard, Jordan asks, “Any news about when your dad is coming?”
I wish I knew. “Not yet.”
Jordan nods and shifts her backpack from one shoulder to the other. “I bet you’ll hear something soon.”
As she walks to her door, I think about the idea of having Eid when my father comes back. We could have the same foods. My mother, Auntie, and Hira could get henna designs on their hands. We could go to the mosque and thank Allah for bringing my father back. I wouldn’t even care if there were any gifts. Having Baba back would be enough.
The day of the Holiday Sing-Along has arrived, and you’d think Miss Salinas is prepping us for a Bollywood production. She flutters around at our rehearsal, making sure we’re all in our places up on the gym stage. The six classes of fifth graders stand on four tiered rows of risers, with the front row on the wooden stage floor.
The gym has been transformed into a “winter wonderland,” as Miss Salinas calls it. Strings of tiny white lights drape from the center of the ceiling to the basketball hoops on the four sides of the gym. One entire wall is covered with the snowflakes we made.The silver glitter glued to the snowflakes makes them look like they’re sparkling in the sun. From here, you’d never know my ugly snowflake is up there with all of the beautiful ones.
My classmates started making them yesterday while I was in ESL class. I was late getting back to Mrs. Wu’s room because Mr. Jacobs had asked me to do a reading test. He thinks I’m doing such a great job in English that maybe I won’t even need ESL classes much longer. I couldn’t wait to tell Mrs. Wu.
But by the time I got back to class, bits of cut paper were everywhere as kids scurried around the room cleaning up. Jordan showed me how to make a hurried paper snowflake, which reminded me of one of Daddo’s lace scarves. But my attempt at paper snow didn’t look at all like lace; it looked more like a tattered tissue you’d find on the floor at the end of the school day.
Looking now at the snowflakes up on the gym wall, I can only hope mine is way at the top where no one can read my name. Maybe I should have written it in Urdu letters.
“Bilal?”
I blink. Miss Salinas is looking at me.
“I said, let’s run through the Ramadan song first.” She jabs her thumb over her shoulder at the instruments set up along the front of the stage. The kids standing in the rows below me move aside so I can step down and join the other instrument players. I find the xylophone I’m supposed to play, and sit next to a kid with a silver triangle.
We rehearse the song, and I am glad to say I remember almost all the notes on the xylophone. I just wish we weren’t right up front.
When rehearsal is over, Miss Salinas claps her hands. “Bilal,” she says to me, “you will be a smashing success!” Then in a louder voice: “I’ll see you all back here at one forty-five. Remember, your parents will be attending, so best behavior at all times. Perform like professionals!”
As we walk back to the classroom, I’m surprised to see Jordan at the head of the line. She wasn’t on the bus this morning, and I didn’t see her come in late; maybe she arrived during my xylophone playing.
When we get back to class, Mrs. Wu has a magnet activity set up for us where we have to build a circuit—she calls it electromagnetic. After she gives the directions, our group divides up the tasks. I’m unrolling my copper w
ire when Jordan leans over her desk, a wide grin stretched across her face.
“Bilal! Guess what?”
Before she can say any more, Mrs. Wu kneels next to Jordan’s desk. “I’m so pleased your father is back for a visit!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wu!” Jordan gushes. Mrs. Wu pats her shoulder and moves to the next group.
I stop, my copper wire half-unrolled, and stare at Jordan. “Your father—he is back?”
She nods so fast her freckles blur. “For five days. He surprised us this morning. He won’t be here on Christmas Day, but it’s better than nothing.”
“This is great,” I say, and it is. But it makes me miss Baba even more. Until this moment, I didn’t realize that Jordan missing her father somehow helped me—it made me feel like I’m not the only one. But now Jordan’s father is here. And Baba is not.
Later, when we file into the gym for the sing-along, I look around for my mother. I think I’ll never spot her in this crowd, but then Uncle stands and waves both hands over his head. I smile and send a wave back.
Almost everyone is here—Auntie and Uncle, my mother, and Humza. Jalaal is supposed to come straight here after the high school dismissal bell, but I don’t know if he’ll make it in time. I try to picture Baba standing there alongside Ammi, but I just can’t. I know he is taller than Ammi, but how much taller? How does he stand? How does he walk?
We fifth graders sit and watch all the other grades perform first. When the first graders take the stage, Hira looks like she’s right where she was born to be. She curtsies to me, and I smile back. Hira ends up having a small solo part, her high, clear voice floating through the gym. I look back at my mother, expecting to see her wiping away a tear, but instead she’s holding up the iPad, filming the concert.
Then it’s our turn to sing, and we take our places on the risers. Jordan stands two rows below me, and while I can’t tell exactly where she’s looking, it’s somewhere off to the right. Whichever one her dad is, I wonder if he’d rather be watching Jordan play baseball instead of listening to all of us sing.
We sing our four songs, and I only make a few mistakes on the xylophone during the Ramadan song. With all the voices singing behind me, I hope no one noticed.
After the performance we return to our classrooms, where our families will meet us for dismissal. I’m packing my backpack when my family comes into my classroom, including Jalaal—he made it after all. Hira is already with them, her coat on and her backpack slung over her shoulder.
“Bilal!” Hira lets go of Auntie’s hand and rushes over to me as I pull my coat from my cubby. “Did you see me? Did you hear my solo?”
I smile. “You sounded great, Hira.”
She beams. “So did you, Bilal. Will you teach me to play that . . . what’s that instrument called?”
“A xylophone.” I have to admit it’s nice to know a word in English that Hira hasn’t learned yet.
My mother is near the door, signing me out, and I head over to say good-bye to Mrs. Wu.
“Happy holidays, Bilal!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wu. Happy holidays to you, too.”
Jordan calls Mrs. Wu’s name, and I turn.
Even if he weren’t standing in between Jordan and her mom, I’d know he’s her father. He’s got the same freckles and dark hair, although it’s so short I can’t tell if it’s curly or not. I have seen Jordan smile before, but never this big. Her smile matches her dad’s.
People say I look like Baba, but I could never really see it. If he were here in my classroom, I wonder if people would say things like “Bilal, this must be your father!” or “Wow—you two look so much alike!”
Jordan introduces her dad to Mrs. Wu, and I turn away. I join my family outside in the hallway, and we head for the car.
One day Baba will come to my American school, and I will introduce him to Mrs. Wu and to Jordan and to Mr. Jacobs, too.
One day.
Nineteen
If it were anyone but Hira screaming, I would think something was wrong. So when my little sister’s shouts carry all the way up the stairs this morning, I just roll over and close my eyes. Until the door bursts open and ricochets off the doorstop.
“Bilal! Jalaal!”
Hira has arrived.
From the muffled grunt underneath Jalaal’s covers, I can
tell he’s now used to Hira’s enthusiasm over every little tiny thing.
Before I can ask what she’s doing here, my sister scrambles onto Jalaal’s bed and yanks the cord to the window blinds.They zip to the top as a Jalaal-sounding “Oof!” and “Ow!” come from under his covers.
Hira stands on Jalaal’s bed in front of the window in her Hello Kitty nightgown, triumphant.
I sit up, blinded for a moment by the brightness streaming in through the window.
“Hira,” I say, rubbing my eyes, “what are you doing?”
Cupping her hands around her mouth as if there’s a chance we won’t hear her, she yells, “Snow!” She claps, then points out the window with both hands.
Snow? Snow!
I’m out of my bed and next to Hira in less than a second, my palms pressed against the cold glass.
Jalaal’s arm snakes out from underneath his covers, and he grabs his phone from the bedside table. His head emerges next, hair sticking up in every direction, a crooked grin on his face. “School’s canceled, little buddy. You can go back to sleep.” With that, he rolls over and burrows back under the blankets.
Sleep? Who can sleep?
I have seen photos of snow from the K2 mountain; our Pakistani giant is the second-highest peak in the world. But I have never seen snow that covers houses and cars and trash cans by the curb, or bushes or trees, or . . . Olivia?
“Hey!” Hira calls down to Olivia, who is dressed in puffy warm clothes and is shoveling snow from her driveway. “Wait for me, Olivia!” she calls over her shoulder as she darts out of the room.
Jalaal throws off his covers and sits up. “Let’s go check out the snow.”
I’m halfway down the stairs when I realize I skipped my Fajr prayer. But Uncle sees me and smiles, waving me downstairs.
“Your first snow, Bilal. Let’s get outside!”
As I gulp down my cereal, I send up thanks to Allah for the snow and promise not to miss the midday prayer, the Dhuhr.
By this time Jalaal has hauled himself out of bed, and he digs out his old snow pants, gloves, hat, and jacket for me.
We spend part of the morning building a snowman. Even Humza helps, bringing over clumps of snow that I help him pat onto the snowman’s base. Hira declares our creation to be a snow fairy before running inside to get a tiara, fairy wings, and glitter. Jalaal pats the snowman, shakes his head, and says, “Sorry about that, man.”
I pat the snowman, too, and say, “Yeah, man. Sorry.”
Ammi decides Humza has already eaten way too much snow and brings him inside to warm up.
Olivia rubs her mittens together. “Who’s up for building a fort?”
We’ve got the walls as high as my waist when Jordan comes by. She surveys our work and declares, “Nice.”
“Thanks.” I pat down the top of the wall with my snowencrusted glove and step back to take in our masterpiece.
“Hey, Jordan,” Jalaal says, “want to help us out?”
“Sure.” Her freckles stand out even more in the winter.
Hira recruits Jordan to sprinkle glitter on the very top of the snowman. Jalaal, Olivia, and I finish our fort, then help Jordan and Hira build another one.
Jalaal raises a corner of his mouth in a mischievous smile. “You know what time it is, don’t you?”
Olivia waggles her eyebrows. “Time for a snowball fight?”
Jordan scoops up some snow. “Bring it.”
Hira cheers even though I don’t think she knows why.
Jalaal explains the rules: “It’s simple. The last one hit with a snowball wins. You can leave your fort to get a closer shot, but if you’re pinged with a sno
wball, you’re out.”
He stands midway between the two forts. “I’ll referee.”
Hira slips her hand into Olivia’s glove. “I’m on her team!”
Jalaal smiles and shakes his head at Hira. “You two?” He jabs his thumb toward Jordan and me. “Against the two best pitchers around?”
Hira looks at Olivia. “Are you good at this?”
Olivia laughs. “I’ve been in my fair share of snowball fights.” She looks at Jordan and me. “But these guys? They’re going to be tough competition.”
Hira thinks about this for a few seconds, then slips her hand from Olivia’s and marches over to me. “Let’s go, Bilal. You’re on my team.”
Olivia laughs. “I’ll try not to feel insulted.”
Jordan and Olivia duck behind their fort, and Hira and I hunker down behind ours.
“What’s our plan?” Hira whispers, gathering snow into a lopsided ball.
“We make snowballs as fast as we can, and I’ll throw them.”
“I want to throw them, too.” Hira crosses her arms.
I’ve seen that look before. “Fine. You can throw, just be careful you don’t get hit.”
But once snowballs start flying, it’s not long before Hira scrambles out from behind our fort, a snowball in each hand.
I peek over the top of the fort in time to see Hira and Olivia pelt each other.
“We’re out!” Olivia laughs and puts her arm around Hira. I crouch again behind my fort.
Now it’s down to Jordan and me.
I’m careful to shift my position after each throw, ducking behind the snow wall so Jordan can’t track where I am. Snowball after snowball flies over the wall, inches from my hat. No matter how fast I make and throw snowballs, more and more fall around me. But when four snowballs fly over my wall at once, I know something is weird.
I peer over the wall in time to see four arms launching from behind the other fort.
“Hey!” I stand and immediately get hit in the chest with two snowballs, icy snow spraying my face.
Giggles erupt as Hira pops out from behind the other fort. “We got you! Bilal is out!”
Jalaal, Olivia, and Jordan stand, snowballs in hand, grinning.
“Four against one?” I say, tossing my snowball up and catching it. “That sounds fair.” I smile, then charge their fort.
A Long Pitch Home Page 13