by Hena Khan
“I am American,” Mustafa likes to remind them, whenever they say something like that to him. Sometimes he even mutters, “If you didn’t want American children, you shouldn’t have moved to this country,” but usually only loud enough for me to hear.
“Hey, guys,” Mustafa says as we walk through the garage door. He’s sprawled on the old sectional with the television remote.
“We aren’t guys. Is it so hard to say salaam properly to your parents?” Mama grumbles while I put my shoes away. Her accent, along with her complexion, is a bit lighter than Baba’s, and people have a hard time guessing that she’s from Pakistan.
I smile as I remember that “guy” in Urdu is the word for “cow.” Mustafa winks at me as Mama goes into the kitchen to warm dinner. Mustafa’s in a good mood, so maybe we can eat in peace.
“How was back-to-school night?” Mustafa asks as we sit down at the table. “Who’d you get for homeroom?”
“Ms. Bixler.” I don’t hide my surprise that he’s asking. My brother doesn’t usually act like he cares a whole lot about me or what I’m doing. When he isn’t watching TV, he’s texting his friends or pushing past me in the hallway to go to his room and close the door.
“Is she new? I don’t remember her,” Mustafa continues, chewing.
“Yeah, I think she started last year.” If Mustafa had Ms. Bixler, she would have probably asked me, “Khokar? Are you related to Mustafa?” on the first day of school. Our last name is an obvious giveaway, and I’m used to being linked to him. But now I don’t know what to say when his old teachers ask how he is doing. I figure they don’t want to hear about the C he got on his science test or how he was grounded for the past two weeks for talking back. So I just stick with, “He’s fine.”
“Did you finish your homework?” Mama asks Mustafa.
“I did it all at school. Don’t worry, Ma,” Mustafa replies with a mouthful of chickpea masala. It has too many onions in it, and I push my food around on my plate with my naan, wishing I were eating the rest of my peanut butter sandwich from lunch instead.
“We won’t worry when we see all As on your report card.” Baba clears his throat like he always does when he’s extra serious. “You are in high school now, Mustafa, and it’s not a joke.”
“I know, Baba. Relax, the school year just started.” Mustafa puts down his fork, his head lowered, and I brace myself for another argument.
But as Baba wipes his plate, Mustafa jumps out of his seat, stacks the dirty dishes, and carries them over to the sink. Then he puts water in the kettle and takes out the tin of tea leaves for making chai, instead of going back to the couch.
What does he want?
“So I was talking to my guidance counselor about college and how I need some extracurricular activities,” he says while loading dishes into the washer.
“Did she suggest mathematics club or science club?” Baba asks. “That would be great for getting into medical school.”
“No, actually, I was thinking of trying out for the basketball team.”
“Basketball?” Baba frowns. “No, no. Why basketball? Timothy next door says his son is captain of the chess team. You should do that.”
“But I’m good at ball, not chess, Baba.” Mustafa drops the silverware into the dishwasher with a clang. “My gym teacher thinks I have a good shot at making JV as a freshman.”
“Basketball will be a distraction from schoolwork,” Baba says. His brow wrinkles. “Your grades should be your number one priority.”
“But my counselor says I have to be well-rounded to get into a good college. Good grades aren’t everything.”
It sounds like Mustafa has been thinking about what to say. I notice the line of stubble on his jaw. Recently, it’s like the brother I’ve known my entire life has vanished, and a total stranger—one with better hygiene—has moved into his place. For years Mama begged him to at least wash his face in the morning and even got him special men’s woodsy-scented foaming face cleanser, but he didn’t touch it. And now Mustafa practically lives in the bathroom, shaves, gels his hair, and drowns in cologne. The weirdest part of it all is Soojin saying that she overheard girls on her bus talking about how “cute” he is.
Gross. There is only one way I can think of Mustafa as cute. In the photo that sits on the mantel in the family room, there’s a four-year-old version of him in a bow tie with a face covered in blue birthday-cake icing.
“Do they have sofas at basketball practice?” Mama chimes in. “All you want to do is lie down and watch TV all the time.”
“Come on, Ma.” Mustafa hangs his head.
“And what about the driving? Who’s going to take you and bring you from practices and games? You know what time we get home.”
“Plus there’s Sunday school too,” I blurt out. But I wish I could take it back when Mustafa shoots me a death glare.
“Yes, your sister is right. School and Sunday school have to come first,” Baba agrees.
Mustafa looks helplessly around the room, frustration growing in his eyes.
I better do something.
I slide out of my seat and stand next to Baba, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. He rests his hand on my shoulder, and after I take a deep breath, I speak up. “You know, Soojin’s cousin got into Harvard, and she said it was because he was the captain of his basketball team.”
“Harvard? The real Harvard? He must have good SATs also?”
“Yeah, the real one. All I know is he was really good at basketball. Soojin said that her whole family couldn’t believe he got in because he’s not even smart.”
“Is that so?” Baba muses. “Basketball?”
“Here’s the permission form for tryouts,” Mustafa says quickly, giving me a slight nod to acknowledge my effort. “Please think about it.” He pulls a folded paper out of his pocket and places it on the table.
“Okay, we’ll see,” Baba says. He clears his throat again, this time to signal he is done with that conversation. “Guess who I spoke to today?”
“Who?” I ask.
“Your Thaya Jaan.” Baba’s voice deepens as he utters the title that means “dear older brother of my father.” “He is coming to visit.”
“Acha?” Mama’s eyes widen. “They actually gave him a visa?”
I try to picture my uncle, who I haven’t seen since I was six years old, the only time I’ve ever been to Pakistan. I have fuzzy memories of the trip: a large house with a green metal gate, and a guard in front, and a big buffalo in the backyard. But I really only know Thaya Jaan as a grainy figure on Skype who my parents make me say salaam to from time to time.
“Yes. He sounded very happy,” Baba says. He clears his throat before continuing. “His visa is for three months, so he’ll be here for a while.”
We all glance at Mama to see how she will react to having someone from my dad’s family stay with us for so long.
“When does he arrive?” Mama looks in Baba’s direction, but she doesn’t wait for an answer. “We have to get the house fixed before. The garage has to be clean—I want all of those boxes out.” Mama rattles off more tasks in superhostess mode. But then she stops midsentence and points at Mustafa and me with a warning look. “And you two better behave. No fighting and no being rude.”
“That’s right,” Baba says. “I want my brother to see that my kids are just as disciplined as his and that I made the right decision to settle here. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven me for not returning to Pakistan.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“My brother always thought I’d come back after my residency. But I didn’t.” Baba’s eyes grow thoughtful. “You know I was only a couple of years older than you, Mustafa, when my father died and your uncle took care of me. I respect him so much that if he told me it was day outside when it was night, I would agree.”
“That makes no sense—” Mustafa starts to argue before Mama shushes him.
“That’s the way respect works. No talking back. Remember what I sa
id. You two better be perfect.”
Mustafa and I exchange grimaces. Even though I’m happy for Baba that his brother is finally coming to America, he’s basically a stranger to me. And three months is an awfully long time to have a guest live in our house, especially someone who is never wrong. Plus, it’s going to seem like a whole lot longer if we all have to pretend to be perfect the entire time.
3
“Settle down and take your seats, everyone,” commands Mrs. Barton after the bell rings. She stands with her hands on her hips, dressed in a ruffled shirt with a high collar and a long skirt. “Today we are beginning our new unit on the pioneers of the American West.”
“Is that why you’re wearing that?” Luke says it like he’s sincerely interested, but everyone except for Mrs. Barton knows he’s making fun of her.
“Yes, exactly. This outfit is just like the ones pioneers used to wear in the mid-1800s. You all need to get into character because you’re going to race across the country to Oregon by wagon train in teams of four!”
“Wait, so we have to dress up?” Bradley asks in a worried voice.
“No, Bradley.” Mrs. Barton sighs. “What I mean is you have to pretend you are a pioneer and think like one. We’re doing a modified version of the classic Oregon Trail game. I was telling your parents last night that in this project you’ll learn how to overcome challenges like food shortages, natural disasters, and diseases.”
I’m sitting at the desk next to Soojin, and I nod at her and mouth, “We got this.” We always work on projects together and were thrilled when we got our schedules during orientation and saw that we had three of our classes together: social studies, music, and science.
“Pick your groups, everyone. If you can’t do it quietly, I will pick them for you. Then get to work on this introductory exercise.” As she speaks, Mrs. Barton passes around sheets of paper.
“Who else do you want in our group?” I ask Soojin.
“We can ask Emily.” Soojin points to where Emily is standing alone, scanning the room.
“Emily? Seriously?”
“Come on, Amina. She doesn’t have a group, and we’re not in elementary school anymore.”
I’m stung by her words, but before I can even give in, Soojin has already waved Emily over.
“Do you want to be with us?” she offers. Emily is visibly relieved.
“Thanks, guys.” Emily smiles at me, but I just manage to purse my lips together and nod. I don’t understand. Doesn’t Soojin remember all the crappy things that Emily has done for the past few years? Like the time she pinched her nose and squealed while Julie said something smelled like it had died when Soojin brought kimchee in her lunch. Or when they both scoffed at us and said, “Speak English, you’re in America,” while we were teaching each other phrases in Urdu and Korean. Or, worst of all, when she and Julie spread a rumor at school that Soojin’s parents served dog meat at their downtown Milwaukee restaurant, Park Avenue Deli. Luke would bark under his breath every time he passed Soojin for months.
Why is Soojin acting like none of those things matter anymore?
“Oh good. You guys are a group of three? Here, Bradley, join these girls.” Mrs. Barton thrusts Bradley Landry toward us. And this time, the three of us look at one another with alarm.
Bradley’s the kid who can’t sit still for more than five minutes. In second grade, he was forced to sit on a chair during circle time so he wouldn’t start to roll around on the ground or poke the person next to him. And in fourth grade, he actually stuck his pen into the electrical socket while sitting on the carpet, got zapped, and was taken to the hospital in an ambulance.
“Sit with your groups for the next twenty minutes and come up with a strategy for the first exercise,” Mrs. Barton calls out. I watch with dread as Bradley drags his chair over to my desk. Soojin and Emily bring theirs to form a rectangle.
“Let’s do this.” Bradley leans in too close to me, since he doesn’t seem to understand personal space. I slide my chair away from him and start reading the handout, which describes our twenty-foot wagon and lists the supplies we can choose for our trip out West. Our first task is to pick items to stock the wagon with using the money we have. It’s critical that we stay within the weight limit, or our oxen will be overtaxed.
“We definitely need sugar,” Bradley starts. He holds the list close to his nose, slams it down on the table, and then points at the supply list.
“Sugar is a luxury,” I protest. “We need flour more than sugar to survive.”
“But I can’t live without sugar.” Bradley shakes his head. “Hey, do you guys have any candy in your desks?”
I shrug, but Emily speaks with authority. “No, Bradley, we don’t. Why don’t you make a list of the clothes you need to bring?”
At the end of the twenty minutes, after arguing for most of it, our group barely manages to complete our supply list. We let Bradley have some sugar in exchange for his agreeing to buy flour and a cast-iron pan. As time runs out, I scribble down the list, as exhausted as if I had actually loaded a wagon with hundreds of pounds of goods.
“Good job, everyone!” Mrs. Barton claps her hands. “We’ll start our journeys on Monday.”
“See ya, partners.” Bradley slides his chair back to its usual spot, and I pack up.
When the final bell rings, I rush out of the room, ready to strategize with Soojin about how we are going to deal with this group and still win the race. Then someone calls out, “Wait up!”
Emily catches up to us, breathless. “That was fun. I think we have a good chance at winning,” she says as she falls into step next to Soojin.
“Yeah, if Bradley doesn’t get us all killed first,” Soojin reminds her.
“It sucks we have to work with Bradley. He’s so weird,” Emily says. “Did you guys see what he was doing at lunch? He spread ice cream all over his pizza. It was so nasty!”
“Yeah,” I mumble.
“And didn’t he say all that weird stuff to your mom in second grade?” Emily continues.
“What did he say?” Soojin asks, turning to me. “You never told me.”
“It was right before you moved here. In second grade my mom came in and volunteered to do reading drills with one kid at a time. When it was Bradley’s turn, he said, ‘I’m going on a date with Amina’s mom.’ ”
“Isn’t that so weird?” Emily interrupts. “He rides my bus and is always getting in trouble.” She keeps talking, so I don’t get to finish the rest of my story—how Bradley also told Mama that he loved her and that he couldn’t wait for their second date. Mama laughed and told Baba about what had happened with a funny little kid that night at dinner. But Baba immediately turned to me and said, “Stay away from that boy.” Now I was stuck with Bradley every afternoon for as long as this project lasted: six whole weeks.
As Emily continues to speak, I trail behind them, listening to their conversation.
“Do you want to come over after school next week? We could work on our project or think of more names for you if you want.”
“Yeah, sure. Maybe,” Soojin answers when we reach her locker.
“Okay, great.” Emily nods at me, looking puzzled. I realize I’m staring at her blankly. “See you guys on Monday.”
“Bye,” Soojin replies as I wait for Emily to leave.
“Don’t you think it’s strange?” I finally say as she walks away. I’m embarrassed and feel petty, but I can’t stop the words that are rattling around in my head from coming out.
“What do you mean?” Soojin asks.
“All of a sudden Emily is acting like she wants to be best friends with you or something.”
“She’s not so bad, Amina.” Soojin puts on her new, mature middle-schooler voice. “Maybe you should give her a chance.”
“What for?” I want to ask, but I don’t have the nerve. Every time I say anything about Emily, I get the same feeling of disapproval from Soojin even though I’m not the one acting different. We’ve both felt the s
ame way about Emily and Julie for so long. And I still feel the same.
Suddenly, I just want to get home as quickly as possible and start the weekend. I say a quick good-bye to Soojin and walk to my bus, turning my head to avoid Bradley as he rushes by to catch his. I catch a glimpse of a Blast from the Past poster, and the huge words “Sign Up” underneath seem to scream out “YOU’RE A CHICKEN” to me. Everything about this past week—from wishing I were singing in the concert, to being in the worst pioneer wagon, to wondering why Soojin and Emily are acting so chummy—is making me wish I’d never left elementary school.
4
“It’s our turn!” Rabiya shouts. She stomps her foot and thrusts out her hand for the game controller.
“We just started this game. Come back in half an hour.” Yusuf doesn’t take his eyes off the television or move from the best spot on the worn couch in their basement.
“Liar! You said that last time,” Rabiya argues. Yusuf and Mustafa have been playing FIFA for more than an hour. So when they ignore her again, she throws her body in front of the TV and blocks the screen, shaking her hips from side to side.
“Move it,” Yusuf growls as Mustafa pauses the game.
“Come on, Rabiya,” Mustafa adds in a gentler tone. “I’m winning. As soon as I finish crushing him, you guys can play.”
Rabiya glares at them both, her big brown eyes blazing, and doesn’t stop dancing. She’s being a bit babyish for a ten-year-old, but I can’t blame her. Her brother, Yusuf, is a year younger than Mustafa, even though he’s taller, and always nasty to Rabiya. He actually makes Mustafa seem almost sweet in comparison.
“If I get up . . .” Yusuf pushes his glasses up his nose and waves his fist. His oversize jersey and baggy jeans make him seem even bigger than usual, and Rabiya looks like a tiny bird hopping around in front of a beast that can easily crush her.