by Hena Khan
For Humza
—H. K.
To Ryan and Lizzie
—S. W. C.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As I wrote the third book in this series, I thought a lot about how lucky I am to have such an amazing team around me. I can’t thank my editor, Zareen Jaffery; agent, Matthew Elblonk; and members of my writing group—Laura Gehl, Ann McCallum, and Joan Waites—enough for helping me shape this series and bring it to life. I’m also carried by the love of librarians, educators, and fellow writers who make me believe I can do this. Thank you to each and every one of you who has shared my books with a reader, said an encouraging word to me, or made a comment or suggestion that has helped keep me going. A special shout-out to my home team: Edie Ching, Jacqueline Jules, Susan Kusel, Karen Leggett, Kathie Meizner, Kathie Weinberg, and the other wonderful members of the Children’s Book Guild of D.C. for being with me over the years and pushing me forward.
Some of the very best things about being an author are getting to talk to incredible kids across the country and globe, receiving letters from them, and hearing that they value what I do. There’s no better feeling. Thank you to all of you who I have met, or haven’t yet, for reading and making my books part of your lives. I’m grateful to the biggest basketball fans and most valuable players in my life, my sons, Bilal and Humza, who worked with to me to brainstorm ideas, check terms, design plays, and create a winning story line. For this book, I also had my friend Mikail Mirza share his basketball knowledge and creativity when I was struggling to figure it out, along with the enthusiastic support of Zara and Isa Mirza. My young friend Zayd Salahuddin lent me his first name, along with Musa, Yusuf, Rabiya, Sumaiya, Rania, Suleiman, Adam, and the other special kids in my life who have been so wonderful in sharing their ideas and excitement with me over the years. I remain forever indebted to my parents and family for their endless love, patience, and support. And to my husband, Farrukh—you inspired this series, and continue to inspire me.
1
My new basketball hoop is going to be amazing. I waited forever to finally replace the rusted, bent rim I’ve been playing on for the past four years. This one has a clear shatterproof backboard like the ones in the NBA. Plus, there’s an adjustable height lever you can use with one hand. I chipped in for half of it using the money I had saved up from my birthday and Eid. My parents paid for the rest.
But after three hours and thirty-seven minutes the hoop is still in pieces all over the driveway. My dad is drenched in sweat. My uncle, Jamal Mamoo, is cursing under his breath and probably wishing he hadn’t come over today. And I think my mother is pretending to understand Chinese, since that’s the only language in the instruction booklet. She keeps rotating the pages to look at the drawings from different angles.
“I think it’s the other end that’s supposed to go in this thingy,” Mama says, pointing at the booklet.
“No. It. Doesn’t. Fit. That. Way.” Baba has a washer pressed between his lips and speaks through it in a low growl.
“It’s too hot outside,” Naano declares from the doorway of the garage. My grandmother doesn’t believe humans should be in the sun for more than five minutes. “How many hours are you going to do this? Stop now. Come have chai.”
I look around in alarm, but no one seems ready to quit yet. My family is the kind that loves to watch do-it-yourself shows together on TV. These are the programs about regular people who tear out their kitchen cabinets or showers and install shiny new ones. We comment on their choices and how all the people seem just like us. Until they start cutting tiles or using power tools. Then we decide they must secretly be professionals.
The do-it-yourselfers on TV are nothing like the Saleem family. We don’t usually fix or build anything ourselves. My parents don’t own a toolbox or a single leather tool belt. There’s only a sagging shelf in the corner of the garage that holds a hammer, a box of nails, random hooks, and a screwdriver or two.
But it cost an extra seventy-nine dollars to get the hoop assembled. So here we are, putting on a bad reality show for our neighbors. I can’t prove it, but it sure feels like they are walking their dogs a lot more than usual today and smiling at us extra hard.
“You guys are doing it wrong.” My older sister, Zara, saunters outside holding a glass of lemonade and wearing a know-it-all look on her face.
“Zara!” Mama snaps her head up from the drawings. “We don’t need your commentary right now.”
“Okay. I thought you’d want to know I watched a video with instructions. The guy was NOT doing that.”
“Wait.” Baba turns around and glares at Mama. “There’s a video?”
“There’s no video listed on here,” Mama says, flipping over the booklet. “Unless the link is written in Chinese?”
“What video?” I ask Zara.
“The one on YouTube. There’s a guy who goes through all the steps one at a time for this exact model basketball hoop. You should watch it.”
“YOU THINK?” Baba explodes. The lady from two doors down and her tiny yappy dog both jump up, startled as he shouts. I can’t help but grin.
Jamal Mamoo catches my eye, drops the pieces of the base he was fumbling to put together, and lets out his wacky laugh. Soon Mama joins in too. Before we know it, we’re all howling with laughter. Even Baba. Nana Abu, my grandfather, comes shuffling outside because of all the commotion.
“Hold on a second.” Mama puts up a hand, gasping for air. “What’s so funny?”
Her question just makes us all laugh harder. I drop to the grass and roll around until my stomach hurts, but in a good way.
Two hours and twenty-three more minutes later, I finally get to try out my Spalding hoop. It’s as nice as I thought it would be. Maybe nicer. Best of all, we did it ourselves. Mostly. The dog lady felt sorry for us and brought over her husband and his set of tools to help us. Zara brought out her tablet and kept rewinding the parts of the video until we figured it all out. Nana Abu stepped in for Jamal Mamoo when he left to meet his fiancée, Nadia Auntie, for a wedding-cake tasting. (I volunteered for the tasting job, but my uncle said no way.)
I take a couple of shots and watch them go off the shiny new backboard into the perfectly straight rim. My game is already so much better than it was last year. I’m starting point guard on the team I’ve worked so hard to be a part of. I’m hoping Coach Wheeler will pick me to be our new team captain now that my best friend Adam left. We’ve turned our season around and have a chance to make the playoffs. Plus now I can practice at home and not worry about adjusting my shot to make it go in.
“We did it,” Baba says. He puts his arm around Mama, and they gaze at the hoop proudly. They’re going to have a lot more to be proud of soon. I can only imagine incredible things ahead of me. My future is looking as good as my new hoop.
2
It’s extra hot in the gym where we practice. The air conditioner isn’t working, and the air feels thick and heavy. Plus Coach Wheeler is running us hard. We did the eleven-man fast-break drill, and I was on defense with Blake. The two of us were trying to stop three people from scoring. I can feel sweat dripping down my back.
“Okay, water break,” Coach yells. “Make it quick.”
“It’s so hot,” Blake whines to me. “I’m dying. It’s hotter in here than it is outside.”
“Yeah,” I mumble. It takes too much energy to complain. I glance at the clock. Fifteen more minutes until the end of practice. I’m working up the nerve to talk to Coach about the team captain opening. I’ll have to make it quick. It’s Thursday, so Naano is going to pick me up since Zara has volleyball, and she hates to wait. Maybe I can get her to take me to Carmen’s for some Italian ice. The idea of the delicious fruity ice that tastes like a frozen Jolly Rancher makes me feel cooler already.<
br />
“Next up is the warrior drill,” Coach says. “Let’s give it our all until the end of practice, guys.”
The warrior drill is one of my favorites. It’s basically a rebounding-and-put-back battle. A few guys are on the perimeter, and three of us are on the inside. The perimeter players take turns shooting. Those of us on the inside fight one another for the rebound and have to put it back for a score twice before we can get out.
I’m on the inside with Sam and Matthew, and Blake takes a shot from the three-point line. I try to box out Sam. We both jump up.
SWISH!
Blake makes the shot instead of hitting the rim. We turn around and look at him.
“Oops!” He shrugs as if to say he can’t help being too good to miss.
“Show off!” Sam mutters.
“Nice shot.” Coach nods to Blake. “Come on—let’s keep going.”
Coach passes Ravindu the ball, and he takes the shot this time and misses. It hits the rim on my side. I’ve had my legs bent, ready to jump at the perfect moment, and I’m up just as the ball bounces. I grab the ball with both hands and come down hard . . . right onto Matthew’s foot.
YOW!
My foot turns in a weird way, and I start to lose my balance. You know how when you start to fall, you actually see yourself moving in slow motion? And there’s a moment when you try to stop it from happening? That is exactly what happens to me. Except I can’t regain control of my body and put an arm out to break my fall.
THUMP!
I hit the ground hard. The ball pops out and rolls away.
“Hey, man, you okay?” Matthew extends his hand to help me up.
“YEESSHH!” I gasp as a searing pain rips through my ankle.
“Uh-oh. What’s the matter?” Matthew looks scared as I grab on to him.
Coach Wheeler comes running over. He puts his arm around my waist.
“Zayd! Be careful. Can you put weight on your foot?”
My heart is racing.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“It’ll be okay. Test it out.”
“OW, OW, OW!” I wince as I take a small step, and pain shoots through my ankle up my leg. I have to lift my foot off the floor again.
I feel Coach Wheeler and Matthew look at each other over my head as I stand on my good foot. A lightning bolt of fear runs through me, and I suddenly feel a chill even though I’m drenched in sweat. What did I do to my ankle?
3
The lady sitting behind the counter hands Mama a clipboard and a pen.
“Insurance card and photo ID,” she says, not looking up.
“Here you go,” Mama says cheerfully. She’s always super nice to grumpy people. I think she does it to make them feel bad for not being friendlier.
I’m sitting on a chair in a waiting room at the Rockville Sports Medicine Center, wearing only one of my sneakers. On the other foot I’m wearing a sock. Over that sock, I’m wearing one of Baba’s socks, which Mama stuffed with bags of ice.
She had to come pick me up from practice last night instead of Naano. I pretended something was in my eye when I saw her and the tears threatened to flow. Coach helped me into the car, and Zara and Mama both led me into the house. Every time I tried to step on my foot, I had to stifle a yell. I couldn’t sleep last night because I kept waking up from the pain whenever I turned over. Mama got me an early appointment with the doctor this morning. So here I am instead of being in school.
“Zayd Saleem,” a nurse finally says from a doorway.
“I’ll help you,” Mama says as I slowly get up. I lean on her and hop over to the nurse, who pats my shoulder.
“Let’s see what’s going on with you, tough guy. Come this way.”
We head into a tiny examining room holding a bed and a couple of chairs. The nurse asks me a bunch of questions, takes my temperature and blood pressure, and clips something onto my finger. It’s too much work to get on the scale, and I’m still wearing the homemade ice pack, so we estimate my weight. Finally the doctor comes in, wearing a white coat and big smile.
“I’m Dr. Alam. Nice to meet you,” he says, shaking my hand. “What happened?”
“I jumped for a rebound and landed on my friend’s foot and hurt my ankle.”
“I see. Basketball player, huh? Rough sport for ankles and knees. Although it keeps me in business.” He winks at Mama, and she smiles to appreciate his joke. I don’t.
Dr. Alam kneels down and gently unwraps the ice from my foot. He presses in a few spots and rotates my foot slowly.
“OW!”
Frowning, the doctor asks me about my pain level. He points to a chart highlighting a row of cartoon faces. There’s a regular yellow smiley face on one end and a bright red crying face on the other. I point to the number seven face: It’s pretty upset, but not crying or anything.
“Hmm,” Dr. Alam types some notes. “I’m going to need a quick X-ray to check for a fracture.”
“FRACTURE?” I sit up straight, and my heart starts to pound faster.
“Don’t worry. We’ll get you fixed up so you can get back on the court.”
The court. My heart still races as I think about how I need to get back to it . . . and quick. There are only a few weeks left in the regular season before playoffs, and I can’t afford to be injured. My stomach starts to hurt, so I try to push those thoughts out of my mind and focus on the X-ray machine. It’s actually kind of cool to see my leg bones glowing on the screen. They remind me of Jamal Mamoo’s nickname for me, Skeletor, which he says is because I’m bony.
When we get back to the exam room, Dr. Alam points to the X-ray images on his computer.
“Good news. There’s no fracture.”
“Oh thank God,” Mama says. She lets out a big sigh, and I see her mouthing a prayer.
Dr. Alam moves toward a drawing of a leg on the wall. “You have what we call a high ankle sprain, Zayd. It’s a bit more serious than a regular sprain. That’s why you have pain here, in these ligaments.”
He says some other things, but I stop listening. My mind is fixated on one thing.
“When can I play basketball again?” I ask.
“I’m hoping in about four weeks, depending on how well you do.”
“FOUR WEEKS?” I’m louder than I meant to be, and Mama shushes me. I keep talking anyway. “We still have games left in our season and need to win to get into the playoffs! I HAVE to play!”
“Sorry, buddy, you need to stay off it as much as possible.” Dr. Alam looks at my face and smiles gently. “Tell you what. Come back in two weeks, and we’ll reassess.”
“Does he need crutches?” Mama asks.
“For the first couple weeks,” Dr. Alam says. As they continue to speak, my heart sinks into my stomach. I’ve always wanted to hop around on crutches. It looks like so much fun. But today, they’re the last things in the world I want. All season I’ve dreamed of taking my team to the playoffs. I don’t know how I’m supposed to do that now.
4
Mama dumps a bunch of little bags onto the kitchen table. Everyone is drinking chai and eating Naano’s favorite biscuits, which she pronounces “bizcoot.”
“What about this one? Isn’t it cute?” Mama’s holding a small, sparkly gold pouch that has a red drawstring on top. I can imagine a tiny pirate using it to stash even tinier gold coins.
“How about this plain one?” Dad picks up a bag made out of a gauzy white fabric. “It’s classic.”
We all look at him in surprise, and he shrugs.
“What? I’m trying to participate.”
“Nadia and I would prefer to use something recycled,” Jamal Mamoo says, which causes Naano to snort.
“You want to give people trash? How about empty chips packets?” she says.
“No, Ammi,” Jamal Mamoo explains. “We’re thinking of little Chinese-take-out-style boxes made out of recycled paper. Nadia found them online.”
Mama gives Naano a look I can tell means “Let it go.”
Eve
r since I gave Jamal Mamoo and Nadia Auntie a pep talk about taking control of their wedding, they’ve taken it, all right. Mamoo has a color-coded list on his laptop for each part of the wedding, including guests, vendors, and menu. There’s still some grumbling and arguments, but Naano and Nadia’s mom finally agreed to let them plan their own wedding. Mostly.
“What are these bags or boxes even for?” I ask. I’m sitting in the corner, elevating my foot on a stool. I’m wearing the “walking boot” that Dr. Alam gave me along with my crutches. It looks like a giant blue snow boot with the toes cut open and Velcro straps. My crutches are leaning against the wall near me.
“They’re the goodie bags for the people who come to the wedding,” Zara says. “We’ll put them on the tables.”
“What do you want inside? Nuts and dried fruits? Chocolate?” Mama asks. “I vote for chocolate.”
I expect Jamal Mamoo to agree. Instead, he shakes his head.
“Fortune cookies.” He grins. “We’re ordering custom ones with hilarious messages and little sayings about us on the inside.”
“OH MY GOSH. THAT’S SO CUTE!” Zara gushes.
Even Naano nods her head in approval. She loves fortune cookies.
“What do you think, Skeletor?” Jamal Mamoo asks me.
“That’s cool,” I mumble. I feel slightly guilty that I’m not pretending to be more excited. But this wedding is all anyone is talking about, although it’s still a month away.
Now I see Jamal Mamoo and Mama exchange a look.
“Come on, man,” Jamal Mamoo says. “I need you to cheer up. I can’t do this wedding thing without you. You’re my best man.”
“Yeah, Zayd,” Zara chimes in. “You’re in charge of the rings. And you have to dance at the mehndi.” The pre-wedding party where everyone sings and dances is Zara’s department, and she’s planning every detail.
“I can’t dance!” I remind everyone.
“Oh come on. You’re not that bad of a dancer. I’ll show you the moves. You can stand in the back,” Zara says.