by Hena Khan
“They didn’t practice,” Aliya whispers to us. “They’re so out of sync.”
“They’re aunties.” Zara shrugs. “They’re having fun.”
Everyone claps politely for them when they finish, but they don’t seem to notice. They are too busy congratulating themselves. Next it’s our turn.
“Come on, everybody!” Zara says. Everyone gets in position, and I give the deejay the signal to start.
I’m nervous we won’t be able to pull it off and worry everyone will forget the moves or the order of the songs. Every time a new part of the mash-up begins, someone has to use a prop—a pair of sunglasses or a wig or a scarf. When you add in the dance moves, it’s a lot to keep track of. My job is to coach, and I only have a small part where I do a goofy walk into the middle of the dance floor wearing a hat over my eyes.
The music begins, and everyone is perfect to start. As in they are seriously killing it! I’m proud of them and steal a look at Jamal Mamoo and Nadia Auntie. They are clapping and cheering.
The grand finale is a Hindi song called “It’s the Time to Disco” that has some English lines in it. We bust out some ridiculous moves that make Jamal Mamoo start to cry from laughing so hard. Then, as the last song ends, I run up and grab him and Nadia Auntie from the stage and pull them onto the dance floor.
“That was AMAZING!” Jamal Mamoo yells to me over the music. “I’m so impressed. Thank you guys for doing that!”
I grin at him. We pulled it off! Jamal Mamoo and Nadia Auntie start to sway to the music. Suddenly mamoo’s friends sneak up from behind and pick him up by the legs. He puts his arms in the air and waves his hands around as everyone hoots.
I see Jamal Mamoo point at me, and—WHOA!—the next thing I know I’m being hoisted up onto some big dude’s shoulders. I have no idea what to do, so I stick my hands up the way mamoo does and try not to fall off.
Zara runs over to Nana Abu and pulls him off his seat, and they dance together. Naano actually gets up too, and the two of them hold one of Zara’s hands each and laugh while they slowly move to the beat. When I get back down to the dance floor, everyone boogies their hearts out. I manage to hop around a little, and my ankle doesn’t hurt.
“I think I can play tomorrow!” I yell to Baba, pointing to my ankle. Tomorrow’s our first playoff game. “Dr. Alam said I can play when I feel ready.”
He gives me an “okay” sign while he does an awkward Punjabi dance move, acting like he’s screwing in an imaginary lightbulb.
“We’re going to do the traditions now, so come on up and let’s see how much mithai we can feed these guys!” the deejay announces.
Jamal Mamoo and Nadia Auntie settle back on the bench swing. Mamoo wipes the sweat off his forehead using a big dinner napkin while everyone crowds around them. The aunties place a dab of henna paste onto a big leaf on their hands and offer their congratulations. We all watch as they take turns feeding them Pakistani sweets. Jamal Mamoo obediently opens his mouth each time, even when the giggling ladies try to cram in huge pieces of mithai.
“Help me, Zayd!” he begs. “I’m going to gag.” I stand next to him and convince the aunties to feed him M&M’s instead.
After the rituals are over, it’s time for family photos. Mama and Baba and Naano and Nana Abu come up to the stage and sit on either side of the bride and groom. Zara and I kneel in front. Nadia’s parents come up too. Next her aunts and uncles and cousins and others I don’t know join the crowd. It feels like a hundred people are squeezed onto the stage.
After my face hurts from smiling for pictures, I escape with Zara back to the buffet area to get a drink and some more of my favorite butter chicken. Dancing made me hungry. The food is already gone, but there’s a bunch of desserts spread out on the tables now. SCORE! Along with mithai and rice pudding, there are plenty of cupcakes, too. When Jamal Mamoo and Nadia Auntie went to taste wedding cakes, they couldn’t decide on a flavor, so they decided to get them all in cupcake form. Genius.
I devour a chocolate caramel cupcake and half of Zara’s white chocolate raspberry one. I can’t decide which one is better. Between the food, dancing, and seeing everyone so happy, this night was incredible. Plus, I’m finally ready to play.
15
I throw on my basketball uniform and strap on my high-tops. The Jordans Jamal Mamoo gave me when I first made the gold team feel as good as ever. I’ve kept them clean, so they look almost new.
“How you feeling?” Baba asks. He looks tired. We got home late last night after the mehndi finally ended, and it’s only eight a.m. I had a hard time waking up too. Mama and Zara are sleeping, so we crept around downstairs and ate cereal as quietly as we could.
“Pretty good,” I say. I hop up and down a few times to test out my ankle. “Like normal.”
“All right, great.” Baba grabs a hat to cover his bedhead, and we get in the car. My stomach starts to clench a little, the way it always does when I’m nervous. I wonder what Coach is going to do about letting me play. I’ve been out for four weeks and missed practice and the last four games. Will he still start me in our first playoff game? I hope so.
Everyone looks as nervous as I feel when we gather around Coach for a pregame talk. The Badgers are a team we haven’t played before, so we don’t know anything about them.
“Okay, boys, I need everyone to play smart. You’ve worked hard all season, and it comes down to this,” Coach says. “If we win this game, we’re in the championship.”
Then he gives us the starting lineup. I hold my breath, and . . . he says he’s putting in Sam as starting point guard. I bite my lip.
“Zayd, you’ll sub in for Sam. You let me know how you feel. Okay?”
“Sure, Coach. I feel good,” I say, trying not to show disappointment on my face.
I start the game sitting on the bench, so I focus on figuring out the other team. They’ve got a couple of enormous kids, and their point guard is quick. But they look beatable.
In the first minute of the game, Sam makes a sweet move and passes the ball to Blake for a jumper. It’s good! A few seconds later Matthew steals the ball from one of the tall kids, takes it down on a fast break, and makes an easy layup. I’m itching to get in the game and keep looking at the game clock.
After the first four minutes, we’re up 6–4. Coach finally calls for subs, and I literally leap off the bench. Sam slaps my hand as he jogs off the court. Ravindu inbounds the ball, and I start to work my way to half court.
It feels great to be back in the game. But as I dribble, I suddenly become extra aware of my ankle. It doesn’t hurt or anything. I just keep picturing my X-ray and the drawing of the ligaments inside my leg as I move. What if my ankle isn’t fully healed? What if I twist it when I make a cut? What if I fall again?
I see a lane where I could drive to the hoop but pass the ball to Blake instead. He takes a jump shot and bricks it. Coach grimaces a little, but he doesn’t say anything.
The Badgers score on their next possession. We’re tied now. I get the ball back and pass it to Ravindu when a defender approaches me as soon as we cross half court. He takes a shot from close to the three-point line and airballs it. The ball rolls out of bounds, and I hear Coach yelling for a time out.
“Sam, you’re back in,” Coach says. “Ravindu, don’t rush your shots. You guys need to calm down.”
The whistle blows, and I head to the bench, but Coach stops me.
“What’s up? Your ankle bothering you?”
“No,” I say. “Not really.”
“You’re hesitating and playing timid. We can’t afford for you not to give a hundred percent right now. You understand, right?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Let me know when you’re ready go back in,” Coach says.
I sit down and feel my face burn a little. I thought I was ready to play. I am ready! Although as I watch Sam hustle up and down the court, I notice how he goes all out when he runs. He doesn’t seem to think about getting hurt the way he dives for t
he ball after an attempted steal pops it loose. I have to admit it reminds me of the way John Wall will do anything to make a play.
Right before the half ends, I notice Sam does the same thing as last game: He passes to Blake on the right and misses an opportunity to find Matthew open on the other side. We’re down by two and are in a must-win situation. So this time I decide to speak up during halftime.
“Hey, Sam.” I tap his arm and take a deep breath. “Listen. I . . . um . . . noticed you pass a lot to Blake on the elbow.”
“Yeah?” Sam squints his eyes, waiting for me to continue.
“And Matthew was open on the left. So try to look to for him, too, if you can.”
Sam frowns slightly.
“Okay.” He finally nods. “I didn’t see him.”
I notice that during the second half he takes my advice and doesn’t make the same mistake again. It feels good to make a difference. I finally go back in and play better than I did in the first half. I make a good assist and one shot off the backboard.
Blake throws up a fist as the buzzer sounds.
“YES!”
We win 33–29 and are in the championship finals!
As we celebrate, Sam gives me a big high five. Coach pats me on the back.
“It’s good to have you back, Zayd,” he says. “I like the leadership you’re demonstrating.”
I wonder if Coach overheard me talk to Sam. Maybe it will help convince him I should be team captain next season.
I won’t lie: It feels really good to be back, and I’m glad I helped my team out. In the finals, though, I have to do better, a whole lot better. If I’m supposed to lead my team, I need to find a way to put my injury behind me and truly bounce back.
16
Adam’s mom cries about everything. I’ve seen her cry during diaper commercials. She cried when she picked us up on the last day of school last year. Somehow she even managed to cry during our end-of-season party when Adam was still on my basketball team.
My mom? She’s the opposite of Adam’s mom. It takes a lot to make her cry. It takes even more for Naano to shed a tear. Today, the day of Jamal Mamoo’s wedding, they are both crying buckets. It’s kind of freaking me out.
It started this morning when we had breakfast and talked about the mehndi on Friday.
“I can’t believe you and Abu danced together,” Mama said, sniffling. “It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Well, who knows how long we have left, right?” Naano joked, jabbing her elbow into Nana Abu’s side. “We might as well dance for the first times in our lives.”
She was kidding, but it made Mama cry harder. Naano’s eyes filled up too. Then Jamal Mamoo, who was getting dressed for the wedding at our house, came out in his groom’s outfit, and the tears started flowing again.
“Don’t laugh, Skeletor,” mamoo warned. He was wearing a long, stiff, embroidered jacket and white pants with gold threads on the edges. Best of all, he had on slippers that curled up in the front like a genie’s lamp while he gave me an “I dare you to make fun of me” stare.
“You’re a prince!” Mama exclaimed between sniffs. As corny as it sounds, I had to agree.
“Or a king, Mamoo,” I said. “For real. I dig the shoes.”
And now we’re lined up to enter into the wedding hall, where the imam is waiting to perform the marriage ceremony. Mama is fixing the flower that’s pinned on Nana Abu’s jacket and wiping her eyes at the same time. Nana Abu looks handsome, like an older, grayer, less fancy version of Jamal Mamoo. I never noticed before how much they look alike.
We wait for Nadia’s cousin to announce us over the microphone, and file in as all the guests watch. Zara and I are first up. I manage to get down the aisle without tripping while Zara practically skips. Mama and Baba are next, holding hands and blushing. And then King Mamoo walks in, standing extra tall, with Naano and Nana Abu on either side of him. He heads over to the decorated stage, where the imam is standing. They hug and turn to wait for Nadia’s family to enter.
A couple of little girls throw flower petals on the ground, and then the bride makes a grand entrance. Everyone in the crowd stands up and murmurs their approval. She’s a sparkling queen in cream and gold, the perfect other half to Jamal Mamoo. I see Mama wiping her eyes again as Nadia Auntie takes her place on the stage next to mamoo.
“Asalaamualaikum.” The imam starts speaking. He talks about the beauty of marriage in Islam and the meaning of love, and asks each person in the room to ask for blessings for the marriage. When he finishes, everyone in the audience says “ameen” in one voice.
I try not to fidget on the stage as I wait until it’s time for my job—handing Jamal Mamoo a ring. He takes it, says a few words, and puts the ring on Nadia Auntie’s hand. She does the same in return. Then we stand there and wait and . . . nothing happens.
“Dude, aren’t you supposed to, like, kiss the bride?” I whisper to Jamal Mamoo. At least I think I’m whispering. I guess I’m louder than I meant to be. Or maybe everyone else is super quiet. Jamal Mamoo turns red and lets out his wacky laugh. Nadia Auntie starts to giggle. Soon everyone starts cracking up. I’m not sure why, because I’m completely serious.
“How about they . . . ahem . . . celebrate in private later,” the imam says with a chuckle. “But in the meantime, everyone please join me in congratulating the new couple!”
Jamal Mamoo takes Nadia Auntie by the hand, and they walk out of the room while everyone stands and cheers. We all go into a long hallway and eat tiny samosas and chicken pakoras passed around by waiters in tuxedos. Finally we go into a big ballroom, where round tables are set up with the gold fortune cookie boxes on everyone’s plates. There’s a long table on a stage set up for the bride and groom and their families, including Zara and me.
“Zayd, what were you thinking?” Mama exclaims when she corners me in the ballroom. “Have you seen kissing at other Pakistani weddings?”
“I guess not. I was thinking of TV weddings.”
“This is a little different. And besides, Naano and Nana Abu would totally flip out,” she adds.
“Yeah. I didn’t think about what all the old people would think,” I say.
We both pause, imagining. Then Mama starts to laugh and pulls me into a big hug. I see tears in her eyes, but they are the happy kind.
“I love you. Isn’t this a wonderful day?” she says, looking over at her father. “I’m so grateful we could all be here together. And now I finally have a sister.”
I give her a quick hug back and don’t say anything because her words make me tear up too. In a good way. But just a tiny bit.
17
“Oh man, our worst nightmare. It’s the Lightning,” Ravindu groans as we walk into the gym together for our final game of the season: the championship!
“Are you surprised?” I ask. The Lightning are fierce. They always make it to the finals.
“No.” Ravindu frowns. “But I wish it were someone else.”
“We’ve beaten them,” I remind him.
“I know.” Ravindu still looks worried as he eyes the team warming up in their training shirts. I hide the fact that my insides are doing little flips and that I wish we were playing anyone else but these guys too.
“Good luck,” Zara says. She gives me a fist bump and heads to the bleachers with my parents. Naano and Nana Abu made it out for the game too. Mama had tried to tell Nana Abu they didn’t have to come since the bleachers would be uncomfortable.
“No,” he’d said. “I’m going to see my grandson be a champion.”
And now he takes a seat near the front, in his tracksuit and aviator sunglasses. He’s the essence of cool. Jamal Mamoo wanted to come too, but he and Nadia Auntie left early this morning for their honeymoon in Florida. He texted Mama to wish me good luck and sent a million emojis of basketballs and trophies and a guy surfing, who I guess is supposed to be him.
Adam’s already here, sitting next to his dad. He’s wearing his old MD Hoops je
rsey, and it means a lot to have him here. My nerves kick into high gear when I think of everyone who came out to watch me. I have my own little cheering section on the bleachers.
“Zayd!” Coach calls me over to him. “How you feeling?”
“Good.”
“Think you can start?”
“Yes, Coach!”
YES!
“I need you bring it strong. Can you do that?”
“Yes, Coach.” I wonder if he can hear my heart pounding.
“Okay, let’s do this.”
Coach calls us all into a huddle.
“This is it, guys. This is the championship. You guys worked hard this season, overcoming injury . . .”
Everyone looks at me when he says that.
“. . . and stepping up when you were needed . . .”
Everyone looks at Sam when he says that.
“. . . and playing with your heart and your heads. I’m proud of you, no matter what happens in this game. Although I know you can win this. Focus and play smart. Are you with me?”
“Yes, Coach!” we all say.
“Zayd, take us out,” Coach says.
We put our hands together.
“We got this!” I say. “One two three . . .”
“MD HOOPS!” everyone yells.
“Good luck,” Sam says to me as we walk onto the court.
“You too,” I reply.
“How’s your ankle?” Sam asks.
“All better,” I say. I’m not just saying it. I mean it. This morning I was up early, doing drills and shooting free throws on my driveway, and it felt perfect.
Coach is starting Sam at shooting guard. We haven’t played together in a while. Today we need to be in sync and unstoppable, the way John Wall and Bradley Beal are when they find their rhythm.
I look around at Blake, Ravindu, and Matthew before sizing up the other team as we warm up. They are gigantic—like they each grew an inch since the last time we played them. Their point guard has a scowl on his face that resembles a cartoon villain so much it’s almost funny.