As people keep entering the plane, Uniform Lady greets each one cheerfully. “Welcome! So glad to have you with us today.”
“Do you want the window, sweetie?” asks a lady who has stopped in my aisle. She wears a big, blue straw hat on her head. “I don’t mind.”
“Thank you!” I say happily because I didn’t even know you were allowed to change seats. I thought it was like school, where you have an assigned seat and that’s that.
I unbuckle and scoot over, pushing up the window shade to look at the airport runway. Mama told me I will be able to see the clouds when we’re up in the air.
Blue Hat sits down beside me. “Can’t wait to get home,” she says, shoving her big purse under the seat in front of her. Sitting up straight again, she asks, “You’re awfully brave to be traveling by yourself.”
“I’m visiting my grandmother.”
“That’s sweet,” she says. “Wish my grandson would come and see me, but he never has.”
“Do you have a lot of rules in your house?” I ask, trying to be helpful. “If you have too many, that might be why. Just my opinion.”
She looks startled, then thoughtful. “I have some rules. I’ll think on that now.”
Just then, a man towers over us, looking annoyed. “I have the window seat,” he says sharply. His eyes are staring at the row of storage bins above our heads.
“It was my seat, sir, and I gave it to this young lady.” Blue Hat pulls out her ticket and shows him, but he barely looks at it. Instead he beckons over Uniform Lady and tells her, “Window seat’s mine.”
Uniform Lady examines both tickets. “It’s technically his seat,” she explains to Blue Hat. “Your seat is the aisle, not the window.”
“Can I still have the window?” I ask the man politely. “I want to draw the clouds.”
Uniform Lady and Blue Hat swivel their heads toward him, smiling, like they’re about to witness a kind act.
Instead, he glares at me and acid-hisses, “No.”
Holy hummus.
Blue Hat gasps. “I’m sorry for the mix-up,” she whispers to me. “My goodness.”
We have to all stand up and move into the aisle so the man can squeeze in. He buckles his seat belt, pulls his black hat down over his face, and goes to sleep.
Blue Hat offers to take the center seat. “So you don’t have to sit next to this grouch,” she whispers.
“I heard you,” he mutters. Then, with his eyes still closed, he reaches out and pulls down the window shade. Now there’s no way I’ll see the clouds.
From my aisle seat, I lean forward and look around Blue Hat to study the man closely. He is wearing a green cotton shirt stamped with pictures of big, white flowers. He is grandfather-old, and he has no hair on his head. But if he did, it would be Santa-white, like his bushy eyebrows.
He frowns even while he’s sleeping.
As we take off, Blue Hat gives me some chewing gum to help my ears not hurt from the pressure. I’m not sure how it works exactly, but it’s a good trick, and it helps. Halfway through the flight, Uniform Lady marches down the aisle with a cart, serving drinks. She gets to me and asks, “Beverage?”
I wish I could get a soda, but I don’t have any money on me. I wish Baba had remembered to give me a few dollars, but he was rushing.
“No, thank you.”
Blue Hat asks for a Coke. When I don’t see her hand over any money, I whisper to her, “Wait, is it free?”
“Yes,” she explains. “I was surprised you didn’t want one.”
“Wow, it’s free?” I say again. I turn back to Uniform Lady. “Excuse me, but can I get an orange soda?” I yelp. Then I lower my voice: “Please.”
Grinning, she hands me the drink, which I place carefully on my tray. She also gives me a pack of pretzels. They must also be free!
She glances at the Grouch near the window. “Not waking him up,” she says under her breath and gets ready to move on.
“But maybe he wants a drink,” I say.
“No, I’d better not,” she mutters and starts to move down the aisle.
Suddenly I feel bad for him. If I’d fallen asleep and missed out on a free orange soda, I’d be pretty upset. So I reach over Blue Hat and tap him on the arm. “Sir? Wake up, sir!”
He jumps up, startled, and his arm juts out, knocking over the Coke on Blue Hat’s tray. She tries to grab it, but it tips back. And then they’re both shrieking because the Coke spills onto his lap. It soaks his tan shorts and drips down his legs.
“WHAT!?” he barks.
“Holy hummus,” I manage to squeak.
He glares at me. “Did you… did you actually poke me?” he growls.
“Now, calm down, sir,” says Blue Hat. She hands him her napkin. “She just wanted to see if you’d like a drink.”
“Even if I did, I wouldn’t want it all over my LAP!”
“But they’re free,” I offer.
“Of course they’re free. They’re always free.” He hisses something I can’t hear while Uniform Lady also hands him a stack of napkins. All around us, people are peering over their seats to stare.
“Who lets a kid fly by herself?” he mumbles. “It’s like they let a horse loose on this plane.”
“Did you just call me a… a horse?” I ask in shock, because now I am getting pretty mad.
He glares at me again, then notices my white tag. “Guess I was wrong. They’ve actually unleashed a Minotaur.”
Chapter 4
The plane lands in St. Augustine, touching down on the runway exactly one hour and forty-seven minutes after we took off. (They shouldn’t call it “touching down” when it feels more like the plane is smacking the asphalt and all the bones in your body shake.)
Uniform Lady tells me to wait until everyone else leaves, and then she will walk me out.
“Have fun in Florida,” says Blue Hat. She pulls her big purse out and stands up. She has to hunch over because the overhead bins are so low. I scoot out into the aisle to make room for her.
“I hope your grandson visits you soon.”
“So do I,” she says and pats me on the head. Then she hands me a package. “I saved my pretzels for you.” She giggles at the excited, goofy look on my face.
The Grouch follows her, ignoring me. The front of his pants is still soaked, and when he walks up the aisle, I see there is a big, damp patch on the back of his shorts too. I almost laugh, because it looks like he wet his pants, but I bite my lips shut tight.
I sit and wait while everyone shuffles back past me, lugging their bags again. When the aisle is finally clear, Uniform Lady crooks her finger at me. We walk together up the walkway that looks like a jagged, carpeted hallway. I realize it is a movable plank that connects the airplane’s door to the airport.
It makes sense because I am about to spend at least a week with Sitti—it really does feel like I’m walking the plank!
When we enter the actual airport, Uniform Lady makes me wait until she can walk me out of the terminal. That’s the part of the airport we’re in. Finally, she’s ready and we walk down a long hallway, where they have escalators that stay flat on the ground. They’re like rides you hop on to walk even faster.
When we pass through a big set of doors, I see Sitti immediately. She is wearing a long, black thobe with red and white embroidery on it. She embroiders these dresses herself. Her hair is partly covered with a loose, white veil.
She’s holding a sign that says Farah Hajjar.
Just so you know, she’s tiny, like a little fairy.
“I need to see your ID,” Uniform Lady says to Sitti.
But Sitti ignores her and reaches up, planting one hand on each side of my face. She pulls my face down and kisses me four times on each cheek and then once on the forehead. With each kiss, she pushes my head away and then back in, like she
thinks my neck is made out of rubber.
“Umm…,” says Uniform Lady, “I need to get back to work so… your ID?”
Sitti looks at me in confusion. “What does she want?” she asks me in Arabic.
Holy hummus. I think of the Arabic words to translate for her. “She needs… She wants to see your… your…” What’s the word for ID? I settle on waraq, which just means “paper.”
“What paper?”
Holy hummus.
“Your driver’s paper?” I try again in Arabic. I don’t know the word for ID.
“I don’t drive. I took the shuttle from the condo.” Sitti looks annoyed with me now. “By the way, your Arabic is terrible.”
Ah, yes, I think. It’s going to be a week or more of constant, annoying reminders that I can understand more Arabic than I can actually speak.
Finally, Uniform Lady pulls out her own airline ID, a plastic card with her photo on it.
“Do you have any ID?” she says slowly and loudly.
“Tell her I can hear,” Sitti grumbles, but she understands now. She reaches her hand into the front of her dress. My face turns red as I see Uniform Lady’s eyebrows shoot up.
I know what she’s doing: There is a hidden pocket that she reaches from the side, under her arm. But it still looks funny. A second later, Sitti pulls out a fat wallet, so stuffed that the leather is creased and the little clasp barely closes.
Flipping it open, she shows the lady a photograph on a card that reads Grand Palms Independent Living Association, and her name, Fayrouz Hanna Hajjar.
“Izz good?” she asks the lady in stumbling English. When she nods, Sitti closes the wallet and replaces it in the front of her dress.
I can’t help but wonder what else she has in there.
Sitti takes my hand like I am two years old and pulls me toward the baggage claim area. I try to take my hand back, but she is really strong for a small, old person.
I find my bag easily, because Baba tied a thick, red ribbon around the handle. Sitti tells me in Arabic, “Hurry up, or we will miss the shuttle.”
A shuttle bus sits right outside the baggage area. The side of the shuttle is painted with palm trees and, in curly pink type, reads Grand Palms.
“Grand Palms? That isn’t where you lived before,” I say, not recognizing the name.
“No, I moved,” she says. “This place is better— Grand Bums!”
I make sure I don’t laugh at how she pronounces Palms, but it’s just so funny I have to smile.
The driver is standing beside the door, smiling and helping people with their bags. “Is this your granddaughter?” he asks Sitti, and she nods and points to me. He takes my bag and announces, “I’m Mr. Delacroix, here to help.” He has a nice accent, soft and gentle as a butterfly, not heavy like my grandmother’s.
“Nice to meet you, sir,” I say.
“Hop on. We only have one other passenger today.” He takes my bag around to the back of the shuttle, and I follow Sitti up the short steps into the vehicle. I glance into the driver’s seat and see that books are scattered everywhere. They’re stuffed on the dashboard and piled on the passenger seat next to him.
I’m trying to squint and read some of the titles when, in front of me, Sitti stiffens and mutters in Arabic, “Oh no, not him.”
I look past her, which is easy because I can see right over her head.
There, sleeping in a seat by the window, is the last person I wanted to see.
It’s the Grouch.
I’m so shocked, I say nothing. Sitti whispers to me in Arabic, “A miserable old man. He hates everyone.”
“He was on the plane with me.” I try to find the Arabic word for rude, but my brain is not telling me.
“Look,” she says in a huff, “his pants. He’s probably wet himself.”
Chapter 5
During the short ride, Sitti asks me four million questions. I don’t know enough words to tell her more than that Samir is fine and Mama is fine and Baba is fine and school is fine and the house is fine.
A few minutes later, Mr. Delacroix calls out, “We’ve arrived!”
The condos of Grand Palms are laid out in several large buildings that remind me of taffy—pink, pale blue, creamy yellow, mint green. There is so much color that I want to take my pencils out of my backpack and draw everything I see: the benches sprinkled around the green lawn, the tall palms that are clustered everywhere, the pathway that leads back to a pond, and beyond that, some trees.
The taffy buildings form a half circle, and in the middle is another, shorter one that looks like it’s made completely of glass. Sitti tells me it’s called the Hub, where the main lobby and dining hall are. It’s a gathering place for all the residents.
The Grouch sits up in his seat and yawns. “We here?” he asks the driver.
“Sure are, Dr. Fisher,” the driver calls back. “Home sweet home.”
Dr. Fisher looks around him and spots Sitti.
“Fay,” he says gruffly. She sniffs at him and looks out the window.
Then he spots me, and his mouth drops open. The way he looks reminds me of his name in that second; he looks like a big fish. A fish that’s just been pulled out of the water and is trying to catch its breath. His head wiggles around, and his mouth opens and closes without a sound.
“Hi,” I say. Then I add, “Remember me? The Minotaur?”
“How could I forget?” he mutters.
Everyone at Grand Palms is old.
Ancient-old.
But they’re super-friendly.
Unlike Dr. Fisher, who stalks off to the elevators, everyone in the lobby smiles at me and says hi. I feel like a little kitten that they all want to pet. One lady with a long, flowery dress and a walking cane even pats my head. Another man, who is wearing shorts and tan socks pulled up to his knees, peers at me and asks where I live.
“Harbortown,” I say.
“Oooh… so cold up there,” he says with a shiver. “It’s much nicer down here, warm and sunny. Right, Fay?”
She looks at him in confusion.
“Sunny here in Florida, right?”
Understanding, she nods, smiling. “Yes, izz so good, good for zee bones.”
“Everyone adores your grandmother,” the man tells me. “She’s very special to us. I’m Don Mitchell. Call me Mitch.”
“And I’m Agatha,” says the lady with the flowery dress, patting me on the head again.
Sitti’s condo is on the first floor, past the lobby. On the door hangs a sign that reads Mrs. Fayrouz Hajjar, in embroidered red thread on a black fabric square.
Inside, there is a small kitchen and a big living room with teal-colored fabric couches. I see a fireplace in the living room, although I’m not sure why you would need one of those in Florida. The floor is covered with plastic runners to protect the white carpet.
A narrow hallway leads to several other doors, which I guess are the bedrooms and the bathroom. All the walls are lemon-yellow, and there are embroidered pillows everywhere.
Literally everywhere. I do remember this from our last visit.
The couches each have ten pillows on them, lined up like little candy squares. There are larger pillows piled up on a rug on the floor, next to the fireplace. Each of the kitchen chairs, lined up under a short counter, has an embroidered cushion on the seat.
I start to walk down the hallway, but Sitti yelps at me to come back and take off my shoes. I do this at home, just so you know. I just forgot.
She makes a huge deal about how I need to line up my shoes on the plastic tray she keeps in her foyer and how I always have to hang up my jacket immediately in the hall closet. “And if your hands are dirty, you go wash them right away before you touch the furniture or the walls or anything,” she says, pointing up at me with her index finger, like she is stabbing the air.
“Yes, yes,” I mumble, then continue to investigate. Down the hallway, I peek inside a door—the bathroom. Even the small towel’s borders are embroidered with blue flowers.
I peek inside the bedroom she says is mine. It’s small, and there is only a tiny nightstand and a narrow bed. A large, soft blanket covers the bed, embroidered with an outline of a big, gray bird. It has a black head and a patch of yellow near its tail. And of course, the bed is also covered with lots of pillows—about eight of them, all piled up near the headboard.
“Did you embroider all these, Sitti?” I ask her in Arabic.
She shrugs and replies, “I have time for tatreez.”
It looks to me like she has a lot of time.
“Come, let’s eat,” she says. “I have the food ready.” We head back to the kitchen. I sit at the counter, on one of the cushioned seats.
She goes to the oven, to the large pots and a pan filled with sautéed pine nuts—magloubeh, one of my favorite foods. It’s rice cooked with cauliflower and chicken and potatoes, and topped with pine nuts (even though sometimes Mama skips the chicken when we are short on money).
“Here,” Sitti says. She puts a heap on a plate and then sprinkles pine nuts over the whole thing.
I eat like I have never tasted food before while Sitti just keeps adding more scoops of magloubeh. “More, more,” she says in Arabic, pinching my arm. “You’re too skinny.”
“I’m not skinny,” I say. Except I have a mouthful of magloubeh, so it sounds like “Arh nom shinny.”
There is a knock on the door, and when Sitti calls, “Come!” Mr. Delacroix strides in, pulling my suitcase behind him.
“Your bag, young lady,” he says, grinning.
“Thank you,” Sitti says, except it sounds like “Think you,” and she starts fixing another plate. “You eat?”
He sits down at the counter beside me. “Fay, I will never say no to your food.” He looks at me and laughs because my mouth is still full.
Sitti points to him and tells me, “He a-from Haiti, but hizz English more zan mine.”
Farah Rocks Florida Page 2