A Long Pitch Home (11 page)

Coach Pablo wipes off his hat with a towel as Coach Matt calls, “Listen up, players!”

Voices lower to whispers, then fade to silence, broken only by the occasional cracking sound of a plastic cap on a new bottle of Gatorade.

“We appreciate the effort you've made out here today, each and every one of you.”

Coach Pablo nods a sad kind of nod that comes when there's bad news with good. He clears his throat. “If we call your name, it means you have made the cut.”

I feel like I might lose the cereal and toast I had for breakfast. Baba promised he would come to see me play, and he has never once broken a promise to me. I have to make the Cardinals.

Coach Matt swats an invisible bug with his clipboard. “If you are not on our list today, we hope you'll sign up for our fall developmental program.”

Henry groans and rests his forehead on his knees. Akash takes in a deep breath and lets it out through puffed cheeks.

As Coach Matt reads each name, kids jump up like popcorn, whooping, high-fiving, fist-bumping.

Until Jordan's name is called.

I start clapping, then stop when I realize I am the only one. Everyone else is silent.

More names are read, the applause starts up again, and Jordan keeps her head down.

Akash is called, and I add my own high five. But I can't stop glancing over at Jordan, hoping someone sitting near her will at least offer a smile. No one even looks at her.

“That's it for today, everyone.” Coach Matt tucks his clipboard under his arm. My chance to make the Cardinals is gone.

Henry hangs his head. I really thought he would make the team.

Coach Pablo holds up a stack of papers. “Anyone interested in the developmental team can pick up a flyer on your way out.”

Akash looks at his cleats like he doesn't know what to say to Henry and me. I don't blame him.

“Congratulations,” I offer, and that seems to make him feel even worse.

Akash shakes his head. “I'm sorry, man.” He friendshippunches my shoulder, but it doesn't help. He gives Henry a friendship-punch, too, but Henry just shakes his head.

As I head over to get my bag, Coach Matt stops me. “Can I talk to you a moment, son?” Coach Matt hands me a flyer. “We'd love to work with you this fall, Bilal—you and that left pitching arm of yours.”

I take the flyer, but I am not sure what he means. “I can be a Cardinal?”

“Well, not exactly. Not yet, anyway.” Coach Matt folds his arms. “What I mean is, we'd like you to train with the developmental team. Your pitching is definitely good enough to make the Cardinals. We just need to get your batting up to par.”

Coach Matt points to a website address at the bottom of the flyer. “Jalaal can help you sign up, but if you or your parents have any questions, let me know.”

He claps me on the shoulder before striding away to talk to another kid. I stand there for a minute more, trying to imagine how I'll tell Baba that I didn't make the team.

“Bilal, you coming?” Akash is waiting for me, his bag slung over his shoulder.

I gather my equipment and we catch up to Henry. I am about to tell the guys what Coach Matt said when I see the developmental team flyer clutched in Henry's hand.

Henry shakes his head. “I can't believe I didn't make the team.” He glares at Jordan from across the field.

“It's not fair,” Akash says, kicking a patch of dirt.

Henry spits. “I should've known. She's Coach Matt's niece.”

Akash narrows his eyes. “Yeah, nepotism.”

Henry says what I'm thinking: “Nepa-what?”

“
Nepotism
. Meaning her uncle's the head coach, so she made the team.”

I stand there shaking my head like I can't believe Jordan is a Cardinal instead of Henry.

But the truth is, I can believe it.

Even so, I decide I won't tell Baba about Jordan at all. Maybe by the time he gets here and sees me play, I'll be the one pitching for the Cardinals instead of her.

 Twelve

I
am not hungry for breakfast on my first day of school. I pick chunks of tomato from my omelet, slip them under my toast, and push bits of egg around my plate. During my
Fajr
prayer this morning, I prayed that a monsoon would close school today.

“School bus in ten minutes!” Auntie calls from upstairs.

I guess that prayer won't be answered today.

I take my plate to the sink and rinse it, stuffing my whole omelet down the garbage disposal.

For the tenth time since last night, I check my backpack. It's stuffed with notebooks and pencils and highlighters and markers and a bunch of other things I have never needed for school before, like plastic zip bags and disinfectant wipes. A letter came last week saying that Mrs. Wu will be my teacher, which is good. But Akash and Henry have a different teacher, which is not good; I won't have anyone to ask what I am supposed to do with zip bags and disinfectant wipes.

Auntie whooshes down the stairs, the hem of her jade
shalwar kameez
fluttering behind her. “Off we go!” She claps her hands.

I file out the door behind Auntie, Hira, and Ammi, who pushes Humza in his stroller. My sister runs to catch up to Lizzie, swinging her new American backpack over her shoulder.

As soon as we join the crowd of kids and parents, a little girl in a soccer T-shirt squeals, “Here comes the bus!” A very tall boy herds the little kids into line. When he turns, I see that he's wearing a neon-yellow belt diagonally across his chest, complete with a silver badge.

The other parents snap photos with their phones, and so do Ammi and Auntie.

“Smile!” Ammi calls, and I feel like melting into the sidewalk. If my Karachi classmates were here, we'd make silly faces or strike funny poses. It's just not as fun by yourself. I only smile for real when my mother says, “We'll send this one to Baba.”

Jordan stands last in line, right behind me. She whisperyells, “Mom! I'm too old for this. Honestly.”

I don't turn, but I hear her mother whisper back, “Come on, honey—just one photo. We'll email it to your dad.”

I don't know if Jordan smiles or not, but her mom takes a picture anyway and steps back with the other parents.

I turn to ask Jordan about her dad. Her arms are crossed and she kicks a pebble into the grass behind her. Maybe I'll ask about her dad another time.

The bus is crowded, with three to a seat. It smells like exhaust fumes and vinyl seats. As we shuffle down the aisle, I spot Henry, Akash, and another kid sitting together. Akash sits near the aisle and high-fives me as I walk past. I wish there were space for me. Hira and Lizzie sit with another kid, and I grab the very last empty seat at the back.

As soon as I sit down, Jordan slides next to me.

“Hey.” She pulls off her backpack and sets it on her lap.

“Hello.” I set my backpack on my lap, too.

Akash catches my eye. He grins, then turns back and leans in to say something to Henry and the other boy. They all burst into laughter.

I sink down into my seat. It's not my fault I'm sitting with a girl, and it's not Jordan's fault she's sitting with me.

Either Jordan is oblivious to Henry's glares or she doesn't care. “So are you nervous?”

“A little bit, yes.” And not just about school. I glance over at the guys. “You are nervous?” I ask.

“Nah.” Jordan shrugs. “I've done this before.” She unzips and zips the front pocket of her backpack.

I wish Henry would stop looking back here. I can't shake the feeling that the three of them are talking about me. And maybe Jordan. Probably both of us.

“Well?” Jordan asks.

I blink. Did she just ask me a question?

Jordan opens her mouth as if she is going to repeat whatever she said, but then she glances over at the guys, who are still snickering. She scowls, hugs her backpack tighter, then unzips it and pulls out a book. She opens to a bookmarked page and starts reading. When I try to look at the words on the bumpy bus, my stomach turns over.

I lean against the window, watching neat rows of houses roll by. In Karachi, Baba always drove me to school, and it was one of my favorite times of the day.The clatter of voices bouncing off the school bus walls is nothing like the quiet hum of Baba's car. The bus doesn't make any more stops after mine, and we're pulling up in front of the school before I am ready.

Jordan hops up from the seat as the bus lurches to a stop. By the time the brakes squeak and sigh and the door swings open, she's already four people ahead of me in line. Henry and Akash file off the bus right in front of her, without looking back. When I finally step onto the sidewalk, only Akash is waiting for me.

I want to thank him for waiting and to ask why Henry looked so mad at me, but it is too loud and too crowded, and anyway I think I already know. But it is not my fault that Jordan made the Cardinals instead of Henry or that Jordan sat next to me on the only empty seat on the bus.

I try to keep up with Akash as he weaves his way through the throng of kids and into the cafeteria. Most kids are seated at long tables, talking to friends. Others gather near the walls, laughing and fist-bumping and friendship-punching.

Akash and I finally find Henry standing near the back of the cafeteria with a group of boys. Akash introduces me to the others, but he says their names so fast I don't catch most of them.

Although I am standing with these boys, I am not part of their group. They talk and joke around me, but I don't understand everything they say. I see Jordan standing with her book, leaning against the white tile wall. She is alone; I am with a group of kids. But I am the one who feels lonely.

There's Hira chatting with Lizzie and two other little girls. I look away; I am not
that
desperate for company.

It feels like forever before a tone sounds over the loudspeaker and everyone starts herding themselves out of the double doors. I quickly lose sight of Akash. I head for the stairs and make my way to room twenty-five.

Mrs. Wu greets me at the door, and I am surprised to see I am the first one here. I was never the first one to class back home. Mudassar and I always waited until the last possible moment before rushing through the door and sliding into our seats. My new classmates spill into the room a few seconds after me.

“Welcome, boys and girls!” Mrs. Wu says. “Please read the morning message and settle in.”

A projector lights up a whiteboard with a message:

Good Morning and Welcome to Fifth Grade!
1.  Unpack your backpack.
2.  Put your supplies inside your desk.
3.  Place your backpack in your cubby.
4.  Begin the icebreaker on your desk.

I pull my supplies from my backpack one by one, buying time until I can figure out what a cubby is. One girl dumps her school supplies onto her desk and brings her empty backpack to some open cupboards. I head back, too, and find a hook for my backpack next to my name.

Now for the icebreaker. I don't know what that is, but there is a piece of paper on my desk with sixteen squares and some writing. Each square has a question like
What is your favorite subject?
or
How many siblings do you have?

I take a breath and nod. I know enough English to do this. I fill in my answers until I get to the “favorite sport” box. I start to write
baseball
, but then I wonder if Mrs. Wu has heard of cricket. Maybe she will know it is a game and not a bug. I write it down. For my favorite subject, I write “English” so Mrs. Wu will know I have studied English, and maybe I won't have to do the ESL class. My favorite food is
jalebi
. Thinking about the warm, crispy sweetness of the saffron orange spirals makes me wish I'd finished my breakfast. I blink and look back at my paper. Favorite vacation spot? Margalla Hills National Park at the foot of the mountains in Islamabad. Favorite summer memory? Talking to Baba on Skype.

I finally put down my pencil and look up to find Jordan sitting across from me, moving her pencil across her paper. I'd been so focused on my answers that I hadn't even realized she'd come in. I feel sorry for not talking to her very much on the bus. I think about saying something to her now, but I don't want to get in trouble with the teacher on the very first day of school.

Mrs. Wu taps something on her laptop, and the image on the whiteboard changes from the morning work directions to a video of two kids sitting behind a big desk.

“Goooood morning, Panthers, and welcome to the first day of school!” they say in unison. They explain that this is the
Good Morning Panthers
news show, or
GMP
for short. Then they tell us to rise for something I don't understand. Everyone puts down their pencils, stands, and recites the same words all at the same time. They are about five seconds into these words when I realize everyone has a hand on their chest, so I do the same.