A Long Pitch Home (18 page)

Everyone is putting the caps back on their pens, so I quickly write something down:

Auntie looks around with a satisfied smile. “Who wants to go first?”

First? We have to say what we wrote?

“I'll go,” Hira says. “I wrote
peanut-butter sandwiches
.”

Something American written in English, of course.

“A steady job,” says Uncle.

“Family,” says Ammi.

“Neighbors,” Jalaal says, and I know what he really means is
neighbor
, a red-haired one in particular.

“Allah,” says Auntie. She looks at Jalaal as she says this, so she must know which neighbor, too. I bet she's praying about it to Allah right now.

It's my turn, and now I feel silly saying my answer. Everyone said something serious except for Hira. And Humza, who has more marks on his hands than on his paper.

“Bilal?” my mother asks. “What are you thankful for?”

I run my fingers over the word and take a breath. “I wrote
jalebi
.”

Ammi smiles. “I'm glad you liked my dessert.”

I grin back. “I liked everything else, too,” I say, hoping Allah will forgive me for not telling the truth about the stuffing and pumpkin pie.

The adults seem satisfied with my answer. What I don't say is that
jalebi
tastes more special here somehow. I used to eat it all the time back in Karachi, but I never thought twice about being thankful for it—it was always there. But here in America,
jalebi
tastes like more than sugary syrup and fried batter. It tastes like good memories with friends. It tastes like happiness and holidays. It tastes like home.

 Eighteen

M
iss Salinas, our music teacher, is very excited about something she calls the Holiday Sing-Along. Right before winter break, every grade will perform holiday songs from different parts of the world for the parents. I wonder which song we will sing from Pakistan.

She asks how many of us will be celebrating Christmas next month, and almost everyone raises a hand. Jordan doesn't raise hers.

“Okay!” Miss Salinas says. “How many of you will celebrate Hanukkah?”

Five kids raise their hands. Josh calls out, “We celebrate both.”

“Right!” Miss Salinas smiles like she's grateful he brought that up. “How many of you celebrate both Christmas and Hanukkah?” Only two kids' hands go up, including Josh's.

“You two are in luck, because this year Hanukkah begins on Christmas Day!” She seems very excited about this fact. “Hanukkah will run from December 25 to January 1.”

Now I understand—we'll be singing songs about December holidays. I raise my hand. “In Pakistan, our 25 December holiday is Quaid-e-Azam Day.”

Miss Salinas looks surprised. I think she is impressed because I guessed the holiday we will sing about.

“What holiday is that?” Miss Salinas looks interested, but maybe this is not one of the December holidays on her list.

“It is the birthday of Quaid-e-Azam Mohammad Ali Jinnah,” I remind her.

Miss Salinas's eyebrows come together, and now I know for sure she does not know about Quaid-e-Azam Mohammad Ali Jinnah. How do I explain?

I remember Jalaal pointing to the old men on American dollar bills. One of them is the father of America, but I cannot remember which one.

Now everyone is looking at me, so I have to say something. “He helped make Pakistan when Pakistan left India.”

“Oh!” Miss Salinas tilts her head. “He sounds like a very important person. And Pakistan used to be part of India? How interesting!”

I stare at Miss Salinas, then glance around. None of my classmates have any idea what I am talking about. I guess since I don't know who is the father of America, then maybe it's fair that Americans don't know the father of Pakistan, or that Pakistan and India used to be one British colony. But still.

Miss Salinas breaks the silence. “That leads right into our next holiday. Who celebrates Diwali, the festival of lights?” That holiday isn't in December; Akash and his family celebrated it about a month ago, near Halloween time.

Miss Salinas holds up her finger like she's ready to count all the kids who celebrate Diwali.

No one raises a hand.

“Okay.” Miss Salinas looks around. “How about Ramadan, then?”

I raise my hand; I am the only one.

“Wonderful, Bilal! We'll be singing a Ramadan song, too.”

A Ramadan song? In December? This year Ramadan was during the summer. It moves back about eleven days every year, but I'll be old before Ramadan ever falls in December.

“Okay, then!” Miss Salinas's eyes rest on Jordan. “Does anyone celebrate a holiday not on our list?”

Jordan folds her arms and looks at her shoes.

“No? Okay, then, our program is set. Let's begin, shall we?”

Miss Salinas plays recordings of all four songs. Most of the kids sing along to the Christmas and Hanukkah songs—one about a little town somewhere and the other about a clay thing called a
dreidel
. No one sings along with the Diwali song. And the Ramadan song? I've never even heard of it. It's in Arabic, so I don't understand most of it.

Later, when I get off the school bus, I have to jog to catch up with Jordan.

“Wait!”

She looks over her shoulder and slows. “Hey, Bilal.”

I fall into step beside her. “You did not raise your hand in music class.”

She picks up her pace, and I have to take long strides to keep up.

“We celebrate Christmas.”

I nod, but I do not understand. Why didn't she raise her hand, then?

“It's just . . . my mom and I celebrate it when my dad comes home.”

“Oh.” I wish I could say more. Although I don't have all the English words I need, I try anyway. “We left my father one day before
Eid ul-Fitr
—the last day of Ramadan.”

Jordan looks confused.

“Ramadan lasts one month, and when it ends, Eid begins. Eid is a big party with your family, your friends. But this year we left Pakistan before we could celebrate Eid, and my father stayed behind.”

“That stinks.”

“Yes, so much.”

“But you got to spend the Ramadan month with your dad, right?”

I think of the three days he was missing, but decide not to tell that part to Jordan.

“Most of the month, yes.”

“So that's good—at least you were with him for a whole holiday month.”

I shrug. “That was not the most fun part. You are supposed to fast—only eat and drink when the sun is down.”

Jordan's eyes open wide. “Wow—you must get hungry.”

“That is the point. To understand how people feel who do not have enough to eat.”

She nods, and I think she is impressed. “I don't know if I could do that,” she says.

“Neither do I, actually.”

Jordan looks surprised.

“I have never done the fast before—I have always been too young. This year I wanted to, but Ammi—my mother—said I should wait until next year.”

“You lucked out.”

I shrug. It's hard to explain that fasting is not a burden; it is something grown-ups do, something I want to do.

Jordan kicks a pinecone, sending it flying into the street. “My mom and I open presents from my relatives—Uncle Matt and Aunt Carol, and my little cousins. My grandparents send gifts, too. But I save one present for my mom and she saves one for me, and we have one present for my dad. When he gets home, we put up a fake tree and open our presents.”

Jordan's faraway smile makes it seem like she's watching a movie of her family's Christmas in whatever month they celebrate.

We walk in silence all the way to her house.

Stopping at her front yard, Jordan asks, “Any news about when your dad is coming?”

I wish I knew. “Not yet.”

Jordan nods and shifts her backpack from one shoulder to the other. “I bet you'll hear something soon.”

As she walks to her door, I think about the idea of having Eid when my father comes back. We could have the same foods. My mother, Auntie, and Hira could get henna designs on their hands. We could go to the mosque and thank Allah for bringing my father back. I wouldn't even care if there were any gifts. Having Baba back would be enough.

The day of the Holiday Sing-Along has arrived, and you'd think Miss Salinas is prepping us for a Bollywood production. She flutters around at our rehearsal, making sure we're all in our places up on the gym stage. The six classes of fifth graders stand on four tiered rows of risers, with the front row on the wooden stage floor.

The gym has been transformed into a “winter wonderland,” as Miss Salinas calls it. Strings of tiny white lights drape from the center of the ceiling to the basketball hoops on the four sides of the gym. One entire wall is covered with the snowflakes we made.The silver glitter glued to the snowflakes makes them look like they're sparkling in the sun. From here, you'd never know my ugly snowflake is up there with all of the beautiful ones.

My classmates started making them yesterday while I was in ESL class. I was late getting back to Mrs. Wu's room because Mr. Jacobs had asked me to do a reading test. He thinks I'm doing such a great job in English that maybe I won't even need ESL classes much longer. I couldn't wait to tell Mrs. Wu.

But by the time I got back to class, bits of cut paper were everywhere as kids scurried around the room cleaning up. Jordan showed me how to make a hurried paper snowflake, which reminded me of one of Daddo's lace scarves. But my attempt at paper snow didn't look at all like lace; it looked more like a tattered tissue you'd find on the floor at the end of the school day.

Looking now at the snowflakes up on the gym wall, I can only hope mine is way at the top where no one can read my name. Maybe I should have written it in Urdu letters.

“Bilal?”

I blink. Miss Salinas is looking at me.

“I said, let's run through the Ramadan song first.” She jabs her thumb over her shoulder at the instruments set up along the front of the stage. The kids standing in the rows below me move aside so I can step down and join the other instrument players. I find the xylophone I'm supposed to play, and sit next to a kid with a silver triangle.

We rehearse the song, and I am glad to say I remember almost all the notes on the xylophone. I just wish we weren't right up front.

When rehearsal is over, Miss Salinas claps her hands. “Bilal,” she says to me, “you will be a smashing success!” Then in a louder voice: “I'll see you all back here at one forty-five. Remember, your parents will be attending, so best behavior at all times. Perform like professionals!”

As we walk back to the classroom, I'm surprised to see Jordan at the head of the line. She wasn't on the bus this morning, and I didn't see her come in late; maybe she arrived during my xylophone playing.

When we get back to class, Mrs. Wu has a magnet activity set up for us where we have to build a circuit—she calls it
electromagnetic
. After she gives the directions, our group divides up the tasks. I'm unrolling my copper wire when Jordan leans over her desk, a wide grin stretched across her face.