A Long Pitch Home (22 page)

“Jalaal, that is enough.” Auntie's voice is like steel. “I will not discuss this any further.”

Furious footsteps pound down the stairs, and I back out the front door, pretending I'm just now coming in so they won't know I was eavesdropping.

Jalaal brushes past me and out of the house without a word, leaving the front door wide open in his wake. Auntie nods once to me as she comes down the stairs, her eyes avoiding mine. She rounds the corner and heads down the hall to the kitchen, her
dupatta
trailing behind her like an angry serpent.

My mother calls my name as she comes around the house from the side yard, clipped daffodils in her hand. I sink onto the porch swing and she joins me.

“Better to give them some privacy,” she says.

“Auntie looked really upset. So did Jalaal.”

My mother sighs. “This is a difficult age for him.”

Next door, Olivia's yellow car pulls into the driveway. The daisy hubcaps slow from a white, spinning blur to petals. She steps out and waves, and my mother and I wave back.

I give the swing a gentle push with my foot. “They were arguing about Olivia, weren't they?”

My mother studies my face like she's trying to figure out if I'm old enough to hear what she has to say.

I decide to show her I am old enough. “Jalaal wants to be Olivia's boyfriend, I think.”

Ammi bites her bottom lip, and I think she's trying not to smile.

“You have always been very observant, Bilal.”

“I am right?”

My mother pushes our swing with the toe of her tennis shoe against the floor of the wooden porch. “It's really none of our business, Bilal.”

“But if it were our business . . .”

Ammi raises an eyebrow.

“. . . then why would Auntie be so mad at Jalaal?”

Our swing sways back and forth six times before she answers. “It's complicated, Bilal. Jalaal is—we are—Muslim. Olivia is not.”

I frown. “So he has to have a Muslim girlfriend?”

“Auntie prefers that he waits to have any girlfriend until he is older.”

I think about the Valentine's Day party when someone threw the “Love Birds” heart at Jordan and me. Yuck. I don't want any girlfriend, Muslim or not.

I decide to change the subject. “When can we call Baba?”

My mother glances at her watch. “I'll try to phone him tomorrow.”

When I'm at school, of course. I'm always at school when he calls. And on the weekends, our calls usually don't go through.

My mother seems to guess my thoughts. “At least his letters come fairly regularly.”

Baba wrote his first letter to us one day months ago when the power was out and he couldn't connect to the Internet. I told him that I liked holding something that I knew he had touched, so now he sends both old-fashioned letters and emails.

Ammi stands. “Should we see if one arrived today?”

“I'll check.” I race to the mailbox, pull back the little door, and slip my hand into the cool metal box. I pull out a stack of envelopes, my heart full of hope as I flip through each one. When I get to the second-to-last envelope, I close my eyes and take a breath. Then I peek. It's not from Baba.

My mother watches me from the swing. When I shake my head, her shoulders droop.

I climb back up the porch steps, and my mother stands. “I think we can go in now. Auntie has had some time to cool down.”

In case Auntie needs extra cooling-down time, I head upstairs. It's nice to have the room to myself. When Jalaal comes home, he'll probably need some cooling-down time, too, and I'll have to go somewhere else.

I'm only halfway done with my homework when Jalaal slips into our room, eyes on his phone.

“Hi, Jalaal.” I didn't even hear him come home.

I expect to see storm clouds in his eyes, but he's actually wearing a lopsided grin.

“Hey, little buddy.”

I put down my pencil. “Is Olivia your girlfriend?”

Jalaal looks up from his phone. He shoots a glance at the door, then strides over and closes it.

“It's complicated.” He runs a hand through his hair.

I nod like this is news; I feel guilty for overhearing his argument earlier with Auntie.

Jalaal lowers his voice. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course.” I inch closer to the edge of my chair.

“I want to ask Olivia to prom.”

“What's prom?”

“It's this big, formal high school dance.”

That's it? That's the big secret? That doesn't sound so great. But I can tell Jalaal thinks it is.

“Do you think she'll say yes?”

Jalaal shrugs. “I think so. At least, I hope so.”

I wonder how he's going to do this if his mother won't let him have a girlfriend. “When are you going to ask her?”

“Prom's still a few months away. I've got time.”

I nod, even though I have no idea how much time he needs before he has to ask her.

Jalaal looks lost in thought, but finally he blinks. “I just need time to convince my parents to let me go. Especially my mom.”

“You can do it, Jalaal.”

There's no way he can do it. Auntie sounded mad.

He stands. “Sometimes, little buddy, you have to take matters into your own hands.” He pulls notebooks from his backpack, sits at his desk, and clicks on his reading lamp.

I glance at his phone sitting next to his books. I wish I had my own phone so I could call Baba at school, when he's home and awake.

Jalaal said I have to take matters into my own hands. What I really have to do is take a phone into my own hands, put it in my backpack, and take it to school . . .

. . . to call Baba.

 Twenty-three

C
onvincing my mother to let me take her phone to school has not been easy. But my opportunity comes sooner than I expected. Today I have baseball practice after school, but Jalaal also has a dentist appointment and can't pick me up. Since my mom doesn't have a car here in America, Auntie has to pick me up. She also has a million errands to run. We've been running overtime with the Cardinals getting ready for the exhibition tournament, so I never know what time practice will finish. I told her I could just call her when practice is over, and she called that idea very efficient.

When I get off the bus at school this morning, I am sure my phone is well hidden in my back pocket.

Until Akash says, “You got a phone?”

My hand flies to the phone, and I shove it deeper into my pocket.

“It's my mom's.” I glance around to make sure no one heard him before remembering that I haven't done anything wrong. Not yet, anyway.

All throughout the class morning meeting, the only thing I can think about is calling Baba. I've heard Jalaal say he can never get any reception at school, which means I'll have to call outside at recess. That'll be nighttime in Karachi, but not so late that my phone call will wake anyone up.

When recess time finally gets here, I'm the first one out the door. I've already picked out a place I can go to talk to Baba where no one will see me—behind Mr. Jacobs's trailer classroom. It's risky, because although I am hidden from the playground, I still have to keep my voice down in case Mr. Jacobs spots me.

I take my time walking there, even though I want to sprint. When I finally slip into the shadow of the building, I let out a breath and pull out my mother's phone. Baba's number isn't in her phone's memory, because we always call with the house phone. But of course I know it by heart; it used to be my phone number. I touch the screen to wake it up, tap in the numbers, and wait. At first I think my call has not gone through. What if the power is out again? But then the familiar ring sounds. It's a Pakistani phone ringing—three quick, gurgling rings—different from an American ringtone.

“Hello?”

“Daddo?”

There is a moment of silence, then my grandmother asks, “Bilal
jaan
? Is that you?”

Her voice sounds happy and suspicious at the same time.

I glance around to make sure I'm alone.

“Yes, Daddo, it's me, Bilal.”

Another beat of silence. “What time is it there?”

I sigh. “It's one o'clock, Daddo. How is your health?”

I can't just ask to speak to my father right away, or else she'll think something is wrong.

But my grandmother's curiosity behind my call is so strong that she doesn't even answer my question about her health—no complaints about her knees or a headache or anything like that. I think she knows that until I talk to Baba, she won't find out why I'm calling.

“I'm putting your father on the phone.”

“Bilal?” Baba sounds worried. “Aren't you supposed to be at school? Are you sick?”

I peek around the corner. “No, I'm not sick at all. In fact, I have some good news—it's baseball news!”

I hope he doesn't notice I ignored his first question.

Baba lets out a breath that sounds like relief. “What is your news, Bilal?”

A red kickball rolls past and stops at the opening between the trailers. I press myself against the wall as a kid stoops to pick it up. She doesn't even glance my way. Still, I keep my voice low, which is hard when I feel like shouting from the rooftop, as Mr. Jacobs would say.

“My team is playing an exhibition game at Nationals Park, where the Washington Nationals baseball team plays. And guess who's going to be there? Omar Khan! Not playing, though—he'll be watching. And it's in six weeks and you have to come. You can't miss it, Baba!”

Baba laughs, and I can imagine him holding up his hands in surrender. “That is wonderful news, Bilal. I remember Omar as a good man and an excellent cricketer.”

“So you'll be here by then?”

“Actually, I have some news of my own.”

My heart sinks to my knees. More delays. I grip the phone, willing my voice to not sound sad when he says he can't come.

“I'll be there next week, Bilal—in eight days, actually.”

I open my mouth, but no words come out.

“Bilal?”

I find my voice. “Baba, you're coming? Here? Next week?”

“Eight more days. On Pakistan Day.” He laughs, and my heart soars. I want to laugh and cry at the same time, but I am supposed to be hiding Ammi's phone and the fact that I am calling Pakistan all the way from Virginia.

“I will bring your cricket bat. You must be missing it.”

I shake my head. “I don't need it here, Baba. No one plays.”

“We will play together when I get there. I promise.”

Talking about my cricket bat makes me think of my old team. “What happened to Mudassar's father, Baba?”

Baba takes a breath before he answers. “He is under investigation now.”

“Does that mean he's in trouble?”

“Not yet. But my name has been cleared, and I am now free to leave, praise to Allah.”

I want to ask Baba if I can finally talk to Mudassar, but I am almost sure the answer is no. I will ask Baba once he is here. I still cannot believe that I will see him. Eight more days!

“Let me speak to your mother, Bilal. You can put me on speakerphone, and we'll tell her together.”

Uh-oh.

“Bilal? Are you still there?”

I swallow. “Yes, Baba. I'm still here. But Ammi is . . . not here.”

“Well, when she gets home, tell her we'll Skype this weekend. I wanted to tell you all then so I could see your faces. But when I heard your voice, Bilal, I could not keep it a secret.”

Another ball rolls by, this time a basketball. Followed by Mr. Jacobs.

“Bilal?” Mr. Jacobs scoops up the ball. “Who are you talking to back here?”

I freeze.

“Bilal?” Baba's voice calls in my other ear. “Are you still there?”

Mr. Jacobs tucks the basketball under one arm and waits. He doesn't look mad, just curious.

“Um, I have to go, Baba. I will tell everyone this is a Skype weekend.”

And I have the feeling I will also have to tell Mr. Jacobs what I am doing on my mother's cell phone during recess. Even so, I cannot stop grinning.

“Can you keep our secret, Bilal
jaan
? I want them to be surprised.”

I think of what my mother would do if she knew I was calling Baba from school.

“Yes, Baba. I will keep our secret.”