A Long Pitch Home (27 page)

“Thank you, sir.”

“You two are welcome to stay and eat, if you'd like.”

Coach Matt closes the grill lid. “I've got more burgers back in the kitchen. I can put them on anytime.”

“Thank you,” Jalaal says, “but we've got dinner waiting at home.”

We say our good-byes, and Jordan walks us around to the front yard.

Jalaal heads for the car, but I wait back with Jordan for a minute.

“That's great your father is home.”

She bends down and plucks a white, fuzzy dandelion from the grass. “It was a total surprise.”

I try to imagine what that must have been like—seeing her father again after all this time and knowing now that he's going to be okay.

Jalaal waves from the car window. “Let's roll, little buddy.”

I turn to go.

“Bilal.”

I stop.

“Your dad will come back, too.”

I want to say thank you, but the words are lodged in my chest. Jordan must know this, because when I look back, she's already walking away.

Jalaal must know, too; although he looks over at me a few times, he doesn't say a word all the way home. I pick at the seams of my baseball glove and wonder if Baba will ever see me play. Is Omar Khan even trying to help Baba? If so, it's not working.

We pull into our driveway, and Jalaal is the first out of the car. He stops, his door still open.

“Hey, little buddy,” he says softly. “Come see this.”

I get out of the car.There, tied around the trunk of our tree, is the faded yellow ribbon.

 Twenty-nine

W
e win the district championship, seven to two. Next stop—state finals in a town called McLean, only twenty minutes away. It's no Toronto, but if we win the state title, we get to play in a place called Georgia.

We've got one week left of fifth grade. Mrs. Wu says middle school will open our worlds to new opportunities—clubs and elective classes and new friends. We'll have lockers with combination locks, seven different teachers, PE uniforms and locker rooms, and a library filled to bursting with books just for older kids—us.

Akash dumps his backpack on the bus seat in front of me and opens his window. “Want to hit the pool after practice?”

“Did someone say
pool
? I'm in.” Henry plops down next to me. “You coming, Bilal?”

I shake my head. “Jalaal's going to the prom, and my mom says we have to be there to take pictures before he goes.”

Jordan takes the seat behind Henry. “Olivia's really nice.”

I nod. I couldn't believe it when Auntie said he could go. Jalaal claims they're only going as friends and will be at the dance with a big group, so maybe that's how he convinced her. I think Humza's Band-Aid may have had something to do with it, too.

Instead of driving me to practice, Jalaal is out picking up flowers for Olivia, so Jordan's dad drives us. He can't bend his left leg very well, but he says he only needs his right leg for driving anyway.

Even though this is only a practice and not a real game, Jordan keeps glancing at her dad on the bleachers, like she wants to make sure he's still there. Every time she does, he gives her a smile. And every time that happens, my heart swells and breaks at the same time.

“He's not going back, you know,” Jordan says as we jog out toward Coach Pablo for pitching practice. “He's looking for a different job now.”

It never occurred to me that Jordan might move away now that her dad is back. “A job where—back in Illinois?”

She shakes her head. “Around here, where we're close to family.”

I smile.

“And friends.” She friendship-punches my shoulder.

I have never seen Jalaal this nervous. Auntie straightens his seafoam green bow tie. Uncle checks the battery level on the camera. Hira opens the refrigerator and takes out the plastic box containing Olivia's flowers, holding it like it's made of glass. Ammi keeps Humza and his yogurt-covered fingers away from Jalaal's black tuxedo. I'm in charge of the iPad as we Skype with Baba, Daddo, and everyone else back in Karachi. I pan around the room before zooming in on Jalaal as Auntie smooths the lapels of his jacket. She turns him toward the camera and smiles. Applause and a murmur of approval come from the iPad, which I can't see since I'm the one filming.

“Okay.” Jalaal takes a deep breath. “I'm heading out.”

Auntie hands him the plastic box with Olivia's flowers. “We're coming with you.”

Panic flashes across Jalaal's face until Auntie grins and says, “Only outside to take pictures.”

Jalaal lets out a breath and kisses Auntie on the cheek.

We trail behind Jalaal out the front door, with the Karachi relatives and me bringing up the rear.

Hira points to the teenagers and parents standing in Olivia's driveway. “Look!” She squeals and covers her mouth. “They're so fancy!”

Jalaal looks like he'd rather not have our family parade outside with him, but his face changes completely when he sees Olivia.They walk toward each other, grinning.They don't even notice when I zoom in on their faces with the iPad.

Now I get why Jalaal's bow tie is seafoam green—it matches Olivia's flowy dress.

Hira claps. “Olivia's a princess!”

We laugh, and Jalaal says, “Agreed.”

“What's going on?” Daddo's voice comes from the iPad. I translate what Hira said about Olivia being a princess, and they all murmur and nod. Daddo's eyes are shiny as she blows a kiss. Jalaal and Olivia wave into the camera, and the relatives wave back and talk at once. Jalaal tells them he wishes they were here with us, and Daddo shakes her head and clasps her hands together, her eyes smiling.

Olivia watches in awe as Jalaal speaks in Urdu, like he's some kind of genius.

We join the other families on Olivia's front lawn for pictures of all the prom couples. Then the other teenagers climb into a long car called a
limo
, even nicer than Omar Khan's car. Jalaal and Olivia get into our car because they aren't going straight to dinner. Since it's still Ramadan and Jalaal needs to wait for sundown to eat, Olivia suggested they take a walk in DC near the monuments while they wait for the sun to set.Then they'll eat at some famous restaurant at the very top of a tall building. After dessert, they will join their friends at the dance.

Jalaal drives past us, giving a honk, and we wave.The adults stay out on Olivia's lawn, talking and laughing and shaking their heads when someone says something about how fast kids grow up. I bring the Karachi relatives inside for now, and they all sign off except for Baba.

“Bilal
jaan
, I have another Karachi memory for you.” Baba smiles. “Remember the rickshaws?”

“Yes, Baba—I almost forgot! I have not seen a single one here.”

“I think that Jalaal and Olivia should have taken a rickshaw ride to their dance.”

Baba and I laugh picturing Jalaal and Olivia all dressed up, squished into an open rickshaw cab pulled by a loud, stinky motor scooter.

“Now it's your turn, Bilal. What American tidbit do you have for me?” Baba's smile is still wide, but I can feel mine starting to fade.

There are lots of things I could tell Baba, like how the pools are open again or how I took my end-of-year school exams on a computer. I could tell him about the giant elephant statue I saw on our museum field trip to DC or the tornado drill we had at school.

“Bilal?” Baba's smile is gone. “Are you all right?”

I shrug. “I can't think of any more American things for your list, Baba.”

Because he needs to come and see America for himself. I don't say this, but looking at his face, I can tell Baba agrees.

 Thirty

“
H
ow would you like to celebrate your birthday, Bilal?” Ammi sits at the kitchen table, a pen poised above a clean pad of paper. “We can invite your friends over, go to the pool—whatever you'd like.”

She writes
Bilal's 11th birthday
and underlines it twice. “Of course, your big game is at noon that day, but your friends can come over afterward—maybe for fireworks that evening?”

I slump into the chair across from her. “I don't really feel like celebrating this year.”

She sets her pen down. “I know, Bilal.”

And that's all she needs to say.

All the summer birthdays are announced on the last day of school, so people know I'll be eleven soon. Jordan and the guys ask what I'm doing for my birthday, but I tell them I haven't decided yet. Hopefully they'll forget and stop asking.

These last days of Ramadan feel different this year. On last year's Eid, we thought Baba would be joining us soon. This year, it feels like he never will. Maybe Omar Khan's connections didn't work. Maybe not even the world's greatest cricket player can get Baba here.

Auntie, Ammi, and Hira get swirly henna designs on their hands, and I go to the batting cages whenever I can. There's only a week and a half left before the state championship game, but Coach Matt and Coach Pablo give us Sunday off, just in time for Eid.

When the holiday arrives, after the pre-dawn morning prayer, I wish everyone
Eid Mubarak
. I hug each of them three times, then crawl back into bed. I want this day to be over.

Ammi comes in as the morning light begins to glow behind my window shade. She sits on the edge of my bed, then touches my forehead and rests her hand for a moment on my cheek.

“Are you hungry, Bilal
jaan
?
Suhoor
is on the table.”

I shake my head. I used to love the pre-dawn meal, where everyone starts off hungry and sleepy and ends up full and happy.

Ammi sighs and adjusts my covers like she used to when she tucked me in for the night. “Oh, Bilal.” Her voice catches, and she presses her fingers to her mouth. The festive henna swirls across her hand seem lost, out of place. Baba always loved to see which design Ammi and Hira would choose on Chaand Raat, the Night of the Moon right before Eid. Baba would trace the lines on Hira's hands until she couldn't hold her giggles in any longer.

I reach for Ammi's hand, and she gives mine a squeeze.

Sometimes I forget that I am not the only one who misses Baba.

I get up, not because I want to, but because this makes Ammi smile, her eyes bright with tears.

I get through it all—prayers at the mosque, visiting friends, and eating pounds of
sheer khorma
. After the second house, I've already had enough of the creamy milk pudding.

When it is time to Skype with the family back in Karachi, Hira actually lets Humza steal the show with his big, wet kisses right on the screen. Everyone applauds on the Karachi side, while Hira whispers, “Ew.” She doesn't try to elbow her way into the conversation like she used to, and I know it's because she's losing more and more Urdu words.

I get through more prayers, the dinner feast, the gifts, and finally I am back in bed. I don't dream about the next Eid. In fact, I don't have any dreams at all.