A Long Pitch Home (6 page)

Akash stands up straight and pushes his hat back. “Man! Nice one, Bilal.”

The compliment fills my chest. “Thank you.”

Now it's his turn to throw, but as soon as Akash lets the ball go, I have an idea—a lightning-quick thought. I whip off my glove and let it drop to the ground as I reach up, a little to the left, and snatch the ball out of the air.

Akash shakes his head and grins. “I cannot believe you caught that.”

I smile even though my hand stings.

He points at the glove lying at my feet. “You're not gonna use that?”

I shake my head. “I catch better without it.”

“You play baseball in Pakistan?” Akash asks.

I lift the brim of my cap a centimeter. “No—cricket.”

Akash nods. “My dad's played before.”

A spark of hope flickers in my chest. “Here in America?”

“Nah. Back in India.”

The spark snuffs itself out.

We toss the ball back and forth some more until Coach Matt yells, “Okay, Mad Dogs! Now that you're warmed up, let's try a throw-off. We're going to get some baseline info so we can track your progress from now through the end of camp.”

Akash must see confusion on my face, because he jogs over and explains what
throw-off
means. I don't understand all of his words—he talks fast like Coach Matt—but I understand when Akash points to two targets hanging from a fence.

“You'll be good at this,” Akash says.

“I don't know.” I try to sound like it doesn't matter. But it will matter if I make a fool of myself in front of everyone.

We form two lines across from the two targets.

“Okay, Mad Dogs! Remember what I said about sportsmanship.”

I have no idea what
sportsmanship
means, never mind what he said about it.

“We're here to support each other—boost each other's spirits. We're here to have fun, and to learn to play ball. Let me hear you now, Mad Dogs—we're here to have fun and to . . .”

“Play ball!” everyone shouts. Everyone except me, because I did not know I was supposed to yell these words.

The first boy in each line stands behind a rope, and when Coach Matt blows a whistle, they each launch a baseball at the target. One ball misses, and the other smacks the top.

Coach Matt writes something on a clipboard. “Nice effort, Andy and Carter! Next up!”

The boy whose ball hit the target jogs to the end of his line, but the boy who missed goes off to the side to watch.

Two other boys step up to the rope, and Coach Matt blows his whistle again. As more players take their turns, I figure out that whoever hits the target goes back in line for another turn. Those who miss gather on the side to yell good things to the boys who are still in.

My turn comes up, and I hit the target easily, just to the right of the center. When all of us have had a turn, Coach Matt and Kyle move the rope back about a meter, so now we're farther away from the targets.

I make it through the next round, and the round after that, until the rope puts us twice as far from the target as when we started. Only two of us are left. Akash yells, “That's it, Bilal! You got this!”

The rest of the boys clap and hoot, some yell my name, and others yell the name Jordan. I close my eyes for a few seconds, and it's like I'm back home on the cricket pitch. I breathe, open my eyes, and turn my attention to the target.

Coach Matt's whistle pierces the air. I draw my arm back and then let the baseball fly. Jordan's baseball thwacks the center of the target a split second before my ball lands—too far to the right.

The boys erupt into cheers.

I decide second place is okay. For now.

I turn to congratulate Jordan, but he is already surrounded by some of the other kids.

“Nice, Bilal!” Akash calls, and the others head toward me, their hands ready for high fives. It is when they leave Jordan behind to congratulate me that I realize Jordan is not a “he” at all.

Jordan is a girl.

 Six

W
e've only been home from camp twenty minutes when I find Jalaal out on the porch, slumped on the front step like a half-empty sack of rice. He passes a baseball from one hand to the other, elbows propped on his knees. He's not watching the ball, though; he is staring at the driveway of the house next door, like he's hoping it will notice him.

“
Salaam
, Jalaal,” I say, and sit down. He looks like he could use a buddy.

“Hey, Bilal.” His eyes don't leave the driveway, and his hands don't stop passing that ball back and forth, back and forth.

“Do you want to play catch?” This is brave of me to offer, considering. But it might make Jalaal feel better, and maybe it would help me forget about losing to a girl today.

“Nah.” He shrugs. “Too hot.”

Jalaal hands me the ball, and I continue his back-and-forth ritual. It is kind of relaxing. “What are you doing out here?”

Jalaal sighs. “Just hanging.”

He says this in English, and although it doesn't look like he's hanging on to anything, I nod anyway. Sometimes men don't need to explain everything. It makes me think of Baba and my uncles, who can sit outside the tea shop down the street and not say anything for ten minutes—they just sip and look out at the sea.

Jalaal finally looks at me. “So what'd you think of your first day of camp?”

I'm not sure how to answer. Jalaal loves baseball, and I can tell he wants me to love it, too. I decide to answer his question with a question. “Do girls play baseball?”

At first he looks confused, then he nods. “Right, that girl—what's her name again? Jen? Jessie?”

“Jordan. Like the country.”

He snaps his fingers. “That's it—Jordan. She's Coach Matt's niece. She and her mom just moved here—from Illinois, I think. Or maybe Iowa.”

I've never heard of either of those cities.

Jalaal shrugs. “She'll probably join a softball team in the fall, but it was too late to sign up for a summer camp. Coach said he'd let her play.”

I've never heard of softball. If the ball is soft, it must not be a batting game.

Before I can ask Jalaal anything else about Jordan, the yellow car with the white flower hubcaps pulls into the driveway next door.

Jalaal pops up to his feet so fast he startles me, and I drop the ball. But he doesn't even notice because he's already halfway across the lawn, jogging toward the neighbor's driveway.

A girl steps out of the car, and her hair is as orange as a
kinnoo
fruit. I've seen pictures of people with this kind of hair, but now that I see it in real life, I cannot stop staring. Her hair is curly and falls down her back.The minute she turns and sees Jalaal, her whole face breaks into a smile.

Jalaal isn't even acting like himself. Not that I have known him very long, but the way he is standing, with his arms folded, anyone can see he is nervous. But a happy nervous, with a lopsided grin. I run to catch up.

“Bilal, this is Olivia. Olivia—my cousin Bilal.”Jalaal's cheeks look flushed. It makes me want to hand him a glass of water.

“It is nice to meet you, Olivia.”

She smiles a Bollywood movie-star smile with those straight, white teeth, and I notice tiny brown spots sprinkled across her nose and cheeks.

She holds her hand out. “Welcome to America, Bilal.”

I've never shaken a girl's hand before. When I look at Jalaal, he nods in her direction, so I reach out my hand. She has a strong handshake. Her khaki shorts have smudges of dirt, and her dark green T-shirt says “The Other Side Nursery: Where the grass is always greener!” I don't stare at her dirty clothes, because maybe she feels embarrassed. Olivia pulls her hair back, twists it up, then takes a brown plastic clip from the end of her sleeve and sticks it in her hair. With all that hair up and away from her face, her skin reminds me of a marble statue—pale and smooth. Except for those tiny flecks of brown.

Jalaal stands there, transfixed, but Olivia doesn't seem to notice. “It's way too humid today. I must look like a lion.” She smooths a stray curl behind her ear, but it springs back into place.

Jalaal laughs and shakes his head. “You look great.”

Olivia smiles and punches him in the shoulder. I know this means they're friends, but even I can tell they aren't the kind of friends like Jalaal and Kyle, or like me and Mudassar back home.

“Jalaal!” Auntie's voice carries across the lawn from our driveway, where she stands beside the minivan.

“Coming!” he calls over his shoulder, and his smile slides right off his face.

Olivia looks at me and says, “It was nice to meet you, Bilal. I'll see you around.”

“Good-bye, Olivia.” I wave, then race to the driveway where Auntie waits, holding a bag of groceries. Her eyes narrow as she watches Jalaal stride across the grass toward us. All the light has gone out of his face.

Auntie hands Jalaal a bag, her eyes on his the whole time. He spins around with the groceries and heads inside.

“I can take some, Auntie.”

She touches my cheek, finally looking away from Jalaal. “Thank you, Bilal, but I can get these last two bags.” She nods toward the open door of the minivan. “Why don't you wake your sister and bring her in out of this heat.”

I peek into the van to find Hira fast asleep, her head back and her mouth open. In one hand she clutches a paper bag. Around her wrist is a bracelet woven from colorful threads. I tap her arm gently and her eyes fly open.

“Are we home?”

She tries to push herself off the seat before remembering she is still wearing her seat belt. I unbuckle it for her and she reaches into the bag.

“Look what I made at camp!”

She pulls out a bookmark made from yellow flowers pressed between two strips of clear plastic. Some of the petals are wrinkled and one is torn, but I can tell she worked hard on it.

“Nice, Hira.”

She takes my hand and leaps from the van. “It's for you!” She thrusts the bookmark at me. “The flowers are called
buttercups
.” This last word she says in English, and we laugh that a flower is named after butter.

“Are you sure you wouldn't rather give this to Ammi or Auntie?”

Hira seems to consider this. “I can make more tomorrow. This one is for you.”

“Thank you, Hira.” I smile, but silently vow never to be seen with a buttercup bookmark outside this house.

As we head up the driveway, Hira asks, “What did you make at baseball camp?”

I shake my head. “You don't make anything at baseball camp—you
play
baseball.”

“Oh.” Hira frowns. “Was it fun?”

I think about coming in second place in the throwing contest, which was fun up until the part where I found out that a girl beat me. I shrug. “Some of it was fun, I guess.”

We get to the shade of the porch, and Hira heads straight for the swing. She settles herself onto the bench seat and holds up her wrist. “This is a friendship bracelet. I can teach you how to make one—it's easy.”

Hira's feet can't quite reach the floor, so I push the swing with the toe of my sneaker while she describes in detail how to make a friendship bracelet. She says some of the words in English, like
thread
and
weave
.

I give the swing another push. “Did you understand everything at camp today?”

Hira looks up from her bracelet and shakes her head. “But I watched. And one girl speaks Urdu, so she helped me.”

I wish someone at baseball camp spoke Urdu besides Jalaal, who doesn't even work with my group.

Ammi opens the front door and pokes her head out. “I want to hear all about your day.” She smiles. “Your auntie just finished making cookies with chocolate bits.They are delicious. Tidy up your rooms and then it will be time for tea.”

Hira frowns. “Ammi, do I have to clean my room now? Can't I do it later?”

Ammi kneels in front of Hira and pats her knee. “
Baytee
, this is not our home. We must always be respectful and show our thanks to Uncle and Auntie. They are very kind to take us in until Baba can get here and we can look for a home of our own.”

But we already have a home back in Karachi. I don't say this, because even though Ammi wears a smile, her eyes are shiny. My heart feels like it's stuck in my throat.

“Come on, Hira.” We stand, and the swing knocks into the back of my legs.

Ammi takes Hira's hand. “Besides, the sooner you clean your rooms, the sooner you will get to taste Auntie's cookies.”

After a month of the adults fasting until sundown, it sounds strange to hear Ammi talk about eating in the middle of the day.

When I get to my room—Jalaal's and my room—it is a mess. Clothes have been tossed on both beds and the floor. One clean-looking stack of folded clothes sits on Jalaal's desk. Others are definitely dirty, like Jalaal's camp uniform dumped in the middle of the carpet. None of these clothes are mine.