A Long Pitch Home (12 page)

Then we sit back down and have something called a minute of silence, which I don't understand because we already had several minutes of silence before, while we were filling out the paper with the sixteen boxes.

The kids on TV tell us to have a great day, and then the screen goes to a picture of a fierce cat with long teeth and the words
Panther Pride
.

Mrs. Wu turns off the projector. “Okay, class, finish up your last answers, then we'll gather on the carpet for our first morning meeting of the year.”

Kids wander over to the rug and sit cross-legged around the edge. In the center of the rug is a world map, with flags lining the perimeter. I look for the flag of Pakistan with its white star and crescent moon against a dark green background, but I do not see it. I pick a spot next to a boy with hair the color of a lemon.

Mrs. Wu reads the morning message and explains that the paper with the sixteen boxes is called an
icebreaker
. I am still not sure why, since I don't see how a piece of paper could break ice. Mrs. Wu then shows us how to do something called a
morning greeting
, which goes like this: you introduce yourself; you give a high five to the person on your left; that person says good morning to you; and you say it back.Then the person highfives the next person, and so on, all the way around the circle.

I don't know how I will ever remember all of these names. I wonder if anyone else knows how to speak Urdu.

Then it's time for the icebreaker paper. Mrs. Wu tells us we are supposed to walk around with our paper and pencil and find someone whose answer matches one of ours. If we do, then we sign our name in the other person's box. I frown at my paper. No one's answers will match mine, except maybe the one about having a sister and a brother.

There is only one thing to do—change my answers. I could change cricket to baseball, but what about the vacation spot? I don't know where Americans go on vacation. And favorite summer memory? I could make something up—like going to the pool.

When everyone stands and starts to talk, I head back to my desk. Leaning over my paper, I flip my pencil to the eraser side, but Mrs. Wu calls out, “No changing answers, people! The object isn't to find a match for all the boxes—it's to get to know each other!”

It's obvious most kids already know each other anyway, because I hear things like, “Dylan—sign my box for favorite sport,” when the kid called Dylan hasn't even seen the other kid's paper. The only person I know in this class is Jordan, but she's already exchanging papers with another girl who nods at something Jordan wrote.

Someone taps my shoulder, and I turn to find a tall boy with green eyes peering at me through his glasses. “Hey, what's your favorite sport?” he says.

I hold my paper to my chest. “What is yours?”

“Basketball.” He points to his T-shirt, which has something about a tournament written across it. “We won our division last season.”

I peek at my paper like I can't remember what I put down. “I did not write basketball,” I say.

“Oh, okay.” The boy shrugs. “What else you got?”

He turns his paper so I can scan his answers. I point to where he wrote that he has one brother and one sister.

“This one,” I say.

We exchange papers, and he signs his name in the
How many siblings do you have?
box. I do the same on his paper, scrawling my name quickly so we can switch back before he sees my other answers.

When I have my paper, I look at his name: José. I'm not sure how to pronounce it. He studies my signature. “What's your name?”

“Bilal,” I say, vowing to write more clearly on the next person's paper. Although I probably won't find anyone whose answers match mine.

José nods. “Cool,” he declares, and walks away.

As I suspected, I don't meet anyone else besides José who has the same answers I do. Jordan comes up to me, her paper filled with signatures.

I am so grateful to see a familiar face that I decide right then to apologize for not listening to her on the bus. But before I can open my mouth, she says, “What do you have left?”

She peers at my paper. “Fifteen?” Her voice gets the attention of a bunch of kids standing near us. They look over, then go back to talking and laughing and signing their names.

“Let me see that.” Jordan grabs my paper. Before I can tell her I didn't write down
baseball
for my favorite sport, she's signing her name in one of my boxes—I can't see which one. She thrusts her paper at me, pointing to the box in the lower left-hand corner. “You can sign here.”

I take her paper, and my eyes find the box she's pointing to—the only one without a signature: Favorite summer memory. Underneath, she's written, “Skype with my dad.”

I look up at her, but she seems to be focused on something outside the window, one fist resting on her hip. I sign my name in the box and give her paper back.

“Where is your father?” I ask before my brain can stop me from being rude.

Still looking out the window, she answers, “Afghanistan.” She turns and points her chin at my paper. “What about your dad?”

“At home. In Pakistan, I mean.”

She frowns. “What's he doing there?”

I wish I knew, exactly. All I know is that my best friend's father and Baba are no longer friends, and Baba can't leave work until he finishes whatever it is that he needs to finish. But I can't say any of that, so instead I say, “He is waiting for his traveling visa.” Because this is true, too. Before she can ask another question, I ask, “Why your father is in Afghanistan?”

“He's deployed.”

I don't know that word, but whatever it means, she doesn't look very happy about it.

Jordan folds her arms. “He's in the army. Third time over there.”

I don't know what to say to that.This is the first time I have been away from Baba, and it seems like forever ago since I saw him last. I cannot imagine having him back only to leave again, and again, and again.

Mrs. Wu calls us back to the carpet with our papers, and now we have to go around the circle and share one thing we learned about someone in the class.

“Who would like to go first?” Mrs. Wu asks.

I raise my hand. It is better to go now before someone takes my two answers.

“Bilal, what would you like to share?”

Jordan's head snaps up. I see her barely shake her head—a movement so small I don't think anyone else notices. I nod once to tell her I won't talk about her father to anyone.

My eyes scan the kids in the circle until I find José's spiky black hair. I still don't know how to say his name, so I point to him and say, “He likes basketball.”

Mrs. Wu nods. “Do you play on a team, José?”

So that's how you say his name—
ho-ZAY.

Mrs. Wu thanks me and moves on. I learn from the others that Americans like pizza, hamburgers, and chicken nuggets. They like to vacation at places called the beach, Disney World, and Kings Dominion. I also learn that no one else's favorite subject is English; they say either science, social studies (I am not sure what this means), math, or something called
language arts
—maybe that is where we will do English and some other languages, along with art. Some people say their favorite subject is just art, without the
language
part. Lots of people say
PE
, and I don't know what that is, either. Everyone laughs when someone says recess, and I make a note in my brain to ask Jalaal about all of these things.

I start to tune out after a while because this much English hurts my head. The only thing these people know about me is that I have one sister and one brother. Jordan knows about Baba and baseball, of course. Which means the one person here I have something in common with is a girl. A girl my baseball friends want nothing to do with.

I miss Mudassar.

 Thirteen

A
fter the icebreaker, Mrs. Wu tells us to stand in a giant circle around the classroom. She stands in the circle with us, holding a foam ball as big as a melon.

“We're going to clear out our summer brains with a fun, easy math warm-up,” she says, and everyone breaks into grins. I have never done math before with a ball, or standing up, or with everyone smiling. This will be a first.

Mrs. Wu opens her mouth to say something else, then stops and waves toward the door. A man with yellow hair and the beginnings of a beard stands in the doorway, his hand raised in a wave.

“Mr. Jacobs, come on in!”

He strides into the room with a clipboard. On his way over to Mrs. Wu, he gives one boy a high five. “Not coming with me this year, buddy!” Mr. Jacobs says.

The boy grins. “I passed my reading test,” he says, and stands up straighter.

“I saw, man.” Mr. Jacobs smiles. “With flying colors!”

Flying colors must be a good score, because Mr. Jacobs high-fives the boy once more.

Mrs. Wu gives the boy a thumbs-up. I imagine Mrs. Wu doing this gesture in front of my teachers in Pakistan, and I can't help it—a laugh escapes. I slap my hand over my mouth, and the boy with flying colors narrows his eyes. I want to tell him I am not laughing at him, but now everyone is looking at me, including the teachers.

Mrs. Wu waves me over. “Bilal, this is Mr. Jacobs, the ESL teacher. You'll be going with him for a bit this morning.”

Mr. Jacobs shakes my hand. “Great to meet you, Bilal. What do you say? You ready?”

What I want to say is no, I am not ready to leave for ESL class. Not when we are about to play a math game.

But I have no choice. I follow Mr. Jacobs into the hall where three kids are waiting. None of us says a word as we head outside into the morning sun. I wonder if the others think it's weird that we are leaving the school building.

“Almost there, folks!” Mr. Jacobs says. We round a corner of the school and head up a ramp to another building—not big and brick like the school, but smaller and square and the color of sand. When we get to the door at the top of the ramp, Mr. Jacobs passes his badge over a gray box next to the door. There's a beep and a click, and the door unlocks. This must be a very important building if you need a badge to beep you in.

It doesn't look very important inside, though. It smells a little damp, and our footsteps make hollow sounds as we walk down the hall. We come to a door that reads Welcome! in about fifteen languages. I find the Urdu
Khush amdeed
, and it feels like it is there just for me.

Mr. Jacobs unlocks the door. “Come on in.” He swings one arm wide, and we file in past him. A U-shaped table surrounded by dark blue plastic chairs takes up half the room.The sun streams in through a small window onto a neat stack of papers on Mr. Jacobs's desk.

Three of the walls are bare, but the fourth one is full of photos and posters—one says Istanbul, another Rome, and two are from somewhere in China. I scan the wall for a poster from Pakistan, but I don't see one.

“Take a look around, if you'd like.”

No one moves at first, so Mr. Jacobs waves us over to the display of photos on the wall. Up close, I can see that Mr. Jacobs is in most of them—sometimes alone, and sometimes with other people. There's one of Mr. Jacobs on a camel in front of a pyramid, another of him standing on the steps of the Great Wall of China, and one where he is standing next to a pretty lady with long, dark hair who is holding a yellow-haired baby on a beach. He names the places in the photos, but there are no photos of Pakistan.

The girl standing next to me says she's from a place called Cartagena, Colombia. She seems excited about a photo of Mr. Jacobs standing on top of some fort overlooking the sea.

“Okay, everyone,” Mr. Jacobs calls. “Let's take a seat.”

We gather around the U-shaped table.

“You've seen my photos and heard a little bit about my travels. Now I'd love to hear about your first country.”

“First country?” the boy next to me asks.

Mr. Jacobs nods. “Some people call the place where they come from their home country, but after a while, the United States might feel like home to you, too.”

I don't say this to Mr. Jacobs, but I can't ever imagine feeling at home here.

“I grew up in lots of different places,” Mr. Jacobs explains. “I didn't even live here in the United States until I was nine years old.”

“Where you live?” someone asks.

“My parents were missionaries.” He pauses and takes in our confused faces. “A missionary is someone who goes to another country to help people.”

We nod, although I don't really understand. What kind of help?

“So we lived in China, Nepal, Tanzania, and Bolivia.”

I try to imagine living so many places in nine years.

I raise my hand.

“Bilal, you don't have to raise your hand in here. With only four of you, we can take turns talking and still be respectful when it's someone else's turn.”