A Long Pitch Home (19 page)

“Bilal! Guess what?”

Before she can say any more, Mrs. Wu kneels next to Jordan's desk. “I'm so pleased your father is back for a visit!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wu!” Jordan gushes. Mrs. Wu pats her shoulder and moves to the next group.

I stop, my copper wire half-unrolled, and stare at Jordan. “Your father—he is back?”

She nods so fast her freckles blur. “For five days. He surprised us this morning. He won't be here on Christmas Day, but it's better than nothing.”

“This is great,” I say, and it is. But it makes me miss Baba even more. Until this moment, I didn't realize that Jordan missing her father somehow helped me—it made me feel like I'm not the only one. But now Jordan's father is here. And Baba is not.

Later, when we file into the gym for the sing-along, I look around for my mother. I think I'll never spot her in this crowd, but then Uncle stands and waves both hands over his head. I smile and send a wave back.

Almost everyone is here—Auntie and Uncle, my mother, and Humza. Jalaal is supposed to come straight here after the high school dismissal bell, but I don't know if he'll make it in time. I try to picture Baba standing there alongside Ammi, but I just can't. I know he is taller than Ammi, but how much taller? How does he stand? How does he walk?

We fifth graders sit and watch all the other grades perform first. When the first graders take the stage, Hira looks like she's right where she was born to be. She curtsies to me, and I smile back. Hira ends up having a small solo part, her high, clear voice floating through the gym. I look back at my mother, expecting to see her wiping away a tear, but instead she's holding up the iPad, filming the concert.

Then it's our turn to sing, and we take our places on the risers. Jordan stands two rows below me, and while I can't tell exactly where she's looking, it's somewhere off to the right. Whichever one her dad is, I wonder if he'd rather be watching Jordan play baseball instead of listening to all of us sing.

We sing our four songs, and I only make a few mistakes on the xylophone during the Ramadan song. With all the voices singing behind me, I hope no one noticed.

After the performance we return to our classrooms, where our families will meet us for dismissal. I'm packing my backpack when my family comes into my classroom, including Jalaal—he made it after all. Hira is already with them, her coat on and her backpack slung over her shoulder.

“Bilal!” Hira lets go of Auntie's hand and rushes over to me as I pull my coat from my cubby. “Did you see me? Did you hear my solo?”

I smile. “You sounded great, Hira.”

She beams. “So did you, Bilal. Will you teach me to play that . . . what's that instrument called?”

“A xylophone.” I have to admit it's nice to know a word in English that Hira hasn't learned yet.

My mother is near the door, signing me out, and I head over to say good-bye to Mrs. Wu.

“Happy holidays, Bilal!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wu. Happy holidays to you, too.”

Jordan calls Mrs. Wu's name, and I turn.

Even if he weren't standing in between Jordan and her mom, I'd know he's her father. He's got the same freckles and dark hair, although it's so short I can't tell if it's curly or not. I have seen Jordan smile before, but never this big. Her smile matches her dad's.

People say I look like Baba, but I could never really see it. If he were here in my classroom, I wonder if people would say things like “Bilal, this must be your father!” or “Wow—you two look so much alike!”

Jordan introduces her dad to Mrs. Wu, and I turn away. I join my family outside in the hallway, and we head for the car.

One day Baba will come to my American school, and I will introduce him to Mrs. Wu and to Jordan and to Mr. Jacobs, too.

One day.

 Nineteen

I
f it were anyone but Hira screaming, I would think something was wrong. So when my little sister's shouts carry all the way up the stairs this morning, I just roll over and close my eyes. Until the door bursts open and ricochets off the doorstop.

“Bilal! Jalaal!”

Hira has arrived.

From the muffled grunt underneath Jalaal's covers, I can

tell he's now used to Hira's enthusiasm over every little tiny thing.

Before I can ask what she's doing here, my sister scrambles onto Jalaal's bed and yanks the cord to the window blinds.They zip to the top as a Jalaal-sounding “Oof!” and “Ow!” come from under his covers.

Hira stands on Jalaal's bed in front of the window in her Hello Kitty nightgown, triumphant.

I sit up, blinded for a moment by the brightness streaming in through the window.

“Hira,” I say, rubbing my eyes, “what are you doing?”

Cupping her hands around her mouth as if there's a chance we won't hear her, she yells, “Snow!” She claps, then points out the window with both hands.

Snow? Snow!

I'm out of my bed and next to Hira in less than a second, my palms pressed against the cold glass.

Jalaal's arm snakes out from underneath his covers, and he grabs his phone from the bedside table. His head emerges next, hair sticking up in every direction, a crooked grin on his face. “School's canceled, little buddy. You can go back to sleep.” With that, he rolls over and burrows back under the blankets.

Sleep? Who can sleep?

I have seen photos of snow from the K2 mountain; our Pakistani giant is the second-highest peak in the world. But I have never seen snow that covers houses and cars and trash cans by the curb, or bushes or trees, or . . . Olivia?

“Hey!” Hira calls down to Olivia, who is dressed in puffy warm clothes and is shoveling snow from her driveway. “Wait for me, Olivia!” she calls over her shoulder as she darts out of the room.

Jalaal throws off his covers and sits up. “Let's go check out the snow.”

I'm halfway down the stairs when I realize I skipped my
Fajr
prayer. But Uncle sees me and smiles, waving me downstairs.

“Your first snow, Bilal. Let's get outside!”

As I gulp down my cereal, I send up thanks to Allah for the snow and promise not to miss the midday prayer, the
Dhuhr
.

By this time Jalaal has hauled himself out of bed, and he digs out his old snow pants, gloves, hat, and jacket for me.

We spend part of the morning building a snowman. Even Humza helps, bringing over clumps of snow that I help him pat onto the snowman's base. Hira declares our creation to be a snow fairy before running inside to get a tiara, fairy wings, and glitter. Jalaal pats the snowman, shakes his head, and says, “Sorry about that, man.”

I pat the snowman, too, and say, “Yeah, man. Sorry.”

Ammi decides Humza has already eaten way too much snow and brings him inside to warm up.

Olivia rubs her mittens together. “Who's up for building a fort?”

We've got the walls as high as my waist when Jordan comes by. She surveys our work and declares, “Nice.”

“Thanks.” I pat down the top of the wall with my snowencrusted glove and step back to take in our masterpiece.

“Hey, Jordan,” Jalaal says, “want to help us out?”

“Sure.” Her freckles stand out even more in the winter.

Hira recruits Jordan to sprinkle glitter on the very top of the snowman. Jalaal, Olivia, and I finish our fort, then help Jordan and Hira build another one.

Jalaal raises a corner of his mouth in a mischievous smile. “You know what time it is, don't you?”

Olivia waggles her eyebrows. “Time for a snowball fight?”

Jordan scoops up some snow. “Bring it.”

Hira cheers even though I don't think she knows why.

Jalaal explains the rules: “It's simple. The last one hit with a snowball wins. You can leave your fort to get a closer shot, but if you're pinged with a snowball, you're out.”

He stands midway between the two forts. “I'll referee.”

Hira slips her hand into Olivia's glove. “I'm on her team!”

Jalaal smiles and shakes his head at Hira. “You two?” He jabs his thumb toward Jordan and me. “Against the two best pitchers around?”

Hira looks at Olivia. “Are you good at this?”

Olivia laughs. “I've been in my fair share of snowball fights.” She looks at Jordan and me. “But these guys? They're going to be tough competition.”

Hira thinks about this for a few seconds, then slips her hand from Olivia's and marches over to me. “Let's go, Bilal. You're on my team.”

Olivia laughs. “I'll try not to feel insulted.”

Jordan and Olivia duck behind their fort, and Hira and I hunker down behind ours.

“What's our plan?” Hira whispers, gathering snow into a lopsided ball.

“We make snowballs as fast as we can, and I'll throw them.”

“
I
want to throw them, too.” Hira crosses her arms.

I've seen that look before. “Fine. You can throw, just be careful you don't get hit.”

But once snowballs start flying, it's not long before Hira scrambles out from behind our fort, a snowball in each hand.

I peek over the top of the fort in time to see Hira and Olivia pelt each other.

“We're out!” Olivia laughs and puts her arm around Hira. I crouch again behind my fort.

Now it's down to Jordan and me.

I'm careful to shift my position after each throw, ducking behind the snow wall so Jordan can't track where I am. Snowball after snowball flies over the wall, inches from my hat. No matter how fast I make and throw snowballs, more and more fall around me. But when four snowballs fly over my wall at once, I know something is weird.

I peer over the wall in time to see four arms launching from behind the other fort.

“Hey!” I stand and immediately get hit in the chest with two snowballs, icy snow spraying my face.

Giggles erupt as Hira pops out from behind the other fort. “We got you! Bilal is out!”

Jalaal, Olivia, and Jordan stand, snowballs in hand, grinning.

“Four against one?” I say, tossing my snowball up and catching it. “That sounds fair.” I smile, then charge their fort.

Snowballs fly until Jalaal begs for mercy and Auntie opens the door.

“Hot chocolate, anyone?” Her smile wavers a little when she sees Olivia.

“Me!” Hira raises her hand and races toward the door. As Auntie helps Hira take off her wet coat, gloves, and hat, Jalaal turns to Olivia.

“Want to come in?”

Olivia glances at Auntie, who is now unwinding Hira's scarf, then looks at Jalaal. He nods.

“Um, sure. I'd love some hot chocolate. Thanks.”

Auntie looks surprised that Olivia said yes, but there's nothing she can say about it now.

We arrange our wet gloves and hats and jackets on the fireplace hearth and head to the kitchen, where mugs of steaming chocolate are waiting.

“Wow—are these marshmallows?” Jordan points to a plate in the middle of the table with white, star-shaped puffs.

I can't answer since I don't know what a marshmallow is, but Jalaal grabs one and plops it into his mug. “My mom made these.”

Olivia's eyes grow wide. “You
made
these?” She turns to Auntie. “I've never even heard of homemade marshmallows.”

Auntie smiles. “They are fun to make, actually. We can't use the store-bought kind because they contain pork.”

Jordan's smile fades. “Pork? In marshmallows?”

Jalaal grins. “They grind up the hooves and other parts of cows and pigs to make the gelatin. You can't taste it—”

Auntie raises an eyebrow, and he adds, “I mean, so I've heard.”

Jordan grimaces. “Hooves? Ew.”

“We don't eat pork,” Auntie explains, “so we buy a special kind of gelatin at the store.”

Jordan stirs in a marshmallow and takes a sip. “These kind are way better.”

“Mmm,” Olivia agrees. “I've never tasted marshmallows this good before.”

“Thank you.” Auntie smiles and places another marshmallow beside Jordan's mug and another near Olivia's.

“Who's up for sledding?” Jalaal asks.

“Sledding?” I ask.

Jordan stares at me, then nods. “Right—this is your first snow, isn't it?”

“Mine, too!” Hira adds.

“You'll love it.” Olivia takes her last sip of cocoa.

“How many sleds do we have in the garage?” Auntie asks.

Jalaal stands, spooning out the last of his hot chocolate from the bottom of his mug. “I'll check.”

“We've got some, too,” Jordan says.

Olivia gathers the mugs and rinses them in the sink. She reaches for the other mugs to rinse them, too, but Auntie turns off the water. “I'll finish up here.”

Olivia looks unsure, but Auntie smiles. “Bilal and Hira need some expert sledding instructors. Go on and have fun.”

“Thank you.” Olivia dries her hands. “The hot chocolate was delicious.”