A Long Pitch Home (8 page)

Mrs. Wilson hands me a book and tells me a little bit about the story, then asks me what I think will happen in the story.

How am I supposed to know? I glance at the picture of the boy and the dog on the book's cover. The dog does not look like he will bite the boy, but I don't know for sure—maybe the boy found the dog wandering in the street. Maybe when the boy's mother finds out he is touching the dog, she will get very mad and make the boy take an extra-long shower. Then I remember that Americans have dogs for pets. I decide this is a trick question, so to be safe, I say, “I don't know what will happen in the story.”

Mrs. Wilson nods, then asks me to read the story aloud. I freeze. What if I make mistakes? How many mistakes can I make and still pass the test?

I look at the first sentence, and I don't even know how to say the first word. I read the whole first sentence in my head and realize the first word is the dog's name. I have never heard of this name, and I am not sure how to say it.

“Anytime you're ready to begin,” Mrs. Wilson says, tapping the eraser side of her pencil on the paper in front of her.

I take a breath. “Har—Har—vay?” I begin, then wait for her to correct me.

“Harvey.” She nods like she's agreeing with me, but the name she said was different from the way I said it.

I swallow. “Harvey was a good dog—” Then I get to another word I don't know. “Us . . . usoo . . . usoo-a-lee?”

“Usually,” Mrs. Wilson says, with that same nod.

It goes like this for another few sentences, until she finally says,“You're doing a great job, Bilal, but let's try a different book.”

I am not doing a great job. Mrs. Wilson never thought I was doing a great job, either, because next she gives me a baby book—a story with only one sentence on each page. I read every single word with no mistakes.

“Hmm,” Mrs. Wilson says. “Let's try something in the middle.”

So then I have to read another book with some hard words but not too many. Mrs. Wilson seems happy with that, and I let out a breath. Maybe now the test is over. Except it's not—now I have to tell what happened in the story. After that Mrs. Wilson asks me if I have a connection to the story. I don't know what this means, so I say no. Then she asks me what message the author is trying to tell me. Is there a secret message in the story? If so, I have no idea what it is.

“Now on to the writing,” Mrs. Wilson says. She slides a piece of lined paper and a pencil over to me and says, “Write about what you've done over the summer.”

I look at that single sheet of paper and think there are not enough lines for everything I could write about this summer. I could write that when my father disappeared, it was the worst three days of my entire life. And the day he came back was the best day. I could write that I thought everything would go back to normal once Baba came back, but then it didn't; we left almost everything we owned and came to America, where I don't understand most of what people are saying, and I am learning a game called baseball that doesn't make any sense, and I miss playing cricket with my friends.

The lines swim before my eyes, and suddenly I am tired. Tired of English and tired of not feeling smart, tired of missing my father, and tired of living in a house that is not mine. Just tired.

“Bilal?” Mrs. Fayad says my name softly, then continues in Urdu: “This is for writing.” She pats the paper. “Here is where you can write about what you did this summer.”

“Whenever you're ready, Bilal,” Mrs. Wilson says.

I nod, then write:

This summer I move to America. I learn baseball.
I miss Pakistan.

I hand her the paper. She looks surprised, but she takes it from me and scans my writing. “Do you want to add anything else?”

“No, thank you, Madam.”

I stand.

Mrs. Fayad smiles and says, “Well done,” but I can tell Mrs. Wilson doesn't think I did well at all. She leads me out to where my mother and Auntie are waiting. As soon as they see me, their eyes open wide in a way that means, “How did it go?” I shrug and slip into the seat next to my mother. Humza sleeps in his stroller. He is lucky to be so little. He does not have to take tests or go to school or learn more English.

Five minutes later Hira comes bounding out the door, holding a lady's hand and looking like she's won a prize.

We get the results of our tests, and now I know why Hira is so happy. “Her English is coming along beautifully,” says the lady, who introduces herself in Urdu as Mrs. Hakim.

Auntie smiles at Hira. “My niece and nephew were learning English in school back in Pakistan and are good students.”

Mrs. Hakim beams at my sister. “Hira is a level 3 ESL student, which means she'll likely be monitored in her regular classroom by an ESL teacher in case she needs support. She will only be pulled out of class for extra help when she needs it, not on a regular basis. She should do fine in the regular classroom setting.”

Ammi smiles at Hira. “She
is
very talkative.”

Mrs. Hakim laughs. “This is an advantage; you will see. She is not afraid to make mistakes, and that is how she will learn English even more quickly.”

Mrs. Hakim exchanges thanks with Auntie and my mother, then leaves us with Mrs. Fayad. After the glowing words Mrs. Hakim had for Hira, Mrs. Fayad looks sorry for whatever she is about to say.

“Bilal did a nice job, too,” she says, looking like I didn't do a nice job at all. “He does have a solid base in English.”

My mother nods.

“He will start the year as a level 2 ESL student.”

My mother's smile fades, and I wish
I
could fade right into the carpet. Hira slips her hand into mine. Even she feels bad for me.

Mrs. Fayad continues in Urdu: “Bilal will receive special instruction from an ESL teacher. He'll spend most of his time in his fifth-grade class, but he'll meet with the ESL teacher for anywhere from sixty to ninety minutes each day, depending on how quickly he progresses.”

Sixty to ninety minutes? A day?

I have studied English four more years than Hira has, yet I am the one who needs extra help? I know none of this is Hira's fault. But when she looks up at me with a sad face, I turn away.

My mother thanks Mrs. Fayad and nudges me to do the same. “Thank you,” I mumble, slipping my hand from Hira's and putting both hands in my pockets. But thanks for what? For proving my little sister is better at English than I am? We leave the room and head back down the hall in silence.

You take English for five years and you think you know something, but then you come to a place where people speak a different kind of English, and you realize you know nothing.

 Nine

E
very morning after saying all the words in the
Fajr
prayer, I ask Allah for this to be the day that Baba tells us he is coming to America. For the last forty-five days, the answer has been “Not yet.”

These last few weeks have been a blur of baseball camp, more new English words, and hanging out at the pool with the guys. I don't run into Jordan at the pool again, and I wonder if maybe she has made some non-baseball friends. I hope so.

The best thing about baseball camp is that tomorrow is the last day.

When Jalaal told me baseball is kind of like cricket, he was wrong. Sure, baseball has a bat and a ball, but even those are different in cricket. After six long weeks of camp, I still can't hit a ball with a round bat. I mean, I can hit it; I just can't hit the ball where it is supposed to go. Jalaal said I should give it time, but six weeks is time enough.

If Mudassar ever comes to America to visit, this is the baseball advice I will give him:

1. Baseball players only bat one at a time. If you ask where the second batter is, people will look at you funny.
2. If you get a hit, do not carry your bat when you run around the bases.
3. If you hit the ball and it pops up and over the line behind home plate, you do not earn four runs for your team. In fact, this is called a
foulball
, and it is not a good thing. If this happens to you, do not jump and cheer and pump your fist in the air. Just get ready to bat again.
4. Home runs are worth four points at the most, and only if the bases are loaded. If someone hits a home run with the bases loaded, do not high-five everyone as they cross home plate, and yell, “Six points for us!”

The only thing I am okay at is pitching.

But Jordan is better. She is also better at hitting the ball than I am. Then again, so is everyone else.

“Hey, Bilal!” I turn to see Akash running across the field. He catches up to me, breathing hard, and jabs his thumb over his shoulder toward the gym doors. “Why didn't you sign up? Travel tryouts are tomorrow.”

I shake my head. “I would not make the team anyway.”

I have had enough humiliation for one summer, thank you very much. I don't need to try out for a travel baseball team to remind everyone how much I stink at this sport. I just want to forget all about baseball.

“Aw, come on, man.” Akash spits onto the grass. “You're just getting used to the rules. And batting. And, you know, catching with a glove.”

There is nothing I can say to that.

“We need a good pitcher.” Akash raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to speak.

“Thank you, Akash. But Jordan will make your team. Everyone knows she is the best pitcher.” I look behind me to make sure Henry isn't nearby, and lower my voice just in case. “She can also bat better than most everyone else.”

Akash shakes his head. “Girls don't play baseball. Softball, sure. Baseball? No way.” He shrugs. “Look, Bilal, last year we went all the way to the state finals down in Richmond. We lost to some team from Loudoun County.”

I have no idea where these places are, but I do know having me on their team will not help them win. I would be fine with pitching, if only I didn't have to bat. Coach Matt already explained that all players have to bat, even the pitcher. It's the rule.

Jalaal saves me from more conversation when he shouts my name from the parking lot, waving both hands over his head.

Akash glances at Jalaal and then turns back to me. “Will you at least think about it?”

“Okay,” I say, but the only thing I am thinking about is how I am not going to try out.

Akash seems satisfied with my answer, and we agree to meet tomorrow morning at the field.

I head over toward Jalaal, relief flowing through me with every step. After tomorrow, the last day of camp, I won't have to pick up another baseball bat as long as I live.

“Hey, little buddy.
Vámonos
?” Jalaal claps his hand on my shoulder.

“
Vámonos
.” I grin at this strange, new English word.

Jalaal has a plan to speak to me in English so I can learn more before school starts. So far he speaks to me mostly in English and I answer him mostly in Urdu, especially when I'm tired.Thinking in English hurts my brain after a while. I know Jalaal is trying to be helpful, but I also think maybe he doesn't feel comfortable speaking Urdu anymore—kind of like a favorite T-shirt you used to wear everywhere, even to bed, and now it just doesn't fit.

We throw our bags into the back, and Jalaal starts the car. “You ready for tomorrow?”

I nod. Ready for camp to be over.

Jalaal slows the car at a stop sign and then rolls through the empty intersection. “We can throw some pitches in the backyard later, if you want.”

“Sounds good.” As long as we just pitch—no batting.

“You'll blow them away tomorrow, Bilal.”

I look at Jalaal. “Blow who away?”

“The competition, my friend. No doubt you'll make the team.”

“What? But I didn't write my name down,” I say.

His smile returns. “Don't worry—I signed you up.”

“Jalaal!”

His eyes open wide with pretend innocence. “What?”

“I didn't sign up on purpose.”

“Bilal, you're kidding. You're an amazing pitcher.”

But I'm also amazingly bad at batting. I guess Jalaal knows, because he says, “We'll work on the batting. You'll be fine.

“The travel team is called the Fairfax Cardinals, but they're opening up a developmental team this year, too.”

“Cardinals?”

“They're birds.” Jalaal glances out his side window. “I don't see any now, but they're red—at least the males are. The females are brown.”

Birds don't sound like a very ferocious mascot. But I think I have seen the kind of bird that Jalaal is talking about—they like to eat from Auntie's bird feeder in the backyard.

“What is the developmental team?”

Jalaal looks both ways before cruising through another stop sign. “The developmental team works more on basic skills. No official games, only scrimmages—kind of like practice games that don't count.”