A Long Pitch Home Read online

  To the new kids in class, and to those who befriend them.

  Text copyright © 2016 by Natalie Dias Lorenzi

  Jacket illustration copyright © 2016 by Kelly Murphy

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Charlesbridge and colophon are registered trademarks of Charlesbridge Publishing, Inc.

  Published by Charlesbridge

  85 Main Street

  Watertown, MA 02472

  (617) 926-0329

  www.charlesbridge.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Lorenzi, Natalie Dias, author.

  A long pitch home / by Natalie Dias Lorenzi.

  Watertown, MA: Charlesbridge, [2016] | Summary: When Bilal's family suddenly moves to America, his father stays in Pakistan, and Bilal embraces baseball, an unexpected friend, and a new language. But this new way of life does not feel so special without Baba—will he ever get to America to see Bilal pitch a game?

  Identifiers: LCCN 2015026830 | ISBN 9781580897136 (reinforced for library use)

  | ISBN 9781607348702 (ebook)

  | ISBN 9781607348719 (ebook pdf )

  Subjects: LCSH: Pakistanis—United States—Juvenile fiction. | Pakistani Americans—Juvenile fiction. | Families—Juvenile fiction. | Culture shock—Juvenile fiction. | Cousins—Juvenile fiction.| Fathers and sons—Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: Pakistanis—United States—Fiction. | Pakistani Americans—Fiction. | Muslims—Fiction. | Family life—Fiction.| Culture shock—Fiction. | Cousins-Fiction. | Fathers and sons—Fiction. | Baseball—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.L885 So 2016 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015026830

  Printed in the United States of America

  (hc) 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Display type set in Paquita Pro by Juanjo Lopez

  Text type set in Adobe Caslon Pro by Adobe Systems Incorporated

  Color separations by Coral Graphic Services, Inc., in Hicksville, New York, USA

  Printed by Berryville Graphics in Berryville, Virginia, USA

  Production supervision by Brian G. Walker

  Designed by Diane M. Earley

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Acknowledgments

  One

  They took my father three days ago, a week before my tenth birthday.

  No one knows where he is. Or if they do know, they are not telling me.

  Daddo has her own theories. “They took my son because he is the best engineer in all of Karachi—no, in all of Pakistan.”

  “Who are they?” I ask.

  My grandmother frowns as she strips the mango skin from its flesh. I actually feel sorry for the mango.

  She does not answer my question, so I keep talking.

  “But Daddo, there are a thousand engineers in Karachi. Why couldn’t they—whoever they are—get their own engineer instead of taking Baba?”

  “Bah.” Daddo scoops up the mango peels and dumps them in the trash. “You are still too young to understand these things, Bilal.”

  “Almost-ten-year-olds are not too young to understand these things.”

  I hold my breath, waiting for her reaction. I am not supposed to be disrespectful during the month of Ramadan. Or any of the other months, either.

  But Daddo doesn’t look mad. She just shakes her head and says, “One day you will understand.”

  Here is what I understand.

  Four days ago I was planning my birthday party with my mother. Ammi called the Pie in the Sky bakery over by Zamzama Park and ordered my favorite cake—chocolate malt with fudge frosting.

  The next day my father never came home from work.

  I understand nothing.

  Ammi has not cooked a thing since my father disappeared. Daddo cooks double of everything to feed the relatives who stream into our apartment every day, waiting for news about my father.

  Usually my family is loud, and we talk all at once except when we’re laughing. But whoever took my father took our laughter, too. The grown-ups smile whenever I come into the room with my little sister, Hira, who hasn’t let me out of her sight since our father disappeared.They clap whenever Humza, my baby brother, toddles over and calls out a nonsense word. But I can see in their eyes that they are scared. Their fear sits on my chest like an elephant.

  The adults gather in the living room, where the curtains are drawn against the late-afternoon sun. They stop whispering when I come around the corner, so I catch only snippets of their conversations.

  “He should have transferred out of that office.”

  “How many times did I tell him not to push the issue?”

  “I’ve never trusted Tahir.”

  I understand none of it, especially the part about Tahir, the father of my very best friend. He and Baba work together. They have been friends since they were boys, just like Mudassar and me.

  When the sun sinks into the sea and the azaan sounds from the minarets of the Mubarak Mosque, our prayers do not feel joyful. I kneel on my janamaz, touching my forehead to the prayer mat. But when I recite the traditional words, I am really asking Allah to bring Baba home. When it is time to break the fast, no one rushes to the table; they shuffle and murmur and sigh. Daddo brings out the steaming bowls of qorma, and the smell of chicken and curry makes my stomach rumble. I feel guilty for being hungry, because who knows if those people who took Baba are letting him eat. Daddo must hear my rumbling belly, because she leans over as she passes the plate of dates and whispers, “Eat, Bilal jaan. Worrying is hungry work.”

  We mumble an unenthusiastic Bismillah in thanks for our food. Maybe Allah heard our prayer, because next we hear the knock at the door. Everyone freezes except for Humza, who stuffs his mouth with fat fistfuls of mushy rice and peas.

  Nobody moves because that first knock is just a regular one. But then it comes, Baba’s special knock: two fast raps—pause—another quick knock like a hiccup, followed by two solid thunks.

  We burst from our chairs in a blur of movement, our voices exploding with hope and disbelief. Someone’s water glass clanks over and my chair crashes to the floor, but I do not look back. My legs race down the hall until my palms slam against the front door.

  My fingers work the locks as fast as dragonfly wings, and then—click!—the last of the locks is free. I pull the door open, and there stands Baba. His suit is wrinkled and his shirt is torn near the pocket, and he must have lost his glasses somewhere along the way. But it’s him, all right, and he is home.

  “Baba!” I yell. My father smiles and steps inside, then falls to his knees and opens his arms. Hira and I just about knock him over. His cheek has the beginnings of a beard that prickles my own cheek, but I keep my arms tight around him. Everyone surrounds my father, crying and laughing and asking him where he’s been. He only shakes his head and takes turns holding us close.

  Baba doesn’t speak about those three days he was missing
from our lives. But two days after his surprise homecoming, he says this: “Bilal, it is high time we leave Pakistan to live with your Hassan Uncle and Noor Auntie in America.”

  America? That’s on the other side of the world.

  Ammi, my siblings, and I will leave in a few days, and Baba will come later. In the meantime, Baba says we can tell no one we are leaving, not even Mudassar. Especially not Mudassar. If Baba and Tahir are no longer friends, does that mean I have lost my best friend, too?

  We have two days to pack our things. Not all of our things: only one suitcase each. How can a person fit his whole life into one suitcase? It is impossible. Ammi says it is hard to decide what to take because we have so many nice things, and for that we should be thankful. But I am not thankful I have to leave my cricket bat behind—the one my teammates signed after we won last season’s Karachi Youth Tournament. I do take my cricket uniform and the photo of Mudassar and me grinning after our final win. I unpin another photo—the one of Baba when he played on Pakistan’s national team. I run my finger along the row of famous faces sitting near Baba—left-arm bowler Waqas Akram, and the team captain, the great Omar Khan. The picture was taken right before Baba injured his knee and couldn’t play in the World Cup. It was the last season he ever played.

  The only thing left on my bulletin board is the ticket stub from the Karachi Zebras versus the Peshawar Panthers match—the very first cricket match Baba took me to see. The ticket stub is wedged between the cork and the bulletin board’s frame, and I have to tug a few times to get it out. I leave my cricket helmet. There is so much I cannot take.

  Still, I fill my suitcase to bursting, and now our last day in Karachi is here. We are standing in the Jinnah International Airport on July the fourth at four o’clock in the morning. My baba tells me this: “Today will be the best day of your life, Bilal.”

  I do not say anything, because I am too busy wondering what my father will tell my friends tomorrow afternoon when they come to our door expecting to celebrate my birthday, arms full of presents. I am thinking about how my chocolate malt cake with fudge frosting will be sitting in the refrigerator in the back of the Pie in the Sky bakery. When the baker figures out no one is coming to get my cake, maybe he will take it home to his own family for their Eid celebration at the end of Ramadan.

  My father leans down to look me in the eye, and I blink hard. “Bilal,” he says, “cricket has taught you strength and resilience. To do your best even when things are not easy. To support your teammates.” He swallows, and I wonder if his throat feels tight like mine does. Baba’s eyes don’t leave mine, and his voice is firm when he tells me, “Now it is time to be strong for your mother, your sister, and your brother.”

  Losing a cricket match after trying your best for five hours is not the same as moving to America. I do not say this to Baba. Instead I take a shaky breath and blink fast to keep my tears from spilling down my cheeks.

  “You will see, Bilal,” he says, his voice gentler now. “Today is the beginning of a new life for us. Not only is today your birthday, but—guess what?” He smiles. “It is America’s birthday, too.”

  I nod like this is good news, but how can today be the best day of my life if we are leaving Baba behind? I would give up birthday parties for the rest of my life if only he could come with us now.

  Hira tugs on my father’s sleeve. “Baba, why can’t you come to America now, with us?”

  “I have to take care of some things at work, baytee.” He takes Hira’s hand. “Your uncle will be there to meet you, and I will come as soon as I can. Do not worry.”

  I worry anyway.

  Humza chews on a cookie as he watches a cart loaded with suitcases roll past. He has no idea we will not see Baba for who knows how long. He has no idea he’s supposed to feel sad. I wish I could trade places with him. My father kisses the top of Humza’s head before pulling Hira and me into one last hug. Then he holds my mother close. She cries enough silent tears to fill the Lyari River. Hira slips her hand into mine, and I gently squeeze it. She is only six. I will be ten by the time this day is over—too old to cry in front of my father. When my mother finally pulls herself from Baba’s arms, we walk under the Unaccompanied Women and Children sign for the first time in our lives and head toward the desk where a man is checking passports. He stifles a yawn as he stamps our papers.

  When we are through the line, my mother says to look straight ahead and be strong.

  I don’t listen. At the last moment, I turn and see Baba, his hand over his mouth and his eyes full of pain. When he sees me, he puts a kiss into that hand and sends it my way. I catch it, like I always do, and pat it onto my heart extra hard, so it will stick. My eyes sting, blurring my last look at Baba before I run to catch up to my mother.

  When the plane finally lifts us into the air, I realize I never sent Baba a kiss back. I send one now into the shadows of the sunrise and hope it will travel through the airplane window and find its way to him.

  “He will join us soon, Bilal. You will see.”

  I nod, still looking out the window as Karachi shrinks into a toy city with blinking lights. He will join us soon. I repeat my mother’s words in my head over and over, because I want to believe they are true.

  My father said that today, the fourth of July, would be the best day of my life. My father is wrong.

  Two

  The very first thing Uncle says to me at the airport is, “Happy birthday, Bilal! I can’t believe you are already nine.” I know why he can’t believe I am nine; it is because I am ten. But I do not tell this to Uncle. I think he would be embarrassed not to know the age of his only sister’s son, even though the last time I saw him was back when I was in Class 1, barely six years old. That was just before Uncle moved his family to America, and we stayed in Karachi.

  We follow Uncle out to a huge car that he calls mini—a minivan. The air feels like Karachi—warm and thick—but the sounds here are different. As we load our suitcases into the van, not one horn honks in this whole gigantic parking lot. It looks funny to see Uncle sitting behind the steering wheel on the left side of the car and Ammi sitting next to him, where the steering wheel should be. When we start to drive, I can see why Uncle is sitting on the wrong side: everyone drives on the wrong side of the road instead of the left.

  Hira peppers Uncle with questions the whole way, but her voice eventually fades from my ears as I take in the scenery rolling past the window.

  We zoom along a wide road with four neat lanes. It’s nothing like Karachi, where sometimes you can’t tell which lane is which because scooters weave between cars, minibuses chug alongside men on bikes, and donkeys pull carts carrying bricks or boxes or sacks of food.The few buses on this American road all look exactly the same; not a single one is decorated with colorful designs, and no fringe hangs from their bumpers. No one rides on top or hangs out of the doors or windows.

  Uncle turns into his neighborhood, where the houses are like the cars on the highway—neatly spaced, very big, and mostly the same. I don’t see any palm trees, just leafy giants as tall as our apartment building back in Karachi. Each house has its own garden right out front, and most of the cars are parked on small lanes that lead to garages. The one car parked in the wide street is yellow with a rounded roof and hubcaps that look like white flower petals.

  Uncle parks in his own lane in front of his garage and says, “Here we are!”

  Hira gasps. “This is your house, Mamoo?”

  Uncle laughs. “It is your house, too, Hira jaan!”

  Looking at the brick front and six windows of the twostory house, I can’t believe only three people live here. Well, now it will be seven. Eight when Baba comes.

  Ammi takes in a breath. “What a lovely house, Bhai jaan!”

  Uncle presses a button that opens the back of the van. “Thank you, Baji.”

  It is strange to hear my mother call someone brother and to hear her called sister. I think of her only as Ammi.

  We step through the
front door, passing a staircase and a living room on the left. Down a hall there is another living room with a brick fireplace, and then a kitchen so big that there are two places to sit—at a round table with six chairs and a high chair for Humza, or on tall stools around a square counter in the center of the kitchen.

  The very first thing Auntie says when she greets us is, “Bilal! You must be hungry.” I have always liked Auntie. She looks exactly the same as I remember. When I tell her so, she gives me an extra hug.

  Behind her I see yet another room off the kitchen with a fancy table and chairs.

  The front door slams and in jogs Jalaal, who towers over Auntie. The very first thing my cousin says to me is, “Hey, little buddy.”

  I do not know this English word buddy, but I know little. Does he think I am so little? Maybe he also thinks I am still nine. Then he slides his hands into his American jeans pockets and switches from English to Urdu to say his second thing, which is this: “Don’t worry—I’ll teach you everything you need to know about living in America.”

  I believe him, because he speaks Urdu with an American accent. Then he switches back to English. “Your mom says you’re pretty good with English.”

  I shrug and smile. “I like learning the new word,” I answer, so Jalaal can hear for himself.

  Jalaal nods. “Nice.” He picks up my backpack and switches back to Urdu. “Come on, I’ll show you where to put your stuff.”

  Hira takes my hand. “I want to come, too.”

  We follow Jalaal up the stairs. Having steps inside the house feels like living in two apartments all at once. Our building in Karachi has a stairwell that goes up all twelve stories, but we only use it when the power is out and the elevator doesn’t run.

  Jalaal leads us down the hallway. “This is my parents’ room.” He points through double doors to a room with a bed our whole family could probably fit on. We pass another room. “That’s where your mom will stay.” A crib for Humza sits next to a double bed that must be for Hira and my mom. But then Jalaal points to yet another door and says, “Hira, this is your room.”