A Long Pitch Home Read online

  I thought being at the mosque would feel familiar, but it does not. Lots of people there don’t look like me at all. Baba has told me there are Muslims all over the world, but I am still surprised to see people who look like they come from Africa or China or even America. A thousand happy voices fill the mosque’s huge entrance with greetings and laughter, and there is lots of hugging, just like home. Many people are speaking in Urdu, and I overhear some English and Arabic, too. But a few conversations are in languages I have never heard.

  Some ladies are dressed like Ammi and Auntie in colorful shalwar kameez trousers and long shirts, their heads loosely covered with sparkly dupatta scarves. Others wear long dresses with tighter headscarves that hide all their hair. A few ladies are so covered up that only their eyes show through narrow openings in black cloth. We break off to go to separate prayer rooms—me with Uncle and Jalaal; Ammi and Auntie with Hira and Humza.

  After prayers, we go from house to house—each filled with friends of Uncle and Auntie, but they are all strangers to me. At each stop there’s more sheer khurma—always the same. But nothing is the same.

  The part of this day I look forward to most is something that has never been a part of a single Eid celebration—Skyping with my father.

  We gather on the living-room carpet at a low table, the computer in the middle where Humza and his sippy cup of juice can’t reach the keyboard. Uncle taps some keys, and the computer makes a boop-BEE-boop sound. Most of the screen is black, except for a tiny window in the corner showing our faces crowded together in front of the computer. When Hira sees herself, she grins and leans closer, propping her elbows on the table and crowding me out.

  “Give your brother some room,” Ammi says.

  Usually that would be all the invitation I’d need to elbow my way back in, but I don’t want Baba to see my black eye. Ammi says she doesn’t want him to worry about us. When Baba sees my eye, he’ll worry.

  Hira frowns and sits back on the carpet with the rest of us. Humza doesn’t even pay attention to the computer until he hears: “Asalaam waalaikum—Hello!” My father’s voice sounds like he’s right here with us, but we still cannot see his face. “How beautiful you all look!” I can hear the smile in his voice, but I want to see it for myself. Humza must want to see Baba’s face, too, because he tries to crawl on top of the table toward the computer.

  “Bhai jaan, my brother!” Uncle smiles and points to a small icon on our screen, even though I know Baba can’t see it from our side. “Click on the camera—yours has a red line through it.”

  A few seconds pass before Baba says, “Ah! It is here. Can you see me now?” The black on the screen fades, replaced by my father’s face. He looks confused, like he’s peering into a deep, endless hole.

  We cheer, and that answers Baba’s question.

  “I do not know how long the power will be on,” Baba says, and it is only now that I realize the electricity here in America hasn’t gone out yet. Maybe it goes out at night when nobody notices.

  Uncle leans in and says, “I will leave you, then, to speak to your lovely family, Bhai jaan. Eid Mubarak. I only wish you could spend it with us.”

  Baba nods but does not speak. Sometimes my heart gets in the way of my words, and I think it is the same for Baba.

  Uncle places his right hand over his heart. “Next year.” He smiles. “We will all celebrate together, inshallah.” He rises and slips from the room.

  Baba reaches for the screen like he’s touching our faces to make sure it’s really us. Humza shrieks and claps his pudgy hands. Baba laughs.

  My mother’s eyes shine at this gift of seeing Baba’s face.

  “How is life in America? Tell me everything!”

  Hira must have only heard the word everything, because she tells Baba every single last detail of our first twenty-four hours in America, from the green grass that tickles your bare feet to those furry, bushy-tailed rats—squirrels—that run everywhere here in Virginia.

  When my mother finally gets a chance to talk, she is quick to praise Uncle and Auntie’s hospitality. Hearing how well we’ve been fed and how comfortable our beds are, my father looks less worried. His face loses some of its lines, and his shoulders relax.

  “How was the feast?” Ammi asks.

  “We missed you.” Baba’s smile is sad.

  It is strange to think that Baba, Daddo, and everyone in Pakistan have already celebrated the end of Ramadan, when our celebration is just starting.

  Behind Baba, Daddo pads into the room, wearing her nightdress and carrying a glass of water. Her face breaks into a smile when she sees us.

  “Daddo!” Hira cries, waving both hands.

  My grandmother leans toward the screen, close enough that I can see the threads of silver woven through her black braid. She sighs. “I made entirely too much jalebi for the feast this year.”

  Mentioning my favorite dessert is Daddo’s way of saying that she misses me, so I say, “We miss you, too, Daddo.”

  She blows us more kisses and then says, “I am putting these weary bones to bed. Eid Mubarak to all!”

  She pats Baba’s shoulder. “Good night, my son.” He pats Daddo’s hand before she turns and heads to bed. I think of all the times she told stories to me before bedtime, and I wish she were here with us now.

  Hira starts talking again. Listening to her, you’d think we were on vacation, having a great time. Except I am not having a great time. I should be back in our kitchen with Baba right now, sneaking a crunchy crust of a leftover samosa when Daddo isn’t looking.

  “Bilal?” My father’s voice calls through the computer, and I realize now that my mother, Hira, and even Humza are looking at me, waiting. For what, I’m not sure. Did Baba ask me a question? I blink.

  “I’m here, Baba.” I move closer to the screen. For the past two days, I have been planning out all the things I want to tell Baba, and now I cannot think of a single one.

  Hira, who obviously does not share my problem, blurts out, “Guess what, Baba? We saw fireworks, and I met a new friend! Her name is Lizzie.”

  Baba smiles. “How lucky Lizzie is to have you as a friend.”

  “And I am going to start Girl Scout camp on Monday. Auntie says I’ll get to do swimming and make friendship bracelets and catch butterflies!”

  My mother slips her arm around Hira’s shoulders. “Let’s give Bilal a chance now, baytee.” She catches my eye and I smile my thanks. Ammi understands that Baba and I need time to talk without little kids around. Holding Humza on one hip, she steers Hira from the room. My sister protests: “But I didn’t get to tell him that Girl Scouts go camping!” Her voice fades into the next room, and I turn back to the screen.

  Baba leans forward and squints. “Bilal, what happened to your eye?”

  I hope my voice sounds light when I say, “Oh, this? It is nothing.” I shrug and force a grin.

  “How did you get a black eye?” I hear worry in his voice as lines reappear across his forehead.

  “I was playing baseball with Jalaal. Baba, do you know about baseball?” I talk faster and faster, hoping he’ll forget about my eye. “It’s a little bit like cricket. Next week I start baseball camp to learn how to play.”

  Baba tilts his head. “I have heard of baseball, but I am afraid I don’t know much about it.”

  “That’s okay, Baba. Neither do I.”

  Baba smiles. “You are a fine athlete, my son. You will learn this baseball game quickly.”

  I nod, but I am not so sure. And I don’t want to waste my Skype time with Baba talking about baseball.

  When Baba opens his mouth to say something, I blurt out, “When are you coming?”

  Baba’s lips form a straight line. Then he sighs. “As soon as I can, Bilal. I am waiting for a visa—permission from the government.”

  “But why did Ammi, Hira, Humza, and I get to come when you have to wait?”

  Baba doesn’t speak at first, like he is trying to think of the right words. And then he says,
“A friend of mine in the passport office was able to arrange your visas quickly because your mother’s brother already lives in America.”

  “So when can you get yours?”

  “There is something at work that I must finish first.” Baba takes off his glasses, cleans them with his shirt, and then slips them back on. “And it may take a while.”

  I know the “something at work” has to do with Mudassar’s father.

  Baba sighs. “Things are complicated right now.”

  I am about to say that I am old enough to hear about complicated things when Baba leans toward the screen. “I am sorry about your birthday party, Bilal jaan.”

  I don’t know if I can get any words out, so I nod for now.

  “I called everyone and explained that something came up unexpectedly.”

  “Did you call Mudassar, too?” What I really want to ask is if Baba and Mudassar’s father are friends again, and if not, why?

  Baba pauses. “Bilal jaan, there is something that you must know. Something that I cannot fully explain. Not yet.”

  Baba is not talking about my birthday party anymore.

  “For now, you can have no contact with Mudassar.”

  I stare at the screen. How can such a thing come from Baba’s mouth? “What do you mean? Why, Baba?”

  “It will not be forever. His father and I have some things to sort out.”

  I want to ask how long I have to wait to talk to Mudassar—a few days? A week? But I can tell from Baba’s tone that this subject is closed.

  Instead, I say, “I think I am already forgetting.”

  “Forgetting?”

  My shoulders slump. “About home. I mean, I remember what everything looks like. But we only just left, and already I am forgetting what home sounds like, what it smells like.”

  Baba seems to consider my question. Then his eyes smile. “Today smelled like rain. Loud rain—too much rain! Our first proper monsoon of the season.”

  “Did Mrs. Ahmed get her laundry in time?”

  Baba nods. “Luckily for my ears, today she remembered.”

  I grin. No one ever sees Mrs. Ahmed’s laundry because she puts it out to dry on her balcony directly below ours. But when she forgets to bring it in during monsoon season and the rain soaks it through, even Mr. Ali can hear her shouting nine floors below when he reopens his tea cart after the rain.

  My grin fades. “What if I forget everything?”

  “You won’t, Bilal jaan.”

  For the second time in my life, I don’t know if I believe my father.

  Then I have an idea. “Stay right here, Baba.”

  He laughs. “Where else would I go?”

  I race from the room, grab the pad of paper and pencil near the kitchen phone, and then dart back to the computer screen.

  I jot something down on the pad and then hold it up.

  Baba leans in, adjusts his glasses, and reads my writing:

  • The smell of rain during monsoon season

  • Mrs. Ahmed’s laundry-screeching voice

  I place the pencil and paper on the table, next to the keyboard. “When we talk or write, I will trade you one new thing in America for one Karachi memory. That way, you will know what to expect when you get here, and I will remember everything about Karachi.”

  “I like that idea.” Baba nods, and holds up a hand. “Stay right here.”

  I laugh. “Where else would I go?”

  Baba disappears for a few seconds, and then he’s back in front of the screen, holding up a notebook and a pen. “I’ve given you one memory—no, two! Now it is your turn.”

  How to begin? Everything is new here—I could list a million things. “You told me today smelled like rain. In America, it smells like cut grass. Gardens here have grass carpets called lawns, and people like to cut the grass with a machine. And if the cut grass gets on the sidewalk, they blow it away with another machine.”

  Baba shakes his head like he can’t believe such a thing. He writes on his paper, then holds it up for me to see:

  • The scent of cut grass

  “I have started my list,” Baba declares. “When I miss you, which is a hundred times a day, I will look at the list and it will feel like I am right there with you.”

  I hold up my thumb to the computer’s camera for Baba to see. “In America, a thumb sticking up means something is good. Jalaal told me.” I raise my other thumb and grin. “Your idea is a two-thumbs-up idea.”

  I wait to see how Baba reacts, because a thumb up in Pakistan is definitely not the kind of gesture for good ideas. In fact, Mudassar got sent home from school one time when he did this to Yusef, who said Mudassar’s sister smelled like a camel.

  Baba’s eyes grow wide, and then he laughs louder and longer than I have heard him laugh for many months. I laugh, too, and soon we are both wiping away tears and catching our breath.

  “I don’t recommend you share this new custom with Daddo. Your grandmother would not appreciate the humor like we do.” Baba picks up his pen. “But I have heard of this American gesture. I am going to write that down.”

  My mother’s voice calls from the kitchen. “Bilal, time to let your father go to sleep. It is the middle of the night back home.”

  I sigh.

  Baba laughs. “Tell your mother I heard that. And she is right. We will talk again tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Good night, Baba.”

  “Take care of that eye.”

  “I will.”

  He blows me a kiss, and I catch it and press it on my heart. I blow him one back, and he does the same.

  My hand hovers over the touch pad before I guide the cursor to the icon of the red phone, but I don’t want to click it.

  Baba must feel the same way, because he says, “On three, okay?”

  I nod.

  “One, two . . . three.”

  I still don’t click on the red phone, but Baba does, because there’s a booping sound, and then he’s gone.

  The clanking of pots and spoons drifts in from the kitchen, mixed with Ammi and Auntie’s laughter. Usually the feast is my favorite part of Eid, even though we have to dress up.There will be gifts of money for my sister and brother, my cousin, and me. We’ll drink lassi, made of sweet yogurt, and eat until our stomachs won’t hold another bite. Then we’ll have dessert.

  But today I have already had my favorite part of Eid—Skyping with Baba.

  Five

  As soon as I walk into the gym with Jalaal, anyone can see I’m different from the other kids at baseball camp. I’m the only one with a black eye.

  Kids stand in clumps around signs with words I have never seen before, like Dylan’s Dugout Crew and Hank’s Home Run Champs. I swallow.

  Jalaal scans the gym. “Your group is here somewhere.” He takes off his cap. I take mine off, too. I look around but have no idea which group is mine. Jalaal is one of the high school camp trainers, but not for my group. I wish he could be my camp trainer in case I have any questions. Maybe someone in my group will speak Urdu. If not, I will try my best in English, but I don’t know very many baseball words. Thanks to Jalaal, I do know glove, catcher, and pitch, and that is better than nothing.

  “There’s your coach,” Jalaal says, flipping his cap back onto his head. “I’ll introduce you.”

  I flip my own cap back on and follow Jalaal over to a sign with more new words: Matt’s Mad Dog Mavericks. I smile, because even though I don’t know all these words, I do know what a mad dog is. Then I stop smiling, because what do mad dogs have to do with baseball? Maybe the mad dog is our mascot. But dogs are dirty creatures that run in the streets. Who would want a dog for a mascot?

  Jalaal calls, “Hey!” to a man with short hair the color of strong tea.They do a very complicated handshake, ending with a sort of hug and a fist-thump on each other’s back. I hope the coach doesn’t greet me that way, because I’ll never remember the hand motions. Luckily, he just sticks out his hand and says, “I’m Coach Matt. How’re you doing, big guy?�
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  This is the second nickname someone has given me here in America. I wonder if I’m supposed to give people nicknames, too.

  I shift my baseball bag to my other shoulder and shake Coach Matt’s hand. “Hello, sir. My name is Bilal.”

  Coach Matt smiles. I can tell he is older than Jalaal, because he really needs to shave. Or maybe he is trying to grow a beard. But he isn’t old like my parents. He turns his baseball cap around backward. “Welcome to camp, Bilal.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He gives my shoulder a side punch, and I take a small step sideways. Not because it was a hard punch, but because I wasn’t expecting it.

  “You can call me Coach Matt.”

  “Okay, Coach Matt, sir.”

  Jalaal bends down and whispers in Urdu, “He means you can drop the ‘sir.’ Just ‘Coach Matt,’ or ‘Coach,’ is fine.”

  I feel my ears go hot. It’s one thing to know words in English, but another thing to know which words to use when and which words to leave out.

  Jalaal pats my shoulder and announces, “Well, I’m off.” He nods toward the opposite side of the gym before walking away. “See you later, little buddy,” he calls over his shoulder.

  “Good-bye, big buddy.”

  I want to run after him, but I know I can’t. Instead I take a breath and turn to join my group.

  The Matt’s Mad Dog Mavericks sign is surrounded by boys my age, all except for a tall boy with yellow curls sticking out from under his cap. This boy is big like Jalaal and throws his head back when he laughs at something one of the other boys says. He reaches over and punches a kid on the shoulder like Coach Matt did to me. The boy grins and punches him back. Obviously, shoulder punching is an American sign of friendship.

  When Coach Matt calls, “Hey, Kyle!” the yellow-haired boy jogs over.

  “This is Kyle,” Coach Matt says to me. “He’s one of the high school camp trainers who’ll be helping us out.” He turns to Kyle. “This is Bilal.”