Dedication

This one’s for the Nazeks,

especially my father, who crossed an ocean,

my uncle Abdalla, who loved me from across one,

and my cousin Jude, whose name I borrowed.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Contents

Part One: Changing

Chapter I.

Chapter II.

Chapter III.

Chapter IV.

Chapter V.

Chapter VI.

Chapter VII.

Chapter VIII.

Chapter IX.

Chapter X.

Chapter XI.

Chapter XII.

Chapter XIII.

Chapter XIV.

Chapter XV.

Chapter XVI.

Chapter XVII.

Chapter XVIII.

Chapter XIX.

Chapter XX.

Part Two: Arriving

Chapter I.

Chapter II.

Chapter III.

Chapter IV.

Chapter V.

Chapter VI.

Chapter VII.

Chapter VIII.

Chapter IX.

Chapter X.

Chapter XI.

Chapter XII.

Chapter XIII.

Chapter XIV.

Part Three: Staying

Chapter I.

Chapter II.

Chapter III.

Chapter IV.

Chapter V.

Chapter VI.

Chapter VII.

Chapter VIII.

Chapter IX.

Chapter X.

Chapter XI.

Chapter XII.

Chapter XIII.

Chapter XIV.

Chapter XV.

Chapter XVI.

Chapter XVII.

Chapter XVIII.

Chapter XIX.

Chapter XX.

Chapter XXI.

Chapter XXII.

Chapter XXIII.

Part Four: Hoping

Chapter I.

Chapter II.

Chapter III.

Chapter IV.

Chapter V.

Chapter VI.

Chapter VII.

Chapter VIII.

Chapter IX.

Chapter X.

Chapter XI.

Chapter XII.

Chapter XIII.

Part Five: Growing

Chapter I.

Chapter II.

Chapter III.

Chapter IV.

Chapter V.

Chapter VI.

Chapter VII.

Chapter VIII.

Chapter IX.

Chapter X.

Chapter XI.

Chapter XII.

Chapter XIII.

Chapter XIV.

Chapter XV.

Chapter XVI.

Chapter XVII.

Chapter XVIII.

Chapter XIX.

Chapter XX.

Chapter XXI.

Chapter XXII.

Part Six: Living

Chapter I.

Chapter II.

Chapter III.

Chapter IV.

Chapter V.

Chapter VI.

Chapter VII.

Chapter VIII.

Chapter IX.

Chapter X.

Chapter XI.

Glossary of Arabic Words

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

PART ONE

Changing

I.

It is almost summer and everywhere smells like fish,

except for right down by the sea

where if you hold your nose just right

you can smell the sprawling jasmine and the salt water

instead.

In the summer, I always hold my nose to avoid

the stench of fish and

tourists that smell like hairspray

and money and French perfume.

The tourists come from Damascus and Aleppo.

Sometimes even Beirut and Amman.

Once I met a man all the way from Doha.

I asked him about the big skyscrapers that I have heard

reach all the way up to the heavens,

but Baba hushed me quiet before the man could answer me.

Baba does not like for me to talk to

Tourists

Strangers

Men.

He does not want me to talk to anyone that I do not know

and even people that I do know he always says,

Jude, skety,

and so I bite my tongue and it sometimes tastes even worse

than the way the summer fish smell.

Everyone is saying that there will be fewer visitors

from Aleppo this year.

That there is no one left in Aleppo to come.

That everyone who could leave Aleppo already has.

When I ask Mama if this is true, she says,

Jude, skety.

II.

Our city does not look like what they show on TV of Syria.

I remember the first time

Fatima and I saw a story

about Aleppo on the news.

We felt proud.

I know that is strange to say, childish maybe—

it felt strange even then—

but it also felt like the rest of the world

saw

me.

But our city does not look like Aleppo, before or after.

It is not sprawling and noisy with buildings

pressed up against

one another

like they are crammed together in an elevator

with no room to breathe.

Our city is on the sea. It sits below the mountains.

It is where the rest of Syria comes when they want to breathe.

No one is going to come this year, Fatima says.

And I wonder if that is because there is no one left

who needs to

breathe.

III.

Fatima is twenty-four days, six hours, and eleven minutes older than me.

She did the math.

Fatima hates math, but loves

when she comes out on

top.

We have always been friends.

Mama and Aunt Amal have known each other

since they were girls.

We live across the courtyard from them and

sometimes when I was little,

I would squeeze my eyes shut at night and

pretend that Fatima and I

were dreaming the same dream.

When I was little, it was easy to imagine that.

Fatima and I were always in step,

four feet pointed in the same direction.

But the last few months have been different.

Fatima feels kilometers ahead of me now.

Her dark curls aren’t on display anymore,

tumbling to her shoulders

in unruly waves that remind me of laughter.

Her head is wrapped in silk scarves

that are bright and colored like jewels.

She is one of the first girls in our grade to cover.

She has bled between her legs.

I am still waiting

to bleed.

To feel like I have something worth

covering.

IV.

Fatima and I almost always have our asroneyeh together.

Either Mama makes it or Auntie Amal.

Fatima likes to have olives, green and black,

so fat that you can stick your fingers inside of them

and eat them one by one.

I think olives taste like the sea

and all that salt makes me dizzy.

I eat the jebneh and the bread

that Mama gets from Hibah’s bakery

around the corner

because she knows it is my favorite.

Hibah makes her bread as fluffy as a pillow.

I eat so much of it that Mama

always has to remind me that

asroneyeh is supposed to help me last until dinner,

but is not dinner.

During asroneyeh, we drink tea.

Or Fatima drinks tea and I drink sugar and mint

with a side of tea.

We watch old American movies that we bought

with our Eid and birthday money.

We watch Julia Roberts fall in love and

we watch Sandra Bullock track down criminals and

we watch Reese Witherspoon go to law school.

Fatima and I both want to be movie stars.

Fatima also wants to be a doctor,

but I only want to be a

movie star.

The wanting pulses so hard in my chest that it sometimes hurts.

My older brother, Issa,

used to watch the movies with us.

He would sometimes even act them out with us,

standing up on the couch,

imitating Reese’s way of speaking English,

all slow and sugary.

He used to until one day Baba came home from work early and walked in on us

acting out the movies. Baba didn’t say anything.

Not even Jude, skety.

He didn’t even look at me.

Only at Issa.

He shook his head

and walked into his bedroom.

V.

Fatima and I like to find bits

and pieces of ourselves in the faces of

movie stars.

We have decided that Fatima has Sandra Bullock’s

dark eyes that are so expressive you could tell

if she was laughing

even if her mouth was covered.

Speaking of mouths, I have one.

And it is big

like Julia Roberts’s.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

Someday

I hope I will be a movie star

and some other little girl will look at me and say

I have her eyes

her nose

her hair

her laugh

and she will feel beautiful.

Maybe

someday

Julia Roberts will see me and think

I have her mouth.

VI.

I am walking down by the shore

with my favorite person in the whole world,

my older brother, Issa.

We are strolling down the stretch of beach

that is open to everyone.

Only people who—like Issa and me—have always lived here

walk on this beach.

Only people who don’t have piles and piles of money

walk on this beach.

Soon, we will be able to walk anywhere we want, Issa says.

Things are going to change.

I follow his eyes to the other side of the beach

where there are plush white chairs

shaded by white-and-blue-striped canopies.

The chairs sit empty,

but they are not open.

The salty wind is whipping through Issa’s dark hair

and he is wearing his serious face.

His serious face is new.

Issa used to love to sing American pop songs

with me and Fatima

at the top of his lungs.

He knew every word of

Madonna

Whitney Houston

Mariah Carey.

Now he knows other words like

revolution

democracy

and change, change, change.

He is always talking about change.

My feet sink into the sand

and I realize I do not want things to change.

I want things to go back to the way they were,

which I guess is another sort of changing,

but it is not what Issa is talking about.

The sky is melting overhead.

The sun, like my feet, is sinking

lower and

lower,

swirls of yellows and dusty pinks.

Are you coming to dinner?

It still feels strange to ask my brother this question.

His presence at ghadah used to be as certain as the sunset,

but now that has also

changed.

Issa’s face switches again,

from serious to sorry,

and I know he isn’t coming.

I’m meeting Saeed and Yasmine, he says,

and Baba would tell you that my brother

and his friends

are plotting revolution.

Our baba is furious that Issa goes

to these meetings.

He calls them treasonous and

Issa says that it is our president

Bashar al-Assad

who is treasonous,

who is oppressing his own people.

Issa shouts at Baba about free elections

and real democracy

and unlawful use of force

and Baba shouts about stability

and safety and then stability again.

You should come with me, Issa says,

bringing me out of my memory

and back to the beach.

He knows that I can’t.

I am not like Issa.

I am good at taking an extra piece of bread at ghadah,

at talking too loud and too quickly

about American movie stars.

I am not good at defying Baba.

You should care about our country, too, he says.

I do, I say,

but what I mean is that I care

about my brother

and my baba

and my mama

and I just want to live in a country where

we can all have dinner again

without shouting about our president

or rebels and revolution.

VII.

Last summer

Fatima and I met a girl who was from Damascus.

Her name was Samira

but she told us to call her Sammy

which was what her friend from London called her.

London, she said.

Did we know where that was?

We said yes, which was true

and not true.

I’ve heard of London but

I wouldn’t know how to get there.

Sammy pronounced the word London

like Mary Poppins does in the movie and

I almost laughed but

then I realized she wasn’t trying to be funny.

She was being posh,

which is an English word she taught me.

Sammy’s family had lots of money.

She was staying at the hotel right by the sea

that has the fancy white chairs that are shaded

with fancy white canopies.

The kind of hotel that Issa hates,

but I secretly like and dream about staying at one day.

I picture myself as a famous actress,

coming home to visit,

sitting on one of those fancy white chairs,

reading a glossy magazine with my face on the cover.

VIII.

The hotel where Sammy was staying is right around the corner

from Baba’s store

where he sells candy bars

and soft drinks and magazines to the tourists.

His prices are much better than at the shops in the fancy hotels.

Sammy was picking out a candy bar when

she heard Fatima and me talking

near the back of the store.

Fatima and I like to hang out at Baba’s store.

Sometimes he gives us free Fanta

sometimes free chips

and there are always interesting people coming

and going

especially in the summer.

If we don’t cause too much trouble

Baba lets us hang around.

He would never admit it but I think he actually likes

when we come to visit him.

You like American movies? Sammy said to us

in English.

She’d heard Fatima and me talking so I knew

she spoke Arabic,

but she wanted us to know she also spoke

English.

Yes, Fatima said loudly back to her

in English,

even though Fatima’s accent is not as good as mine.

Baba gave us a warning glance

from behind the counter,

and we all slunk further down the aisle,

hiding behind the Kit Kats and the M&M’s.

Which films do you like? she asked,

again in English.

Fatima looked to me.

My English has always been better than hers.

Miss Congeniality.

Runaway Bride.

Legally Blonde.

Practical Magic.

Pretty Woman.

The last two we weren’t supposed to watch

because witches

and prostitutes scare

Mama and Auntie Amal

but Issa bought us those movies

from a store in our neighborhood that sells recordings

of American movies.

We hid the tapes in a box

behind a pile of clothes that I don’t wear anymore.

Sammy frowned at us.

Later I would realize this was the moment she decided

Fatima and I

were not posh.

You like old movies.

We gave her a blank stare and she said,

What about . . . ?

She listed lots of movie titles we had never heard of.

Later that summer, Sammy took Fatima and me

to the movie theater that is right downtown

by the fancy new shops

that were built just for the tourists.

Fatima and I had never been to that movie theater

or any movie theater and

we tried to pretend not to be stunned by the

soft red velvet seats that are so dense you can make

a handprint in the fabric

or the wide flat white screen

that is larger than anything

I’d ever seen.

We watched a new American movie

and I didn’t recognize any of the movie stars.

They talked so fast and I spent most of the time

trying to keep up with the subtitles that rolled across

the bottom of the screen.

Afterward, Sammy said,

See, now you will be able to talk about a movie

that isn’t a hundred years old.

I smiled and didn’t tell Sammy that I still liked

Miss Congeniality

better.

IX.

Today the air is so soupy

that it feels like I am living inside

someone else’s mouth.

I wake up at the sound of the first adhan,

the muezzin’s voice echoing through my room.

But I do not get up to pray.

Instead I roll over and press my face

into my pillow and

pray for cool air

and sleep.

When I get up, Mama is in the kitchen brewing tea.

She has set out large chunks of feta

and slightly toasted pitas.

She toasts them right on the open flame in our kitchen.

I know that everyone’s mother makes them this way,

but I still cannot imagine doing it

myself one day.

It seems so bold.

So brave.

It is playing with fire.

Baba has already left for work.

In the summer, his store has extended hours.

In the summer, he is a ghost that I do not see.

I only know he exists by the footsteps I hear

in the early mornings and late evenings.

Mama is telling Issa to eat.

She is telling him not to go to the march

that is planned for today.

Life is good.

We should not tempt fate,

Mama says.

Life is not good for everyone.

You only think it is good because that is

what you have been told.

You need to

open your eyes,

Issa says.

I stretch my eyes as wide as I can.

I want him to laugh,

but he just

shakes his head.

I used to be able to make him laugh,

but not anymore.

I have not heard him laugh in

ages.

We live in a town where most people do not speak ill

of our president.

But my brother does.

So do his friends who

attend the local university.

They have ideas about how the world should be.

Issa says he wants to live in a country where

anyone can be

anyone

they want to be.

I don’t understand what my brother means

when he says this.

I wish I understood exactly what my brother

wants to be.

Our president’s family grew up

in the mountains to the north of us,

and if you listen carefully you can hear

the whispers rolling down the mountains,

telling us to stay quiet

and be grateful.

The president’s ancestors are

powerful spirits.

We live in a town that needs tourists.

Revolution

and war are not good

for business.

But my brother doesn’t care.

My brother who no longer will

imitate Reese Witherspoon

or sing Whitney Houston

with me.

My brother wants to see things change,

and I just want to hear him laugh

again.

X.

Mama forbids me to leave our apartment

on the day of the protest.

She tries to forbid Issa,

but, of course, he does not

listen.

I sit on the couch by the small window

and look out into the courtyard.

It is as quiet as

always.

Maybe even more quiet. The two benches are

empty.

The one potted plant of mint has grown out of control.

It smells like strong tea

and is spilling out of its container,

taking over everything around it.

No one knows how the mint got there;

someone should do something about that.

But everyone is waiting

for someone else to do it.

We are still waiting.

I stare at the window of Fatima’s apartment.

I keep thinking I will see her, sitting by the glass,

listening, watching, and waiting.

Just like me.

But I don’t see her.

I pace back

and forth by the window.

Sometimes I think I can hear the protests.

I stretch my ears for miles

and miles,

itching to catch a sound of the angry students

with their signs.

Imagining my brother’s face,

red and angry.

Chanting about freedom and democracy,

words that I know, but don’t quite

understand.

I know my brother is shouting for

his country.

But I also feel like he is shouting at Baba.

I do not think Baba is

listening.

XI.

I am sitting next to Baba at his store.

He has never told me that he likes when I visit,

but I think he does because

whenever I come,

there is always another stool,

sitting next to his,

empty,

waiting.

Today is a good day because

Baba is letting me eat a candy bar

from his shop.

I am trying to eat it slowly,

to savor it.

But instead I eat it all

in four quick bites.

Is this what your brother wants?

My head jerks up,

surprised by the sound of my father’s voice,

surprised he is asking

me

a question.

He hands me a newspaper.

The front page is filled with awful pictures of

people who are

bloodied and cowering together in their city,

which has been torn apart by war.

He wants these violent maniacs to take over?

My father shoves the paper closer to me.

I do not touch the paper.

I avoid it like a hot plate that will burn me.

I look away from the pictures.

I don’t want to see them.

I don’t want to think about them later tonight

when I am trying to fall asleep.

I know that Issa and his friends are different from those men.

Those men who spill blood and manipulate the Quran to say

things that the rest of us know it does not say.

Baba has to know that too,

and I move my lips to tell him,

but cannot make myself say the words.

I am not brave like my brother.

Take it, he says,

and he is no longer asking me.

I hold the newspaper in my hands

and it feels heavy for something made only of paper.

You can keep it. If your brother has his way

there will be no one left in this town

who can afford to buy a paper anymore anyway.

I clutch the newspaper,

wishing that he had given me a different gift,

like another candy bar.

XII.

After the protests,

there are more police.

It seems like everywhere you go—

the butcher

the beach

at school—

there is an armed policeman.

There are whispers of people

who were rounded up after the protests

and locked in jail.

There are louder whispers about a town nearby

where men with stolen tanks and stolen weapons

rolled in and took over.

Those men are now fighting

against the government’s army

and the people who live in the town

don’t know whose side to choose.

They only want the violence to stop.

Nobody knows which side is the right one anymore.

When I go with Mama to the spice shop

to refill her containers of coriander and za’atar,

Mama makes a big show out of bowing her head

in the direction of the framed portrait of our president.

But when we get home

and she is spreading the spice rub over the lamb legs,

she talks to my brother

who is finally home for a dinner.

I know this is not what you expected, she says.

Her hands massage the meat.

The whole kitchen fills with the earthy scent of herbs.

You were not wrong to want better.

Issa sits at the table.

He is having an asroneyeh

to hold him over until dinner is ready.

He rips a piece of pita bread in half.

I know, he says,

and his eyes meet mine.

An invitation.

A dare.

I am not going to stop wanting better.

He rips the bread into

smaller

and smaller pieces.

This is not the end.

It is only the beginning.

XIII.

Our town used to be

a place for people to laugh and enjoy

all the things that unite them like

family and sunshine and the sea and good food.

Not the things that divide them like

opinions and political loyalties.

But now everyone wants to know

where you stand.

What you think.

What you believe.

When you walk around town,

you had better show deference to our president—

to his large picture that is in almost every shop,

and the armed guards that are now on every corner.

If you don’t,

you will be asked if you would rather

live in one of those other towns,

towns that are no longer under our president’s control.

Towns where families huddle together in rubble,

and there is no running water and electricity,

but a whole lot of blood.

I still smile at everyone in the street.

Not everyone smiles back, though.

When they don’t,

I want to say,

You don’t have to worry about me.

I am just a girl who likes movies.

XIV.

At first when my brother moves out,

I am forbidden from going to his new apartment.

Children are not supposed to move out until they’ve finished university, Mama says

as she folds the shirts that Issa left behind,

neatly leaving them in his drawer,

like she is preparing for him to move back in tomorrow.

Baba, as expected, does not say anything

about my brother moving out.

But I catch him glancing

in the direction of my brother’s

now empty room

when he doesn’t think anyone is watching.

I ask every day if I can visit my brother,

and every day the answer is no,

until one day when my mama says

yes and she walks with me the seven blocks across town to his new apartment,

which is near the local university

and all of the cafés that Baba thinks are full of radicals.

Mama does not go inside,

but I see her lingering outside

watching me climb down the steps

into the basement where my brother now lives,

into an entirely new world.

His new apartment is covered with a tapestry of mismatched rugs;

a scratched coffee table sits low to the ground

and it is covered with stacks of newspapers that have been marked up with a pen.

Names have been circled, crossed out, and amended.

It feels like a place where ideas live.

There is an energy in the room that excites

and frightens me.

There are so many faces,

girls and boys.

Issa introduces me to everyone.

I do not know which faces actually live in this place

and which faces are only visiting,

like me.

XV.

There is a loud knock at the door,

and soon my brother’s basement apartment is filled with armed police.

There is shouting,

glasses knocked to the ground,

bodies shoved against walls,

the sounds of handcuffs clicking,

more shouting.

In the chaos,

my brother reaches for my hand.

He pulls me with him,

down a hallway,

up a flight of stairs,

out a door.

When we are outside,

I let out one long gasp.

Don’t be afraid, Jude, he says.

I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.

But my knees won’t stop shaking.

They could have taken you, I say, my voice trembling.

He squeezes my hand again.

It feels like some sort of promise,

an assurance that he won’t leave me

all alone.

XVI.

Mama knows what happened

before Issa even brings me home.

She clings to both of us

and makes a sound I have never heard before.

It sounds like terror,

like primal relief.

They could have taken you, she says,

still squeezing us both tightly.

It is exactly what I said to Issa.

There is an Arabic proverb that says:

The offspring of ducks float.

It means,

all children end up like their parents.

I guess I am starting

to float.

XVII.

After the raid on Issa’s apartment,

My mama, who has never been afraid of anything,

suddenly is squeezing my hand tight

when we walk to the market,

pulling me close to her at every corner,

looking ten times before we cross the street.

I watch her when she makes dinner.

She does everything a little slower

than she used to.

It’s like there is now a blinking caution light

inside of her.

Even Baba checks the lock

on the door

twice every night,

rubs Mama’s shoulders more than he used to,

though I’m not sure if that’s to make her

or him

feel better.

Maybe both.

I hear them late at night,

whispering back and forth to one another.

I can’t always make out the actual words,

but I can feel them,

taste them.

They taste like fear.

I stare up at the ceiling of my room.

I wonder where my brother is,

if he’s staring up at his ceiling,

in his new apartment,

if he’s afraid like me,

if he’s afraid at all.

XVIII.

When Mama first tells me,

it’s just us

sitting at the kitchen table,

sharing a snack of feta cheese and olives.

It’s only a visit, she says,

to see my brother.

My heart drops into my stomach.

Her brother lives an ocean away

in America.

We have never visited him because

it is not an easy place to visit.

It is a long trip.

An expensive one.

It is not a trip you would take for no reason.

We are leaving, I challenge her.

I look in her eyes

demanding she tell me the truth.

Sunlight streams in through the cracks in the blinds.

She used to leave our windows all the way open during the day.

Only for a little while, she admits,

and I can tell she wants to believe

what she is saying.

She wants to believe it for both of us.

What about Baba? I ask and watch

Mama’s big dark eyes fill up with tears.

What about Issa?

The tears spill over.

She tells me that Baba has to stay because he cannot

will not

leave the store.

She tells me that Issa

will not

leave.

I wish he would, she says,

holding out her hand to me,

and I know she means it to be comforting

that we both wish this,

but it only makes my heart hurt more.

Why do we have to go?

Her eyes are still wet.

She squeezes my hand tighter.

I’m sorry, habibti, but I cannot wait for things to get worse.

We cannot take the risk.

But things might not get worse, I argue.

I am thinking of everything I heard that night

in Issa’s basement.

Ideas about hope

and freedom.

Mama puts her hand on her stomach.

Jude, she says. I need you.

I need you, she repeats.

To help us.

My eyes study her hand,

her belly,

the rise and fall of her breath.

And all of a sudden,

I see all the pieces and how they fit.

My eyes are still watery, but I smile.

A baby? I say because I am worried

that if it’s not said out loud

it won’t be true.

Nunu, she confirms.

I slide out of my chair

and snuggle up to her belly,

pressing my ear against the soft fabric of her dress,

and I swear I hear

a heartbeat.

I am learning how to be

sad

and happy

at the same time.

XIX.

It is our last day

and I am supposed to be packing.

Fatima and Auntie Amal have come over

to say good-bye.

I wanted to have a big party but

Mama said no.

She says there is no need

to make a big fuss

when we will be back soon

but the way she says soon

with the click of her tongue

makes it sound like a wish

instead of the truth.

Even though we aren’t having a big party

Auntie Amal still brought me sweets

from Chez Mariana

which is my favorite bakery.

Mariana went to Paris to study

and her bakery is filled with

tarts stuffed full of rich creams and

cakes that look like they belong in a fashion magazine.

Mama says that only tourists would pay

Mariana’s prices for cake.

Mama says the word cake like it’s just an ordinary food,

which is strange since everyone knows that cakes are made of magic.

I am on my second slice of cake

my hands sticky with the vanilla bean icing

when Fatima says,

You won’t forget me, will you?

I laugh and my knees go

weak so I sit on the floor

but Fatima swats at me.

Don’t laugh, she says and her voice cracks,

thick with emotion,

driving a rushing river between us,

with her on one side

and me on the other bank.

I want to swim back toward her,

but for the first time ever,

I’m not sure how.

When I look into her movie star–like eyes

I see real worry.

I couldn’t forget you even if I wanted to.

Fatima gives me her Take Me Seriously face.

She always wants me to be serious.

She likes dramas where people

fall in

and out of

and into love.

Where they

cry and sigh and cry some more.

I like comedies where people

laugh and then laugh

some more.

No one ever tells people in comedies to

grow up.

Fatima walks over to my bed

and sticks her head in one of the boxes

that I haven’t sorted yet.

She picks up two scarves,

one for each fist,

and waves them like she is

at the finish line of a race.

Are you going to bring these?

What she wants to ask is,

Are you going to wear these in America?

Are you going to grow up without me?

I take the scarves from her,

one

by one

and neatly place them in the

one bag

Mama has given me to pack up my

whole

life.

What would you like to eat?

she asks me, in English,

and we both laugh.

How are you doing today? she says,

a broad smile on her face.

For years now,

we have practiced English phrases.

I wonder if speaking English in America

will be anything like speaking English here at school.

I wonder if anything about America will be like it is

here.

I’ll write to you every day, I say.

Promise?

I nod and the river that rushed between us before

begins to dry up

and even though I am leaving

and she is staying,

it feels like we’re standing on the same shore again.

XX.

When I say good-bye to Baba,

he hugs me tight,

his arms saying everything that his lips don’t.

His tight embrace tells me to

be good and

listen to Mama.

His tight embrace tells me that

he is going to miss us

a lot.

My brother has come over to say good-bye, too.

It is all four,

five, my mind corrects,

of us in the same room and I wonder when,

if,

it will ever be like this again.

Issa picks me up off the ground

and twirls me around.

When he sets me back down,

he gives me a wide smile.

The type of smile I haven’t seen on his face

in a very long time.

The type of smile he used to wear

when we would spend hours

reciting movies and singing along to

Madonna and Whitney.

I don’t understand how you can be so happy, I say.

I’m leaving.

I say the second part in case my brother forgot

because recently,

he’s been forgetting a lot of things,

to come home for dinner,

to pick up the phone when we call,

to let us know that he’s okay.

I see Issa’s smile falter a little

and somehow this makes me happy,

a little.

Aren’t you going to miss me? I ask.

He pulls me close,

and whispers, Akeed.

But you’re going to have so much fun in America.

It’s going to be an adventure.

He must be able to tell I’m about to argue with him

Because he kisses the top of my head.

Then he brings his face close to mine

and whispers in my ear,

Be brave.

My knees lock and I am about to tell him

I don’t know how to do that.

But then I see Baba embracing Mama.

He is gently patting her stomach

and I have never seen Baba look so

proud and so worried all at the same time.

And that’s when I realize I don’t have a choice.

I’m going to have to learn how to be brave.

We’re all going to have to learn.

PART TWO

Arriving

I.

The plane flight is

long.

Our seats are near the back of the plane,

Mama pressed against the window and me

pressed against her.

While Mama sleeps,

I look out the window.

When the sun rises,

I can see the ground below.

It all looks so

tiny

and far away.

I gasp but no one

hears me.

II.

From the window of the plane,

I see a muddy river

framed by green rolling hills

that are dotted with houses.

I wonder which of those houses will now be mine.

We arrive,

in a city that I cannot pronounce,

a city called Cincinnati.

When the plane lands,

Mama and I are quickly directed to a long line

for people like us,

people who are not from America,

but who are trying to enter.

The line moves slowly.

My eyelids feel heavy

and my body does not have any idea what time it is.

It is finally our turn.

We are called up to talk with a man

sitting in a booth

under a sign that says

immigration.

The man beckons for us to step up closer.

He has kind blue eyes that seem tired.

Everyone in this airport seems

tired.

He starts talking and I know some of the words

that are coming out of his mouth,

but my mind feels sticky

and I can’t quite catch the meaning.

Back home,

I was always good at English.

I was one of the best in my class

at having pretend conversations.

I think of practicing simple phrases with Fatima

right before I left.

I think of how easy they came to me then—

How are you?

Good. Thank you.

Are you hungry? Would you like to go to lunch?

I would like a sandwich, please.

But this man is not asking me

simple things like

if I am hungry or what I would like to order.

He is asking real questions that

I can barely understand like

Why are you here?

And how long do you plan on staying?

I glance at my mama and her newly swollen stomach

and know this part is my responsibility.

I am the one who knows English.

I am the one who needs to talk,

But I am failing.

Words, all kinds of them, bubble up in my throat

but nothing comes out.

Mama reaches into her purse

and hands the man an envelope.

We watch as the man opens the envelope

and looks through the documents.

He studies each one as though it were a precious

artifact

and every organ in my body holds its breath

as I watch him make up his

mind about us.

Your uncle lives here? he asks me,

giving me

one

more chance to prove myself.

You are coming here to visit him?

Yes, I say.

Yes, yes, yes. It is clear as crystal.

Relief bubbles up inside of me.

One word in English, but it seems to be enough.

The man stamps our paperwork.

Welcome to America.

III.

We are lucky.

I know this because Mama tells me over

and over again

as we walk down the narrow hall

toward baggage claim.

Mahzozeen, Mama whispers under her breath.

And I know she is referring to the fact

that our papers worked,

that we are not still stuck in that line,

that we were not sent back.

It is so strange to feel lucky

for something that is making my heart feel so sad.

IV.

My uncle is not what I was expecting.

He is tailored suits and a fancy wristwatch.

He is perfect English and a big car that purrs as it

hums down the street.

He meets us at the airport with his wife,

my aunt Michelle,

and their daughter,

my cousin, Sarah.

When he sees my mother,

his whole face lights up.

He has my mother’s smile.

He has her eyes,

my eyes.

My mother rushes to him,

and I feel her exhale

as he wraps his arms around her,

and something inside me twists.

I don’t want my uncle to think that we needed

saving.

I don’t want to owe him

anything.

I cross my arms over my chest

to show them—

my uncle, his wife, his daughter—

that I am not a stray animal they need to adopt.

But my resolve

starts to fade when his wife

walks toward me

and clasps my hands

in hers.

Welcome to America, she says.

Her voice sounds like an American movie star—

clear and sprinkled with sugar.

She looks like an American movie star, too.

Honey blond hair,

big light eyes,

casual elegance.

Call me Aunt Michelle.

We’re so glad you’ve come to visit us.

She is looking at me,

telling me

not to worry.

That I don’t owe them anything.

I smile at her,

and find my words in English,

Thank you.

V.

My uncle drives us back to his house

which is in a neighborhood called Clifton.

Cliff-ton is easier to say than

Sin-Sa-Nati.

Clifton, I practice saying,

and my cousin Sarah laughs.

She has barely said anything but hello to me,

and now she is laughing.

Laughing at me

and my English pronunciation.

Sarah, Aunt Michelle says,

and I hear the warning in my aunt’s voice.

That is something powerful enough to transcend oceans:

a mama’s ability to say something

without actually saying it.

I don’t like this about myself,

but the more I look at my cousin,

my cool American cousin,

with her jean shorts that are purposefully ripped,

and sequined T-shirt,

and pale pink lip gloss,

the more I want her to like me.

But from the way

she is staring out the window,

pretending like I don’t exist,

I get the feeling that she doesn’t care much

whether or not

I like her.

VI.

My uncle’s house is so big

that it could fit four of my old apartments inside of it.

It has three whole stories

and shiny wooden floors that

creak when you step on them.

My uncle Mazin works all the time.

He is an important doctor at an important hospital.

So during the day, it is just

Aunt Michelle

Mama

Sarah

and me.

Our first few days in America are a blur of

mornings that feel like nights

and nights that feel like mornings.

Plates of baked chicken and pasta,

bowls of milky cereal,

and lots and lots of questions from Aunt Michelle.

No matter how tired we are,

Aunt Michelle forces us to get up

and get out.

We take long walks around our new neighborhood.

Aunt Michelle charges ahead,

Mama and me are sandwiched in the middle,

and Sarah walks slowly behind us,

sulking a little.

I keep expecting to see a

cliff in

Clifton

but so far,

I’ve only found really

big hills,

and even bigger trees.

Clifton is filled with old big houses.

Aunt Michelle tells us that their house

is over one hundred years old and I can tell she is

proud of this, but I’m not sure why.

Everyone back home wants

a new house

not an old one.

When I ask Mama about it,

she says,

Americans don’t have much history

so they like things they think are old.

At first, I don’t think I will like the

old house with its

creaking

wooden floors

and steep staircases.

Mama and I live up in the bedroom on the

top floor,

the third floor.

But one morning,

when I wake up,

the floor creaks

and it sounds like the house is saying

hello

and that makes me feel less alone.

The old house is

slowly

becoming my friend.

My first American friend.

VII.

When my uncle is home,

he is always asking

if we are okay,

or does Mama need a glass of water?

I know he means to be nice,

but it only makes me feel more like a guest

in his house,

a visitor,

a burden.

Come here, Jude, he says,

in English.

Even though I know he speaks Arabic,

he always speaks to me in English.

He invites me into his study

and shows me his speakers

that can play music

without any wires.

And his shiny computer

with its big flat screen.

I know he wants me to be impressed,

and I am,

but I try to hide it.

Showing him I’m impressed

feels somehow like a betrayal of Baba,

a betrayal of home.

VIII.

My cousin Sarah is

chunky platform sandals that

clomp clomp

on the hardwood floors of the old house.

She is sparkly pink lip gloss

and nails the color of a sunset on a summer night

and jeans that have shiny sequins on the pockets.

Sometimes she is friendly,

inviting me to sit next to her on the couch

where she watches a television show about

American teenagers who wear fancy clothes and

are trying to figure out

who murdered one of their classmates.

I tell Mama about the show.

Americans are obsessed with murder, she says.

And you made me move here to be safe, I say,

half joking, half not.

Mama shakes her head and tells me to stop watching.

But the very next afternoon,

I sit next to Sarah

on the sun-soaked white leather couch

and watch the American teenagers play detective.

Sarah is less than a year older than me,

but I feel like she is already a

woman

while I am still a little

girl.

She doesn’t seem surprised

by all the kissing on the show.

I wonder if she has been kissed herself,

but I’m not brave enough to ask her.

I start to think that Sarah is becoming my friend,

but one night,

I hear her talking with Aunt Michelle.

When will they leave? Sarah says.

My heart sinks as I translate the words

in my head,

the weight of them slowly settling

onto my chest like a stone.

She can’t go to my school, Mom, Sarah says.

She doesn’t even speak English, she says.

I spend the rest of that night

locked in the bathroom,

whispering to myself in the mirror.

I speak English.

IX.

America is

full of new things.

Glittery

blinking

in-your-face

things.

Everything in America

moves fast

and is loud.

Cars honking

Traffic lights flashing

Big billboards advertising

hamburgers

drinks

an entirely new life.

It seems like everything

everyone

is trying to sell you something.

Sometimes I feel dizzy with want,

sometimes I just feel dizzy.

Aunt Michelle takes us shopping

at a mall that feels like it is larger

than my entire town back home.

When I say this to Mama

she scoffs and tells me our town is

not that small

but when she doesn’t know I’m looking,

I see her eyes fill with wonder as she takes in

the cold, air-conditioned stores,

each one bigger

fancier

than the last.

In America,

it seems like everyone has money,

new shiny sneakers

bright-colored lipstick

pants that fit just right.

Then I start to notice the man on the corner

with a sign begging people for help,

the tired woman waiting for the bus

with shoes that are cracked at the sole.

America, I realize,

has its sad and tired

parts too.

America,

like every other place in the world,

is a place where some people sleep

and some people

other people

dream.

X.

Sometimes I think I might split in half

from the ache of missing

my brother

Baba

Fatima

Auntie Amal

the ocean

Chez Mariana

fruit that tastes like sunshine.

I even miss the tourists

and sometimes I even

miss the smell of fish.

Sometimes it feels like when I boarded that plane

to fly to America

I left my heart behind,

beating and lonely on the other side of the ocean.

I talk to Baba through

my uncle Mazin’s fancy computer.

The first time we call him

I sit in my mama’s lap while my uncle

presses buttons that make the computer

come alive

and all of a sudden Baba is on the screen.

Both Mama and I squeal with delight.

We tell him about the

old house

and the even

older houses on our street.

We tell him about the big trees

that stretch up high in the sky

and the big hills

and the big cars that we see driving down the street.

Everything is big in America?

he asks, smiling.

Baba is smiling so big

it makes me think

if only for a second

that everything is going to be okay,

that someday soon we’ll all be

together

again.

Mama asks him about the store

and he says everything is good

but his smile fades.

Until now, I never knew you could see

fear

through a computer screen.

Baba says our town is safe

but there are still protests

and there are still tanks in nearby towns.

When he talks about the protests

and the tanks in the nearby towns,

we all tense and

my heart is thinking

Where is Issa?

Do you see him?

Do you miss him?

But my mouth is silent,

my lips shut like a

closed door.

When Baba ends the call

and it’s just Mama and me left in Uncle Mazin’s study,

I ask Mama about Issa.

Her big eyes go sad,

she kisses my face,

and tells me not to worry,

but it’s hard to do that when I can see,

and smell,

the worry all over her.

XI.

Aunt Michelle wears her hair in a long loose braid

and has a band of bracelets that jangle on her wrist when she walks.

She shows me how to use the dishwasher,

an appliance we did not have back home,

and how to use the microwave,

thirty seconds to defrost a piece of frozen bread,

approximately two minutes to reheat a dinner plate.

I love the way Aunt Michelle

greets me every morning with a plate of pancakes.

The way she speaks slowly

so that I can understand her,

and always smiles like she understands me,

even when I know my accent is thick

and I have put the words in the wrong order.

I love how she shows me all the flowers in her garden,

pointing each one out and saying its English name

slowly.

Rose,

tulip,

marigold.

Mama is not sure about Aunt Michelle.

But I already feel comfortable

gliding around barefoot in her kitchen,

singing along with her

to an old Whitney Houston song.

She tells me that I can always

put on any song that I want

all I have to do is ask.

Aunt Michelle’s old house is washed with sun.

She leaves all the windows open.

And it is decorated with white pillows,

white chairs, and white couches.

Too much white, Mama says.

Boring, Mama says.

Once I hear Mama ask Uncle Mazin,

I don’t see anything from home here.

Uncle Mazin turns to her and says,

This is home.

XII.

Aunt Michelle loves anything

French.

She studied French literature at university

where she met my uncle.

He says he fell in love with her the moment

he saw her.

Aunt Michelle shakes her head when he says this,

but her face turns red and she looks so

happy that I know she

believes him.

Mama also shakes her head

at this story.

Aunt Michelle pretends not to notice,

but I know she does.

Mama says,

She’s too American.

I say,

She is American.

Mama says,

She doesn’t speak a word of Arabic.

I say,

Why would she? She’s American.

She says,

She has made Mazin forget his home.

I want to say,

This is his home now,

but I look at Mama’s belly

and don’t say anything.

XIII.

Aunt Michelle takes Sarah and me out to lunch

at a French restaurant.

We eat sandwiches on baguette bread—

Aunt Michelle and Sarah get their sandwiches

with ham

and I want to,

but then I think of Mama,

all alone in my uncle’s house,

and what she would think if she saw me eating ham,

and I order just cheese and tomato.

Back home,

food was

rice

lamb

fish

hummus

pita bread

olives

feta cheese

za’atar with olive oil.

Here,

that food is

Middle Eastern food.

Baguettes are French food.

Spaghetti is Italian food.

Pizza is both American and Italian,

depending on which restaurant you go to.

Every food has a label.

It is sorted and assigned.

Just like I am no longer

a girl.

I am a Middle Eastern girl.

A Syrian girl.

A Muslim girl.

Americans love labels.

They help them know what to expect.

Sometimes, though,

I think labels stop them from

thinking.

What do you think? Aunt Michelle asks

when the dessert comes.

It is a chocolate tart.

It is delicious.

I look around the restaurant,

at the stiff white linen tablecloths,

at the framed pictures of the Eiffel Tower,

at the servers wearing pin-striped pants.

It’s very French, I say.

I wonder if the words that come out of my mouth

make any sense

at all.

Aunt Michelle and Sarah smile

and that’s when I know—

I am finally speaking a language

that they

understand.

XIV.

The night before

the first day of school,

a storm breaks across

the sky.

I watch the lightning

streak

and the thunder

boom

from the window on the third floor.

I press my face up against the glass

and say, American storms are so strong.

The wind bends the tree,

and there is a hiccup of fear in my chest,

but the trees stay strong.

We have storms back home, Mama says.

She is lying in bed, her hands propped on her belly,

which is growing larger every day.

Mama always does this.

If I say I like something,

if I’m impressed with something,

in America,

she reminds me that we have the same thing back

in Syria.

I usually ignore her, but tonight,

it is like the storm is inside of me too

and I am tired of being quiet.

Don’t you want me to like it here?

I am tired of being the tree in the wind

that is always pushed,

but never allowed to fall down.

Of course, she says.

I walk over to the bed

and hoist myself up onto the mattress.

Mama wraps her arms around me,

pulling me close to her,

and she smells like she always has,

agarwood oil and rosewater.

It is the smell of home,

of love,

of safety.

It is a smell that makes me feel like it is okay

for me to say anything.

Why did you bring me here? I ask, the same question

I am always asking,

but am never getting a satisfactory answer to.

You know why, habibti, Mama says,

and she sounds so tired,

and I almost decide to drop it,

but then the thunder booms

and I feel it in my chest and I say,

It’s like you want me to hate it here.

Of course I don’t.

But you always tell me things are better at home.

I am scared you will forget.

If you didn’t want me to forget, we shouldn’t have left.

Mama takes my face in her hands,

she pulls me centimeters from her,

and it feels like we are sharing one

breath.

Don’t you see? I know you will have a better life here,

but that breaks my heart.

You are too young to understand, Jude,

but someday you will.

Lightning cracks across the sky

and I lean against her

and she accepts my weight,

pulling me into her arms.

PART THREE

Staying

I.

My new school is three blocks

from my new house.

Sarah and I are supposed to walk together

but on the morning of the first day,

the sky is pouring rain

so Aunt Michelle drops us both off at the front steps.

Sarah bounds in

and leaves me staring up

at the enormous old building

which is new to me.

Other students rush by me,

but I stay planted at the foot of the steps,

the rain dripping on my head.

I am less afraid of getting wet

than I am of what is inside.

I swallow the knot in my throat

and replay my brother’s parting words to me,

Be brave.

Be brave, be brave, be brave

echoes like a chorus in my head as I climb the stairs

and enter my brand-new world.

II.

I am given a schedule by a nice lady in the front office.

She asks if I will be able to read it

and if I need help,

and the answers to her two questions are

probably not

and probably yes,

yet somehow I reverse them and I end up wandering

down the long halls,

taking wrong turn after wrong turn,

eventually ending up in the right place,

but still somehow feeling like it

is the wrong one.

I have seven different classes,

English,

science,

social studies,

math,

art,

gym,

and ESL.

ESL means

English as a second language.

It is a class for kids like me,

kids whose English is sticky and slow.

Kids who were from somewhere else,

but are here now.

My first class of the day is math.

I arrive late.

I know I am late because I hear the bell ring while

I am still wandering around in the empty hall,

peering into every classroom,

willing it to be room 202,

Pre-Algebra with Mr. Anderson.

Pre is an English preposition that

means before.

Pre Jude knew the way to all her classes,

Pre Jude never showed up late.

When I finally find the classroom,

everyone else is already sitting at their desks.

Mr. Anderson greets me with a patient smile

and motions toward an empty desk

in the second row

on the left side.

I walk across the classroom

and I feel everyone’s eyes on me.

Pre Jude reveled in her classmates’ attention,

but now I just want to blend in.

III.

Mr. Anderson passes out a packet of papers

that explain what we will be studying this year.

He goes over the rules of his class,

his expectations,

how much homework he will assign.

The whole class groans at the mention of

homework.

It is a communal moment I do not participate in

because once I’ve figured out what

Mr. Anderson means by “homework,”

he’s already talking about something else.

Now that I’ve gotten that

housekeeping out of the way,

let’s do some practice problems

and see what you guys already know.

As he grabs a piece of chalk

and writes problems on the board,

I think about the word

housekeeping:

the upkeep of the home,

the management of household affairs.

Does Mr. Anderson mean that

our classroom is like a house?

His house?

Our house?

I look at the practice problems on the board.

I know the answer to two of the three.

I like thinking in numbers.

Numbers are easier than letters.

They have not changed on me.

He asks for volunteers.

I almost raise my hand,

but then realize I would have to explain my answer

not only in numbers

but in words,

letters.

I do not raise my hand.

The whole classroom is silent,

still,

and then a boy seated in the front row volunteers.

He walks to the front of the classroom.

He is wearing a T-shirt

with a photograph of a galaxy on it,

millions and millions of twinkling stars.

The boy works quickly

and when he is done,

he walks back to his desk without saying anything.

Mr. Anderson checks his work,

and claps as he announces that all

of the boy’s answers

are correct.

I stare

at the back of the boy’s head,

imagining and thinking about all

those swirling stars on the front of his shirt,

all those different worlds.

IV.

When I get to Mrs. Ravenswood’s ESL class,

my fourth class of the day,

I almost don’t go inside.

At first, I am embarrassed to be in

Mrs. Ravenswood’s ESL class.

I think of what Sarah said to Aunt Michelle.

I speak English

thunders in my brain.

Mrs. Ravenswood is younger

than any teacher I have ever had.

She wears a skirt with red polka dots on it

and has a smile like a cup of milky warm tea;

it welcomes and comforts you all at the same time.

I am one of four kids in the class.

There is me,

Grace, who is from Korea

Ben, who is from China

and Omar, who is from Somalia.

We all sit together

in the center of the classroom

at a round wooden table.

Mrs. Ravenswood has us go around

the table and introduce ourselves.

She says,

Tell me something you like

and tell me something you find confusing about English.

Grace starts.

She says she likes that in English,

in America,

she is called Grace.

She has a different name at home,

but her parents let her choose

a new English name when they moved to America.

She says that she likes that Grace feels like

a whole

new

exciting

identity.

She says she doesn’t like

that lots of words in English

sound the same

like knight and night

and weather and whether

and sometimes it’s hard for her to figure out

which is which.

Ben

Omar

and me all laugh a little when Grace says this,

each of us looking at one another,

a little afraid to admit

that we relate to what Grace said,

but so relieved that there is someone else

in this school

in this city

in this country

who feels the same way

about knight and night.

Ben shares that he likes

American slang words like

cool and awesome

and especially the word dough,

which he explains he recently learned

means money.

Dough, he says,

and then Omar says, Yeah, that’s a COOL word,

and we all laugh again.

I was wrong about not

wanting to be in Mrs. Ravenswood’s room.

V.

My school is filled with kids who do not look like me.

Kids with pale freckled skin,

kids with hair the color of summertime corn.

And kids with skin darker than mine,

kids shorter than me,

and kids taller than me.

I have never seen so many

different types of people in one place.

I write to Fatima

and tell her

that sometimes it feels like

the whole world

lives at my new school.

VI.

Sarah and I don’t have any of the same classes,

but during the second week of school,

I see her in the hallway.

I raise my hand to wave,

my face breaking into a smile,

but she turns away from me,

like I’m invisible.

She is leaning against a locker,

surrounded by her group of friends.

All her friends are pretty

with shiny hair

and clothes that look like they cost

a lot of dough.

They stand in a circle

that does not open for me.

At home that night,

Sarah pretends like nothing happened.

Why didn’t you say hi to me today? I ask.

Sarah takes a bite of her bagel,

which Aunt Michelle has smeared

with cream cheese and jelly.

Her eyes look away from me,

focused on the TV.

We are watching another show

about glamorous American teenagers.

Sorry, she finally says,

after a very long pause.

I was just busy with my friends.

I want to say,

Aren’t I your friend?

Don’t you want me to meet

your other friends?

But I don’t.

I take a bite of my bagel

and almost spit it out with surprise

when Sarah says,

Will you teach me some Arabic words?

You’re so lucky, she says.

I wish I spoke Arabic.

At first, I don’t understand why she is saying this,

but then I see the way she looks longingly at

Uncle Mazin and Mama who are

in the kitchen

speaking in Arabic

and laughing.

Lucky, I whisper to myself that night.

I wonder if I say it enough times,

if it will start to feel true,

come true.

There is an Arabic proverb that says:

Her luck splits open rocks.

I am still waiting to feel like the force

and less like the rocks.

VII.

Sarah is never by herself at school.

Whenever I see her,

she is surrounded by friends

who follow her around like

the sea hugs the shore,

drifting in and out,

but always coming back.

We have the same lunch break,

but she never invites me to sit at her table,

which is in the back of the cafeteria,

by the windows.

I tell myself that she doesn’t invite me

because there isn’t any space,

but then one day,

I notice there is an empty seat

at the very end of the table.

I hold my breath when I see Sarah

walking in my direction.

She is trailed by a girl

wearing a sparkly headband

and another girl with leather boots

that I try to memorize

so I can describe them to Fatima

in a letter later because I think

she would love them.

My whole body rings

with anticipation as I wait

for Sarah’s invitation.

But it doesn’t come.

She and her friends walk

right past me

up to the counter where

they each purchase a cookie.

Wednesdays are the best,

I hear Sarah say

as she walks back to her table,

triumphantly holding her cookie.

I get up from the table

where I have been sitting

by myself

and run to the bathroom,

where I hide in a stall,

and sob

and wonder if this lonely ache

inside of me

will ever go away.

VIII.

Ben is telling me about his old apartment back in China.

I used to live in the clouds, he says,

in a very tall building

that looked out over all of Shanghai.

I have never been to Ben’s old house

or even to China,

but I can imagine it because of Ben’s

excellent English.

Ben was in Mrs. Ravenswood’s class last year

and I wonder if he’s done this exercise before.

I tell myself this to feel better

about the fact I have absolutely no idea

what to say to describe my old home.

I can see it—

the tiny kitchen that was always filled with sunlight,

the flat roof of our apartment building that was

dotted with TV satellites,

but my mind doesn’t find the words in English

to say what I want to say.

It’s okay, Ben says,

giving me a warm smile.

I think this exercise is really hard, too.

We switch partners and Omar

tells me about how hot the sun was

and how he always woke up to

the sound of his mother singing

in the kitchen.

Grace tells me that at her old home

she used to have to climb steps up to her bed.

But here in America, she says,

My bed is on the ground.

She blinks and then says, Floor?

Is floor better?

Do you like it better? I ask.

She gives me a little smile,

not saying yes or no, only

It’s different.

Class is almost over,

and Mrs. Ravenswood says she has a surprise for us.

We all look at each other excitedly,

thinking that she is going to let us watch

a snippet of an American movie—

a treat she sometimes allows us

when we’ve worked hard in class.

But instead she brings out a box

of cupcakes.

She holds one up to show us

how it is decorated.

Like soccer balls! she says.

To celebrate Omar.

We learn that Omar

has made the soccer team.

We all clap for him.

His accomplishment,

somehow,

almost,

feels like our own.

I still don’t understand the word

soccer, Omar says as he devours his cupcake,

icing smeared at the side of his mouth.

Feet.

He points to his feet.

You play with your feet.

Football.

This makes all of us laugh.

IX.

One night, Uncle Mazin asks me

if he can take me out to dinner.

At first, I think Mama,

Aunt Michelle,

and Sarah will be invited too.

But soon it is just me and him

gliding down the street

in the leather seats

of his fancy car

that rides so smoothly down the road

that you forget you are even in a car.

We go to a restaurant with dim lighting

with servers who have very serious expressions

who bring out plates with baked potatoes

and large pieces of meat.

In America,

we call this a steak,

Uncle Mazin says,

gesturing from his plate

to mine.

I can tell he

wants me to be impressed

by the hunk of meat

sitting untouched on the plate.

I cut into it

and let out a cry.

It’s bleeding, I shriek.

Uncle Mazin laughs

and shakes his head.

No, he says.

It’s perfect.

In Syria, they overcook meat.

I look at the light pink

of the meat,

my stomach turning at his words,

at the small puddle of blood

on my plate.

I pick at the baked potato instead.

I have been learning that in America,

they add something called butter

to everything.

I may not be able

to see the appeal of bleeding meat,

but butter,

I understand.

Are you happy here? Uncle Mazin

asks me as he finishes his

bleeding steak.

I can hear the worry in his voice,

how much he wants me to say yes.

I don’t answer him.

Instead I say,

What is an entrée?

It sounds like the word

enter, but it isn’t the beginning of

the meal because that word is—

I pause and try to pronounce

App-e-tizer.

He smiles,

but not in a way that makes

me think he finds me childish

or uneducated.

He smiles at me

like he is seeing an old picture

of himself

or reliving a memory

that he had almost forgotten.

It gets easier, he says.

Give it time.

And that’s when I realize

my uncle hasn’t been showing me

all his fancy stuff to impress me,

but to convince me.

To convince himself.

X.

I am rounding the corner

to go up the next flight of stairs

when I hear Sarah call out to me.

Come here, she says,

inviting me into her room,

where I have never been before.

It is the biggest bedroom

I have ever seen,

a giant bed with a white lace canopy

is pressed against the back wall

and there is a white desk

perfectly organized with all

different colored pens

and paper clips.

It seems like the kind

of place where dreams

could grow and

live.

I can’t believe Dad took

you to Jeff Ruby’s.

Sarah says you

like she is accusing me

of a crime.

Do you know the last time

he took me out to dinner,

just me and him?

she asks, and I don’t

say anything because I don’t

know the answer.

Yeah, she says softly

and looks out the big window

of her room

at the moon that is newly swollen

hanging so low in the sky

that it almost tricks you

into thinking you could touch it.

Me either.

I stand there for

a couple more moments.

I can tell she wants me to leave,

but I want her to ask me to.

I am tired of all these

guessing games.

I need to finish

my history homework,

she finally says.

Her voice isn’t mean,

only sad.

As I leave her room

I think of the Arabic proverb that says:

She cannot give what she does not have.

I have never really understood

what that means,

but it seems wise

and like I might be learning

to better understand it now.

XI.

Mama cannot believe that

Uncle Mazin doesn’t go to mosque.

He makes excuses like he is busy with

work

family

life,

but Mama won’t hear any of it.

She finds a mosque on Clifton Avenue.

It’s only a ten-minute walk, she says to me,

proud that she has found it,

proud that she is attending,

proud that she is walking there on her own.

Sometimes when I am at school,

she goes to the mosque and takes an English class.

She has found her own version

of Mrs. Ravenswood’s class.

When I get home from school,

I practice with her.

Hello?

How are you?

Good. Thank you.

Where is the bathroom?

My name is Sahar. What is your name?

One day, she says to me,

in English,

I miss home.

I hug her tight,

so proud of her.

Me too, I say.

Me too.

XII.

A few weeks later,

Mama takes a nap in the late afternoon

because the new baby is eating all of her energy.

You’re going to be a troublemaker, she says,

and even though she is speaking to her belly,

speaking to the baby,

I can tell she is thinking about Issa.

Aunt Michelle is busy raking leaves

out of the backyard,

Sarah is over at a friend’s house,

and Uncle Mazin is where he always is, work.

That means that I am free

to walk around our neighborhood.

Mama doesn’t like for me to walk alone

because she worries I might get lost.

Aunt Michelle tells her I will be fine,

as long as it is light out.

The sun is still out

even though the days are getting darker and darker

earlier and earlier.

I walk down the sidewalks

that are old and cracked,

past wooden houses with slanted roofs,

painted beautiful pastel colors.

I wave at a man getting off the bus,

a boy on a skateboard,

a woman with two large grocery bags.

They smile,

and I smile.

I make it to Ludlow Avenue,

which is lined with shops and restaurants

that smell like burnt vanilla and curry and

fried eggs.

I have written

five letters

to Fatima to tell her about my new neighborhood

new city

new country

new life.

In each of those letters,

I’ve told her about Ludlow Avenue.

It is not

b i g g e r

than any of the main streets back home,

but it is so different.

Different because of the different

shops

restaurants

and people.

It is a tiny street,

but it feels like the whole world

is living there.

XIII.

It is on Ludlow Avenue that I discover

a Middle Eastern restaurant,

which back home would just be called

simply

a restaurant.

The Middle Eastern restaurant I discover

is called Ali Baba.

It is squeezed between a shop called

Pangea—

which does not seem to sell prehistoric supercontinents,

but ladies’ hats and scarves—

and a restaurant called

The Great Wall,

which sells food that my cousin Sarah tells me is

Chinese.

The first few times,

I only walk by Ali Baba.

I do not go inside.

I am scared that I do not belong in

a Middle Eastern restaurant

in the middle of America.

I am scared that the only place

in Middle America that I belong

is a Middle Eastern restaurant.

On the seventh walk-by,

I decide to swallow my fear.

I pretend I am my brother Issa,

deciding to march in the streets,

deciding to never call his sister.

I am bold

and fearless

and do not care what people think.

I push open the door,

and at once, I feel at home,

greeted by old friends

the smell of cumin and thyme,

the strong scent of Arabic coffee brewing on a stove

in the back of the kitchen.

Marhaba, I call out,

more to the smells than to

anyone,

but a girl emerges from the kitchen.

I recognize her.

I have seen her in the halls.

She is the only girl in my school

who wears a headscarf.

She is taller than me,

but has a young face.

Her head is wrapped with a scarf the color of

an eggplant

or a bruise.

She asks in Arabic,

if I speak Arabic,

and even though her Arabic is good,

I can tell she is a native English speaker,

by the shape of her mouth,

and the way the words slide out

unbent by the athletic tongue of someone

who was born speaking Arabic.

She motions for me to take a seat

at a table in the back of the restaurant.

Wait for me, she says,

this time in English.

I drum on the table with my fingers,

in the same way I used to watch Issa do,

when he would take me out to the sandwich shop,

and we would wait for our order of falafel and hummus

and extra tahini sauce.

It feels like it has been a very long time,

too much waiting.

(I am always saying too in English

when I mean so.)

And I am about to leave,

but then the girl comes back.

She has a tray full of

shawarma

falafel

hummus

pickles

olives

fresh bread.

My mouth waters

and then I see at the end of the tray,

there is a small metal teapot

and it looks exactly like the one Auntie Amal used to

pour us our tea during asroneyeh.

My eyes water and tears spill out

and I think the girl is going to ask me

what

is wrong

but instead she says,

I’m Layla.

And I say,

I’m Jude.

XIV.

These are the things I know about Layla:

She is in grade eight,

whereas I am in grade seven.

I also know that her baba,

Samir, is from Lebanon,

and her mama,

Dasia, is also from there.

They run the restaurant,

Ali Baba,

together.

Her mama manages the kitchen,

and her baba manages

everything else

which is an American phrase

that I don’t quite understand.

Layla has never been to Lebanon

and she picks my brain for every

tiny

detail

about the Middle East.

You’re so lucky you’ve been there, she says.

I’m here now, I say.

But that’s lucky too, she insists.

And I know she is thinking of those towns

nearby mine,

the ones that have been overtaken

by the men with the stolen tanks.

The ones where people are afraid

to walk down the street.

Lucky, I repeat.

XV.

One of my favorite things

about my new neighborhood is that

the university is right nearby

so in the afternoons, there are always students walking

up

and down

the sidewalks, holding coffee, and talking fast.

I like to sometimes pretend that Issa is one of them,

carrying his backpack on only one shoulder,

and talking fast on his way back

to his basement apartment.

I spend a lot of time walking around outside,

my hands tucked into the pockets of the fancy new coat

that Aunt Michelle

bought for me.

The coat is the color of roses

and lined with white fleece.

It is as beautiful as it is soft.

So beautiful in fact that when I showed it to Mama

I expected her to scoff,

because it came from Aunt Michelle,

but even Mama couldn’t deny that it is

beautiful.

And I feel beautiful when I wear it.

Beautiful and

American,

gliding down Ludlow Avenue,

past the students talking fast,

past the shop that sells ladies’ hats,

all the way to visit Layla at her parents’ restaurant

where I am sometimes put to work.

I help scrape old food into the trash bins,

but am always in return

fed falafel and extra pieces of baklava that come on big

trays from a bakery in Detroit.

Layla and I compare notes about school.

I don’t see her that often in the halls

because she is not in my grade,

and she doesn’t have to be in Mrs. Ravenswood’s class

because her mind does not get stuck

on simple words like put

and on

and too

and so

and when to use which one.

I tell Layla how much I am liking school,

but that I don’t have any very close friends yet,

no one like Fatima,

and then her face falls and she says,

But you have me.

I nod because I know Layla wants to be like my Fatima

and she is my good friend,

but no one is

like Fatima.

I promised Fatima that I wouldn’t forget her,

and I break a lot of things,

but I try not to break promises.

So I go on telling Layla about

the other people that I have met:

Lauren, a girl in my science class with wavy hair

who lets me borrow a pencil when I forget mine,

and Grace from Mrs. Ravenswood’s class,

who helps me practice converting measurements into inches.

I think about mentioning

the boy from my math class who always wears

T-shirts with pictures of space,

but I haven’t exactly met him yet.

I’ve only stared at the back of his head.

Wow, Layla says.

She sounds like such an American when she says wow.

You really do like it here.

I shrug,

and she gives me a look,

which I don’t quite understand.

It is part surprise,

and part waiting.

It is all unknown.

XVI.

One night it is rainy

when I walk home from the restaurant.

I wrap my beautiful coat around my shoulders,

and the rain that feels almost like ice hits my nose.

My beautiful coat is

not enough to keep me from the chill,

and two days later,

I find myself stuck in bed,

feeling so cold

and shaky,

the chill from that night is trapped inside my bones,

even though the temperature says I am burning up.

Mama takes care of me,

sitting at the end of my bed,

singing songs in Arabic,

brushing hair away from my sweaty forehead

so she can kiss me.

I am drowsy with sickness

and in the first few moments after my eyes flutter open

and I hear my mama singing,

I think we’re at home.

My whole heart pulses

with happiness.

I hold my breath,

waiting to see Baba,

Issa.

But then I hear the wood floors creak

as Aunt Michelle comes in and out

with medicine that tastes like sour berries

and soups made of salty broths,

and I know I am not back home,

but here,

in this home.

I look outside my window

at the leaves from the big trees that are

falling

to the ground,

at the cold rain that is

falling

to the ground,

and yet,

something inside of me is no longer

falling.

It is

rising.

XVII.

Most times at dinner,

it is always

Mama

me

Sarah

and Aunt Michelle.

Sometimes my uncle Mazin joins us

on days when he does not have to work late,

and those are the best days because

we all love

Uncle Mazin.

When Uncle Mazin is there,

even Mama smiles and eats almost

every bite of food off her plate,

every bite of the meal that Aunt Michelle made,

the meals Mama thinks are

too

strange.

Aunt Michelle tells me

that she gets most of her recipes online.

She shows me website after website

that is filled with delicious photographs of food

and also photographs of women dressed in beautiful

outfits sprawled across beautiful furniture

in their beautiful houses.

Aunt Michelle lets me click through

the recipes on her iPad,

and sometimes even lets me choose

which ones we should try.

My mouth waters at the images of

pumpkin risotto

black bean tostadas

tofu tacos.

These are words that I don’t quite know

what they mean,

but my eyes translate for my stomach.

One night, though, Mama wins and Aunt Michelle

lets her cook dinner.

Mama does not find her recipe online.

She finds it in her memory,

her heart.

I watch her as she fries up the cauliflower in lots of oil

and roasts the lamb with even more oil

and on the table there are loaves and loaves

of pita bread

that she got fresh from Layla’s mom and toasted up

right on the stove,

right over the open flame,

just like how she used to do back home.

I can tell Sarah is a little unsure about the food,

but soon she is piling the crispy cauliflower

into her mouth

and smiling and telling Aunt Michelle

all about her day,

much more talkative than she usually is.

Uncle Mazin is smiling too,

and he looks at Mama and says,

This tastes like home.

XVIII.

When Layla first tells me about the school musical,

I don’t understand what she is saying.

My school back home did not put on plays.

School was for

serious subjects like science

and math,

things that can be measured

and calculated.

It’s a big deal, Layla says.

This is one of Layla’s favorite phrases.

I’ve saved it for the next time I talk to Issa,

I think he will find it

funny.

So many people try out, Layla says.

And people from all over the city come to watch on opening night.

Last year, it was written about in the paper.

Are you going to try out? I ask

and Layla gives me the same look

that she gave me before—

the one that is part surprise

part waiting

part unknown.

No, she finally says.

Laughing in the way

that has nothing to do with humor.

I’m going to work on the sets.

You should do it, too.

It’s fun.

I don’t say yes but I go

with her to the meeting that takes place after school

in our school’s big theater.

The theater is beautiful with a wide wooden stage

and velvet plush seats that you sink into

when you sit down.

The seats remind me of the movie theater

that Sammy took Fatima and me to

that one summer.

I cannot believe this school

my school

has an auditorium like this.

As I watch the teacher,

Mrs. Bloom,

talk about the spring musical up on the stage,

the lights beaming right onto her face,

I try to imagine what it would be like to stand up there.

I can’t imagine it.

I can’t stop imagining it.

I look from

side

to side

and see so many faces that are also imagining it.

One of them I recognize.

It is Sarah.

She is sitting with three of her friends a few rows in front of Layla and me.

Layla nudges my shoulder as if to ask,

Do you see her?

I nod.

I wonder if Sarah is thinking

about trying out for the play

or if she wants to make sets like Layla.

Everyone gets very quiet while Mrs. Bloom talks about the guidelines for the tryout:

a two-minute monologue

and a song.

The tryouts will take place the week

we get back from winter break.

Mrs. Bloom paces the stage,

the heels of her boots echoing against the wood,

and I imagine it again:

Me, walking on that stage.

My footsteps echoing.

My voice radiating through the room.

All the eyes in the entire room focused on

me.

At the end of the meeting,

Mrs. Bloom sets down some packets on

the stage.

I follow Layla,

fully intending to take the one

about joining the stage and tech crew.

But at the last minute,

I grab a tryout packet too.

XIX.

Math class is tough for me

because I usually know how to solve

for x or y

but I don’t know how to

explain how I know.

So I stay quiet

while Mr. Anderson calls

on other students to answer

the sample problems

like the boy who almost always

wears a space T-shirt.

I stare at his back,

at all of those stars.

Sometimes it is comforting

to me to remember how vast

the universe is.

How small our galaxy is in comparison.

How I still live in the

same galaxy as

Baba

and Issa and Fatima and Auntie Amal.

I glance out the window

at the trees that are

shedding their final leaves.

I wonder if it is exhausting

to be a tree.

To lose something,

year after year,

only to trust that it will

someday grow back.

XX.

Winter arrives with a thud

two weeks before Thanksgiving.

Our teachers tell us that winter doesn’t officially start

until December 21st,

but the snow outside tells a different story.

At school,

we all wear sweaters,

turtlenecks—an American word for a clothing item that makes me laugh—

hats,

gloves.

One day, the heater in the building of our school gives out,

and we all keep our coats on inside.

It feels like an

adventure we are all having

together.

During Mrs. Ravenswood’s class, Omar shivers.

It is never this cold in Somalia.

He is surprised that I am not bothered by the cold.

Syria, I say, is a country with many climates.

Everyone in the class seems surprised by this.

I like being able to surprise people.

In Mrs. Ravenswood’s class, we practice

talking about the weather.

At first I feel silly,

practicing with Grace—

It is cold, you will need a sweater.

Is it windy?

The sky is cloudy.

But then I start to like being able

to put into words

the thoughts that are in my head.

Grace feels the same way, she tells me.

But do you worry that you’re going to forget your mother tongue?

It makes me smile the way Grace calls Korean

her mother tongue.

That means Arabic is my mother tongue,

And it is my mama’s tongue,

but I’ve never thought of it that way before.

No, I say

because I’ve also never thought I would forget it.

What word would you miss the most? she asks.

I laugh and shake my head.

I’m not going to forget

a

single

word.

And then Grace gives me that look

that I’ve seen before on Layla’s face,

on Sarah’s face,

even once on Fatima’s face—

like they are waiting for me to understand something

they have already learned.

I don’t think you have to forget

in order to learn, I say,

making sure my English is perfect.

Grace smiles at this,

and I think she’s as proud as I am

that my English is getting better every day.

XXI.

Bad news doesn’t happen in real life

the way that it does in movies.

In movies, you are warned.

The music gets scary,

the sky goes dark,

and you can see the shadows coming in.

But on the day Mama tells me that Issa is gone,

the sky is bright,

and I’m happy because in math class

my teacher, Mr. Anderson, asked me a question

in front of everyone and I got the answer right.

In English.

In front of everyone.

So when I burst through the front door

of Uncle Mazin and Aunt Michelle’s house—

which I am beginning to think of as my house too—

I am not expecting to find Mama waiting for me

in the chair by the big bay window,

her face illuminated by the watery winter light.

She stands up from the chair

and hugs me tight,

so tight that

I swear I feel the baby inside of her,

kicking against her stomach.

No scary music,

no thunderstorm,

this is my warning:

what is coming next is going to hurt.

She tells me Issa has left home—

and when I try to interrupt her

to say that I already know that—

She interrupts me right back,

her eyes flashing,

stunning me into silence.

She tells me that Issa has left

to go to another town

one of those towns

taken over by men

who are fighting with the government

and who are also fighting with people like Issa

ordinary people

who only want to see Syria grow up

into a better version of itself.

Where? I ask.

I want specifics.

I need to be able to imagine him.

There is a panic

climbing up my spine,

crawling into my chest.

I feel like screaming,

but I can’t

even open my mouth.

Near Aleppo. Mama’s voice is barely a whisper

but her words

thunder

in my ears.

Aleppo.

Even a girl like me,

a girl who likes movies more than news,

a girl who didn’t pay

much attention to what was happening,

knows Aleppo is synonymous with war.

And death.

Mama hugs me

and I hold her back.

Sometimes all you can do is

hold on.

XXII.

I wake up early,

tiptoeing out of bed before Mama rouses from sleep.

We still sleep on the same queen-size mattress.

Aunt Michelle is always offering

to get another bed for me,

to rearrange the room,

to make it more comfortable for us.

I used to think that at any moment

I was going to feel ready to sleep in my own

American

bed.

But ever since I heard the news about Issa,

I can’t imagine not having the security of Mama’s

solid body there in the middle of the night

when my sleep breaks

and I am filled with a terror of not quite knowing

where I am or

where I am going.

I wrap my arms around her

and I hold on,

I hold on to that feeling of home.

But in the early mornings,

I summon my courage to leave the sleepy security

of our shared bed

and climb down the stairs to the kitchen

where Aunt Michelle is always already awake,

nursing a big mug of coffee

staring out the window into the backyard

where the trees have

recently shed their limbs

and in a certain light,

the branches look like snakes wriggling against the sky.

Someday,

I am going to be brave enough to ask Aunt Michelle

what she is looking for.

Until then,

I am working on being brave in smaller steps,

opening my eyes and seeing and learning.

Aunt Michelle has started leaving

Uncle Mazin’s newspaper

out for me to read,

and I comb through the articles that I know he has already read before me

because his sticky jam fingerprints mark the pages.

There is something comforting

about the fact my uncle has read the articles

first.

Even if he doesn’t talk

out loud

about what is happening in Syria.

Like my uncle,

I am hungry to read every word I can about

Aleppo

about the families from my country

who were not as lucky as me,

who are fleeing from towns that are under siege

taken over by violent radicals

or by the government under the guise of stopping

violent radicals.

I read about how Europe and

America

no longer want to allow people who come from my

country

to move to their shores for safety.

I read about families stranded on shaky boats,

trapped in refugee camps.

I search every day for a mention of my brother

and I never find one.

I search every day for a clue about why I deserve

to be here in Aunt Michelle’s kitchen,

safe

and fed.

When so many others

just like me are not.

Lucky. I am learning how to say it

over and over again in English.

I am learning how it tastes—

sweet with promise

and bitter with responsibility.

XXIII.

The day before Thanksgiving

in every one of my classes,

we are asked to talk about what we are grateful for.

Mrs. Ravenswood explains

that Thanksgiving is a time

when Americans

give thanks.

T-h-a-n-k-s.

She breaks down the word for us

into tiny pieces so we can digest it,

think about it.

Ben shares that he is thankful his father

will have a long break

from work soon and his whole family

is taking a trip to New York City.

Grace smiles at Mrs. Ravenswood

and says she is thankful

her English is getting better,

and we all applaud her.

Omar goes next.

It takes him a moment to speak,

and I wonder if like me,

he is searching for something to say.

If he is struggling with how you can feel so lucky

and unlucky

at the very same time.

I am grateful to be here, he says quietly.

We all nod,

because we all know what Omar is trying to say.

What he can’t quite manage to say in English,

what is almost impossible to say—

we are lucky to be here

when so many others aren’t.

But we don’t understand the luck of

why or how

just the luck.

The better our English gets,

the better we get at reading the newspaper articles,

the signs,

hearing the radio,

about how so many people don’t want us here.

Finally, it is my turn.

I want to say,

I don’t feel lucky or grateful because my brother has gone to a

war zone

and I don’t know

if he will ever return.

But instead I say,

I am grateful for my brother.

I talk about him.

I talk more than I am supposed to,

but they don’t seem to mind.

At first, I think I want to tell them

about how brave Issa is

how he is risking his life because

he believes so much in a better version

of his country.

But then I think about why I love my brother and

I do love that he is brave,

but I also love the way his whole body shakes

when he laughs

and how he can hit all the notes when he sings

Whitney Houston

and how when I was younger,

he would put me on his shoulders

when we were walking down by the sea and

I felt like the woman

from the Arabic myth

who can see so far into the distance

that she can see the future.

Mrs. Ravenswood helps me with the English words

that I stumble on

and nothing comes out the exact way I want it to.

My voice cracks more than once—

from sadness,

from frustration that I can’t say

what I truly want to say.

I do not have the right words

to describe the space between

my brother’s eyebrows

that wrinkles when he is laughing

or deep in thought.

But in talking about him,

in saying anything,

even in my mangled

fractured English,

I am imagining him,

imagining and wishing

and hoping

that he is safe.

Hoping,

I’m starting to think,

might be the bravest thing a person can do.

PART FOUR

Hoping

I.

It is early in the morning,

the sun has not yet fully risen,

and I am sitting at the kitchen table.

The buttery smell of blueberry muffins

that are baking

wafts through the kitchen.

I love these mornings with Aunt Michelle.

We don’t always talk,

sometimes we just listen to

the quiet French music she likes,

flip through the newspaper together,

be together.

Today, though, I have a mission.

My pencil hovers above the paper.

It is not that I have forgotten how to write in Arabic,

but sometimes my hand needs to wake up to it again.

This is my fifth letter to Fatima.

She has not written back once.

I try to tell myself it is because

she is busy,

because she has always been

more of a talker than a writer.

I don’t let myself think about

the other possibilities

the scary reasons

for why I haven’t heard from her.

In my letters, I have told her about America—

about the creaky old house I live in,

about Mrs. Ravenswood’s ESL class,

about the boy in my math class who always wears

space shirts

and has messy brown hair.

But this letter is different.

In this letter, I am telling her about Issa

and how we don’t know where he is,

or if he’s okay.

I am begging for Fatima to answer me

because I’ve convinced myself that

if she can tell me some happy news from back home,

everything will be okay.

If she tells me something happy,

I will be able to believe that

somehow Issa is happy too.

That he is safe.

That is so impressive, Aunt Michelle says.

What? I ask, looking up from the lined page of

notebook paper.

That you can write in two languages. I wish Sarah knew how

to speak Arabic.

I shrug.

In America,

I have picked up a habit of shrugging.

I don’t write that well in English, I say because

I don’t know what to say about Sarah.

I never know what to say about Sarah.

Aunt Michelle slides down into the seat beside me.

She smells like sugar and flour.

I wish your uncle would teach her. But he hasn’t.

I still don’t know what to say.

I press the point of my pencil into the paper.

He seems busy

is all I manage.

Aunt Michelle gives me a sad smile.

I think it’s more than that.

But she doesn’t say anything else.

I think again of that Arabic proverb:

He cannot give what he does not have.

Aunt Michelle gets up to check on the muffins

and I go back to writing to Fatima.

I end my letter with telling her about the school play.

Can you believe it?

My American school has a play that I can try out for.

Do you think I should try out?

I wish you were here.

We could do it together.

I miss doing everything

together.

II.

I’m with Mama at the doctor’s office,

and we are holding our breath

as the ultrasound technician squeezes gel

out over Mama’s round stomach

and then presses the wand against it.

The screen overhead lights up,

a tangle of gray and black shadows

that at first don’t look like anything,

but then, if you squint your eyes just right,

you see

a foot

a hand

a mouth.

You see

life.

The room explodes with a sound

like the gallop of horse feet.

It is the sound of

one

tiny

loud

miracle.

Do you want to know what you’re having? the technician

asks Mama.

Mama turns to me.

Her English has been getting better from the lessons

she’s been taking at the mosque,

but it is still not so good.

Aren’t I having a baby? Mama says to me in Arabic.

I laugh.

The woman looks at me,

confused.

I tell her what Mama said,

a shy smile on my face.

The woman laughs,

and this makes Mama smile

wide.

She has made an American

laugh.

Back home, Mama always made us

laugh.

She wasn’t funny in the way Issa was.

Issa’s funny is like an elephant,

impossible to miss,

you know when he wants to make you

laugh.

But Mama’s funny is more like a cat,

slinking around,

hiding out in corners,

brushing up on you by surprise.

Mama, with her perfectly wrapped scarf

her clean nails

her gentle way of walking on the ground

does not seem like she would have a sharp tongue,

which makes the fact she is funny,

even funnier.

I can tell this ultrasound technician did not expect

Mama to be funny.

I think she did not know what to expect from us at all.

But when she smiles and asks, Does she want to know if the

baby is a boy

or a girl?

I know she likes us

more than she thought she would.

I translate for Mama,

even though the wet look in her eyes

lets me know she already understood.

Mama nods,

and the woman presses the wand back down on

Mama’s stomach.

She says she thinks she knows, but wants to take

just one more look

to be sure.

It is important to be certain about these things, she says.

The wand moves in circles on Mama’s tummy

and I go back to holding my breath.

As I thought, the technician says,

smiling,

another little girl.

Bint, I confirm to Mama.

Her eyes spill over,

tears running down her cheeks that have grown fuller

in the months we have been here.

Pressure builds behind my eyes,

too.

Mama grabs my hands,

squeezes.

I’d almost forgotten that it’s possible

to cry because of

happiness.

III.

I hold Mama’s hand as we walk out of the hospital.

We are both in a daze,

the word bint on our lips,

tasting like chocolate,

tasting like afternoon mint tea with three extra

spoonfuls of sugar,

tasting like sunshine.

Tasting like hope.

The lobby of the hospital is decorated for Christmas,

a large tree glistening with lights,

branches with pine cones draped

across the nurses’ desks.

“Jingle Bells” plays over the speakers;

a song that I had not heard until two weeks ago,

but I now know

every

single

word

and I don’t think I’ll ever forget

any of them.

There is so much happiness and cheer

and for a moment,

I feel that Mama and I are part of it too.

It feels like a party we were invited to,

not one that we are watching through a window.

But then, right as we are walking out

of the hospital doors,

a woman stops us.

Hey! she says, pointing a finger at Mama’s face.

Hey! she repeats, the word like a stone thrown,

You don’t have to wear that anymore.

The cold air from outside hisses in through the

half-opened door, and it no

longer feels festive.

Her finger moves from Mama’s face to

point to her head,

to her hijab.

You’re in America now. You’re

free.

Mama does not say anything;

she grips my hand.

The woman looks from Mama

to me

and back at Mama.

Do you speak English?

The snake of fear

uncoils in my stomach.

I am frozen for a moment

and then I urge Mama

through the door,

squeezing past the woman,

stepping closer to the outside,

to the cold.

As I pass the woman, my shoulder inches from

her chest,

I say,

Excuse us. Thank you. We are

happy.

I do not know why I say that.

My English words are all mumbled,

and I’m not sure she heard me,

or that she understood.

But I wanted her to understand

that we’re happy here,

even if we don’t look like what she thinks of

as happy.

Outside, sleet is

falling from the sky.

Mama has not let go of my hand.

We are happy, I say again, whispering it into the cold air.

Saying it to Mama,

to the baby.

The baby girl who will be

born here,

but who is loved on both sides of the ocean.

We are, Mama says,

and there are new tears in her eyes.

IV.

It is winter break

and I do not have school for two

whole

weeks.

I am planning to use

all my free time

to pick out a monologue

for my play audition

and then practice it

over and over again.

Why don’t they call it Christmas break?

I ask Aunt Michelle one morning

when I am sitting in the kitchen,

eating the almond-flour pancakes

with cacao nibs that she has made.

I had never heard of a cacao nib before

Aunt Michelle.

Cacao nibs,

I have learned,

are a healthier version of a chocolate chip,

a little less delicious,

but I pretend to love them because

it makes Aunt Michelle happy.

Aunt Michelle laughs at my question and adds

more berries to my plate.

I am amazed that even though

the ground outside is frozen solid,

we are able to eat as many berries as we want.

Because, habibti—

Aunt Michelle has recently started calling me that.

It is an Arabic word that

she has heard Uncle Mazin say

over and over.

There is something funny about hearing that word

come out of her mouth.

There is something lovely about it.

There are other holidays this time of year too.

Like Hanukkah and

Kwanzaa.

I nod and I am about to ask more questions

about these holidays that I have never heard of,

when my cousin Sarah comes clomping

into the kitchen,

her fuzzy pink slippers pounding against the tile.

Sarah walks with purpose,

like she is not afraid of being heard.

She has that same American boldness

that I’ve seen advertised on billboards,

like the restaurant down the street

that brags about their

fully

loaded

special

that comes with everything,

but really only includes

peppers, onions, and cheese.

I’ve decided it is very American

to have the audacity

to claim that three things

add up to everything.

Sarah’s black hair,

the only part of her that clearly came from my uncle

is tangled with sleep

and she yawns as Aunt Michelle pushes a plate in front of her.

She cranes to look outside at the backyard.

Good, she says. It snowed.

She forks a piece of pancake into her mouth,

and makes a face.

Can’t you ever make normal pancakes, Mom?

Aunt Michelle casts me a smile and I feel like

we are sharing a secret since I helped her pick out

the almond flour recipe,

helped her count out the cacao nibs.

Can you drop me off at Mount Storm Park later?

Aunt Michelle pauses, the faucet still on,

dripping water onto the dirty pancake skillet.

You’re going sledding?

Sarah nods and in between bites mumbles

the names of her friends all together

MinaHarperSloane as if they are one inseparable unit.

Sure. Aunt Michelle tosses the dish towel

that is seasonally patterned

with snowflakes over her shoulder.

Mama never used to change the décor

simply because the weather did,

but Aunt Michelle seems to rearrange

the whole house just because of the thermostat.

Sarah stands up and Aunt Michelle says,

Jude should go with you,

and I know from the tone of her voice it is a command

not a suggestion.

I am expecting Sarah to push back,

to argue,

to clomp clomp clomp her slippers all over the floor.

But instead, she says,

Okay, with a shrug and then turns to me and says,

Just don’t be weird.

I know I should feel stung,

but the sound of the thrilling

okay

is so much louder in my head than

weird.

V.

Before I know it, I am riding in Aunt Michelle’s car

up, up, up

a steep hill to Mount Storm Park.

I am bundled in a coat that I have borrowed from

Sarah because Aunt Michelle said

that my new beautiful coat

was not warm enough for sledding.

The coat is powder blue and puffy

and so warm that I am sweating by the time

we get to the park.

We wave good-bye to Aunt Michelle

and as we walk over to Sarah’s friends,

she says again,

Don’t be weird.

And then she adds,

Like your friend is.

I know she is talking about Layla

and a metallic taste gathers in my mouth,

a warning.

I feign ignorance and ask, Which friend?

Um, Sarah says. She tugs on the ends of her hat,

which looks like a wool bonnet

but somehow still seems stylish.

The one who wears—

Layla, I say,

What is so—I pause and then try the decidedly

American word—weird

about her?

Sarah waves at Harper, who has just jumped out of her

mom’s shiny silver minivan

and says, She just acts like she isn’t from here, you know?

All the warmth that had built up in me during the car

ride rushes out of my body

and I shiver inside the blue puffy coat.

But— I think and my mind

floods with all those thoughts

that I try my best to keep at bay,

that are like wolves in the night,

howling that I am not from here,

that I don’t belong here,

that I will never belong here.

Layla’s American, is all I mean to say.

She was born here, I add because I can’t help myself. She’s American.

But Sarah is already walking toward Harper

toward Mina

toward Sloane

and I am trudging behind her,

trying to figure out how not to act weird,

trying to figure out how to belong.

VI.

We are on the top of the tallest hill

and SarahMinaHarperSloane are talking about

tryouts for the school play

and I am planning to just listen but

then something inside of me kicks.

An impulse that I have

buried and thought I left on the other side of the

Atlantic.

I was at that meeting too, I spit out.

Sarah gives me a look and I know it is a warning.

Mina says, Are you thinking of trying out?

But the way she says it

does not sound like a question,

more like a joke.

Layla worked on the sets last year, I say, and I know

my English words are difficult to understand because

when I get nervous my accent gets thicker

and I also think the fact that my feet are

freezing is not helping matters.

It is hard to think

in two languages

when your feet are freezing.

Another warning glare from Sarah who is sitting on

her sled impatiently waiting to glide down the hill

but I can tell she is nervous to leave her

weird

cousin with her friends.

I want to work on the sets, Harper offers.

Harper reminds me of Auntie Amal—agreeable and

friendly.

Who is Layla?

She’s in eighth grade, I say.

We don’t know many eighth graders, Mina says.

Is she the one that— Sloane asks, but does not finish.

Sarah is looking at me to answer.

Layla is the one who worked on

the sets, I say, that impulse kick-kick-kicking

inside of me, urging me to remember who I was,

not a girl who held her tongue,

but Jude who was always told, Skety.

A girl who promised her older brother she would be brave.

I look out at the snowy hills

that are glistening in the afternoon light

and I think about how badly

I wish my older brother were here.

How badly I need to know

that someday I am going

to have the chance to tell him

about the day I went sledding

with four Americans.

Missing Issa has become

a physical ache inside of me,

like a rotting cavity that is growing

more painful every day.

Everyone stares at me in

silence

until finally Mina

and then Sarah

followed by Sloane

volunteer that they are planning to try out

but they all downplay their chances

talking about how seventh graders never get

cast in actual speaking roles

and definitely

never get any

of the parts with singing solos

except for a girl

named Abigail last year who got one

and this year she’ll probably get a lead role.

I am going to try out, I say, making sure my English is

as precise and clear as it can be

so that they can understand me,

perfectly.

Sarah’s eyes meet mine, but I meet hers back

like I am daring her to slide down the hill

that I have already gone down.

VII.

You can’t try out, Layla says

as the steam from the bowl of lentil soup

wafts up to her face.

Her mother has ladled us two big bowls of soup

convinced that

the lemon in the broth will stave off

all the winter viruses going around.

We don’t want you to lose your voice

before your tryout, Layla’s mom says to me, because

even she has heard the news.

Everyone has heard the news,

except for Mama because

I don’t know how to tell her.

My mom isn’t mad about it, Layla says,

spooning hot soup into her mouth,

and swallowing with a slurp.

Her swallow is a big fat period

at the end of her sentence,

a declaration.

She just thinks it’s strange because you know, you—

There is a long break.

I have learned Americans love to say you know and then

stop

talking.

They force you to fill in the hard parts,

the things they are not brave enough to say.

I shake my head and think of that baby

that is growing inside of

Mama’s belly, that kicks and kicks

just like the spirit inside of me has once again started to

kick and kick.

She doesn’t need to know now,

which is what I say when I mean,

I’m not sure she would understand

and

I don’t want to upset her when she has that baby inside

of her,

but also

I am not going to say, you know, and make you

fill in all the tough stuff.

Layla tears a piece of pita bread in half

and then tells me all of the other reasons she thinks

I shouldn’t try out.

You don’t speak English, she says.

I frown, and in perfect—thank you very much—

English, say back,

I do, too.

You know what I mean, she says again,

and this time I say,

No, I do not know. You’re going to have to

tell me.

So she tells me that my English is good

but it isn’t like native speaker English good

and the tryouts are so competitive,

even kids who have been acting

for years don’t get a part,

and can I even sing?

And what will I use as my monologue?

Can I even memorize something in English?

So many questions,

so many doubts.

When I don’t say anything, she frowns.

I’m not trying to be mean. I’m trying to be

realistic.

Layla, I say, and I hardly ever say her name

so that catches her attention. I left home, I flew

across an ocean.

My brother is missing,

in the middle of a war zone.

What is there left to be afraid of?

She gives me that look again.

The one that makes me feel like there is something

behind me, something around the corner.

There is always something to be afraid of, she insists.

And I know she is right,

I know more than she thinks I do.

But still I say,

I’m choosing not to be afraid.

I say it more for me,

more for Issa,

than for Layla.

The words are a wish,

a prayer.

I lean forward, putting my elbows on the table,

the way I used to watch Baba do,

the way I watched Issa do.

The way people do when they want

to make sure you see them,

that you know they’re claiming

their space.

Jude, those parts aren’t for girls like us.

What do you mean?

We’re the type of girls that design the sets,

that stay backstage.

We’re not girls who

glow in the spotlight.

I take another bite of the soup

and it tastes like home,

it tastes like the future.

But I want to be, I say.

She gives me a look,

not the look,

it is a look that I have never seen before.

She is seeing me differently.

She is seeing

me.

VIII.

From the moment

I heard Mrs. Bloom say

that for the tryout

we would need a monologue

and a song,

I knew what song

I would sing.

Some of my strongest memories

of my brother

are him standing up on the couch,

belting out the words to

Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You,”

while Fatima and I ate our asroneyeh

and sang along with him.

Our mouths full of food

and laughter

and love.

I practice my singing in the upstairs room

when Mama is at the mosque

or when she is downstairs

pestering Uncle Mazin

about why the thermostat

never stays at the temperature

at which she set it.

Some of the first English words I ever learned

were from “I Will Always Love You.”

Issa would hop from couch cushion

to couch cushion

singing the chorus,

declaring his undying love,

his smile so bright

it made us squint.

Now when I sing the song

I see the ghost of all the days

my brother has been missing

line up in front of me.

I stare them down

as I sing as loud as I can

about the strength

of my love.

It is a hard song

to sing without the music

to accompany it.

I know I should choose something else,

something easier,

but my heart won’t let me.

When I sing it,

alone in the upstairs room,

staring at those old plaster beige walls

that are becoming more and more

familiar,

I do not feel like I am

singing it alone.

I hear my brother’s voice

in my head,

filling in the melody.

IX.

It takes me a long time to choose my monologue.

Aunt Michelle watches all my favorite movies with me,

and Sarah watches too.

She won’t tell either of us

what monologue she has chosen

and sometimes I wonder if that is because

she is scared that I might steal it.

Which would mean she is nervous about me trying out,

and not because she thinks it will be embarrassing,

but because she is worried I might be

good.

This is probably not

true, but I like to tell myself it anyway.

In all my favorite movies,

the actresses speak fast,

and people speak right back to them,

no pauses.

It is hard to find a monologue,

it is hard to find a place

where my favorite actresses are allowed

to speak without a man

interrupting them before their full thought

has been spoken.

But finally, I pick one.

It comes from Notting Hill,

which is not my favorite Julia Roberts movie,

but it was one of Fatima’s because it is more dramatic

and romantic

than it is funny.

I pick the part

where her character is explaining

that her life

has not been as charmed

as everyone at the dinner party thinks

it has been.

I have never been a famous actress

with a seemingly glamorous life

that people on the outside

think is perfect.

But I have lived a life that people don’t quite

understand

in a place that lots of people, I am learning, don’t

understand

at all.

I lean into that feeling,

of insecurity,

but also of the boldness

of surprising people.

It is not lost on me that in my monologue

I am pretending to be a famous actress,

I am pretending to be grown-up.

I am pretending.

I practice the English words in the mirror,

I watch the scene over and over

and over

and over

again.

I try to make my mouth move

just like Julia Roberts’s does.

My big mouth,

my mouth that I sometimes

like to think looks like Julia Roberts’s,

my mouth that sometimes says things that surprise me,

that surprise others.

Every time I practice,

I think about how wonderful

it feels to speak

for two whole minutes,

with no fear of being interrupted,

with no one saying, Skety.

Just me and my big mouth,

speaking,

being heard.

X.

The day before my tryout, I

decide to write to Fatima again.

She has not answered a single letter of mine,

which would make me angry

if I let myself think about it too much.

So I don’t.

I rustle around in the room I share with Mama,

looking for my pencils and paper,

looking for stamps and envelopes.

It’s during this rustling,

I find the stack of envelopes,

barely hidden under the bed,

as if whoever

stashed them there

didn’t want them to be found,

but didn’t make too much effort

to disguise their existence.

I recognize the handwriting immediately.

It is poised and neat,

because I am confident in the Arabic alphabet,

unlike my shaky form when it comes to English letters.

The envelopes are bound together with a silk ribbon,

the kind Mama uses to tie back her hair,

and a thought springs into my head.

I try to push it away,

but it keeps growing

and growing.

I race downstairs and find Mama

in the chair in the living room near the big window

where she often sits during the day,

looking out the window,

looking like she is waiting for something.

I hold the envelopes out to her

and even though

I can see her swollen belly

under the cream-colored blanket

she has wrapped around herself,

I cannot tame my anger.

You said you sent them,

I say as tears run down my face.

You promised.

She pulls me down beside her,

but I continue to hold out the envelopes.

They hover in the air like a question mark.

Will you sing your song for me?

Hearing my mama say that catches me

off guard

because it means she knows,

she knows about the song,

which means she knows about the tryout,

which

means

she

knows

I

didn’t

tell her.

And this is so

so

surprising

that I almost don’t notice that

Mama made this declaration,

this request,

in English.

You know about the tryout,

I say, in English as well.

A’arf, she says.

She holds me close

and I feel each pulse of her stomach,

small promises of what is to come.

Mama is wearing a cozy sweater and cotton pants that

are stretchy but elegant.

I have never seen her wear a sweater or pants,

and I know Aunt Michelle

must’ve bought them for her,

and that’s when I realize

America

has also changed Mama. I just haven’t

been paying close enough attention.

Why? I want to know.

Why didn’t you send the letters?

Why didn’t you confront me about the play?

Why does our family keep so many secrets?

She strokes the back of my head like she used to do

when I was little and how I know she will do

to my baby sister once she is old enough to sit.

She tells me that Auntie Amal and Fatima

were forced to move from our town

because Fatima’s baba

lost his job.

Business is bad, she says, and I see so much

sadness in her eyes.

People are scrambling for jobs.

Where did they go? I ask.

Lebanon. There is not much there,

but people say it is doing better than other places.

Other places

being our city.

She has not heard from Auntie Amal

since they moved.

She does not know if they are okay,

but she is choosing to believe that they are because

Allah would want us to have faith.

I didn’t want you to worry.

You are too young to carry so

much worry.

I know she is thinking of Issa

and how our worry about him is so big,

it is eating us both up inside.

I know she is trying to tell me

that she didn’t think I could handle

any more worry on top of that,

but I am trying to show her that here in America,

I am growing up.

She pulls me even closer to her

which I know is her way of asking me Why?

It is her turn to ask me about my

secret,

secrets.

I didn’t want you to worry, I say,

half joking

half serious.

She laughs a little and kisses the top of my head.

Will you sing your song for me? she asks,

again.

I begin the song slowly,

it feels so strange to sing those words aloud,

here,

in this chair,

in America,

with Mama,

so far away from Issa.

She must feel it too because I sense the recognition

in the way her body curls around mine

like it isn’t only holding me,

but it’s also holding

a memory.

XI.

On the day of tryouts,

there are so many people in the auditorium

and all of them have racing hearts and sweaty palms.

There is enough energy in here to power a train,

an airplane,

a small country.

Layla has come with me even though

she is not trying out.

You don’t have to do this, she says.

She is more nervous than I am

and she doesn’t even have to get up on that big stage

with the blinding lights.

Maybe that is why she is more nervous than me

because she is the kind of person who does not

want to stand under a blinding light.

I sometimes wish I was like that.

That I was happy to blend in,

fade into the background.

I sometimes worry that there is something

wrong with me that

I so badly want to know that other people

see me.

But then I think about all the other people,

all the other people who are in this room right now

for the exact same reason,

and realize my want,

my dream,

is as big and real

and valid as theirs.

I spot Sarah in the auditorium

and HarperSloaneMina sitting a few rows ahead of us.

They seem nervous too, grasping at each other’s arms,

bumping elbows for luck.

One by one,

we walk onto the stage,

we recite our monologue,

we sing our song.

One by one,

we are told

thank you,

and dismissed offstage.

When Mrs. Bloom calls my name,

I can tell that she knows

how to pronounce my first name

but is unsure what to do with my last.

She skips over my last name,

gargling all the letters together,

making a mess of the name that is mine

Baba’s

Issa’s

and will be my baby sister’s.

And for a moment,

my nerves turn from anxious

to angry,

from nervous

to defiant.

I walk out onto the stage,

and do not squint in the bright light

but instead stare right back at it.

I am going to give her,

give everyone,

a reason to know how to say my name,

my full name.

I open my mouth

and start to sing.

XII.

It happens while

I am waiting

for the results

of the tryouts to be posted.

Your body is growing up,

Mama tells me

in a soft voice

when she sees the tears in my eyes

and the fear on my face

as I look at the bloodstained spots

that appeared on our sheets

overnight.

Initially I thought the blood had come

from Mama

and I cried for the baby.

But then I saw the

slow

thick

crimson drip

between my legs,

and I felt the dense cramp of my stomach

and I knew.

I bit my lip,

afraid of what this meant,

afraid of what it meant was

coming.

But Mama held me and told me that

I might be growing up

but I don’t need to be afraid

because even if she has a tiny baby in her stomach

I’ll always be her baby too.

And when she held me,

I could feel that there was still space in her arms

for me.

XIII.

Mama does not ask about it,

but when I unpack

those scarves I buried in my suitcase

she smiles,

tears in her eyes.

I pick a scarf that is turquoise,

the color of the sea in the summer when the sun hits it

at the exact right angle.

Mama and I fold the square scarf into a triangle,

and Mama helps me drape it onto my head,

crossing the corners of it around my neck,

and gently pinning the tails of the scarf in place.

We stand together in front of the mirror

to admire the result.

My face looks older.

Different.

Maybe it is a trick of the light,

maybe it is the beautiful scarf,

but I feel like I look wiser,

like someone I would ask for advice,

not someone asking for it.

You are a woman, Jude, Mama says,

her voice equal parts

awe and admiration.

I am looking into the mirror

at the image of me that I do not recognize.

A stranger who I will

get to know.

A stranger who I am

excited to meet.

PART FIVE

Growing

I.

We call Baba on Skype

so that he can see me.

The new me.

I hear his gasp through the computer

as he takes in the image in front of him.

His baby girl who no longer looks like

a baby.

His other baby girl who is getting ready

to be born.

I twirl around,

partly to be silly,

partly to avoid seeing the sadness

in Baba’s eyes,

as he watches us and takes in all he is missing.

Have you heard from Issa? I ask,

even though I know the answer.

But it feels wrong not to ask.

Sometimes I feel like you have to say things out loud

just to remind the universe

that you’re still thinking about them.

Baba shakes his head,

his eyes downcast.

But when his eyes meet mine again,

there is a spark of hope.

Look at you, Jude, habibti,

so grown-up, he says.

I’m proud and your brother would be too.

My heart swells up with aching,

longing,

but it swells up with love, too.

II.

Everyone has a reaction to my hijab,

like Layla’s mother who gently

grabs both my hands

and pulls me close to her,

kissing me on each cheek and

greeting me like I am a brand-new person.

And then there are the people on the street

who never used to notice me

before when I glided down Ludlow

in my beautiful coat

but now stop and turn their heads,

their eyes watching me like

I am a ticking time bomb.

Or there is Aunt Michelle who

pulls me aside and asks me if

I really want to wear it

and I look beautiful no matter what

but she hopes I know it is my choice.

No matter how many times I explain to her

that of course it is my choice

and this is something I have been waiting for,

she still casts a look at Mama,

like she is a detective

who is going to get to the bottom of the

case

when really there is nothing to solve,

only something to be happy about,

something that back home,

would’ve been greeted like Layla’s mother greeted me,

like a celebration,

a blessing.

I know Aunt Michelle

means well,

and that she has just heard the stories,

the same ones that I have heard,

about girls from countries nearby mine

who are forced to dress a certain way,

forced to act a certain way.

But I want to explain to Aunt Michelle that

this,

my choice,

is not like that thing,

that thing that she doesn’t quite

know how to say.

That thing that she’s afraid of.

That thing that Americans often say

you know about and wait

awkwardly

for you

to fill in the blank.

That thing that also makes me angry,

as angry as it makes them.

I want women like Aunt Michelle

to understand

that it is not only women who look like them

who are free

who think

and care about other women.

That it is possible for two things to look

similar

but be completely different.

That I cover my head like other

strong

respected

women have done before me,

like Malala Yousafzai

like Kariman Abuljadayel

like my mama.

That I cover my head

not because I am ashamed

forced

or hiding.

But because I am

proud

and want to seen

as I am.

III.

Mrs. Ravenswood

is one of the only Americans

who doesn’t act

suspicious of my headscarf.

When I walk into

her classroom

the first day

that my head is covered,

she smiles at me,

looking me right in the

eyes,

seeing me.

Hello, Jude,

she says.

Good morning.

You look nice

today.

There is an Arabic proverb that says:

She makes you feel

like a loaf of freshly baked bread.

It is said about

the nicest

kindest

people.

The type of people

who help you

rise.

IV.

The day the results of the tryouts are posted

the news spreads through the halls like water

that has burst from a dam.

We all run, run,

run

to see the simple white paper

with simple black letters

that has been hung in the window of the library.

Layla has beat me to the paper

and I see her in the crowd of bodies

shouldering to get a look.

People are talking all around me,

Abigail Beth Malone is whispered with reverence

and I know she is the eighth grader

who last year as a seventh grader

snagged a talking part in the musical.

For a moment,

I am jealous of her,

not just because she has won the role of Belle

of the beauty

of the star

but because her name already sounds like the name

of a famous actress

whereas I have a name that people

struggle to pronounce.

But the sour taste of jealousy,

its acidic tang in my mouth

fades

the moment Layla rushes over to me

and squeezes my shoulder.

You got a part!

She shouts so loud that people

turn their heads to look at us

two hijabi girls

standing in the middle of the hallway

in the middle of America

celebrating.

V.

I have been cast as Plumette,

the feather duster,

which is not a big role,

but it is a role,

which is all that matters.

Sarah has made it

but she is only in the chorus

as is Sloane

and Harper and Mina did not make it

but were offered positions for tech crew

if they want them,

but Sarah thinks only Harper will

work on the sets.

Mina doesn’t want to make sets, she sneers,

and I know she is talking about Layla,

turning her nose up at my friend.

But really Sarah is just mad

that my role

is bigger

than hers,

which is something I don’t think she ever thought

would happen, which is something I never

thought would happen.

I remember the acidic tang in my mouth

when I first learned

Abigail Beth Malone

with her movie star name would be the lead

and I try to be patient with Sarah

and forgive her for not being happy

for me.

Sarah has never commented on my headscarf

but on Saturday afternoon

when her

and me

and Aunt Michelle

are all watching the movie Beauty and the Beast

a movie I have never seen

but am already falling in love with—

Sarah says,

Plumette is supposed to be sexy.

I don’t think they will let you wear that

during the musical.

She stares at me,

her gaze is a challenge.

She is asking me to choose

between two things

without realizing it is her

and people like her

that think you have to choose.

The day after the cast list was posted

I saw Mrs. Bloom in the hall

and she touched my elbow and said,

You are our Plumette because I can tell you have

punch, my dear,

liters of it.

I don’t know what Mrs. Bloom quite meant by punch,

but I tell that to Sarah,

and she says, Or because you have a thick accent

so you won’t have to even

fake that part.

And I know I should feel angry at Sarah,

but I don’t.

Not really.

Mostly, I feel sorry for myself

because Sarah is right that I do

have a thick accent

and I wonder if everyone else in the cast

thinks the same thing she does.

My skin feels hot and too thin

all at the same time.

But then I remember it doesn’t matter,

I have a role!

I’m in the play!

And I have this magical thing called

punch.

Liters of it.

VI.

Mrs. Bloom tells us that the most successful plays

are successful because the cast

and crew

become like one big family,

all working toward the same goal.

She separates us

into groups of four,

each group a mix

of actors

chorus members

set design

and tech crew.

Jude, right?

the boy from my math class says.

The one with the dark messy hair

and the galaxy-patterned T-shirts.

I’m Miles.

I look at his shirt.

It’s black with

a photograph of

the full moon.

Miles.

His name makes me

smile because

it is not

a name I’ve heard

before.

And as he answers

the first “icebreaker” question—

an American term

I have just learned,

but am already really fond of—

I temporarily forget about

all the miles between me

and home.

Cool, another girl

in our group says.

Her hair is a tangle of

red curls and she is chewing gum

even though I’m pretty sure

we aren’t allowed to chew gum

inside the auditorium.

I’m Ruth.

I work on sets.

And I’m really excited

about this year’s play

because musicals are kind

of my whole life

and I can’t wait to move to

New York City

when I’m older.

The other person

in our group

is Ethan.

He is playing the role

of the Beast

and we all act like

he is a

real

life

movie star

even though he has

a small piece of granola bar

stuck in his braces.

I think I want to be an actor

when I grow up

but my dad

doesn’t exactly love

that idea, he says.

My heart pinches

when he says this.

It makes me think

of Issa and Baba

and how hard

it can be when

what you want

runs against a different

current

from your father.

I wonder if

when

Issa comes home,

Baba and him

will fight less.

If how much

they’ve missed each other

will be enough to build

a bridge across all

their differences.

Mrs. Bloom calls out

that it is time for a break

and Ethan quickly moves

in the direction of

Abigail Beth Malone

and the other eighth-grade stars.

Ruth takes off toward

the edge of the stage

where a lot of set design kids

including Layla

have gathered

and are combing through

a packet of paint swatches.

Miles, though,

he doesn’t run off.

Are you okay? he asks me.

He looks at me like

he is seeing all my thoughts

about Issa and Baba.

I’m okay, I say quietly.

I was just thinking.

He shoves his hands

into his black, baggy pants.

That’s cool. I also

like thinking.

I laugh a little,

which makes him smile,

which makes me think again

about how Miles is a pretty good

antidote for miles.

So what do you think

it would feel like to step on the moon?

he asks.

I blink.

At first, I think I misunderstood him.

That something is wrong with my translation.

You know, he says,

and I see a flash of embarrassment

cross over his face.

It’s something to

think about.

Mrs. Bloom announces

that we have one more

minute left of our break.

I hear the crinkling of

potato chip bags

and the shuffling of

sneakers.

My mind feels gummy

as I search for an

answer to his

question.

Words swim through my head,

but I am unable to catch any of them.

Fragments of phrases in Arabic,

crumbs of English.

Free, I say, even though it’s not really what I mean.

How do I put into words what I think it would be like

to stand on a rock

in the middle of a black expanse?

To look down at our world

and see it with new eyes?

To feel so tiny

and so big

all at the same time?

He studies me for a moment,

and I worry he is going to laugh,

that he will think

what I said was dumb,

but instead his face breaks into a wide smile.

Yeah, me too.

Yeah, me too

are now my three favorite words in English.

VII.

Some days

I still feel lost in the halls of school.

I know where I am going

but I can’t shake the feeling that I won’t,

that I don’t,

belong in whatever classroom I end up in.

But whenever I walk

into Mrs. Ravenwood’s

I feel safe.

I feel at

home.

Ben is teaching us all

new American slang

words that he has learned.

Bougie, he says.

Means fancy.

Rich.

Boogie? Omar says,

he pretends to dance

and then laughs.

Omar has a laugh

Like Issa’s.

It makes you want to

join in.

No, Ben says,

even though now

he is laughing too.

Boo-Gee.

We all repeat after Ben,

the new word tasting

like America

on our lips.

VIII.

Play practices

start running later

and later.

So late that most nights

Mrs. Bloom orders dinner

for us and we take a break

halfway through to eat.

I usually eat with Layla

and her set design friends,

but today I go a grab a seat

beside Miles,

even though

Layla has told me she thinks

he’s weird

with his black T-shirts with pictures

of planets and his baggy black pants

and black combat boots.

But I think Miles is interesting

with his facts about space

and his theories about extraterrestrial life

and his voice that is soft but solid

like rain on a roof.

We are all eating pizza again,

for the fourth night in a row,

because the school has some arrangement

with a local pizza place.

I would eat pizza one hundred nights in a row

and still be happy,

I say to Miles as I grab another slice of cheese pizza.

He makes a funny sound.

I am learning that Miles doesn’t really laugh

so much as he smiles with his eyes to let you know

he agrees with you.

Did you eat a lot of pizza back in . . . ?

He trails off.

Syria, I fill in for him,

and briefly wonder if he forgot the name of my country

or was too afraid to say it.

Either answer makes me a tiny bit sad.

There were a couple of places that sold pizza, I say,

pausing to take another bite of my slice,

the oozy greasy cheese

sliding down the back of my throat.

But they were expensive, mostly for tourists.

My family didn’t really eat there.

I watch him studying me again

and all of a sudden,

my skin feels paper-thin,

like he can see right through me.

I worry that he is eyeing my hijab,

and deciding that I am too different,

for him to want to be friends anymore.

But then he says, I just think it’s so cool,

That you’ve lived this whole other life.

The most exciting thing I’ve ever done

is taken my dog on a walk by myself

at the park after dark.

Totally boring, right?

I laugh.

He thinks I’m cool!

A tiny voice inside of me shouts

and my heart does a victory dance.

You have a dog? I ask.

Yeah. His name is Sputnik. Named after the space—

Satellite. I finish his sentence.

Right, he says.

his eyes doing that smile-laugh thing again,

and now my skin feels thin but in a good way

like it’s more open to the universe.

He tells me about Sputnik,

how she has black and white fur

and her favorite thing in the world is to chase squirrels.

Did you have a dog? he asks.

I shake my head,

and just when I’m about to explain that

it’s not because I don’t like dogs

I just actually don’t know much about dogs

because no one back home had one,

Mrs. Bloom claps her hands,

bringing us all to attention.

Let’s get back to it, Mrs. Bloom says,

And I give Miles a small wave as I head back up

toward the stage

to rehearse

because I have a role

in my American school’s play.

IX.

When Layla rushes over to me,

on Valentine’s Day

I think she is going to share some gossip

and I fill with anticipation.

I have secretly been holding out hope

that someone would slide a card into my locker,

a chocolate,

or a rose.

And whenever I imagined this,

it was always the same person,

with his black T-shirts

and black pants

and black boots.

But my locker is empty

all that is there is Layla

whose face is filled with sadness

and twisted with worry.

And then she tells me:

About the explosion,

about the blood in the streets,

and the horror

and the death.

I am upset and sad about what she tells me,

but confused why she is so fixated on this news

when it happened in a city

so far away from us.

Be careful, Jude, she says,

and I don’t understand.

She tells me that now I will learn what it means to be a

Muslim

in America.

X.

I shrug off Layla’s warning,

because in America,

I have perfected the shrug.

Because in America,

I have come to believe that things

work out.

Because in America,

I have been cast in a play,

and in America,

I have become friends with a cute boy

who wears T-shirts with the moon on them.

I do not believe her.

I do not want to believe her,

but soon I come to understand,

as the glances shot in my direction

turn from slightly unsure

to plainly hostile.

Each glare demanding an apology

an explanation

for something

I did not do.

That afternoon,

I walk home from school

because we do not have play practice

and I notice a man

who is standing on the corner waiting for the bus.

I give him a small smile,

but he does not smile back.

I look down at the ground,

ready to be on my way,

when I hear the shoes

pounding on the pavement behind me.

I glance over my shoulder

and see that the man is following me.

My heart jumps up in my chest,

and it hammers furiously.

Go back to where you came from, he says.

We don’t want you here.

There is a ringing in my ears

and for a moment I freeze,

unsure I actually heard

what I heard.

I want to say something

to make this man understand

that he has no reason to be afraid of me,

to hate me,

but all I manage to do is walk away.

The ringing in my ears stays for a little while,

dulling from a sharp scream

to a softer echo.

I walk up the hill toward what is now my home.

That’s when I hear a familiar voice.

Jude!

I jump from the surprise.

Then I turn and there is Miles.

He is panting and his face is flushed from the cold air.

I saw what happened.

I didn’t know what to do.

I’m so sorry.

I hang my head.

Somehow it feels worse that Miles saw.

Jude, he says, looking at me.

That guy is a jerk.

He squints up at the sun.

It is a funny thing,

how a day can be so bright,

but so cold.

I’m sorry, he says again.

His words are jumbled

and somehow that comforts me.

To know that he gets nervous and flustered too.

I just don’t know what to say.

You don’t have to say anything, I say.

He walks beside me for a moment

and we are both quiet.

Where are you headed?

I’m about to say my uncle’s house,

but instead I choose to be brave,

instead I say, Home.

XI.

It turns out Miles only lives a few blocks away from

Uncle Mazin and Aunt Michelle’s house.

He invites me to stop by to meet Sputnik

and even though I want nothing more

than to go home

and curl up in bed

and pull the blankets over me and

pretend I’m back home in my old

sunny bedroom that smelled like jasmine and sea salt,

I agree because I really do

want to meet this dog.

Sputnik is already outside when I get there,

running around in the fenced yard.

Miles opens the creaky wooden gate to let us in

and Sputnik instantly runs to him,

jumping up and licking his face.

Down, girl, he says,

but he laughs,

actually laughs,

as he halfheartedly pushes her back toward the ground

that is still covered with frozen leaves.

His laugh sounds like a

joyous rattle.

I would like to listen to it again

and again.

We take turns throwing the ball to Sputnik

and talking about simple things like

when our next math quiz is

and whether we think Mrs. Bloom is happy

with the way the play is turning out,

and then Miles says,

I just want to say,

and it’s not that I’m saying I understand

because I know I don’t,

but I do understand what it’s like to not fit in.

To have people look at you like you’re different

and weird

and like that’s somehow a bad thing.

He stares at his black combat boots

and throws the tennis ball again for Sputnik.

It’s not a bad thing, he finally says,

you know?

I nod,

his words drape over me,

feeling like the relief of

an umbrella in a storm,

the comfort of a soft blanket

on a chilly night.

I pick the tennis ball up off the cold ground,

and Sputnik runs over to me with excitement

and begins to lick my hands,

her tongue rough against my skin.

I laugh, surprised by the feel of her tongue,

surprised by all of it.

XII.

Why do they blame us? I ask Layla,

a few days after the news of the attack,

when we are sitting in one

of the back rows of the theater.

Layla gives me the shrug

the American one,

the one I learned from her,

the one when you don’t know the answer

but can’t quite bring yourself to admit it.

Or maybe sometimes you shrug

because you do know the answer,

but it is too painful

to say.

Don’t they know we hate this too?

That we suffer too?

It’s only after I say it that I realize Layla

is no longer my “we.”

She was not raised in a part of the world

where it is no longer shocking to hear

about bombs going off in

cars

markets

mosques.

Bombs going off while people are

praying

celebrating

loving.

I ask why this attack in particular is

so upsetting to Americans.

Why not last week in Lebanon?

Or the week before in Pakistan?

Layla tells me it is because this

attack

took place in the West.

She tells me Americans expect bombs to go off in

Lebanon

in Pakistan

in my beloved Syria,

but not in France,

Britain,

Canada.

She tries to explain that it is like how we all expect it to

be snowy in Antarctica

but sunny and warm in Tahiti

but if it snowed in Tahiti that would be news

because it would be unexpected,

but no one bats an eye when snow falls in

frozen Antarctica.

It takes me a while to process this,

that what Layla is saying is that Americans

think it’s normal

for there to be violence

in places where

people like me are from,

where people like me

and people who look like me

live.

That they all see people like me

and think

violence

sadness

war.

That’s not true, I say.

Syria wasn’t always like how it is now,

and it won’t always be like that either.

I feel like my brother when I say that,

his courage

his belief

his strength

echoing in my words.

For a moment,

it does not feel like Issa is missing

all the way across the world,

but instead,

sitting in this theater next to me,

giving me strength.

It is these moments when I miss him

the most.

I wonder if wherever he is,

if he is thinking about me,

about Mama and her swollen belly,

about Baba all alone at his store.

When I was younger

and I used to get upset,

Issa would say to me:

Too much sunshine makes a desert.

I wonder, though,

if it is possible for there

to be too much rain.

I am starting to feel like

I am drowning,

like I don’t know how much longer

I can stay afloat.

XIII.

I am walking home from school with Miles

when I see it.

T e r r o r i s t s.

The red paint glistens in the winter sunlight like jewels,

like blood.

It is splashed across

the storefront of Layla’s parents’ restaurant.

I do not realize I have bent over,

am clutching my stomach,

until Miles says,

What’s wrong?

His eyes follow mine

and then he sees the awful paint.

He shakes his head angrily,

his eyes hard.

Whoever did that is an awful person.

Whoever did that is a terrorist, I say,

and then bite my tongue so hard I can taste blood.

I look back at the bright red paint.

T e r r o r i s t s.

My vision blurs with tears.

For the first time since I’ve been in America,

I wish I didn’t read English.

XIV.

I tell Mama

what has happened.

She pretends to receive

the news calmly,

but she forgets that

her eyes speak.

They show her

anger and her fear.

She pulls me into a hug

and rubs small circles on

my back.

Why do they hate us?

I ask, my voice

foggy with tears.

Jude.

Her tone is sharp.

I straighten my posture.

This is not about you.

It is about one person’s

ignorance and fear.

It feels like

it’s about me.

I feel like it’s

about all of us, I say.

She rubs my

back again.

There is something

so comforting

about the infinite

nature of circles.

We need to be strong for Layla.

I know she is right.

I also know that she means

I need to be strong for her.

For me.

I miss Issa.

He would know what to do.

Mama takes a deep breath.

Your brother would

let his anger guide him.

You are more level-headed.

That will help you

better navigate

situations like this.

You are strong too, Jude.

Sometimes talking

to Mama reminds me

of a feather duster brushing dirt

away from a mirror.

She doesn’t give you anything new,

but she helps you better see

what is already there.

What can we do? I ask,

and I am asking not only

about how we can help

Layla and her family,

but how we can continue

to live in this world

where we don’t even know

if my brother is safe.

We’ll figure it out,

Mama says to me,

squeezing my hand.

Together.

XV.

I try to talk to Layla,

but she does not want to talk about it.

Forget it, Jude, she snaps.

I only want to help.

I am standing

in the entrance

of her parents’ restaurant.

They are paying someone to scrub off the paint,

but I am slowly realizing that no amount of money

is enough to scrub away the hate.

I sit down in the front booth

and she reluctantly sits down in front of me.

You’re lucky, Jude.

Please don’t start that again, I say.

No, she says.

Her voice has the force of a windstorm.

You belong somewhere.

I don’t belong anywhere.

Not here,

not there.

That’s not true, I say,

but my voice is weak, like a gasp of air.

I want to tell her that what she’s saying isn’t true,

but I can tell that she doesn’t want me to say anything.

She is asking simple questions

with hard answers.

All she wants is for me to

listen.

In my months of speaking English

while still thinking,

still dreaming,

in Arabic,

I have learned that sometimes

the simplest things are

the hardest things to say.

That sometimes there is no word

for what you feel,

no word in any language.

Here, I’ll always look like the guy

who did it,

or look like someone the guy who did it loves, Layla says.

I can feel her drifting from me

and I want to pull her back,

but I don’t know how.

She is drawing a line between us

that does not need to be drawn.

But if I go there, she finally says,

I’ll always be the American.

So you see,

I don’t belong anywhere.

You have me, I say.

Until you leave.

Those three words

pierce

us both.

I shake my head,

and then I do what she expects me to do.

I leave.

XVI.

Layla doesn’t talk to me the next week.

Not at school in the hallway

when I see her standing by her locker

with her friend Kate talking about

their upcoming quiz in science.

Not at play practice

where she sits with Ruth

and the other set designers

and pretends I’m not there

when I walk right up to her.

Whenever I approach her,

she turns away.

I try to pretend like it doesn’t bother me.

I focus on memorizing my two and a half lines

over and over again.

I focus on getting into the role of a feather duster

who has a crush on a candlestick

who sometimes notices she exists

and sometimes doesn’t.

There are parts of her character

I cannot relate to.

I am not flirty and confident in the way she is,

but I try to pretend to be.

I work on understanding her better by leaning

into the parts of her

that I do understand—

the desire to be seen,

to be noticed,

to be heard.

As I pretend to have Plumette’s confidence,

as I put my hand on my hip and jut it out,

I glance around to see if Layla sees me,

but whenever I look in her direction,

she isn’t looking back.

XVII.

Are you nervous?

Grace asks me.

We are having what Mrs. Ravenswood

calls a free chat

where we all talk about

anything we want.

The only rule is

we have to say everything

in English.

I’d be terrified.

She smiles and I can tell

she is proud of the big

English word she just used.

I like the word

terrified.

Not because of what it means,

but because it actually feels like

the word it is.

When you say it,

you hear the terror.

Taste it.

I shake my head and say,

I’m excited,

even though I am nervous

about the play.

I’m nervous about forgetting

my two and a half lines.

I’m nervous about messing up

in front of everyone,

about letting Mrs. Bloom down,

about giving everyone a reason

to think she was wrong to give me a role.

I’m excited, too! Grace says.

We’re all going to come

see you.

She glances over at Ben and Omar

who are busy talking

about the arcade games

at the pizzeria nearby our school

where Omar has been going

with some new friends

and is trying to convince Ben

to come along.

They’re coming, too, Grace says

when she can’t get their attention.

Are you sure?

She smiles a little.

They said they would.

Omar said it better

not be boring.

At this,

Ben and Omar snap

to attention.

It’s not going to be

boring. Right, Jude?

It’s going to be dope.

Dope? I say,

trying out another

new word.

Dope means

something amazing.

Something really cool, Ben explains.

Mrs. Ravenswood

speaks for the first

time in a long time.

Care to tell us something

else you find to be dope?

Hearing Mrs. Ravenswood

say that word

makes us all smile.

The Duck Hunt

game at Mario’s, Omar says.

Music, Grace says.

Any type in particular?

Mrs. Ravenswood asks.

Grace’s face flushes

red and she whispers,

Rock and roll.

Really? I ask Grace.

Her face is still red,

but she nods.

She starts to rattle off the names

of American bands

I have never heard of.

That’s dope, Grace,

Ben says,

and we all laugh.

I like how in Mrs. Ravenswood’s room,

we are still always learning,

not only words,

but also about each other.

XVIII.

We are practicing

one of the big group numbers

where almost the entire cast

including the chorus

is on stage.

I find these scenes

the hardest because

my feet have to move

in the same direction

as everyone’s

at the exact same time.

I am trying to remember

the next step of the dance

when I look out

and see Layla in the back

of the theater,

her head bent down,

studying the artwork

on one of the sets.

Before I realize

what is happening,

my elbow is colliding

with Thomas,

who is playing Lumiere,

who bumps into

Nathan,

who is playing Cogsworth.

Soon,

the stage is a mess

of tangled ankles

and bumped knees.

Mrs. Bloom

calls out to us.

Let’s take a

short break

and regroup in

five.

My face feels

like it is on fire.

I run off the stage

and quickly escape

into the hall.

Hey, I hear a familiar voice call out.

When I turn around,

I see Miles.

Is everything okay?

he asks, and I shake my head.

Want to go outside

for a minute?

We walk down

the hallway,

push open the door,

and step into the

cool night air.

I shiver a little

and look up at the sky.

It is a clear night

and I can see a smattering

of stars.

Did you know

that when we see

a star,

we are really seeing

a past version of it

because the light

is traveling from so far away?

Miles’s head is tilted up.

So looking at the stars,

in a way,

is like looking into the past.

I wish I could look

into the future, I say quietly.

What would you want to see?

My brother, I say.

I see my breath in front of me,

floating in the cold, cold air.

What do you want to know about him?

That he’s okay, I say.

That he’s alive.

And then it spills out of me.

I tell Miles all about Issa

and how he has run away to Aleppo

to help all those people who

are stuck in a war-torn city.

How he has become one of

those people who are stuck

in a war-torn city.

Layla is the only person

at school who I’ve told, I tell him.

And now you.

We are silent

for a while.

It is not a bad silence though.

Instead it feels

right

like it is acknowledging

the heaviness of what was said,

and it’s okay that we don’t know

what to say.

Thank you for telling me.

I really hope he is safe.

Miles points up at the sky.

Do you see that

constellation?

That’s Orion.

In ancient Greek mythology,

Orion was thought to have

superhuman strength.

Basically indestructible.

Maybe it’s

a positive sign that

we can see Orion clearly tonight.

I follow Miles’s

finger to the collection of

twinkling stars.

A message to us

from the future?

Miles smiles a little.

That’s one way to

think about it.

XIX.

One night after dinner,

I find Uncle Mazin in his study.

I knock on the door

and he welcomes me in.

Why do they hate us? I ask him in Arabic,

almost daring him to join me in this language,

this language that I wonder sometimes if he

even remembers.

It was one ignorant person, Jude,

he says, and his Arabic is confident

and clear.

It is terrible what they did,

but you can’t let their hateful act

define all of America.

He gives me a big hug,

and it is unexpected because my baba is not

one for big hugs and so I assumed my uncle would be

the same way.

He kisses the top of my head.

You belong here.

And so do I.

The kiss lingers on the top of my head

like a ghost

like a promise.

I belong back home, too.

He gives me a smile,

one that says,

I know.

It’s not a contest between here

and there.

You don’t have to choose.

XX.

The postcard comes at just the right moment.

It is the type of thing that makes me believe in Allah

and the grace of the universe.

Mama hands it to me,

tears in her eyes.

It is a small postcard

with a simple photograph of Beirut on the front.

In typical Fatima fashion,

she has not written much,

but she has written and that is what matters.

She is still my friend and that is what matters.

I spend a lot of time tracing the address on the back of

the postcard.

I now have a way to write to her

again.

I feel so much less lonely.

XXI.

Mama beams with pride

and puts her hands on her belly that is now so big

it seems like it could pop

at any moment.

She has realized her wish of getting Uncle Mazin

to come to mosque.

And Aunt Michelle and Sarah are here too.

There are so many people here.

All because Mama

and a few of her friends from the mosque

have organized a fund raiser for Layla’s parents

to help them offset the costs

of the damage

to their restaurant,

to help them heal.

People are bidding on baskets my mama put together.

The baskets filled with homemade ma’amoul

and soaps made with olive oil

and little bottles filled with rosewater perfume.

I make my way through the crowded room,

sipping sugary tea out of a Styrofoam cup.

I find Layla sitting near the back of the room

with a few of her friends from mosque

who don’t go to our school.

At first, I think she will ignore me

like she has done for the last few weeks

at school.

But when she stands up

when she sees me

and waves me over,

I flood with relief.

Jude, she says,

smiles,

and gives me a hug.

This was so nice of your mom.

I return her smile.

She cares about you.

I care about you, I say.

Layla looks at the shiny tiled floor.

I know. I’m sorry.

It’s just I was so angry.

I get it, I say,

practicing an American phrase

I have recently learned.

Your cousin seems to be

having fun.

I follow Layla’s eyes

to where Sarah is standing

in a circle with some

of Mama’s friends from mosque,

eating a pistachio ma’amoul

and laughing.

Wow, I say.

You sound like such an American

when you say that, Layla laughs.

We both keep watching Sarah.

She is practicing how to

say tay’ebeh,

delicious.

All of a sudden,

Layla reaches out and touches my shoulder.

Jude, you’re brave.

You know that, right?

When she says that,

pressure builds behind my eyes,

and I worry I might cry

because hearing that makes me miss Issa

so

so

much.

What is it? she says.

Are you mad?

I shake my head and

blink away my tears.

I tell her I was thinking of Issa.

She squeezes my shoulder again.

He’s going to be okay,

and he would be so proud of you.

Her eyes wander the room

and find Mama, who is surrounded by lots of friends.

New friends,

American friends.

He’d be so proud of all of you.

XXII.

After the fund raiser,

Uncle Mazin

Aunt Michelle

Sarah

Mama

and I all go home.

Mama collapses into bed,

so tired,

but I stay up with the rest of my family.

Uncle Mazin is smiling more than I have seen him

smile in a while.

At the fundraiser, he met

a nurse from Jordan,

a store owner from Egypt,

a data scientist from Syria.

It felt good to talk about home with people who understood,

he says to me in Arabic.

Home.

I am surprised to hear him call Syria home.

I am happy that now Uncle Mazin and I both call this

creaky old house

and Syria

home.

We all watch a movie on TV

and when it is over

I head upstairs,

but Sarah stops me.

Jude, she says.

She invites me to her room.

The whole time I have lived here,

I have only been inside her room one other time.

Sarah laces her hands together

and rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet.

I can tell she is nervous,

but I don’t know why.

I’m sorry about what I said about Layla, Sarah says.

I purse my lips together,

unsure what to say.

I remember how upset

I was when Sarah insulted Layla.

I remember how weak I felt

for not standing up to her then.

But I also remember how Mama

says that the fact I can control

my anger doesn’t make me weak,

that sometimes it even makes me strong.

It’s really awful

what happened to her parents’ restaurant, Sarah adds.

Will you let me know if

there is anything I can do to help?

I think again

of that proverb:

She cannot give what she doesn’t have.

Sarah gained something tonight.

Something she didn’t have before.

And now she is giving some of it

to me.

I will, I say

with a small smile.

PART SIX

Living

I.

In Mrs. Ravenswood’s class,

we are celebrating the fact that Ben and his family

have all become American citizens.

Ben has brought in pictures from the ceremony

that happened down at the courthouse.

We drank pink lemonade, Ben says.

And ate cookies.

That sounds like

the perfect celebration, Mrs. Ravenswood says

as she passes out chocolate-chip cookies

she bought at the grocery store

so that we can celebrate in class too.

Ben continues to talk about how

his father smiled at him

when he finished reciting the Pledge of Allegiance

because it was Ben

who helped his father memorize it.

After the cookies,

we go back to practicing the past tense.

Grace and I are partners,

going back and forth saying,

I ran

you ran

she ran

we ran

they ran.

That one’s easy, Grace says, laughing.

It’s always ran.

Maybe it’s all getting easier, I say

and brush some cookie crumbs away.

II.

I am at play practice,

watching Miles fiddle

with a Rubik’s cube.

We are sitting beside Layla

who is putting the finishing touches

on one of the set murals

that depicts the French countryside.

It is beautiful and I tell her so,

but I am also trying to tell her,

You belong here.

You make beautiful things.

Sarah sees Uncle Mazin before I do.

I hear her say,

Dad?

What are you doing here?

He gives his daughter a hug, but his eyes

are searching for me.

Khalo? I say.

She’s coming, he says,

and my body breaks open like a shaken-up

soda can,

my insides fizzing,

anticipation and excitement rising to the top

and foaming over.

We go outside to get into Uncle Mazin’s car

and fat snowflakes are falling from the sky.

Sarah squeezes my hand as she sits

with me in the backseat.

You’re going to be a big sister! she says.

Can you believe it?

I laugh nervously

and look out the window.

As we drive to the hospital where

Uncle Mazin works and my baby sister will be

born, I think,

You will belong here.

You will belong wherever you want.

You will make anywhere beautiful.

III.

She has Baba’s eyes

and it is too early to know if she has Mama’s nose

or Baba’s,

if she has my eyebrows

or Issa’s.

When I hold her for the first time

my heart feels like it is going

to burst.

I didn’t know it was possible

to love one tiny person

so, so much.

She is red and loud,

and cries at all times of the day

and night.

She makes Baba cry when he sees her

through the computer,

his arms aching to hold her.

The baby keeps her hands balled in tiny fists

like she is ready to fight

and her mouth gapes open when she sleeps,

tiny drops of drool pooling out,

but even though she is wrinkly

and drooly

and red,

she is the most beautiful thing

I have ever seen.

Mama names her Amal,

after Auntie Amal,

after hope.

IV.

Aunt Michelle never stops

cooing over Amal.

Even Sarah seems

to have fallen in love

with her.

She’s so pretty, Sarah says.

I think she looks like

you

Dad

and me.

You think we look alike?

I ask, trying to mask my surprise.

Yeah, she says.

Of course.

We’re cousins.

I don’t even bother

to try and hide my smile.

We all take turns rocking Amal,

changing her.

Every tiny thing she does—

yawn,

squirm,

kick,

brings us so much joy.

V.

Amal has been here two weeks

five days

eight hours

and Issa still hasn’t seen her

through the computer screen.

He does not even know he has become a big brother

again.

The weather outside has changed from snowy

to rainy

from sunny

to cloudy.

People say that spring is near,

but all I see so far is

mud.

Mama calls Baba all the time so he can see Amal

when she is sleepy and snuggly

when she is yelling her little head off

when she is looking all around,

wide-eyed and dazed.

I listen to Mama and Baba speculate

about what Amal will be like when she gets older.

Did you see her do this, do that?

they say, noticing her every move,

every tense of her back,

every shake of her head.

I wonder what they said about me,

about Issa,

when we were this little,

when we were still a

mystery,

a wonder to wonder

about.

VI.

I bring in pictures of Amal

to show off in Mrs. Ravenswood’s class.

She’s so beautiful, Grace says.

She has your nose, Mrs. Ravenswood says.

She’s so little, Omar says,

and we all laugh because it’s such an Omar thing

to state the obvious.

When it’s Ben’s turn,

he looks at the photograph.

She’s an American, he says,

and that’s awesome.

It makes us all smile.

VII.

When Mama

rushes down the stairs

to find me working on my math homework,

and I see her face,

I start to cry before she says anything.

Taali, she says,

motioning for me to follow her.

She cradles Amal in her arms,

gently singing an Arabic lullaby to her,

to me.

Every bone in my body

is standing at attention

as I follow her up the stairs.

We go into Uncle Mazin’s study

and that’s when I see my brother’s image.

The blinds are pulled shut,

the room dark,

but my brother’s face,

his smile,

is bright enough to illuminate everything.

I let out a yelp of joy.

Of relief.

Jude, he says. You’ve grown up!

Tears glisten in my eyes

as I realize he has not seen me since

I started to cover my hair.

And the baby, she’s so beautiful, he says.

You’re all so beautiful.

This is Amal, Mama says.

Motasharefatun bema’refatek, Amal, Issa says,

and his dark eyes smile with love for her,

for all of us.

In Issa’s face,

I can see the months that have passed.

There are shadows under his eyes

that I have never seen before,

and I can make out the outline

of a bruise around his elbow.

There is unshaved scruff on his chin

and he looks much thinner.

Yet, his smile is still the same.

Bright enough to light up

the entire room.

My tears turn to laughter

and I run to the computer screen

and talk as fast as I can,

scared that if I don’t say every word I know,

I think,

he will disappear.

I ask him, Where are you?

How have you been?

Are you going to go home?

Are you going to come here?

Can you believe I’m a big sister now?

That I’m no longer your littlest sister?

S

L

O

W

D

O

W

N

he tells me, laughing.

He has left the most dangerous place

and is in a nearby town.

He is using an international aid worker’s computer to call us.

Despite Mama’s begging,

he will not promise not to go back to the danger,

to the war zone.

I am needed there, he says,

and both Mama and my heart say,

We need you here.

But somehow, despite the fact

my brother has been in places where bombs have

dropped,

are dropping,

in places where buildings have been reduced

to ashy crumble

in places with no food

and no water,

he seems more at peace

than I have ever seen him.

You’re doing It, I say,

and he says the same thing back to me,

and I’m not sure either of us really knows what

the It is, but we are okay with trying to figure it out.

We are okay with still learning our lines

because we are liking the script—

maybe, just maybe, we have both finally found roles

that make sense to us.

Roles where we feel seen

as we truly are.

I just wish that someday the script

will call for our roles to take place

on the same side of the Atlantic.

Where he could hold his new sister

kiss his mama

sing with me.

I don’t say any of this to him,

but when I watch that star show up on his forehead

as his eyebrows draw together,

I know he knows

it.

VIII.

That morning,

I find Miles before the first bell rings.

My brother is okay.

He’s alive, I say,

and I don’t think I will

ever get tired of saying those words.

Miles’s whole face

breaks into a smile.

He points at his T-shirt.

I knew there was a reason

to wear my Orion shirt today.

I smile so hard

my face hurts.

That’s one way

to think about it.

IX.

Mama constantly talks about how Baba and Issa

need to come to America to join us.

But it is so much harder now to come

than it was even when we came,

Mama tells me as she nurses Amal

who seems to always be hungry.

I tell Mama not to worry

that Baba knows how to take care of himself

and that Issa will be fine.

That he is going to save lives

that he is standing up for what he believes

that we should be proud of him.

She says, Jude, when are you going to learn

that your brother is not a superhero?

I didn’t even know that Mama knew

what a superhero was

but we have been living in America now

for almost nine months.

I guess I am not the only one who has been learning

new words.

Let’s have hope, is all I say,

and we both look at baby Amal,

our tiny,

tiniest,

hope,

who at that very moment,

flashes open her eyes,

and cries with hunger.

X.

We have our final practice

before opening night.

At the end of it,

we all take our pretend bow,

imagining the audience that will be

seated there tomorrow night clapping,

clapping for us.

And then Mrs. Bloom does clap.

She claps for us.

I’m so proud of all of you, she says.

You’ve worked so hard and you’ve brought this story

to life.

We all look at each other

and clap and bow.

Proud of each other,

proud of what we have created

together.

It is lovely

to be a part of something

that feels bigger than you.

XI.

It is decided that Mama will come on opening night

and Aunt Michelle will watch Amal

and then the next night,

Mama will stay home and Aunt Michelle will go.

Uncle Mazin insists he can watch the baby,

but both Mama and Aunt Michelle ignore him.

I have never seen them so in sync.

I put on my costume and Mama does not comment

on the tight black leggings

or the long-sleeved patterned leotard.

As long as you are comfortable with it,

her eyes seem to say.

She has French braided my hair

underneath my hijab.

No one else will see it,

but it helps me to feel in character.

It is a secret between Mama and me,

It feels like a hidden charm

that will give me courage.

Before we leave,

Aunt Michelle takes a picture of Sarah and me.

Sarah in her chorus costume,

me in my Plumette one.

We’re going to be fantastic tonight, Sarah says,

and her use of we’re,

a contraction that I have practiced over and over

in Mrs. Ravenswood’s class

feels like a tiny present to me

that I am so happy to unwrap.

We are all nervously waiting

behind the curtain.

I see Layla carefully checking the sets,

a clipboard in hand,

making notes.

Her eyes briefly meet mine

and we share a smile,

each wishing the other good luck.

I know Miles is up in the tech booth,

getting the lights ready.

The more I get to know him,

the more I appreciate how he likes

to help other people

shine.

I listen to the opening number from backstage

and my heart thunders in my chest.

The audience claps with furious delight.

The next scenes go by

and it is almost my moment,

almost my time to step out on stage,

to be seen.

I hold my breath.

The curtain lifts

and I step out onto the stage.

The theater lights are brighter than

I imagined.

I squint a little,

but then I adjust to the spotlight.

Glossary of Arabic Words

a’arf: I know; I’m aware

adhan: the call to prayer, also sometimes referred to as braza’an

akeed: of course

asroneyeh: afternoon snack

bint: girl

ghadah: the big family meal of the day, usually lunch

habibti: sweetheart

jebneh: cheese

khalo: uncle (on the maternal side)

mahzozeen: lucky

marhaba: hello

motasharefatun bema’refatek: honored to meet you; pleasure to meet you

muezzin: the person calling for prayer (in the context of the book, Jude is referring to the speaker whose voice she hears outside her window early in the morning)

nunu: baby

skety: be quiet; don’t talk

taali: come here

tay’ebeh: delicious

za’atar: Middle Eastern spice consisting of thyme and sesame seeds

Author’s Note

The first inkling of the idea that would later become Other Words for Home came to me in fall of 2013 when I was invited over to a close family friend’s house for dinner. At this dinner, I was introduced to members of their extended family who had recently come over from Syria to escape the violence that was threatening their hometown. I learned more about the conflict in Syria, which, up until then, I’d only had a vague awareness of. At this dinner, I watched as cousins who were raised in America interacted with cousins who had been raised in Syria. It made me think about families—like my own (my father is from Jordan)—who live on different sides of an ocean. But I was writing another book at the time, so I tucked the idea away for later.

Flash forward to fall of 2016—the atrocities of the war in Syria had been splashed across the front pages of many American and European newspapers. More of the world was aware of what was happening, yet the silence in response to the suffering of an entire population felt deafening. Why didn’t more people care? Why didn’t more people want to help? These questions scared me. They made me confront things that I had long ago buried within me—knowledge of prejudice against Arabs and Arab Americans, Islamophobia, and America’s often cool indifference to the suffering of brown people.

So I began to write the book. But I was writing from an analytical space, from my mind and not my heart. It wasn’t until I found Jude’s voice that the book was really born. I wrote Jude for my twelve-year-old self, who never saw a brown girl in a book who was proud of her family and where she came from. A brown girl with hopes and dreams of her own. I’m ashamed to admit that growing up I was much more like Jude’s cousin Sarah than like Jude. Through societal conditioning, I learned to be a little afraid and a little embarrassed of my father’s culture. I never was exposed to any media that told me to feel otherwise.

I wrote this book as a way to tell myself—both past and present versions—that as an Arab American girl, my dreams, hopes, and fears are as valid as anyone else’s. That the Judes of the world deserve to have their stories told. I also hope that by introducing you to Jude, a magnanimous girl with a big heart and even bigger dreams, I will show that you don’t need to be afraid of these children who are fleeing from a war zone. That they want the same things all of us do—love, understanding, safety, a chance at happiness.

We’re in a period of human history where empathy is needed more than ever. As the mother of two little girls, I’m constantly trying to teach them the idea that no one ever grows poor from giving. That sharing what you have does not make what you have worth any less. I guess that’s what this book is really about—the ever-growing need for generosity. And generosity is really just another word for love. So let’s work on giving more love to others as well as to ourselves.

To learn more about the conflict in Syria and how you can help refugees like Jude, please consider checking out one of the following websites:

https://www.unicefusa.org/mission/emergencies/child-refugees/syria-crisis

https://www.whitehelmets.org/en

https://www.doctorswithoutborders.org/what-we-do/countries/syria

https://my.care.org/site/SPageNavigator/CARE_SpecialDelivery.html

https://www.refugees-welcome.net

https://www.icrc.org/en/where-we-work/middle-east/syria

Acknowledgments

Enormous and endless thanks (and every other word in both English AND Arabic for gigantic!) to:

Brenda Bowen, my magical and brilliant agent, who believed in this book from the first moment I told her about it and cheered me on through every draft. Brenda, thank you for your patience and your belief. Both made this book possible.

The entire team at Greenburger Associates, especially Wendi Gu (we miss you!), Abigail Frank (you are a lifesaver!), and Stefanie Diaz (the best foreign rights agent an author could have!).

Alessandra Balzer, my incredible editor. I continually pinch myself that I am lucky enough to work with you. Thank you for all your support, for having not only the sharpest eye but also the warmest heart.

Everyone at Balzer + Bray, especially Kelsey Murphy. B+B is the kind of imprint that feels like a family and it’s so lovely to be a part of it.

The whole amazing team at Harper, especially Suzanne Murphy, Andrea Pappenheimer, Kathy Faber, Kerry Moynagh, Nellie Kurtzman, Ann Dye, Vaishali Nayak, Patty Rosati, Jacquelynn Burke, and Liz Byer. And to Jenna Stempel-Lobell and Alison Donalty for the most gorgeous cover I could imagine. I’ll never be done saying thank you for all your hard work.

Special thanks to Kima Jones of Jack Jones Literary.

George Wadih and Saad Samaan and everyone else who graciously shared details of their lives in Syria. Thank you to all my very thoughtful sensitivity readers.

Thank you to everyone who agreed to read this book early and whose enthusiastic feedback made me even more excited about Jude’s story: Aisha Saeed, Rachel Strolle, Amanda Connor, Stephanie Appel, Sabaa Tahir, and Jason Reynolds. A special thanks to bookseller-extraordinaire Sara Grochowski, who has been such an advocate for my work from the very beginning. This is the place where I would like to thank every bookseller and librarian who places books into the hands of kids who need them. Thank you for everything you do.

Connie Smith for nurturing my love of poetry and giving me a copy of Diving into the Wreck when I was sixteen years old. My life was forever changed.

Writing books can be a lonely business. I’m ridiculously lucky to have so many incredible friends in the trenches with me. A few who deserve a special shout-out: Emery Lord, Kim Liggett, David Arnold, Becky Albertalli, Adam Silvera, Kristan Hoffman, Erica Kaufman, Christopher Adamson, James Chapin, and Ashley Keyser.

To steal Emery Lord’s amazing phrasing, thanks also to my “civilian” friends who do not write but are equally important to my sanity—Alexandra Perrotti, Renee Sabo, Rachel Meyers, Nicole Hall, Lane Winget, Tyler West, Elysse Winget, Ali Williams, and Kt DeLong, and everyone else who has listened to me complain about writing.

Everyone who watched my children so that I could “finish just this one page” or “reread this section one more time.” In particular, Shymaa Salih, Remy Jacobs, Elsa Gonzalez, Linda Warga, Doug Warga, Kathleen Warga, Jeff Voegele, Rachel Warga, Linda L. Warga, and Annie Toops.

My family on both sides of the Atlantic. I love you all so much and feel so tremendously grateful to be the recipient of all of your support. Brandon Khader, I will never accept that your Arabic is better than mine, but I love you all the same. Mom, thank you for everything you do, especially being the world’s best “Nana” and, in doing so, constantly teaching me over and over again the concept of unconditional love. Dad, this book would not have been possible without you. I am constantly inspired by your bravery and resilience. Also, thank you for teaching me all those proverbs. It makes me very sad that my Uncle Abdalla passed away before he had the chance to read this book. He was always my biggest fan, dedicated to reading every word I wrote even though English was not his native language. His generous and revolutionary spirit inspired the very heart of this story.

Gregory Scott Warga, words are my job, but they fail me when I try to thank you. You’re my person. I adore you. Thank you for doing life with me, and also for always remembering to pay the electric bill, because we both know that I wouldn’t.

Lillian Nour and Juniper Lee, you are the lights of my life. You are kind and gentle and loving and evidence of everything that is right about this world. Thank you for making me believe in magic again.

To every Arab and Arab American girl, I see you. You are worthy. Keep shining.

About the Author

Photo credit Braxton Black

JASMINE WARGA is the author of the teen books Here We Are Now and My Heart and Other Black Holes, which has been translated into over twenty languages. This is her first novel for middle grade readers. She lives in Chicago with her family.

You can visit Jasmine online at www.jasminewarga.com.

Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

Copyright

Balzer + Bray is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

OTHER WORDS FOR HOME. Copyright © 2019 by Jasmine Warga. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

www.harpercollinschildrens.com

Cover art © 2019 by Anoosha Syed

Cover design and lettering by Jenna Stempel-Lobell

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018961861

Digital Edition MAY 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-286939-5

Print ISBN: 978-0-06-274780-8

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