Flying Over Water Read online

  I wanted nothing more than to fly back to our new apartment and into Mama’s warm, sweet-smelling kitchen. She and Ismail had been baking pistachio-filled maamoul cookies for our neighbor Mrs. Muamba. She’d shown us how to use the mailbox when she’d seen us standing around, looking confused. A refugee herself, from the Congo, she’d shared helpful tips about the apartment complex and promised to introduce Baba and Mama to another refugee family who’d recently moved from Afghanistan. I sighed and shifted my gaze to my lap, my fingers playing with the brooch that fastened my maroon hijab.

  Baba had wanted us to begin school as soon as possible, to get into a schedule and adjust to life in America. Amani, who’d met us at the airport, had visited twice, once to show us around our new neighborhood, which included a trip to the grocery store. The immense, brightly lit building, filled with aisle after aisle of colorful packages, had taken my breath away. I still couldn’t believe that in America there were entire sections devoted to cereal and chips! Mama had not been impressed and had asked where the fruits and vegetables were.

  That afternoon, while Ammar and I had sucked sticky tricolored Popsicles and watched Toy Story with Ismail, Amani had sat at the dinette table with my parents. I’d overheard fragments of their conversation: President Trump … ban on Muslims entering the United States … legally challenging the law in court. It sounded like the president and many politicians didn’t want Muslims coming to America. I wondered what that meant for us, and it left an unsettled feeling in my stomach.

  The next time she’d visited, Amani had driven us to school to meet Mrs. Maisel, the guidance counselor, and take a series of tests. Ammar hadn’t missed a single question on the math exam and I’d done okay too. English was easier to understand on the page, but when people spoke quickly, with their short, flat accents, it was harder to keep up.

  Lost in thought that this was my first day of school, I didn’t notice the large pair of sneakers approach until Ammar poked me with his elbow. My gaze traveled up a long pair of legs and a yellow-and-white-print shirt to a smiling face framed by shoulder-length blond hair. She was wearing a necklace made from a silver coin with a fish in the center, and was one of the tallest girls I’d ever seen. I knew immediately who she was: the girl who’d left the note underneath my pillow.

  “Jordyn?” I said uncertainly.

  The girl’s smile widened, revealing a gap between her two front teeth. “Yes. And you’re Noura and Ammar, right?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Welcome to Bayshore Middle School,” she said with a smile.

  “Thank you,” I replied, while Ammar nodded, as quiet and solid as the blocks of wood he built with.

  Jordyn paused and pointed at my brooch. “I love your peacock. It’s really colorful.”

  “My father gave it to me on my ninth birthday,” I said, rubbing the shiny enamel with my thumb. It was one of the few things I had been able to keep from home.

  “My sister loves anything to do with birds,” Ammar said, and then sealed his lips shut in a way I knew all too well.

  As I nodded, the school secretary called out, “Good to see you, Jordyn. Are you ready to be a student ambassador?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Jackson,” Jordyn said, waving to her on our way out the door.

  The next fifteen minutes passed in a blur as Jordyn led us through the school. I struggled to keep up with her long strides while trying to remember where my locker was as we passed classrooms, the library, gymnasium, and cafeteria. In Kilis, we’d only had one room that served as the entire school, and in Aleppo, my all-girls school had been a quarter this size, before it had been flattened by a bomb.

  “I’m not in your homeroom,” Jordyn said, “but we’re in math and social studies together, which is next. Just follow the map in your folder and I’ll meet you outside.”

  “Class, please welcome Noura and Ammar,” said Mr. Fowler, raising his pale bushy eyebrows and spreading his arms wide. “I’m pleased they’re joining us. Having them in class should broaden everyone’s worldview.”

  I muffled a smile at the teacher’s name. Fowler. It reminded me of the English word fowl: a domesticated bird used for eggs and meat. He kind of looked like a chicken, chest out, pacing the room as if seeking corn to peck.

  After muttering our hello, Ammar and I followed Jordyn to our seats, and the girl sitting in front of me turned and smiled. I smiled too, admiring the deep red henna designs that decorated her hands.

  “I’m Daksha,” she whispered.

  “Hi,” I whispered back. “I love your henna.”

  “Thanks.” She grinned and turned to face our teacher.

  Mr. Fowler stood at the front of the room. “For our new students, I want to share what we’ve covered in class so far. At the beginning of the year, we examined the foundation of the US government, the history of our political process, and then analyzed the components of the constitution. For the next few months, we’ll study the roles, rights, and responsibilities of US citizens, with a special focus on civic engagement and active participation in our political system.”

  I exchanged a worried look with Ammar. I didn’t know any of what he had just said. We had a lot of catching up to do.

  A girl with a mop of tangled blond hair raised her hand, waving to get Mr. Fowler’s attention.

  “Yes, Penny?” he asked.

  “So, what do you mean by participating in the political system? Could it be like holding a demonstration? I’m thinking of the Native American groups who protested building the oil pipeline across their land.”

  “That’s a good example,” Mr. Fowler said. “One of the things we take pride in in America is the ability of everyday people to make a difference. That means being able to vote, serve on a jury, or participate in a protest.”

  Mr. Fowler pivoted and wrote a word on the board in sharp strokes. “Citizen,” he said, adjusting the jacket of his brown-checked suit. “What makes a citizen, you may ask. Well, babies born in the United States are granted automatic citizenship. But for those not born here, there is a defined process to becoming a citizen, which is neither easy nor fast.”

  I focused on the word. Citizen. My passport said I was a citizen of Syria. It was the country where my family had lived for generations; where Baba’s family had been in the hotel and construction business, and Mama’s brothers ran a successful bakery. It was all gone now, turned to dust. Our downfall had begun in a school, just like this one, in the city of Daraa. A group of boys had written anti-government graffiti on their school wall. They were quickly arrested and tortured, and one was murdered. After that it didn’t matter if you were a citizen of Syria. If you did not agree with the president, you would be killed.

  “Noura, pay attention,” grumbled Ammar. “He’s giving a test next week.”

  I ducked my head, embarrassed. I couldn’t help it, my mind tended to wander. Ammar called me birdbrain when I frustrated him beyond his patience.

  “There will be a group immigration project due in six weeks, and all research topics have to be approved by me,” announced Mr. Fowler, rubbing his palms together. “And bonus points if you unearth a piece of history or a fact that I’m unfamiliar with.”

  Behind me, a red-haired, freckle-faced boy muttered underneath his breath, “Immigrants are terrorists.”

  Eyes wide, I looked at Ammar. Did the boy really say what I thought he had? My brother stiffened, a frown tugging at his scar. Jordyn whipped around to glare at the boy. The other kids who sat close enough to hear looked away from us.

  “Since we have thirty kids,” Mr. Fowler continued, “you’ll work in groups of three.”

  Jordyn furiously waved her hand in the air.

  “Yes, Jordyn?” said Mr. Fowler.

  “I’d like to work with Noura,” she said. “And Ammar too.”

  “Great,” he said. “We have our first group.”

  When I turned to give Jordyn a grateful smile, the girl sitting to her right scowled at me. Her short chestnut hair bounc
ed as she leaned toward Jordyn, and her beaded bracelet clanked against her desk. “G, you were supposed to work on the project with Lea and me,” she said. “You know, swim team sisters—Jordyn, Bailey, Lea.”

  “Yeah,” grumbled the girl sitting in front of Jordyn. She turned and crossed her arms over a T-shirt that said, SWIM LIKE THERE’S FLAN AT THE FINISH LINE, and raised one inky-black eyebrow.

  I was impressed. I had always wished I could raise just one eyebrow and look at people in a superior way, but my eyebrows had never cooperated.

  “Oh … gosh, guys,” Jordyn blurted, looking from one girl to the other. “I totally wanted to work with you … but I … I thought I should work with Noura and Ammar since I’m their student ambassador.”

  Lea and Bailey both gave Jordyn irritated looks, and she responded with a sheepish smile. Even I knew they were stuck with the awful boy—the one with the red hair.

  Dhuhr prayer was going to begin at 12:46 and if I hurried, I’d finish by 1:00, well before lunch was over at 1:35. Ammar and I needed to find a spot to pray and fast. I flew to the girls’ bathroom and quickly removed my hijab. Without thinking twice, I recited Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Rahim, in the name of God the merciful and compassionate, an invocation given to Allah whenever you begin something. I rolled up my sleeves and quickly washed my hands and face, then along my ears and arms. Next I kicked off my sandals and awkwardly lifted my foot into the sink just as the bathroom door opened with a groan.

  “Oh my God, what is she doing?” said a horrified voice.

  The revulsion in the girl’s voice filled me with confusion as water ran over my toes. I looked in the mirror and saw a group of girls behind me. I recognized them right away. Jordyn stood a head taller than the others, a strange look on her face.

  My cheeks felt hot and my body stiffened as the knowledge I was doing something terribly wrong spread over me like thick, sticky honey.

  Lea’s dark eyes narrowed. “That’s so gross,” she muttered.

  Tongue-tied, I stood there. Words of explanation pooled in my mouth but wouldn’t come out. I pinched the inside of my wrist. The pain sent me into motion and I jerked my foot out of the sink and turned to face them.

  My friends Lea and Bailey kept staring at Noura. Honestly, I was mystified. I’d been to the Alwans’ apartment, and there was no reason she couldn’t take a bath at home.

  Noura’s cheeks were flushed—she was embarrassed, and I wasn’t sure what to do. There was nothing in the student ambassador handbook about bathroom etiquette. Finally, I muttered, “Girls, quit staring.”

  “It is okay,” Noura said, her eyes not quite meeting mine. She dried her foot on a paper towel. “I am making wudu.”

  Bailey rolled her bright hazel eyes. “Wow, that really clears things up.”

  I nudged Bailey with my elbow. I wasn’t sure if making wudu was a Syrian custom, or a Muslim one, but either way there was no reason to be rude.

  “I am cleansing before prayer,” Noura explained.

  “Oh. Oh … I pray all the time. Praying is totally normal. Totally. I’ve … I’ve just never thought about washing my feet first … in the sink.” I turned to Lea and Bailey. “See, everything’s cool here.”

  Lea shrugged. “Mami says cleanliness is next to godliness, but this seems a little extreme.”

  Noura held her head high. “I can explain more during lunch. Right now, I need to go. My brother is waiting for me.”

  Before leaving, Noura covered her hair with her hijab. I had told Bailey and Lea to stop staring, but I was curious too.

  I hurried through the cafeteria line and bought a Cuban sandwich and a huge chocolate chip cookie. Lea and Bailey had both packed their lunches and grabbed a table for us in the courtyard.

  As soon as I sat down, Lea said, “I know you’re Noura’s student ambassador, and it’s your job to help her, but it’s all your fault we got stuck working with Nick Sawyer.”

  I broke my cookie into thirds and put the pieces onto napkins for my friends. “I’m sorry you have to partner with Nick, but his stupid comment about terrorists really ticked me off. I wanted to be sure Noura and Ammar knew they have friends here.”

  “It’s not like I agree with Nick or anything,” Bailey said, “but maybe he has a point.”

  Lea drained her juice box and wiped away a grape mustache. “My last name is Rodriguez, and my abuela speaks mostly Spanish.” She wadded her napkin into a ball. “Oh, and we’re planning a quinceañera for my older sister. What do you have against immigrants, anyway?”

  “It’s not the same,” Bailey mumbled. “Cuban immigrants aren’t terrorists.”

  I put my sandwich down and stared at Bailey. “That sounds kind of prejudiced.”

  “I am not prejudiced,” Bailey said, but then she pointed a cheese stick at me. “Noura is dressed like Mary in a Christmas pageant. The Bible doesn’t tell girls what to wear. I’ll bet the Qur’an doesn’t either.”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea what the Qur’an says about clothing. Heck, I don’t even know what the Bible says about clothing. Do you?”

  Bailey’s face turned as red as my favorite bathing suit.

  “Well, at our church, the Virgin Mary always has her head covered,” Lea said.

  I was about to agree with Lea on the Virgin Mary thing when she nudged my calf with her foot. It was a reminder to be extra nice to Bailey because her older brother had been killed in Afghanistan. We’d all loved Bryan. He’d been our first swim coach. “Guys, I watched a documentary at church about the refugees, and I can’t stop thinking about it. Kids—kids just like us are scared and hungry. If you’d seen it, I bet you’d want to help them too.”

  Bailey rolled her eyes. “Maybe, or maybe not. Muslims set the roadside bomb that killed Bryan.”

  “I’m sorry about Bryan,” I said softly. “You know I am, but Noura and Ammar didn’t have anything to do with that bomb.”

  Lea put her thumb and index finger together and dragged them across her lips like a zipper. From the corner of my eye, I saw Noura and Ammar standing beside me, and felt a prickly heat spread across my face. “Uh … uh, hi.” I gestured toward the empty chairs at our table. “Want to join us?”

  Noura and Ammar sat down and unwrapped their lunches—some kind of fried pie with meat inside. If Noura was still embarrassed about washing her feet, or had overheard us talking about roadside bombs, she was good at hiding it. “Those look delicious. What are they?”

  “Kibbe,” Noura answered. “Would you like to try one?”

  “Sure.”

  Carefully, she passed it over to me. I took a bite and tasted lamb, onions, cinnamon, and other spices that I didn’t recognize. “It’s delicious,” I said, so delicious I could have eaten a whole plate full of them.

  “I’ll trade you an empanada for a kibbe,” Lea said. I was relieved she was making an effort to be nice and wasn’t holding a grudge about having to work with Nick. She really didn’t like him.

  “What kind of meat is inside?” Noura asked.

  Lea shook her head. “Vegetarian. They’re stuffed with black beans and plantains.”

  I looked down at my sandwich. I always used to pack my lunch, but since Mom’s miscarriage, she hardly went to the grocery store. Now Dad left money on the kitchen counter instead. I hadn’t touched half my sandwich, but didn’t offer it to Noura or Ammar. I knew pork was taboo for Muslims and hoped I wasn’t grossing them out.

  “So, what’s up with putting your feet in the sink?” Bailey asked.

  Noura smiled shyly. “Before praying, we wash our arms, feet, and face.”

  “But why?” Bailey asked.

  “Well …” Noura paused as if nobody had ever asked such a question before. “We want to be clean in body and in spirit before talking to God.”

  “That makes total sense,” I said. “It reminds me of being baptized. How often do you do it?”

  “We make wudu and pray five times a day,” Ammar answered.

  Noura looked at
her brother with soft, sad eyes. “Using water also cools you down and takes away the heat of anger.”

  He frowned at her, which made his scar pucker. I averted my eyes from the right side of his face, wondering what had happened to him and if making wudu and praying had helped him deal with it. My scars were on the inside, where they were easier to hide—I was glad about that.

  I volunteered to stir the pot of steaming lentil soup while Mama put Ismail down for a nap and Baba sorted through a stack of printouts. It was nice to be in the small, cozy apartment after a long, stressful week at school. I peered out the window, spying the bird feeder Ammar had crafted from a plastic milk bottle, nails, and wood. Even though he would never admit it, Ammar had constructed the bird feeder for Ismail and me. I loved showing them the incredible variety of birds that dropped by for lunch: bossy bluebirds, tiny yellow-breasted goldfinches, gentle wrens, brown-and-white thrashers, chatty chickadees, iridescent grackles, and many others.

  For a moment, it even felt like home. Or what home had been like before war had enveloped Aleppo. As soon as the bombs began to fall, the beautiful songbirds at Baba’s hotel had stopped singing or laying eggs. And thankfully, before Beit Zafran had been destroyed, I’d set them free—free to fly away and find a new home where they could thrive and be happy. Baba hadn’t even been angry when I told him.

  Though Jordyn was guiding us, Ammar and I had realized that school in America was very different than it had been in Syria. Plus, trying to keep up with all the new English words flying past my head like dive-bombing hummingbirds had made my brain ache a little.

  Now as I watched Baba read one job posting after the other, I desperately searched for a joke or something interesting I could spring on him to smooth the wrinkles on his forehead. No jokes came to mind, or any riddles either. Perhaps I could tell him about our upcoming social studies quiz, or our group project. I’d hoped Ammar and I could meet with Jordyn today to get started on our project, but she’d mentioned she had a swim meet.