Flying Over Water Page 5

  From the first moment I saw her, I liked Mrs. Alwan. She had a beautiful smile on her face as she served tea and cookies. “Eat, eat,” she insisted.

  Mom took a bite and said, “I’ve never had such delicious cookies. What do you call them?”

  “Maamoul,” Noura answered. “Ismail saw dates in the grocery store and demanded Mama make them.”

  “I can understand why,” Mom said, “and Ismail is adorable.”

  Mrs. Alwan’s face glowed at Mom’s compliments, and Mom seemed more like her old self. Maybe making flash cards and getting out of the condo had helped her forget her problems for a while.

  After we finished our cookies, Mrs. Alwan headed into the kitchen and we followed. As we passed the balcony, I was startled by the number of birds hovering around a feeder cleverly constructed from a milk carton.

  Noura caught me staring. “Ammar built the feeder for me since he knows I love to watch birds.”

  “Wow, it’s really awesome to have so many different kinds right outside your window.”

  “Yes, but I don’t know all of their names yet. I’m still learning.”

  I was just about to tell Noura that watching fish had a soothing effect on me, and that I had an aquarium in my bedroom, when Mom called, “Jordyn, Mrs. Alwan’s waiting.”

  Noura’s mom had covered the kitchen table with a plastic cloth and stacked a pile of zucchini in the center.

  Mom and I snuck glances at each other. I was out of my comfort zone, intrigued about what would happen next.

  Noura set out bowls, knives, and sharp-tipped veggie peelers that she called manakras.

  “We are making kousa mahshi,” she said. “In Syria, we used a smaller squash called a kousa, but Mama cannot find them here, so we use zucchini.”

  Mrs. Alwan spread her hands. “Kousa short, fat.” She cut both ends off a zucchini, then sliced it into pieces about four inches long.

  Slicing was easy, but the next step took practice. Mrs. Alwan stuck the pointed edge of her vegetable peeler into the middle of a zucchini. She twisted and pulled out the core, in much the same way Dad would have opened a bottle of wine. Then she scraped the rest of the pulp into a bowl. “Now you try.”

  I was hopeless, but Mom was actually pretty good at coring zucchini. She had a big smile on her face, the kind I hadn’t seen in a long time.

  When all the zucchini were hollowed out, Mrs. Alwan mixed together hamburger, rice, and spices to stuff them.

  I stuffed mine a little too full.

  “Too much,” Mrs. Alwan said. “It will …” She waved her hands.

  “Explode,” Noura finished.

  Mrs. Alwan placed the stuffed zucchini into a pot of bubbling tomato broth that smelled like heaven—garlic, allspice, and meat. My stomach growled just from inhaling it.

  Noura giggled. “It is good you are hungry, but the mahshi must simmer for a while.”

  Mom offered to wash dishes, but Mrs. Alwan wouldn’t hear of it. “No, no,” she said. “Sit, sit.”

  “Mama is right. You are our guests,” Noura insisted.

  Mom looked uncertain, but instead of arguing, she spread the flash cards across the kitchen table.

  Mrs. Alwan clasped her hands together. “Mama is excited to learn,” Noura said.

  When the kitchen was clean, Mrs. Alwan took a seat beside Mom, and I followed Noura to her room.

  She pointed to the floral quilt on her bed. “Thank you. It is most beautiful.”

  “You’re welcome, but I’m the one who should be thanking you. My mom has been sad, and visiting with your mom is about the only thing that’s cheered her up.”

  “Mama will be happy to hear that,” Noura said. “She loves to cook and have friends visit.”

  “My mom used to be a good cook, but lately she hasn’t made the effort.”

  “I understand. Mama used to write poetry, but she hasn’t in a long time.” Noura handed me a tablet and pencil from her desk. “You will have to instruct me. I have never done an American project before.”

  “Okay, no problem. We’ll start by brainstorming.”

  Noura blinked, as if chewing over the words. “What does that mean?”

  “It means to consider lots of ideas. Some kids will probably paint posters; some might do PowerPoint presentations, or make dioramas, or build models.”

  Noura looked even more confused. Luckily, I had my phone and pulled up examples on the screen.

  When I showed her a model city, Noura clapped her hands. “Ammar is a good builder,” she said. “Come.”

  I followed her to the bedroom Ammar shared with Ismail. The walls were covered with drawings of an ancient city, and a small table held a 3-D model of a mosque, made from cardboard and painted paper.

  “The Great Mosque was destroyed,” Noura said. “Ammar was particularly fond of it—he loves architecture, and is building a model so we won’t forget our home.”

  The pictures on the wall reminded me of the documentary we’d watched at church. I had had a bad dream about being trapped in one of the bombed buildings. And if I had had such an extreme reaction, I could only imagine how Noura and Ammar must feel. “What city?” I asked.

  “Aleppo. Our home was in the city of Aleppo.”

  I used Google Images, and the before-and-after pictures of the mosque took my breath away. All that history ruined—gone forever. I sat down and studied Ammar’s model. I wondered if building it was his way of coping with all the destruction he’d seen. “Noura, what if we wrote about the differences between an immigrant and a refugee?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Do you have another idea?”

  She shook her head, so I continued with mine. “Immigrants leave their countries for better opportunities, but refugees don’t have much choice. We could show before-and-after pictures of the mosque to illustrate that and put Ammar’s model on display.”

  “I need to discuss this plan with my brother,” Noura said. “Sometimes it is best to just forget.” She stood and paced around the room. “But perhaps you are right. Perhaps we should be brave like Mohammad Qutaish.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “He is a Syrian boy famous for building a paper model of Aleppo. He is Ammar’s inspiration.”

  I heard the apartment door close, and then loud footsteps barreling down the hall. Noura’s eyes widened. “Maybe we shouldn’t be in here,” she said in a rush.

  We were about to leave, but Ammar blocked the door, a frown pulling at his scar. “Noura, why have you brought a guest to my room?”

  Ammar didn’t raise his voice, but his fists were clenched. Embarrassed, I held my palms up. “Sorry. I’ll get out so Noura can explain.”

  As I walked down the hall, I heard them arguing. It made me really uncomfortable.

  “Jordyn, you’re just in time,” Mom said. “The mahshi is ready.”

  As Mrs. Alwan ladled stuffed zucchini and tomato broth into bowls, Noura joined us in the kitchen. “Ammar wants to shower before eating,” she said.

  I hoped that was the real reason, and he wasn’t still angry that I’d seen his artwork—a private part of himself that he hadn’t been ready to share.

  Noura took a seat across from me and tasted the mahshi. She spoke to her mom in Arabic, and then translated for us. “Thank you, Mama. As always, it is delicious.”

  “Mmmm, scrumptious,” I said. I liked the open end best, where the rice was crunchy.

  For a couple minutes, everyone focused on the yummy zucchini, but then Mom said to Noura, “Do you like to swim? Our condo has a pool.”

  Noura looked down at her bowl. “No.”

  I figured she’d never learned how, and the Alwans wouldn’t have the extra money for lessons. “I could teach you. During free swim at the aquatics center, there’s a lifeguard on duty, so it’d be totally safe.”

  “No! No swimming!” Noura’s voice was as sharp as the manakras we’d used to core the zucchini.

  I was stunned.

  Mrs. Al
wan admonished Noura in Arabic. The mood around the table changed. No more smiles and friendly chatter.

  “I … I don’t know what’s wrong,” I stammered, “but I’m sorry.”

  Noura kept her head down. “Please eat. I’m sorry I was rude.”

  We finished our meal in silence, except for Ismail. He kept making train noises. “Chugga, chugga, choo, choo.”

  Noura’s hand shook every time she raised her spoon.

  Ismail whistled like a lonesome train.

  “Khalas, enough!” Mrs. Alwan scolded.

  Anxious feelings made the zucchini and tomato broth churn inside my stomach. I wasn’t sure what I’d done wrong, but somehow, I’d offended both my friends. I looked over at Mom. She was frowning, and the worry lines across her forehead were back.

  Lost. I was lost in a sea of iridescent aquamarine, deep navy, and sparkling turquoise with shards of glittering emerald and jade. The colors sucked me in, reflecting the sorrows and fears I’d seen swimming in Jordyn’s eyes. I could feel the endless expanse of water beneath us, as it seemed our new home, Tampa, consisted of more water than land.

  “Take deep breaths, Noura,” Baba instructed, looking back at me from the middle seat of the minivan. “Start counting …”

  My eyes remained glued to the endless water outside the car window.

  “Is there no other route to the mosque?” asked Mama. She sat all the way up front, beside Amani, who was driving.

  “Yes, but we can’t turn around now,” said Amani in a distressed voice. “There’s no exit off the bridge. What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

  Noura, breathe. It’s only water, I reminded myself as Mama explained in hushed tones … water … frightened … her friend …

  I positioned my hands the way Dr. Barakat had taught me at the refugee camp in Kilis. Then I took a deep breath. I’m flying. Flying like the beautiful pink bird I saw from the airplane window, flying over water. Then I exhaled, and repeated.

  “It’s okay. Noura’s got it under control,” Ammar said, reaching between the seats to squeeze my hand.

  I could see his worried gray eyes, so like Baba’s, peering at me over the seat. I gave him a grateful smile as I breathed in and out, my heartbeat slowing, and my breath returning to normal.

  “Family nights at the mosque are always popular,” Amani said. “Imam Ibrahim insists we have them monthly.” She steered into one of the last parking spots. “We’re running late—it’s nearly time for maghrib prayers.”

  Feeling a little light-headed from all that breathing, I climbed out of the car as the horizon faded into brilliant oranges and pinks. Ammar slowed to walk beside me as we followed the others across the parking lot.

  He gave me a serious look. “You’ve worked really hard on Dr. Barakat’s lessons, but you’re still afraid. If you don’t conquer your fears, they will conquer you.”

  I glared at him, annoyed at his sudden, superior attitude.

  “You should let Jordyn teach you to swim,” he continued.

  “Jordyn probably wants nothing to do with us because you were so angry and mean about your model,” I said. “She actually had a really good idea for our project, but you wouldn’t even listen.”

  “You shouldn’t have showed her my private things without permission,” Ammar replied, in such a logical way it made me steam. “But you’re right,” he added with an embarrassed sigh. “I shouldn’t have gotten so mad.”

  “Or been so rude,” I added.

  “Yes, that too,” he mumbled. “But don’t change the subject. Your learning to swim is different. It would help you become stronger. Maryam would have wanted you to.”

  Maryam? I squinted at him angrily. Though he had conquered the unimaginable and his face bore the mark to prove it, he had no right to pull Maryam into this. I opened my mouth to tell him just that, but suddenly his face lit up.

  I followed his gaze past the trees at the end of the parking lot. The white-and-coral-colored mosque shimmered in the fading light. Illuminated by the golden light of dusk, it sat bedecked in graceful arches and angular lines. Two elegant minaret towers flanked each side of its facade. Ammar studied the structure with a builder’s eye, following its gentle curves toward the copper dome that rested on top like a jeweled crown. I knew he appreciated how the architect had created harmony and balance. My brother’s heart had always been in combining the science of construction with the art of design. He’d accompanied Baba and our uncles to the hotel’s construction site and helped select tiles and woodwork for its interior.

  Not wanting to mar his happiness, I bit my tongue and followed him through the great doors into the hall of the mosque. Immediately, a sense of peace fell over me. I took a deep breath and exhaled, letting the fear flow from my body. In straight lines, people stood along the red carpet, waiting for Imam Ibrahim to lead prayers. He was so tall and graceful in his brown felt robe and skullcap. His calm, welcoming smile brought me comfort.

  “Noura, get in line,” Mama said as Baba, Ammar, and Ismail headed toward the men’s section. I noticed a lightness in Ammar’s step, a sense of peace on his face.

  I stood with my hands at my sides, waiting to begin, wishing we had a quiet, peaceful place to pray like this at school. A place where the other students didn’t look at us like we were weird. Or worse.

  All my life, I had only known Muslims who were from Syria. Of course, I knew Islam was practiced all over the world, but this was the first time I’d met Muslims from America, India, Sudan, Bosnia, Egypt, Indonesia, Afghanistan, and Mexico.

  “Noura,” Amani called as the men set up long tables for the potluck dinner in the banquet hall attached to the prayer hall. Women bustled around with steaming trays and dishes. “I want you to meet Lubna. I believe she goes to your school.”

  A girl with a chic, short haircut smiled at me. “Salaam Alaikum,” she said. “I’m in eighth grade; which grade are you in?”

  “Walaikum Salaam,” I replied. She looked familiar, with her tall, graceful build. “My brother and I are in the seventh grade.”

  “I’m sure it is all new and confusing for you, but you’ll get used to it in no time,” said Lubna encouragingly. “Do you have Mr. Fowler for social studies? I remember he takes being a good citizen very seriously.”

  I couldn’t help but giggle. “Yes, he still does. And he reminds me of a bird, always pecking about, looking for answers as if they were seeds.”

  Lubna laughed. “You’re right—that’s a great description of him! Well, if you have any questions or need help, you can always ask me, okay?”

  “Yes, thank you so much,” I said, feeling grateful that this grown-up girl was taking me seriously.

  I looked around the mosque at all the families, the kids playing as if they didn’t have a care in the world. And they didn’t. There was no war here. There was no need to hide from bombs and guns, no starvation or disease. Baba stood talking with a group of men, and I caught snippets of their hushed conversation. President Assad had just hanged thousands of political prisoners. I shivered, thanking Allah no one we knew had suffered that fate. I spotted Ammar talking to a few boys. He looked as relaxed as the children, even carefree. Mama called me over and we got in line for dinner.

  As I sat beside Ammar, I looked down at my plate, proud I’d taken samples of food I’d never tasted before. In addition to Mama’s delicious fatteh—fried pita bread covered in chickpeas and yogurt—I’d chosen mantu, which were lamb dumplings; long noodles with shrimp and vegetables; barbecued mutton; biryani rice cooked with chicken and spices; and something called enchiladas with cheese inside.

  “This is incredible,” Baba said as he ate another heaping forkful of biryani, the spices making him sweat. “It’s spicy, but so good!”

  “Here, Baba, try this,” said Ammar, handing him a glass of mango lassi—a drink made of mango blended with yogurt and ice.

  Mama smiled as she fed bits of bread to Ismail and chatted with a Bosnian lady in a long blue dress, whose
blond hair shone in the chandelier light.

  I was thrilled to see the happiness on Mama’s face. Late the other night, I’d heard her crying after talking to her mother and sisters in Germany. The next morning, she’d appeared perfectly fine, hiding her sadness to make everything normal for us. But now, for this evening, Mama had found a sense of community, of belonging. And the people we’d met had been so kind, especially the woman from Lebanon who had offered to loan her some Arabic poetry books.

  As I bit into a juicy dumpling, I thought back to the cooking lesson with Jordyn and how it had started out so well. The dumpling became dry and tasteless as guilt, which I’d shoved into the back of my mind, came flooding back. Ammar was right; I shouldn’t have shown Jordyn his model. I should have told her about it, and then asked his permission to share it once he was home. Then we could have all brainstormed together.

  Maybe that wasn’t the only thing Ammar was right about. I swallowed the dry mouthful of lamb as regret settled over me. There was no way to hide that water frightened me, and that fear had made me snap at Jordyn, who’d only been trying to help. And it was that fear that kept me from being truly brave. Maryam, who would always be my best friend in the whole world, would not want that for me.

  On Monday, Noura and Ammar avoided me at school. They avoided me on Tuesday too. So, on Wednesday, I decided not to even look at them. I was minding my own business, copying the quotes Mr. Fowler had written on the whiteboard, when Lea whispered, “Uh-oh. Nick’s passing around another cartoon.”

  Nick’s cartoons were legendary. They were funny, but in a mean way, like the one of Bailey’s pimple exploding over the entire school. Last year, he’d drawn one of me so humiliating I’d wanted to disappear. Lea had urged me to tell on him, but a cartoon about my first bra wasn’t something I wanted to show a teacher.

  I copied another quote from the whiteboard, hoping Nick’s latest creation had nothing to do with me: The rule of law is more of an ideal we strive to achieve, but sometimes fail to live up to. www.americanbar.org.