A Long Pitch Home (26 page)

“That's my dad,” Jalaal calls to the bodyguards. “I texted him to come home.”

Omar Khan holds up a hand, and the men halt their advance on my uncle.

Uncle steps out, his mouth and car door both wide open. Omar Khan follows me over. “Uncle, there is someone I would like you to meet. This is . . .”

“Omar Khan.” Uncle whispers the name.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Omar Khan says, shaking his hand.

Uncle places his hand over his heart, and Omar Khan does the same.

“He's here to help Baba,” I tell Uncle, who nods and puts his hand on my shoulder.

“Please,” Uncle says, pointing an open hand toward the house. “You are welcome in our home.”

We turn to find the rest of my family gathered on the porch. For once in her life, even Hira is silent.

I introduce Omar Khan to Ammi and Auntie. Then I say, all in one breath: “That's why I threw that crazy pitch. I wrote on the ball that I needed Omar Khan's help to get Baba here because Jack says politicians can pull strings, and I think there are lots of strings holding Baba in Pakistan.” I take a breath and smile up at Omar Khan. “So he came.”

Omar Khan smiles back.

Auntie ushers him in with an offer of tea. I am about to follow when Ammi stops me at the door with a hug. “My smart, resourceful boy.” I wish I had told my family about my baseball message to Omar Khan earlier. I thought it hadn't worked. But it has.

I smile. Everything is going to be fine now.

My mother rests her hand on my shoulder. “I need you and Jalaal to keep the little ones busy while we talk.”

“But I'm the reason he's here, Ammi.”

Her face softens. “I know, Bilal.You took a risk, and it turned out to be a wonderful thing. Your father will be so proud of you.”

Baba. I should be thinking about Baba, not about spending more time with Omar Khan.

“Okay.” I look back at Jalaal, who is trying to keep Humza from picking tulips in the garden.

Ammi kisses the top of my head, then slips inside and closes the door.

Olivia comes out of her house and nods toward the sleek car with the sunglasses-wearing men inside. “What's up?”

“It's a long story,” Jalaal says.

Humza trots over to Hira as she emerges from the garage with her bike.

“Do you know the game of cricket?” I ask Olivia.

She tilts her head. “I've heard of it. It's kind of like baseball?”

Jalaal and I grin. “Sort of,” we both say.

I point to our house, where Omar Khan is probably telling everyone right now about his plan for helping Baba. “In that house is the world's greatest cricket player. His name is Omar Khan, and he is going to arrange for my father to come here. Finally.”

Olivia's eyes go wide. “Bilal, that's great!”

“We can't go in, though.” I lower my voice. “They are making a plan.”

Olivia nods. “I'll just have to wait to meet him.”

Humza shrieks and bursts into tears. We spin around to find him in a heap on the driveway next to Hira.

Hira's eyes fill with tears. “He wanted to sit on my bike.” She sniffs.

Olivia is the first to reach Humza. She scoops him up and inspects his knee; a trickle of blood runs to his ankle. Humza takes one look at his knee and whimpers.

“I've got this,” she says, then looks at Jalaal. “We've got Band-Aids at my house.”

So I am left watching Hira, her purple helmet glinting in the late-afternoon sun as she rides up the sidewalk, all the way to Lizzie's driveway.

Olivia and Jalaal return with Humza just as Auntie opens the front door. When she sees Humza's knee, now cleaned up and sporting a Band-Aid, she hurries over. Humza reaches for Auntie, who smiles at Olivia, which makes Jalaal smile, too.

Omar Khan says his good-byes to Uncle and Ammi, then turns to me. He bends down so we're face-to-face. “I will do my best to help your father, Bilal.”

I nod. “Thank you, sir.”

“I remember him from his days on the national team. It was a shame when he had to stop playing.”

So Omar Khan does remember Baba after all these years.

“Your father is a good man, and you are a brave son. I cannot guarantee anything, Bilal, but I will do my best.”

One of the men in sunglasses opens the door for Omar Khan. He slides into the backseat, the doors shut, and then they're off.

Off to help Baba.

 Twenty-eight

T
hat evening Auntie calls me to the door. “Your friends are here, Bilal.”

I am positive I have no friends anymore, but when I get to the door I find Henry and Akash standing on the porch. I step outside, closing the door behind me.

“Hey.” And that's all I can think of to say.

Akash shifts from one foot to the other. “Hey, Bilal.” He looks at Henry and then back to me. “We heard all about it—you know, throwing that ball to help your dad.”

“Yeah.” I sigh. “I'm sorry I lost the game.”

Henry nods. “It was pretty painful to watch.”

Akash elbows him, and Henry rushes to add, “At least you threw that long pitch for a reason. Jordan totally choked on the mound—she was off her game.”

Akash steps forward. “I totally get it. I mean, Omar Khan!” His wide eyes make me smile, and I know he really does get it. “If anyone can get your dad over here, it's him.” He friendshippunches my shoulder. “We'll see you around, okay?”

They turn to go, and Henry mutters, “Look who's coming.”

I turn to see Jordan making her way up my driveway.

“I'm outta here.” Henry starts across the lawn, away from

Jordan. Akash starts to follow.

“Wait,” I say.

Henry turns. “What is it?”

Jordan marches up onto the porch, ignoring the guys. She puts her hands on her hips. “Jalaal says you're definitely quitting baseball.”

“What?” Akash steps back up onto the porch. “Man, you can't quit the team.”

Henry shakes his head. “I would give anything for a spot on the Cardinals. Don't give up yours.”

Jordan folds her arms. “Look, if you hate playing, Bilal, then fine. But don't quit because of one game.”

Akash chimes in. “She's right. You gave away that pitch for a good reason.”

I had no idea they would even care if I quit the team.

Henry sneers at Jordan. “So what's your excuse? What happened to you out there?”

She opens her mouth to speak, then turns to go.

I haven't been a great friend to Jordan, but I can't let the guys think she doesn't deserve to be on the team. “She is worried about her dad, too.”

Henry's sneer is replaced by a raised eyebrow. “Your dad?”

Jordan whirls around. “My dad has nothing to do with this.”

Jordan wipes her eyes with an angry swipe of her hand. She draws in a breath and says, “He's in Afghanistan, that's all. So are a lot of other parents. It's no big deal.” She looks right at me, half daring, half pleading with me to not tell the rest of the story. And I don't; it is not my story to tell.

Akash is the first to apologize. “Sorry we've been . . .”

Jordan sniffs, but her eyes are no longer shiny. “. . . such jerks?”

Akash flashes half a grin and nods. “Yeah. Total jerks.”

Henry folds his arms. “Speak for yourself.”

We stare at him. He offers a sheepish grin and says, “Fine, okay. I'm sorry, too.”

So I go back to playing baseball, back to waiting for Baba. The month of Ramadan begins with our daily pre-dawn
suhoor
and post-sunset
iftar
meals, without Baba. Last year's start of Ramadan feels like ages ago, back when my whole life was still in Karachi. I wanted this Ramadan to be my first fasting year, to go without food or water from sunset to sundown, like a grown-up. But Ammi says that with the baseball district and state tournaments coming up, I have to break my fast after school so I'll be ready for afternoon practices.

At least I have baseball to distract me from the fact that it's been almost a year since I've seen Baba. Eleven whole months, for anyone who is counting.

I try to imagine Omar Khan talking to politicians and other important people who have strings to pull.

Now that we aren't going to Toronto, everyone is focused on the state championship finals. I play in every Cardinals game now, on the mound half the time, and Jordan pitching the other half. Since the Loudoun team will be away in Toronto on July fourth, everyone thinks we'll win this year's state championship, no problem.

A win at state won't be as sweet as it would if the Loudoun team were there to beat. But it gives us all a new goal, and sometimes just having a goal is enough to keep you swinging at all the balls that fly your way.

Jalaal and I always give Jordan a ride to practice now, and it doesn't matter if the other guys see us or not.

Today when we swing by Jordan's house to pick her up, no one answers the door.

Jalaal shrugs. “Maybe she got a ride with Coach Matt.”

But when we get to the field, Jordan isn't there, and neither is Coach Matt. Practice goes on without them.

“It's probably nothing,” Jalaal says on our way home.

But with the district tournament next week, Coach Matt himself said no one was allowed to miss practice.

When we pass Jordan's house on our way home, something is different.

“Stop the car!”I'm already reaching to unbuckle my seat belt.

“Whoa—hold on, little buddy.” Jalaal pulls over and parks.

When I jump out of the car, Jalaal calls, “Wait up!”

I stop short, but not because Jalaal told me to wait.

“What is it, Bilal?” Jalaal's door slams.

I point to the towering tree and its bare trunk. “The yellow ribbon—it's gone.”

We stand there for a few moments, staring at the ribbonless tree trunk. Why would Jordan take it down?

Jalaal slips his phone from his back pocket. “I'm texting Coach Matt.” His thumbs fly over the screen as he mumbles, “At your house. No one home. All okay?”We watch the screen, waiting for the ping of a text from Coach Matt.

The text never comes, but Coach Matt does, around the side yard. “Hey, guys!” His smile is contagious.

He claps Jalaal on the shoulder. “My brother-in-law is back.”

Just as I'm trying to figure out if a brother-in-law is the same thing as a brother, Jordan comes jogging over.

“Hey!” She stops in front of us, grinning. “My dad's here.” She takes in a deep breath and lets it out in a whoosh. “He surprised me!”

Coach Matt heads back toward the side yard and waves for us to follow. “You guys hungry? Come on out back.”

Jalaal and I glance at each other and follow them around to the backyard. Since it's still the month of Ramadan, we're supposed to wait until after sunset to eat dinner with our family.

“I'll introduce you to my dad!” I have never seen Jordan smile with her whole face before.

In the backyard, Coach Matt flips a hamburger on the grill, and a lady who must be Mrs. Coach Matt comes out with a pitcher of iced tea. Jordan's mom looks up from the table, where she's arranging napkins and forks on a red, white, and blue tablecloth. She smiles when she sees us.

Jordan skips over to her father, who's seated in a wooden deck chair. Next to him, leaning on the deck railing, are a pair of crutches. He looks thinner than I remember from the time I saw him at the Holiday Sing-Along. But that only makes him look more like Jordan.

Jordan beams. “Jalaal, this is my dad.” Her eyes shine, and I can't help but smile, too. “And this is Bilal.”

Jalaal shakes his hand first. “Welcome home, sir.”

I shake his hand next, and he says, “Jordan's told me about that left arm of yours. She's grateful you're both on the same team so she doesn't have to go up against that pitching arm.”

Jordan's cheeks flush red. “Dad . . .” She rolls her eyes.