ONE

Pear Orchards, Ohio

September 1984

Noorah Montez had heard herself described as quiet, shy, and timid. She wasn’t sure what timid meant, but it probably was along the same line as quiet and shy. She knew what those words meant. She felt a lot more than quiet and shy on the morning of her first day of kindergarten—she felt terrified. She was proud of knowing such a large word, but pride was the furthest thing from her mind at that moment.

When the sun had still been waking up in the very early morning, her mother had helped her bathe. Then she’d been dressed warmly in her favorite white, velvet-like dress with wooly tights and the pretty pale pink sweater to go over it. Then her long, silky black hair—it almost reached her butt—had been brushed until it was smooth, separated on both sides of her head, and then braided. On any other day, she would have been pleased by the resulting appearance. She liked being made up to look pretty. She’d been too scared or nervous to feel pretty though.

By the time her mother had finished, the sun had already gotten out of bed and was in his proper place in the sky. When they’d headed to the kitchen for breakfast, she had spotted her brand new school bag, a pretty pink with flowers all over it, sitting by the door with her brother’s bag—a not so pretty red bag with a car on it—as well as her matching lunchbox. Mukhtâr and her father were already in the kitchen.

Mahmood Montez, her father, was sipping his coffee and eating slowly. Her big brother—he was a whole five years bigger—was eating like a pig. That’s how she’d heard her father describe Mukhtâr’s quick shoveling of food into his mouth as if it was his very last meal. She wasn’t sure why he hadn’t improved his eating methods after the first time their father had said that. Being compared to a snorting pig was not exactly a compliment.

Today, she barely paid attention to how her brother was eating though. She was too busy trying to get her trembling legs to move toward the table. She hadn’t known you could really shake from fear before. She’d seen it happen on cartoons she’d watched with Mukhtâr, but she’d thought it was something to make it seem more interesting or funny. It wasn’t funny or interesting now. When she finally reached her chair and sat down, she could feel her entire body shaking. She also felt like she might throw up. It would be a shame if her puke ended up on her pancakes. She loved pancakes—but not covered in throw up, of course.

But even though she loved pancakes and could eat them at any time of the day normally—sometimes she asked for them for lunch—today was different. Today she would be going to school for the very first time. She was scared, terrified, and any other words that meant the same thing that she didn’t know yet. She would have to sit in a room with a whole bunch of other kids she didn’t know and a woman she’d never met. Her parents wouldn’t be there and Mukhtâr would be in a different room. Nothing was quite so terrifying, especially for a little girl who had met very few kids in her five years of life. Her parents’ encouraging stories of the friends she’d make and the toys she’d play with made little difference. She would rather play with her own toys and stay home.

She knew she couldn’t do that though. Big girls went to school. Only babies stayed home and she wasn’t a baby anymore. She would have to be brave and go like she was supposed to. She hoped it would be as fun as her parents said it would be. She didn’t really think being in a room full of other kids she didn’t know could be that much fun. She would have rather stayed with Mukhtâr, but he was in a very big kid class that didn’t allow little girls like her in them, and those classes didn’t have toys to play with in them either, so that probably would be a lot less fun.

“Assalâmu ’alaykum, princess,” Mahmood greeted her warmly with his usual gentle smile. “Are you excited for her first day of school?”

Her father was a full-blooded Mexican, as was her mother, which showed in the golden complexion, deep-brown eyes, and wavy coal-black hair. She’d heard people say she looked exactly like him. He was also very tall, broad, and muscular.

“I’m scared,” she said honestly. She poked a tiny, slender finger at the pancakes. “I don’t feel like eating.”

“I can put them in your lunchbox and you can eat them if you feel up to it later,” Naseerah Domínguez said.

Her mother, in contrast to her tall husband, was a petite woman of slender build. She was several shades lighter than Mahmood with an olive complexion, and she had the same dark, silky coal-black hair that she kept in a long braid that fell down her back.

Noorah nodded her acquiescence and Naseerah took the plate away. A slurp from her brother’s attention thought her attention to him, and she watched as he gulped down his glass of milk. Watching him made her feel even more sick.

“Mukhtâr, what have I told you about eating like an animal?” Mahmood asked. “Your food isn’t going anywhere.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled apologetically. “I forgot.”

Mukhtâr looked kind of like their father, too. He had the same golden complexion and the face shape was similar. His coal-black hair was curly like their mother’s though and he’d also inherited her long eyelashes and the shape of her eyes and lips. His nose didn’t look like either one. She’d heard it was her grandfather’s nose. Noorah knew her eyes, lips, and nose were like their father’s because their mother had told her.

Mahmood looked back at Noorah, smiling kindly. “The first day of school can be a bit scary sometimes, but you’ll have fun; and if you need anything, your brother will be there with you, alright?”

Noorah nodded. She was still scared but remembering that Mukhtâr would be in the same building if she truly needed him was comforting. “Okay.”

Naseerah swept into the kitchen. Noorah assumed she’d been in the hall putting the uneaten pancakes in her lunchbox. “Mukhtâr, are you done? You need to get going.”

Mukhtâr drained what was left in his glass, wiped his finger through the remains of syrup on his plate which he licked off, and then said alhamdulillâh. He pushed back his chair and stood. “I’m done.”

“I’ll walk you two out,” Naseerah said. “Come along, Noorah. Your brother will take you with him.”

Noorah slipped off the chair and followed Mukhtâr and her mother from the room. When she threw one last glance over her shoulder, her father was watching her with his usual gentle smile. He waved and winked when he caught her eye. She smiled and then continued on.

When she reached the hall by the front door, where the bags were, Mukhtâr was pulling on his black sneakers. Naseerah helped her pull on the pair of white-and-pink shoes they’d chosen for her. Then she helped her slide her arms through the straps of her school bag and placed the lunchbox in one of her hands. When she was done, Noorah noticed Mukhtâr was already wearing his bag and carrying his lunch. He stood by the door, waiting.

Naseerah straightened and opened the door. “Hold your sister’s hand, Mukhtâr,” she instructed. “Remember, you’re responsible for her. Take her to her class and tell the teacher she didn’t eat breakfast, but her breakfast is in her lunch box if she gets hungry.”

“Okay,” he said. He took her free hand and gently pulled her. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Her mother quickly kissed her. She noticed she didn’t try to kiss Mukhtâr. He had recently started saying he was too old for kisses and always pulled away if Naseerah tried to kiss him. “I’ll see you after school, sweetheart. Have a good day.”

She didn’t have the chance to reply before Mukhtâr pulled her out of the door. She heard it close behind them as they ran down the steps, through the courtyard of Cherry Grove, the cherry farm they lived on, and then off the property. Even then, Mukhtâr still kept running. He seemed to be in a hurry.

“Are we late?” she asked, trying to keep up with his speed. That was slightly challenging since he was taller and his legs were longer. She was mostly being pulled along like she dragged her favorite doll.

“We’re going to meet ’Itbân,” Mukhtâr said. “He’ll walk to school with us.”

Noorah knew whom ’Itbân was. He was Mukhtâr’s best friend. He was the same age and in the same class. He had come over to the house a few times, but she’d never actually talked to him.

Mukhtâr finally stopped when they reached the tall old oak tree that stood between their property and the one of a neighboring, larger farm. She couldn’t remember the name, but it had something to do with a kind of tree. It was a lot bigger than their farm, and she’d heard they had a lot of different things they grew and animals, too.

’Itbân was leaning against the tree. In contrast to her brother, he was rather fair, but he had curly black hair and dark eyes. When he noticed them, he straightened his lanky frame and came toward them. His eyes flickered on her for a moment and then looked at Mukhtâr.

“It’s Noorah’s first day of school,” her brother said, as if his friend had asked a question. Maybe he had—with his eyes. “We have to take her to kindergarten.”

“My little sister will start kindergarten next year,” ’Itbân said with a smile directed at Noorah. “Maybe you can be friends. She’ll need some. She’s very shy.”

It was the first time he’d talked to her, so she wasn’t sure how she should reply. She managed a smile and a nod. That seemed to be good enough since he grinned and then turned his attention back to her brother.

Mukhtâr tugged on her as he started forward, ’Itbân walking alongside him. “Let’s go, Noorah. We don’t want to be late.”

Her heart pounded in her chest like the quick beating of a drum at the thought of arriving at school and facing that room of strange children, but she followed her brother and tried to keep up with the boys. As they walked, Mukhtâr and ’Itbân talked, but she wasn’t really listening. She only caught a few words here and there—after school, play, tree. She was too busy worrying about her day ahead to try to even figure out how the words were connected.

The school appeared far too soon for comfort. It was a large building with metal gates that were now open to allow arriving children inside. The name was at the top of the building, but she couldn’t read it. Though she knew some of her letters and sounds, it was far too long to even attempt it. She couldn’t remember what her mother had said the name of her school was. At that moment, it was surrounded by groups and crowds of children arriving who poured through the gates like a flood. It was a scary sight.

If her brother hadn’t been pulling her along, Noorah would have stopped then and waited until the entrance was completely clear and she felt safe. A crowd of strangers was very scary. However, Mukhtâr didn’t even seem to notice the crowd, or maybe it didn’t bother him as much as it did her, he pulled her with him and ’Itbân as they joined the scary flood of children and entered through the gates.

The school yard was just as crowded. Children of all ages seemed to be playing on the swings, slide, and jungle gym. Some made their way toward the building and poured through the open doors, but she was pretty sure most of them were on the playground. There were so many that she was reminded of a colony of ants. She was definitely not going to join them.

“Do you want to play or go to your class?” her brother asked.

“Go to class,” she said immediately. Her class would probably be scary, but the playground was scarier.

Mukhtâr led her inside the building with the other children and down the halls. ’Itbân followed. The building didn’t seem to be as crowded as the outdoors. She saw a few children and some adults who were probably teachers.

Mukhtâr finally pulled her into a classroom that was set up with large round tables, shelves for bags, and a large selection of toys that varied from dolls and cars to construction blocks. She had her own selection of toys at home, but she’d never seen such a variety.

To her relief, there were not very many children in the room, or at least not yet. There were five other children—one a dark-skinned girl with kinky hair, two boys who were slightly fairer with dark hair, and one boy with brown hair and green eyes, and the last a blond and blue-eyed girl. The two girls, who sat together playing with dolls, looked her way curiously. The boys were building something with the blocks and didn’t seem to notice when she entered with Mukhtâr and ’Itbân.

The woman in the room who was presumably her teacher was tall and slender with dark hair and blue eyes. Her smile looked friendly. She came forward and crouched to Noorah’s level. “Hello, sweetheart. What’s your name?”

Noorah found she couldn’t reply. She ducked her head shyly and stared at her feet. After several moments, she heard Mukhtâr answer for her. “Her name is Noorah.”

“My name is Miss Alice,” her teacher said. “Noorah is such a pretty name. I don’t think I’ve heard it before. Would you like to play, Noorah?”

“She didn’t want to eat breakfast, so Mami said to tell you that if she gets hungry, her breakfast is with her lunch,” Mukhtâr added.

Noorah stayed silent.

“Alright then,” Miss Alice said.

“I’m going now,” Mukhtâr told her. “I’ll check on you at break, okay?”

She nodded and blinked away the tears that threatened to come forth. A part of her wanted to beg him to stay, but she didn’t. She heard footsteps walk away as he and ’Itbân left, and she was alone with the teacher.

She was taken by the hand and led to the shelf to put away her bag by Miss Alice. She held back her tears as she thought of the long day ahead.

🍫🍫🍫

In the early morning before leaving for school, Ya’qoob Scott was sitting on his rumpled bed with two toy cars, crashing them together. He was already dressed, his golden locks damp from his bath. At the exact age of six, he would be starting the first grade and couldn’t wait.

He was looking forward to his first day of school. There were few things Ya’qoob loved more than school. The time he had to spend sitting still in a chair during class time was kind of hard, but he usually found ways to entertain himself that made that time more enjoyable. His teachers usually didn’t like his ideas for some reason. His brother Hâroon and sister Maryam didn’t seem to share his enthusiasm though.

Hâroon seemed to like school well enough, but he obviously didn’t think it was as fun as Ya’qoob did. Then again, Hâroon never seemed to think of all the interesting and fun stuff that could be done at school that he did. That was probably why.

Maryam seemed to hate her school. Maybe it was because she had to go to the same one as their cousin Khaboor. They never seemed to get along much. He’d heard that Khaboor had tied her to a tree when they were little. That probably had a lot to do with why she didn’t seem to like him now. Khaboor had even tied him to a chair once when he was babysitting a few months ago. It had been the longest time Ya’qoob had ever had to sit down and had not been fun at all. He was glad no one had asked him to babysit again.

“Ya’qoob Yahyâ Badr Scott!”

His mother’s voice told him that he’d done something to get on her nerves again. His full name was never a good sign.

Ya’qoob stood in first place as the most difficult child to manage among his three siblings. He knew that because his mother had told him so—many times. If there was an award for naughtiest child to be had, he would have won it. If there was an award for craziest and most reckless child, he would have won that, too. At least his mother seemed to think so.

He wished that there did exist such an award, and that it came in the form of chocolate—or toys. Chocolate disappeared quickly and came out in your poop. He’d learned that was what happened to the food you ate. How it had turned into an ugly brown with the most repugnant smell he had no idea. Toys stayed around for a while, or at least until he broke them. He was good at that, too.

He’d heard his father say that his behavior was the punishment for his mother torturing her own mother when she was little. She hadn’t liked that. He knew that it was true that his mother had been a naughty little girl. His grandmother had told him plenty of stories—so had his father who had known his mother since she was his age. Some of the things she’d done seemed a lot worse than the things he had. His mother was probably glad he hadn’t tried any of those things yet—but he still had plenty of time to do them if he wanted to.

He might have hit a new record of just how much he could get on his mother’s nerves on the first day back to school though, if the sound of her voice was anything to judge by. He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d done this time. He couldn’t remember doing anything naughty yet—though he had a full day ahead of him to fix that problem. By sundown, he would have probably done plenty of naughty things. That was usually how his day went.

He’d gotten up as soon as the sun peeked through his window, which was the usual. Ya’qoob always rose with the sun and the crow of the rooster. He’d taken a bath by himself for the first time and had managed not to slip and crack his skull open when he got out of the tub, like his mother was always threatening would happen. He’d of course relayed that information to her immediately. His sister had gasped, his brother had covered his eyes, and his mother had sent him back to the bathroom to put clothes on. He’d heard his father laughing when he left. He had not yet figured out what had been so funny.

He had since dressed warmly in a turtleneck and pants, brushed his teeth, and even combed his hair, though his mother usually did that. He’d tried to make his bed, but it still looked a bit wrinkled to him—nothing like the perfect smoothness it had when his mother or sister did it. He had not yet left his bedroom since, so he really hadn’t had time to do anything particularly bad or naughty. It was a mystery why his mother seemed to think he had.

“Ya’qoob Scott! Get out here this instant!”

He set down the cars, climbed off the bed, and went to the door. He poked his head out the door as he opened it curiously. He saw no signs of his mother. He moved out into the hall and then headed toward the kitchen. That was probably where she was. He finally came upon her between the entrance hall and kitchen.

’Alîyâ Paisley stood with her hands folded over her chest, the leaf-green eyes he’d also inherited from her sparking. One just had to look at his mother to know where he’d gotten his looks from. At the moment, she looked scary.

She pointed toward the entrance hallway. “What did you do to your schoolbag?”

The question reminded him that he had in fact done something—just last night. He hadn’t thought it to be naughty at the time, but his mother obviously thought differently. He’d thought it would be cool to arrive to school with a tie-dye schoolbag. In the middle of the night, while the rest were asleep, he’d borrowed his sister’s tie-dye set from her room and dumped the colors on his bag as it stood in the hallway with the others. He’d thought his art would have dried by now.

“It’s not dry yet?” he asked.

’Alîyâ raised an eyebrow. He guessed that meant it wasn’t the right question to ask. Maybe he was supposed to say sorry, except he wasn’t. He was just disappointed it hadn’t dried fast enough. Or maybe she wanted to know what the lines of color dripping down the black bag were.

One of the few things that Ya’qoob had learned in his six years of his life was that a little smiling and a bit of charm could go a long way. He had learned early on how to use it effectively on his mother by watching how his father acted when ’Alîyâ was upset with him. She usually forgot she was angry pretty quickly then. It even worked if he wanted something really badly—most of the time. It seemed like a very good time to turn on some charm now.

He gave her his best smile. “Mommy, you look absolutely amazing today. You’re prettier everyday.”

She sighed and then laughed. “You are going to be trouble one day, aren’t you?” He wanted to ask what she meant, but she took his arm and led him toward the door. “Come and see what you’ve done.”

In the morning light, to his disappointment, his creation didn’t look as great as he’d thought it would. Some trails of color ran down the sides, front, and back of his schoolbag, but most weren’t visible against the dark color. There was also a very big puddle of colors on the floor. This was definitely not how he’d imagined it would turn out.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” ’Alîyâ asked sternly. At least she didn’t sound as scary and furious as she had earlier. “Can you explain this?”

Ya’qoob glanced at the mess he’d made very carefully before he turned to his mother with a wide grin. “Our floor is very colorful now.”

She groaned. “There is just no talking sense into you. Do you realize what you did was very naughty?”

“I was just making my bag pretty,” he told her.

“And you took your sister’s things without asking,” she reminded him. “She’s not exactly happy about that.”

“She was asleep,” Ya’qoob pointed out. “I can ask her now.”

’Alîyâ sighed. “You can’t ask for permission to use something that you already took. How about you apologize and promise not to do it again?”

“I can’t promise that!” Ya’qoob’s eyes widened. “That would be lying. I’ll probably do it again anyway. I always do stuff again that I promise not to do again. Promising not to do it again doesn’t work for me.”

She groaned. Dramatically, she raised her hands. “Allâh have mercy on my mother for putting up with me.”

Ya’qoob watched her curiously. “Should I ask Allâh to have mercy on you for putting up with me, too?”

Her aggravated expression turned to one of amusement. “You do that. Lots and lots of mercy. I’ll be putting up with you for at least another twelve years. You should get married early, Ya’qoob.”

“Why?” he asked. He understood the concept of marriage, but it certainly wasn’t one he thought about. It just wasn’t the sort of thing a six-year-old boy was interested in. Six-year-old girls were a bit different. They seemed obsessed with weddings. He knew that because he kept being forced into the part of the groom when they found him.

“Then you can torture your wife instead of me.” His mother picked up his bag. “We need to get this cleaned up before you kids leave.”

Ya’qoob followed her as she went into the cleaning supply closet, got a rag, and then carried herself to the bathroom. He stood in the doorway and watched as she wet the cloth and wiped it over any dripping, wet spots on the bag.

“Should I marry when I’m fourteen like you did then?” he asked, his mind still on the topic. He’d already heard of his parents’ love story many times. They had met when she was six and his father ten, then followed several years of his father trying to keep her in one piece and out of trouble—his words—and then they’d married when she was fourteen and he eighteen. “Maryam’s fourteen,” he observed. “She’s not married yet.”

“That was a different time,” his mother replied. “God forgive me if I saddle some poor girl with the fourteen-year-old you. You’ll probably be worse than I was. I wasn’t exactly wife material and you certainly won’t be anything but a menace, I’m sure.”

“What’s wife material?” he asked.

“The important qualities that will make a girl a good wife,” his mother explained. “I didn’t have them when your father married me.”

“Then why did you get married?” Ya’qoob wondered why she’d have married if she hadn’t been wife material. She seemed to think it was important.

“It was the way things were in the family at that time. My sisters were around that age when they married, so I didn’t want to be different.”

“But I thought you didn’t want to get married,” Ya’qoob said thoughtfully. “You tried to make Daddy go, didn’t you? He said so.”

One of the focal and most interesting points of the story of how his parents had married was his mother’s reaction to his father’s proposal. She’d played pranks and done all sorts of interesting things to make him withdraw his proposal. The story of serving him a very live frog on a covered platter was the best one. Ya’qoob aimed to try that on someone one day.

His father had actually taken the creature home, named it Tommy—which was apparently a running joke between him and ’Alîyâ because she’d named one of the bulls Tommy when she was six—and it had lived out its days as a pet of sorts. It had been a failed prank for ’Alîyâ. In the end, no matter what she did or tried, his father had stuck to his guns—that was an expression he’d learned; he wasn’t actually sure if his father really owned a gun or not—and she had married him. To his ears, he’d assumed his mother hadn’t liked his father very much and hadn’t actually wanted to marry him.

“I was just testing him,” ’Alîyâ remarked. “I liked him well enough, but I needed to be sure he’d stay even at my worst. I wasn’t like the other girls.”

“Maybe I should test my wife, too,” Ya’qoob said thoughtfully. His eyes gleamed. “I could come up with some fun tests.”

The frog one would definitely have to be used. Maybe he could make a mouse test, too.

His mother turned on him, looking horrified. “Absolutely not! We’ll probably never get you married then. You’ll chase away every single one.”

Ya’qoob hoped they left screaming. At least it would be entertaining to watch.  He didn’t say so to ’Alîyâ though. Something told him she wouldn’t agree.

’Alîyâ finished wiping the bag clean and left the bathroom. He followed and watched as she returned it to the entry hall but away from the colorful puddle his midnight inspiration of creativity had produced.

“Come and eat, so you three can go,” ’Alîyâ said. “You don’t want to be late.”

Ya’qoob agreed. Few things were as awkward as being the last one to walk into the classroom when everyone else had already sat down and were engaged in an activity. Then they all turned and stared at you like you were a three-headed alien, which he wasn’t. Even if people sometimes acted like he was.

He followed his mother to the kitchen, where the rest of the family had already gathered. His father, brother, and sister were already seated. Yahyâ Scott was sipping his coffee, Maryam was reading a thick book of some sort, and Hâroon was coloring. His sister was the oldest of them and he was the youngest. His brother was in the middle, like peanut butter and jam in a sandwich.

Ya’qoob wasn’t sure if he liked being the youngest or not. Sometimes it afforded him the special privileges of his parents expecting less of him than his elder sister and brother. They didn’t expect him to do all the harder house chores like Maryam, who was fourteen, did and they didn’t expect him to be as responsible as eight-year-old Hâroon. But it also meant everyone else could order him around and make him do things for them, which wasn’t much fun.

When he’d decided he wanted a little brother or sister to order around, too, and had asked his mother to get him one, she had told him that Allâh would decide whether he would get one or not. He’d been sure it was much easier than that. Some of his classmates thought huge storks brought babies from heaven to their mommies. Ya’qoob wasn’t silly like them though. If that was true, he would have seen the stork at least once when his uncle and aunt were given their babies. He knew where babies really came from. Women went into the hospital and then came out with a baby or two. Obviously they sold babies in the hospital. It took a long time to buy them though. Some women came out after a few days. He’d told his mother she could buy him one at the hospital. She had looked at him in that funny, are-you-a-three-headed-alien way. He wasn’t sure why.

“Time to eat,” his mother announced as she swept in with him at her heels. “Ya’qoob, sit down.”

He took his usual place beside Hâroon. Just two years apart, they were fairly close and practically best friends—even if Hâroon often stopped him or tried to stop him from something fun. Though the two of them had the same leaf-green eyes ’Alîyâ did, their similarities stopped after that. Hâroon had a head of hair that was almost bright orange in the sunlight. Ya’qoob had heard him called “carrot” more than once at school. It didn’t strike him as nice to call someone a vegetable or fruit because of the color of their hair. He was certain he wouldn’t want to be called lemon. Distinct freckles danced across his brother’s nose, and he’d heard that Hâroon’s nose, lips, and chin resembled Yahyâ’s while his supposedly were like their mother’s.

’Alîyâ set plates of scrambled eggs and turkey bacon in front of each of them, along with a fork. Then she placed a bag of sliced bread and a package of sliced cheese before sitting down beside her husband. As Hâroon piled eggs on a slice of bread and Maryam started eating with her fork—she was going through some weird stage that made her think not eating bread would make her lose weight—Ya’qoob ate the caveman way; or that’s what his father called it when he grabbed everything with his hands and shoved it into his mouth.

“Say bismillâh,” Yahyâ reminded him as he stuffed one of the turkey strips into his mouth.

“Bishmillah,” he said around the food.

Yahyâ looked like he wasn’t sure whether to scold or laugh. Then he sighed and took another sip of his coffee before turning to his own food. Ya’qoob counted that as a good thing. He didn’t like being scolded.

After swallowing the turkey, he grabbed another strip and shoved it in, too. Then he started shoving pieces of scrambled eggs in as well.

“Eww!” Maryam exclaimed in disgust. “Can’t you eat like a human?”

Ya’qoob sent her an open-mouthed smile to disgust her further. It was always fun to get on her nerves; but his father’s stern tone stopped him from doing anything else.

“Ya’qoob.” That tone was always more than enough to stop him from whatever he was doing. He knew it was serious when his father took a stern tone with him since he rarely did.

Without a word, he returned to eating properly—well, as properly as he could manage. He still continued shoving food into his mouth to the disgust of his sister. He didn’t dare send her any more open-mouthed smiles though.

He was the first to finish eating, which was the usual. Without any prompting or reminding, he slid from his chair and then climbed up on the stool below the steel kitchen sink to wash his hands. He slathered the handwash liquid on his hands and face and rubbed his hands so hard that suds and bubbles appeared. He loved bubbles. When he tried to wash it off though, he found himself in a problem. The more water he used, the more soapy he became and the more suds and bubbles appeared.

“Mommy, the soap isn’t coming off!” he called. “Help me!”

He thought he heard his father chuckle behind him. He wasn’t sure why. Being a soap monster wasn’t very funny. It wasn’t fun either. He was worried some of the soap might go into his mouth. Soap didn’t taste good. He knew that because his same-aged cousin Dawood had dared him to taste some. A boy never backed down from a dare. He wished he had that day. It had been a long time before the taste of it had left his mouth.

To his relief, his mother appeared alongside him. She examined his hands and mouth and then shook her head. The expression on her face was familiar. It was when she was half amused and half annoyed. She seemed to have it on her face often when it came to him for some reason. “You’ve put too much soap. I told you before to only use a drop.”

“It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t bubbly.”

’Alîyâ sighed. Then with a resigned smile, she helped him wash his hands clean and then his mouth. It took some time to remove it all; and by the time she was done, Hâroon and Maryam had finished eating, brought their dishes to the sink, and left to wash up in a nearby bathroom instead. After he was soap-free, she handed him a paper towel to dry his hands and face.

“Go,” she said. “Your brother and sister are waiting for you.”

That proved to be true. When he entered the hall, both had put on their socks and shoes, and Maryam was now fully covered from head to toe in black. She’d started covering her face like their mother did when she went out recently. Ya’qoob wasn’t exactly sure why either of them did it.

“Hurry and put on your shoes,” Maryam said. “We need to go.”

Ya’qoob obediently reached for his shoes without comment. Then he sat on the hardwood floor of the entrance hall, pulled them on over his feet, and pulled the sticky straps closed. He jumped to his feet, picked up his bag and lunchbox, and then turned to his sister to signify he was ready. Through it all, Hâroon watched but didn’t say a word, which wasn’t unusual. His brother didn’t talk very much.

“Mom, Dad, we’re going,” Maryam called. “Assalâmu ’alaykum.”

“Wa’alaykumus salâm,” their parents replied.

She opened the door and led the way out. Ya’qoob followed her into the crisp, cool air, and Hâroon closed the door as he trailed after them. The sun was already up in the sky and the property of Elm Creek Farm, founded by his now deceased great grandfather in the early 1930s, was already busy. As they were heading in the direction of the open gates to leave, the sound of machinery, cries of animals, and the voices of men filled the air.

“So, Qoobie...” Maryam said, her voice sounding a cross between annoyed and curious. “Why did you take my tie-dye kit and dump it all over your bag?”

“I want to know, too,” Hâroon spoke up for the first time. “You made a big mess.”

“I was trying to make a tie-dye bag,” Ya’qoob told them, feeling relieved Maryam didn’t actually sound very angry. “It didn’t work.”

Hâroon snickered. “That’s not how you make tie-dye anything, Qoob.”

“And your bag is black,” Maryam pointed out. “If you’re dyeing something, it has to be white.”

Ya’qoob’s shoulders slumped. “Oh...”

Maryam patted his shoulder. “I know... How about you don’t touch my tie-dye stuff without permission and I’ll make you a tie-dye shirt. Would you like that?”

He lit up and grinned up at her. Though his sister could be temperamental at times, especially when it came to their neighbor Sâleh—who had teased her far too much when she was little—and their cousin Khaboor who he thought she may have never forgiven for tying her up, she could also be very nice and generous. “Yes!”

“And me?” Hâroon asked. “Do I get one?”

“Sure,” Maryam said. “I’ll make one for all three of us. We can do it together. It’ll be fun.”

Ya’qoob was excited at the thought. Messy activities were always fun; and this time he would actually succeed in what he was trying to make. He couldn’t wait.

When they exited the gates of Elm Creek, sixteen-year-old Khaboor Paisley, the eldest son of his maternal uncle Arqam, was waiting. With him were his two sisters Bilqees, aged fourteen like Maryam, and six-year-old Hâdirah. Ya’qoob noticed their brother ’Itbân, two years older than Hâroon, was missing. Dawood Paisley, his uncle Tâhir’s son, who was the same age as both him and Hâdirah, was with them.

“Assalâmu ’alaykum,” both Maryam and Hâroon greeted the group, and they replied.

Hâroon, who often played with ’Itbân, noticed his absence, too. “Where’s ’Itbân?”

“He went earlier to meet with Mukhtâr,” Khaboor said. “They’re going to school together.”

Since there was a four-year difference between him and Mukhtâr, Ya’qoob had never played with him, but he knew who he was. One rarely saw his cousin ’Itbân without Mukhtâr in his company. Hâroon played with him sometimes,  too.

Khaboor turned to lead the way. “Come on. We need to get going.”

The others followed. Ya’qoob, walking between his brother and Dawood, his two favored playmates, trailed after his cousin as they left the farm behind and walked through the neighborhood of Pear Orchards in the direction of school. As had been the usual since Ya’qoob had begun kindergarten the year before, they would first stop at Pear Orchards Elementary, where he, Dawood, Hâroon, and Hâdirah attended. Then Khaboor, Maryam, and Bilqees would head to the high school together.

Ya’qoob couldn’t help noticing that Bilqees, unlike Maryam, didn’t cover her face. The two girls were walking directly behind Khaboor and in front of him. Bilqees was dressed head to toe in black though and her hair was covered. It made him curious why Maryam covered her face and their cousin didn’t when they were the exact same age.

“Maryam, how come you cover your face?”

Maryam threw a glance over her shoulder curiously. The only part of her face that was visible were the pale blue eyes, the exact same shade as Yahyâ’s. She smiled. “Because it makes Allâh happy.”

Ya’qoob pondered on that for a few moments. Then he asked, “Will it make Allâh happy if I cover my face, too?”

Khaboor burst out laughing. Ya’qoob didn’t think he’d said anything funny. “Why are you laughing?”

Maryam sent a glare in the direction of their older cousin who didn’t seem to notice. He was still laughing. “Ignore him.” She dropped back, turning her full attention to her brother. “Allâh told the believing women to cover their faces so their status would be known and they wouldn’t get the wrong kind of attention. So that’s why I do it.”

“Wrong kind of attention...” Ya’qoob repeated slowly. “What does that mean?”

Maryam was silent for a few moments as she thought of how best to express her meaning in an age-appropriate manner, which wasn’t exactly easy. “Well, at a certain age, boys start liking girls,” she finally said. She heard Khaboor snickering, but ignored him. “There are good guys and bad ones. So a girl definitely doesn’t want the attention of the bad ones. Covering her face like Allâh told her helps protect them from looking at her.”

Ya’qoob stared at Khaboor. He was still laughing. “Is Khaboor a good one or a bad one, Maryam?”

Maryam threw a glance at their cousin who was currently doing a very good job of getting on her nerves. He’d been good at it since they were children. “I’m still making up my mind.”

Khaboor stopped laughing. “Hey!”

Ya’qoob, Dawood, Hâroon, and Hâdirah giggled; and Ya’qoob spotted Bilqees’s amused grin. Khaboor glared, but it only made them laugh harder.

Khaboor huffed and marched ahead. “Come on. We’re going to be late.”

When they reached the property of the elementary school several minutes later, the gates were open and groups of children were walking in, some with friends, others with older siblings, and a few with parents. Ya’qoob stopped to look up at the arched sign above the gates that had the school name. Proud of his reading skills—he had graduated from short vowels to long ones and from three-letter words to five-letter ones recently—he tried to read it, even though some of the words were extremely long.

“Pa-eh-ah-ra...” Remembering that short vowels became long, he said, “Peer?”

Hâroon snickered. “We don’t live in Peer Orchards, Qoob.”

“Pear,” Ya’qoob amended. He knew what the next word said but tried to sound it out anyway as other arrivals moved around him to enter the open gates. “Oh-ra-ka-ha-ra-da-sa...” He looked at his brother with wide eyes. “How does that even say orchards?”

Behind him, he heard Khaboor laughing again. His cousin was getting annoying now. He didn’t mind people laughing when he did ridiculous things; but he’d asked questions he didn’t think were funny at all twice and Khaboor had laughed.

Hâroon smiled. “You have a lot to learn.”

Ya’qoob turned his attention to the next word. “Eh-la-ma-eh-na-ta-ra-ya...”

“Enough reading,” Maryam said before he could ask how exactly those sounds formed the word elementary. “We have to go. Go inside.”

Ya’qoob wanted to stay and finish. He only had one more word to sound out; but Maryam pushed him forward at the same time, Hâroon began pulling him toward the gates. He had no choice but to follow. Hâdirah and Dawood trailed behind them.

They entered a busy yard. Children aged between five and eleven crowded the playground. Bags had been lined up and discarded on the outside perimeter of the play area and near the stairs that led into the building. Boys and girls of different ages took turns on the swings, slides, monkey bars, see-saw, and gym. They climbed, swung, slid, and rocked. Screams of laughter, loud voices, and high-pitched squeals filled the air. He spotted ’Itbân among them, but there was no sign of Mukhtâr. Mukhtâr tended to prefer quieter, more relaxing activities though. Several teachers stood by to make sure the children didn’t get out of hand.

Ya’qoob’s eyes glowed as he looked at the fun before him. He couldn’t wait to join them. He turned to Hâroon. “Let’s go play!”

Hâroon stared at the crowd of children on the playground, reminded of a stampede of wild buffalo he’d seen in a cartoon once. He could imagine being squashed by that many children in one place. He shook his head vigorously. “I’m not going over there! It looks like a stampede! I’ll go to class and read or something.”

“That’s boring,” Ya’qoob informed him, but Hâroon didn’t seem he’d be changing his mind, for he walked off toward the school building to do just that. He turned to Dawood and Hâdirah. “Let’s go play.”

Dawood was more than willing. He dropped his bag where he stood and then ran off toward the playground without even waiting for Ya’qoob.

“Hey! Wait for me!” Ya’qoob called after him, but he didn’t seem to hear. He didn’t even pause.

Ya’qoob dropped his own bag and left his lunchbox beside it. Then he helpfully yanked Hâdirah’s bag off her shoulders and discarded it with his and Dawood’s. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her along with him as he chased after their cousin.

Ya’qoob immediately inserted himself among the children climbing the gym. There was nothing he liked more than the kind of games and activities that gave him an exciting thrill. Climbing the gym was one. Hâdirah chose the swings instead, and as he was climbing, he spotted Dawood with those taking turns on the slide.

To his disappointment, he didn’t get to play for very long. He was just starting to climb the gym for the second time when a sharp whistle cut through the voices of the children around him and pierced his ears. He immediately recognized the sound. It was the signal that free play was over and it was time to start heading into their classes. Even though he would have preferred to play more, he climbed down and made his way to where he’d left his bag. Dawood and Hâdirah also came over to get theirs.

When they made their way to the stairs, teachers were lining up children. Ya’qoob noticed that there seemed to be a difference in sizes of the children in each line and decided they were being lined up according to their grade. He wondered which one was the first grade line.

A dark-haired, blue-eyed young woman approached him and his cousins. “What grade are you in?”

“First grade,” Ya’qoob said proudly.

“Grade one,” Dawood and Hâdirah said together.

The teacher pointed to the closest line of children. “Line up over there.”

The trio obediently went to the line and stood at the back. Ya’qoob noticed he was one of the tallest among the other children. He could easily see over everyone else’s head. He watched as one by one, teachers led the lines of children inside.

The dark-haired teacher was the one who led the first grade. She stood at the very front and clapped her hands to get their attention. “Follow me,” she said, and then led the way inside.

She led them to a door that was marked “Grade One.” Ya’qoob could read that, though he did wonder about the spelling of one. It didn’t make much sense to him. He and his classmates filed into the room. The teacher didn’t follow. He soon found out why. Another woman, this one older with graying blond hair and gray eyes, was in the class. She was probably the first grade teacher.

“Sit down, everyone,” she said as they entered.

Ya’qoob made sure to sit down beside Dawood. Though he knew a few of the others from last year, he was closest to his cousin. He wasn’t surprised when Hâdirah took a place behind them. The three of them had stuck together since they’d started school last year. It made Ya’qoob feel sorry for Hâroon who had no same-age cousins or close friends to share his class with. All of those he was close to and liked to play with were either in classes above or below him.

“My name is Mrs. Angela,” the teacher introduced herself with a sincere smile. “Welcome to the first grade. We have a fun and interesting year ahead of us.” She picked up a stack of lined papers on her desk. “Today, we’re going to do something easy. I want to know who knows their ABCs and 123s.” She started placing a paper on each desk. “Write your name, the ABCs you know and the numbers.”

“What if I don’t know how to write my name?” Ya’qoob asked, which was an unnecessary question. He’d long ago memorized the spelling of his name.

Mrs. Angela smiled. “Then I’ll help you.” After she’d finished passing papers and ensured everyone had a pencil, giving one to those who had not arrived with the required stock of stationery supplies, she sat at her desk. “You can start.”

“What does my name start with, Mrs. Angela?” Ya’qoob asked.

“What’s your name?” she inquired.

“Ya’qoob.”

It starts with Y,” she said automatically.

He wrote it down. “And then?”

“Yakoob,” she said carefully. Her pronunciation made him wince. “Then A.”

He wrote that down, too. “And then?”

“I guess K...” she said slowly, not sounding very certain of herself.

“No, it's Q,” he told her.

She eyed him suspiciously. “I thought you didn’t know how to spell your name.”

He grinned widely. “No, I was just wondering if you could.”

The class burst into laughter.

The expression that crossed Mrs. Angela’s face reminded him of how Maryam looked before she was about to explode. It seemed to be in his best interest then to duck his head and continue writing his name by himself.