It rains all day Monday. Kim sits sneezing in class next to me until finally the teachers send her home. We only just have time for me to fill her in about Mohammed.
“He’s safe, Ali, isn’t that a relief? And no one guessed, it’s quite funny really. Once Samir’s better we should have a party. My sister’ll get some cans for us.”
“Muslims don’t drink,” I tell her, but it feels good to be laughing about something again.
After school I decide to go around to the hospital and insist on seeing Samir but when I get there they tell me he’s been discharged. I’m not sure what to do next. I don’t have his phone number and Naazim probably won’t let me in. But Samir might not be back at school for weeks. I just can’t wait that long.
So I take my chances and go around to Samir’s flat. When I get there I ring the doorbell. The Chinese lady from the takeout comes out and looks me up and down slowly.
“Too late,” she says. “He not want girlfriend now.” She kicks a bit of rubbish into the gutter and goes back into her shop.
I can hear someone coming downstairs slowly and then Auntie Selma opens the door and throws her arms around me. “Alix, habibti, darling, come, come.”
We go upstairs and into the kitchen and Naazim is there with his back to me, swilling something around in the sink.
Samir is sitting at the table and I stand there thinking, Should I give him a hug like Kim and Steven always do? But I’m pretty certain Naazim would throw me out so I just say, “Hi.”
“Hi,” says Samir, and he gets up.
He’s looking really different and then I realize he’s wearing new clothes. He’s got a new blue sweatshirt on with Lions of Mesopotamia on it—where did he get that?—and new jeans, and when I look down at his feet, he’s wearing brand-new Nike sneakers.
“You look cool,” I say.
“Naazim got them for me,” he says with a shy smile. “He had the shirt made specially.”
Naazim is fiddling around with the cutlery and I’m expecting him to say something like, “English football’s rubbish,” or something else mean but he stays silent.
Auntie Selma insists I stay to dinner, which I have to admit isn’t my favorite idea as Naazim’s sitting about six inches from my nose. It’s a very small kitchen.
She’s cooked up a storm and she piles our plates high with rice and chicken and foul, which are like big brown beans in a thick sauce.
I’m too nervous to eat and Auntie Selma is laughing and saying, “Plenty rice, Alix, eat,” and she’s pushing my plate toward me but I’m just waiting for Naazim to kick off. I know he’s going to blame me for everything.
And then he starts to speak.
“Samir has said to me everything on Mohammed.”
Oh God, I think. Now there’ll be fireworks. I stare across at Samir and for once I’m the one pleading with my eyes. But he isn’t looking at me. He’s glued to his brother and he doesn’t even look worried. Maybe Naazim has turned him against me.
I suddenly feel like crying because that would be so unfair. It wasn’t even my idea in the first place to hide Mohammed. Not that I regret it now. Whatever Naazim says, I know we did the right thing.
“I can’t believe what you and my brother have did,” Naazim goes on.
His eyes are drilling into mine. I think, What if he hits me? I’m sure he’s got a real temper and he’s been a soldier. He’s probably killed people; slapping a fourteen-year-old girl is nothing. Why don’t I ever have anyone on my side?
I can’t hold the tears back any longer. I feel so stupid as they run down my face and I try to brush them away. But they just keep pouring down.
Then Naazim speaks again, only in a really quiet, gentle voice, “No, please don’t to cry. You did a good thing, Alix. A very good thing.”
“Very good, habibti,” nods Auntie Selma, piling more rice onto my plate.
“You give to me and my family something very special,” Naazim goes on.
Have I just landed on a different planet? I can’t believe this. I try to catch Samir’s eye but he’s swirling his fork around in his rice.
Naazim is struggling with his English and he mutters something in Arabic to Samir, which sounds like “leisure” and Samir says, “Refugee.”
“Yes, refugee, we are refugee. I come to this country when I sixteen. Nobody care. Nobody help us or talk to us,” says Naazim. He’s leaning toward me as he talks in this urgent voice as if it’s really important I understand him.
“My little brother he is all alone, he is sad boy. No mummy, no daddy, I am mummy and daddy now.”
“Inshallah,” says Aunty Selma.
Naazim suddenly looks so young and vulnerable, like you could just push him over, and he’s nineteen, way older than me.
“You are the first one to make us feel somebody care,” he goes on. “You hide Mohammed and you don’t tell nobody. You make us feel somebody want refugee for the first time since we run away from Iraq.” He looks down at his plate and shrugs. “I don’t know nothing more to say.”
It goes very quiet in the kitchen except for Auntie Selma running the water in the sink, which is soothing, and I suddenly realize how I misjudged Naazim. He’s not mean at all, just very protective of his brother and weighed down with too much responsibility.
Well, I know what that feels like.
Samir wants me to tell them all about Mohammed and when I’ve finished he says, “That’s just what I would have done.” Then he leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
I go bright red and glance at Naazim. He doesn’t meet my eyes but he doesn’t say anything either. For a few seconds the room is very quiet, just the sound of a tap dripping in the sink and the Chinese lady calling out in the shop below.
Then Samir gives a loud burp and I look over in surprise. He says, “In Iraq it is a compliment to the cook to burp.”
“Zank you,” says Auntie Selma, and her face splits in a huge grin.
“Shukran, Auntie Selma,” I say. “Thank you very much.”
Everyone laughs, even Naazim, and starts to shout in Arabic and English and pass the food around again.