I shake my head. “Zoe’s in Italy.” Having fun without me.
“I know . . . but . . .” She frowns and turns to look around. “Is that music?”
Drum-drum-drum. I realize that the noise I’m hearing is coming from the street outside. We both run to the open window, but we can’t see a thing. The noise gets louder, and I can make out a man calling into a loudspeaker in Urdu. “Vote for the best! Don’t get fooled by the other party. You know who will give you whatever you need.” The rest is drowned out by the music, shrill and startling in the night sky.
Mom grimaces, then shuts the windows. “God, these people are nuts! I don’t remember the election fever being quite so high when I was a child.”
I think it’s sort of fun, people being so excited about electing somebody that they sing about it at midnight. Now that the windows are closed, the quietness in the room is heavy, and we stare at the darkness outside almost desperately. In the silence, I’m back to feeling the strange sadness from before. I suddenly say, “Do you know Sakina’s never been to school?”
Mom frowns. “Sakina? The cook’s daughter?”
I nod. I prefer to think of her as my friend rather than as a servant. I think Mom’s been raised a different way.
Mom says, “Yes, I suppose so. Poor people can’t usually afford to send their kids to school. They need them to work to support the family.”
I feel a heat rising in my head again. “Doesn’t that bother you?” I almost shout. “It’s not fair!”
“I agree. It’s sad. But you can’t really do anything about it, can you?”
I don’t answer, just close my eyes and pretend to yawn. She reaches over and pulls me into a hug. “I love how you care about other people,” she whispers in my ear, and the memory of that long-ago day in Macy’s comes rushing back. I push her slightly, and she loosens her grip.
“Okay, kiddo.” She gets up, and I feel the mattress shift. “Don’t stay up too late, my wonderful, kind daughter.”
I keep my eyes closed even after she’s gone back into her room. I know she’s just trying to cheer me up with her over-the-top praise, but I can’t help feeling it’s all a big fat lie. If I was so great, then Dad wouldn’t have left me. Isn’t it supposed to be impossible to leave your own child if you really love them?
I stay like that in my bed for the longest time, counting sheep, then cats, then dogs, finally cows. Maybe if I help Sakina with her admission test, God will reward me by bringing back my dad.
And maybe pigs will fly.
10
Sakina
The English Teacher
My first lesson is in the kitchen the next afternoon. Everyone else in the house is either asleep or resting, except for Samia Ji, who went out somewhere after lunch. Mimi watches her leave from the staircase, all sad and quiet. Then she turns to me and says too brightly: “English, anyone?”
She’s right: it’s the perfect time to learn some English. I’m so excited I almost forget to chop the potatoes for dinner. I tell Mimi to wait while I get things done.
“I’ll help you,” she says cheerfully, and I stare at her. Maybe she said something else. I often mistake the simplest of English words.
She laughs and translates in Urdu. “I. Will. Help. You.”
After another moment of incredulity, I give up. Americans are very strange. We get to work, she peeling potatoes and then handing them to me for chopping. I can’t help peeking at her sitting next to me, the peeler held expertly in her hand. She scrunches up her eyes as she focuses, just like Jammy as he stacks up his rocks for a game of pitthu.
Mimi looks up and catches me staring. “What? I help my mom cook on the weekends.”
I try to imagine this girl in a kitchen, bending over a sink full of dishes. “What do you cook?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Lots of things. Meat loaf. Alfredo pasta. Avocado sandwiches.”
I don’t know what any of those things are, but they sound delicious. I half close my eyes, pretending to be an American girl with a white chef’s hat and a pink apron around my waist, cooking for an adoring family.
“What’s your favorite?” I ask her.
She thinks. “I like baked salmon the best.” She sees my expression and explains: “It’s a sort of fish.”
My mouth waters, reminding me that I didn’t eat more than a few bites of lunch before Begum Sahiba called me to make chai. “I like fish,” I say dreamily.
“The best part is I can cook it myself. It’s really easy. Just slap on some pesto sauce, arrange some peas and carrots around it, and throw it in the oven.”
I’m trying to follow her even when she doesn’t make any sense. Slapping sauce, throwing food into ovens? “Sounds violent,” I say, not sure if she’s serious.
Mimi doesn’t get it at first. Then she starts laughing, huge laughs that make a happy echoing sound around us. I study her as if she’s a science experiment. Her smile is like a thousand-watt lightbulb. Her eyes crinkle at the corners, and her mouth is so wide-open it looks like it’s splitting in happiness. Her shoulders shake and tremble.
I’m not sure what to do. I usually watch people laugh at the dinner table, or in cars on the street, or from the windows of fancy restaurants. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed in this huge, belly-clutching way. My laugher is usually contained within my body, hands over my mouth to keep it from spilling out.
Nobody told me happiness is infectious. Before I know it, I’m giggling too. My mouth drops open and my eyes crinkle just like hers, and my belly shakes. The sound of giggles fills the kitchen like so many bubbles, and I wonder if anyone in Begum Sahiba’s house has ever laughed like this. Not since I’ve been working here, at least.
“Shh!” I whisper in between giggles. “Your grandmother will be very angry if she sees us like this.”
Mimi tries to catch her breath. “Like what?” she asks. “Peeling potatoes?” That makes us both sit up a bit straighter. The potatoes! I pick up the peeler I dropped on the table and get back to work, smiling broadly. She sighs like a balloon deflating happily in the air. “I knew you’d smile eventually,” she tells me with a smug look on her face.
“I smile sometimes,” I retort.
We peel the rest of the potatoes. At intervals I take little glances at her, and at other intervals I catch her doing the same thing. “Ready to practice your English?” she asks when all the potatoes are chopped and the table is as clean as it was before we started.
My stomach gives a rumble, as if I’ve eaten something left out in the sun too long. Ready? I suppose I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I nod once. Then again, more firmly.
She takes out a notebook with a pink cover. “I’ll say a sentence and then you copy it.”
“What is your name?”
“What is your name?”
“My name is Mimi.”
“My name is Sakina.”
“How are you?”
“How are you?”
“I’m very well, thank you.”
“I’m very well, thank you.”
“What’s the weather like outside?”