“Yeah, that’s why Muhammad thinks we’re going to town, so we have to,” Dawud says, folding up the fifty smaller and smaller.
“But the ice-cream truck comes by here almost every day. Because of the laddoos.” I close my mouth. Oops, I didn’t want Haytham knowing my endearing name for my little brothers. It feels kind of private.
“Oh man, I love ice-cream trucks more than ice cream itself!” Haytham laughs. “Did you ever notice the people who drive them fall into two categories: jolly happy souls or mean uncles? But mean uncles holding out ice-cream cones, which is the best.”
I can’t help laughing. Because it’s true, our ice-cream guy is a mean uncle.
But…
“Actually, our ice-cream guy is a mean uncle, but he gets excited and ho-ho-hos when he hands you your ice cream. Like serious Santa-level excited.”
“I need to see this. When does he come around?” Haytham leans his elbows on the door next to Dawud and peers across at me. “I can get your brothers their ice cream and also get further data for my ice-cream-truck hypothesis.”
“Usually around seven. But he came by yesterday, so it may not happen today.” I kind of want to stay home now. To wait for the ice-cream truck. With Haytham.
Of course it’s only to see what he thinks of our ice-cream-truck uncle who completely defies his theory.
Maybe we can finish everything in town and make it back before seven.
While slowly rolling the car out onto the road in front of the house, I can’t help glancing in the rearview.
Haytham is sprawled on the porch hammock, the one I like to read in during the day. But he’s not reading, or even paying attention to Muhammad and Sarah talking at the table nearby. He’s waving at us.
Chapter Five
I turn on the car stereo, and after a few piano notes, Haytham’s voice enters the car. “ ‘When I was young on the Fourth of July, I’d go outside and watch the show in the sky…’ ”
It’s a haunting antiwar song set to a simple piano accompaniment. I listen in silence and then turn to Dawud. “That was amazing.”
“It’s Haytham’s entry for the Muslim Voice competition.”
“Oh, he’s going for that? That’s impossible to win.” I play the song again. “It’s a global competition. Thousands and thousands of entries.”
“But he’s got a lot of votes! He’s in the top five!” Dawud crosses his arms to say this. “And he’s going to get more. Like you, right? Can you vote for him?”
“Okay. Because he—it’s really good.” I play it again. The words are amazing. We can bend iron with our prayers at night. “Did he write the song?”
“No, it’s from one of Haytham’s favorite singers.”
I nod and play the song a third time, wondering what else there is to learn about Haytham.
* * *
It ends up being a fail for Dawud at the florist’s, Ravson’s Ravishing Ready-Blooms.
The owner, Hope, is all game to discuss details about Muhammad’s floral order until Dawud inquires about pricing for a ceiling of lilies. “Calla lilies,” he specifies.
“A small ceiling arrangement of yellow callas?” Hope looks curious. She’s a dead ringer for the Disney princess Merida, an older version, so her curious look is slightly scowly. “Or white ones with blue centers? Because you realize I can’t get blue ones, right? Not enough lead time.”
She talks to him like he’s a CEO in a business suit and not a kid in a blue T-shirt that says S’OREO FOR EATING THE LAST ONE.
“No, we actually want a big ceiling of…” Dawud pauses and looks at his clipboard. “White flowers only. With green foliage.”
“But the order said no white flowers. Only a yellow-and-blue sprig for each table and a blue-and-yellow arch for the entrance to the path to the gazebo. I thought the theme was blue and yellow.” She turns from the cash register to look through a wicker basket holding file folders. Her curly and mountainous red hair masks her peripheral vision, so I’m able to make frantic stop motions with my hand to Dawud, unbeknownst to Hope.
I risk mouthing, She may call Muhammad!
Dawud looks at me blankly and pushes up his glasses.
“Muhammad Yusuf is the name on the file. Are you Muhammad Yusuf?” She pushes up her own glasses and stares at Dawud. “Are you the groom?”
She says this with a steady glance, without irony.
He shakes his head and points at me. “Nope, that’s her brother.”
“And where’s Muhammad Yusuf? And the bride, Sarah Mahmoud?” Hope turns to me and finger-stabs the names on the file. “Because this is their wedding order. That I’m delivering in two days.”
“Oh, we were just thinking of doing a surprise for them. And just wanted pricing on it. Because they both love the idea of a floral ceiling but didn’t think it was in their budget.” I talk quickly and confidently.
“Ah, so you wanted to do a surprise floral gift?”
Dawud nods his head enthusiastically.
“Sorry, we don’t allow that. Too risky to interfere with the wedding plans of the bride and groom.” She turns to put the file back in the wicker basket.
“But how much would it be? In case they do want to order it?” Dawud is holding a pen poised over his clipboard, and I can’t help but think that he’s learned the determined, decisive ways of his sister.
“Oh, depends on the flower variety, the number, and kind, as well as size, but anywhere from a thousand for a simple cluster to ten thousand for the full deal.” Hope takes her glasses off to rub her eyes. “And that’s with at least three weeks’ notice. No one can pull off an entire ceiling in three days, sorry to tell you.”
I swing my backpack to the front and take the car keys out of it. “Thanks so much.”
But Dawud doesn’t budge. “What if I help? To make it?”
Hope breaks out into a grin, then gives a full-bodied laugh. “You must really love the bride and groom!”
“No, I just really, really want a flower ceiling,” he says solemnly, clutching the clipboard to himself.
“Sorry, dear, I can’t teach you how to be a florist’s assistant in a couple of days.” She continues laughing while tidying up wisps of ribbons and snips of stems on the counter.
“Dawud, I gotta go meet my mom. Let’s go!” I hiss as nicely as I can. “Thanks, Ms. Ravson!”
I head to the door and then, seeing Dawud still standing motionless, push it wide open and go right out. Maybe if he thinks I’m driving away, he’ll start moving.
I’m in the car with the engine running when Dawud runs to the back door and opens it. “She said I can have all the leftover flower and leaf cuttings from all her other orders. So we can make our OWN ceiling.”
“Oh no,” I say. “No, Dawud. I’m so not doing it.”
He just writes something on his clipboard, and I see the beginnings of Sarah in him again.
But he is so not going to boss me around.
* * *
Since we arrive at the hotel early, Dawud and I wait in the lobby for Mom.