couple of months to Hailey Winthrop and her story of her date with Harrison Finch. We'd all been so shocked when she'd tasted his coffee.
"Doesn't caffeine stunt your growth?" I asked Marla.
"Um, are you planning on a career in professional basketball?"
"No," I muttered stupidly.
Marla sighed and pushed her steaming cup into my hands. "Look, Mack, I used to be an outsider in this country too, so here's some advice. You don't smoke and that's okay. But if you don't learn to like coffee, you'll never fit in. So drink up!"
I took a tentative sip and grimaced. It was black, burning hot, and bitter.
"Ugh! You like this stuff?" I asked, handing her back the cup.
Marla giggled. "I do, but I've had a lot of practice. Maybe I should have started you off with something a bit easier."
She got me another cup and sweetened it with milk and sugar until it tasted like a hot dessert. Better, but still not as satisfying as a hot chocolate on a wintry afternoon. Despite my protests, Marla kept dragging me back into coffee shops every day.
"It's for your own good!" she'd insist, pushing cup after cup into my hands.
Wouldn't you know it? By the time August was over, I was drinking it like a pro. I was also getting around the city like a pro and even speaking the language. I guess the Ulpan was doing its job.
So there I was, a million miles away from my old life in Canada. I'd gone from a nervous tourist to being almost as street savvy as a native Jerusalemite. I'd developed a caffeine habit and spent my mornings learning Hebrew and my afternoons floating on an air mattress in the King David Hotel pool, rubbing elbows with princes and prime ministers.
Oh my God — it was turning into the best summer of my entire life!
Chapter 5
She was coming into the store almost every day now and, even though Nasir knew it was wrong, he couldn't take his eyes off her. Her skin was so pale, it seemed to be almost transparent. And with her long yellow hair and blue eyes, he thought she looked just like the American doll that his sister Amar kept hidden under her bed — away from the disapproving eyes of their parents.
He wanted to say something to her. He wanted to say, Hi, my name is Nasir … what's yours? He was so sure that's what they would say in America. He was sure that's where she came from.
Every time she came to the store, he would watch her wandering up and down the aisles pretending to shop. He knew she was pretending because all she ever bought was gum and candy. He thought she looked timid and lost — like she didn't know how she arrived or where she was going next. Lately, he spent most of his free time at work daydreaming about her beautiful face and staring out the grimy store window, waiting for her to come back.
His keys jangled in his jeans pocket with each step he took towards home. With no customers in the last hour, he'd decided to close up the store a few minutes early. He knew his boss wouldn't mind — it's not as if business had been booming. In fact, lately their best customer had been the "gum girl."
As he neared his home, he shook his head to clear his mind of her, worried that his thoughts would somehow shine through his eyes and betray him to his parents. The sun was starting to go down behind the Old City walls as he entered the building and climbed the stairs to his family's apartment. As soon as he opened the door, a familiar smell filled his nose. His stomach growled with hunger: he knew right away Mama was cooking baed u batata, his favourite dish. Heading straight for the kitchen, he kissed his mother and leaned down to greet his sisters. Sameera and Amar were helping with dinner while Rana crawled underfoot, mop-ping the floor with her favourite rag doll. Hearing his son arrive, Mr. Hadad hurried over to say hello.
"Nasir! How was your work today?" he cried, kissing his cheeks three times.
"It was fine, Baba," he replied, returning his father's embrace. His father was quite tall, but so was Nasir. Not long ago, Nasir would have to stand on his toes to reach his father, but in the last year he'd grown so fast that he now matched his height.
"You're just in time for dinner," Baba said, leading Nasir over to the tiny dining table. "Come sit down and tell me what happened."
While father and son sat and discussed the details of their day, Mama and the two older girls brought the dishes to the table. They started the meal with mezze: olives, hummus, baba ganoush, and tabouleh. Sameera passed around freshly baked loaves of taboon bread, which they tore into small pieces to scoop up the dips. They continued with the baed u batata — cubed potatoes and eggs fried in olive oil and allspice — and ended with fruit and mint tea.
Throughout the meal, Mama pressed them all to refill their plates several times — she was only ever truly happy when those dining at her table had stuffed themselves. As usual, she served herself only after everyone else had finished.
When the meal was over, the family sat back in their chairs and lingered over their empty plates and full stomachs. Sameera told a story about two of her girlfriends from school, giggling and covering her mouth so much that her words were almost unintelligible. In contrast to Sameera, Nasir's middle sister, Amar, was quite shy. Her parents tried to persuade her to perform the little song she was learning in her class, but she blushed and ran to Mama's lap, burying her face in the folds of her dress. Baby Rana, who was still learning how to feed herself, sat in Mama's arms, babbling and fingerpainting her round cheeks with the leftover hummus. As messy as she was, her older siblings couldn't help kissing her.
By the time the table was cleared, it was getting late. One by one, Mama began carrying the sleepy girls to their bed. Once they were alone, Mr. Hadad pulled Nasir aside to talk.
"There's something I'd like to speak to you about," he said, motioning for his son to join him on the couch — the same couch that would be Nasir's bed in just a few more hours. Nasir sat down beside him, guessing from the low hang of his father's eyebrows that this was going to be serious. He was right.
"I don't know if you've overheard Mama and me talking about it, but our family in Askar is in real trouble. Your grandparents' health is not good, and your aunt has just lost her job. They need our help. We have to start sending more money."
Nasir nodded. He knew that their relatives in the West Bank had a terrible life. Compared to the way they lived over there, their own tiny apartment in Jerusalem was luxurious. Ever since Nasir could remember, his parents had been sending money to support them.
"I know you've been helping out with your salary from the store," he continued. "But it's just not enough."
Nasir nodded again. "What do you want me to do?"
Baba leaned his head close to his son's and lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper. Clearly, he didn't want Mama to hear what he was about to say. But that would be difficult. Their apartment was too small to keep many secrets — a fact that was made embarrassingly clear to Nasir every few nights when noises from his parents' room travelled through the walls and into his mortified ears.
"I've found a way to make some extra money," he whispered. "I'm going to need your help and strong arms to do it. It's going to mean hard work and late hours — you might have to miss some soccer games."
Nasir watched his father's eyes moisten with sadness as he spoke. Baba had grown up in Askar, moving to Jerusalem only after his parents
