stirring spoon onto the counter, she practically skipped across the kitchen to give it to him.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, taking it from her outstretched hand and tucking it into the back pocket of his jeans.
“Come, why don’t you open it now?” she asked, sounding disappointed.
Nasir would rather have read it alone, but he really had no choice. He knew if he refused, his mother would wonder why. Reluctantly, he pulled the letter back out of his pocket and slowly tore open the envelope. She scooped Baby Rana up into her arms and waited patiently to hear what her favourite nephew had to say.
Mama wasn’t the only one who adored Ziyad. He was pretty much the star of the whole Hadad family. Not only was he good-looking and full of personality, he was also a certified genius. He had left to go to university in America a couple of years ago with a full scholarship to study engineering at MIT. Growing up together in Jerusalem, the cousins had always been really close. Nasir idolized Ziyad — he considered him to be the older brother he never had. The summer before he left for MIT, they used to go up to the rooftop and talk all night about everything from soccer and girls to religion and their dreams for the future. Ziyad was always bursting with new and interesting ideas. He’d really helped Nasir look at the world in a different, more modern way — a way that neither of their traditional families would ever approve of. And the letters he sent from America were no different. But as much as Nasir looked forward to getting them, he always destroyed them immediately after reading them. He couldn’t take a chance that his parents would find them — Mama didn’t read English, but Baba did.
He unfolded the single-page letter and read silently.
Nasir,
Have you spoken to your parents yet? Are you coming to visit? I know the ticket is expensive. Soon I’ll make enough money to fly you over. Once you come you’ll never want to leave. I’ll get an apartment with a room just for you. I swear, you’ll love it here. You’re free to do what you want. Right now I’m saving up to buy myself a car. Everyone here drives a car.
How are my parents? Do you see them often? I can tell from their letters that they’re growing nervous. They keep asking me to promise I’ll return to the Middle East when my degree is complete. Their last letter was about setting up a marriage to one of their friends’ daughters in Beirut. They think that will keep me close. But I won’t do it.
I’m in love, Nasir — the real thing this time. The women here are so beautiful. And they’re free to speak their minds — and marry whoever they please. Everything is so different here. There are jobs here that pay more money in one year than our fathers ever made in their whole lives. You must come join me.
Write to me soon,
Ziyad
“Well?” urged Mama, shifting Rana from one hip to the other. “What does he say?”
Nasir scrambled to come up with something.
“Um … he says he’s well. School is fine and he’s studying very hard and earning top marks. And, uh … he’s lost some weight — Western-style food still doesn’t please him.”
He studied his mother’s face, hoping the mention of food would distract her from asking more questions. It worked.
“Ah! Poor child!” she said, clucking her tongue. “What he needs is a big plate of my musakhan. It was always his favourite.” Picking the letter out of her son’s hands, she frowned as her eyes scanned the page. Nasir held his breath and waited.
“Such a good boy, Ziyad. You should try to be like him when you grow up,” she said, handing him back the letter.
He nodded and stuffed it back into his jeans pocket. His thoughts flashed to the gum girl.
“I’ll try, Mama,” he replied, heading straight for the bathroom where he could read the letter one more time in private before ripping it up and flushing the pieces down the toilet.
Chapter 11
We spoke! Oh my God! We spoke!
I stumbled up the street towards my apartment, praying my legs wouldn’t give out on me. My head was spinning, my heart was racing, my lip was sweating and there was a hot, prickly feeling making its way up the back of my neck. I felt like I was going to faint. I sat down on the curb outside my building and put my head between my knees, willing myself to calm down as my mind went over the details of what had just happened.
Relax, Mack … relax! Get a grip on yourself!
But I couldn’t relax. I was a mess. A quivering, sweating, hopelessly romantic mess. The Arab boy and I finally spoke. Actually, we did more than speak: we touched. Well, he touched me. Oh my God, just thinking about it was making my stomach do flip-flops!
It all started out so normal. I walked into his store, picked out my usual pack of gum, and took it up to the counter to pay. I could feel those brown eyes of his studying me as I fished around in my purse for some money.
Wouldn’t you know it, I couldn’t find any! Between my new daily habits of coffee and gum I was practically penniless. Note to self: ask Dad for raise in allowance. I stood there like an idiot, burrowing furiously in my pockets for change while my face turned red with mortification.
After a few more seconds, I found some shekels at the bottom of my back pocket and sprinkled them on the counter in front of him. I waited for him to take them and put them in his cash register — but he didn’t. I pushed the coins closer towards him and cleared my throat.
We did this routine every day—what was he doing?
I racked my brain to think of something clever to say when suddenly he glanced around to see if anyone was watching, then leaned over the counter towards me.
“I see you in here a lot. You buy a lot of gum.”
My heart skipped in my chest. His voice was deep and smooth and, although he spoke with an accent, his English was perfect. Just like I’d imagined it would be.
“Um, well — it’s sugar-free, so my dentist doesn’t mind,” I stammered stupidly.
Great, Mack! Why don’t you tell him about your last fluoride treatment while you’re at it?
He didn’t say anything; he just stared at me. Damn it! He must think I’m an idiot.
“Um, my name’s Mackenzie,” I said to ease the silence.
“Mack-en-zie,” he repeated. The way he said it sounded more like “Muck and Zee,” but I didn’t dare correct him. It was kind of cute.
“Nice to meet you, Muck-and-zee,” he said, flashing a smile of beautiful white teeth. “I’m Nasir. Nasir Hadad.”
“Hi,” I said shyly, willing my face not to blush a second time.
“Do you live in the neighbourhood?”
“Yeah, in the apartment around the corner. How did you know?”
Now it was his turn to look embarrassed.
“I
