the last couple of summers with her grandmother. She thought she had outgrown some things like the rope swing and playing hide-and-seek in the cornfield next to her grandmother’s house. Amani breathed in deeply. The smell of horse manure seeped through the car windows. Her thoughts were flooded with childhood memories.
Grandma Hana stopped the car in front of 494 Sycamore Street. Everything looked the same—except, of course, for the swarms of cicadas in the air. The old white farmhouse sat on a large tract of green grass. Multicolored echinacea, climbing roses, gerbera daisies, and many other flowers that Amani could not name were in full bloom everywhere.
Grandma’s house always looks as if a rainbow has fallen from the sky and painted it, Amani thought.
She liked the way that sounded and made a mental note to write the sentence down in her journal when she got inside.
The front porch wrapped around one side of the house. Two weather-worn rocking chairs and a large gliding chair sat in their same spots on the porch. She and her brother had spent many summer evenings there, listening to their grandfather’s stories, while their grandmother crocheted delicate lacework for her scarves. Looking at the porch, Amani could almost smell her grandfather’s musk perfume. It was the only perfume that he used. He told her that the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, said that musk was the most fragrant of scents and that the sweat of people in paradise smelled like musk. Her grandfather’s eyes would tear when he said that the Prophet’s scent was described as more fragrant than musk.
But the heart of the farmhouse was the extraordinarily large peach tree in the backyard. It was planted in the center of a small rise at the end of their grandmother’s property that sloped down to the neighbor’s property. It stood majestically, like a priceless sculpture displayed in a museum. Each season brought new beauty. In spring, clusters of pink blossoms erupted as one. In autumn, slender leaves drifted to the earth, encircling the tree in a carpet of coppery brown. In winter, snow rested on the branches outlining the tree in sparkling white. But nothing compared to summer, when the tree burst with glistening golden-orange fruit, surrounded by bright green leaves against a vast blue sky.
To the right of the farmhouse was a cornfield. Woods were to the left. Although it was overgrown, Amani could still see the entrance to the path that led to the lake with the rope swing.
“That’s weird, Grandma,” Hude said. “The cicadas seem to be attacking only the trees with leaves. The pine trees don’t seem to be bothered at all.”
“Grandma, the peach tree!” Amani yelled.
Grandma Hana turned around.
“Don’t worry, dear. The peach tree is fine, alhamdulillah. Mr. Fenby helped me cover it with netting.”
Grandma Hana noticed Hude’s bow case on the seat next to Amani.
“Hude, I have a surprise for you inside. It’s something Grandpop would have wanted you to have.”
Hude jumped out of the car first and grabbed his belongings. Amani followed, holding her suitcase in one hand and shielding her face with her backpack in the other. They zigzagged to the front door, dodging bugs. Hude stopped briefly and a cicada landed on his shirt. Feeling brave, he picked it up. But the bug buzzed so loudly he dropped it almost immediately. Amani didn’t stop running until she was inside.
The new neighbors
A FEW days had gone by. Hude had spent most of his time in his grandfather’s workshop in the basement with the surprise Grandma Hana had given him. It was his grandfather’s archery notebook.
It was filled with all sorts of useful advice about how to shoot better. Hude realized that he had been making some mistakes. His grandfather had also written step-by-step instructions on how to build a superior bow and what arrows worked best in different conditions. Hude was more excited than ever about the archery competition.
Amani spent all of her time inside. She wanted nothing more to do with the seventeen-year cicadas. She had finished the Tad Walker adventure in the Amazon and was now reading the next book in the series. This time Tad Walker was in a race against his arch-enemy, who wanted to destroy a priceless aboriginal totem pole. Just as she got to the part where the hero was jumping out of a plane into an uncharted jungle, Hude burst into the room where she was reading.
“It’s safe to go outside now!” he exclaimed. “You won’t believe how cool it is out there.”
Amani looked out of the window. Not a single cicada in the air. The invasion was over. It was safe to go outside. Safe, if you didn’t mind walking on a carpet of cicada carcasses. A neighbor’s orange tabby cat named Miss Ginger lay lazily on the front walkway, passing a dying cicada back and forth between her front paws. Hude was on the front lawn picking up dead bugs. He had almost filled an entire trash bag. He was enjoying himself so much that as soon as he finished Grandma Hana’s lawn, he picked up all of the cicadas on the new neighbors’ property. He then offered to help an older couple down the street clean their yard. Hude asked Amani if she wanted to help, but she declined. She was writing all about it in her journal.
“I smell chocolate chip cookies!” Hude said excitedly when he returned about an hour later.
He reached for a cookie on the kitchen table, but Amani pushed his hand away.
“These are for the new neighbors,” Amani told him. “Ours are still baking in the oven.”
“Does it make a difference? I mean, they’re all from the same dough, aren’t they? I can eat one of these cookies now and replace it with one of ours when they’re done.”
Hude again reached for a cookie and again Amani pushed his hand away.
“It does make a difference, Hude. I made sure that all of the cookies in this batch are the same size and perfectly round. I also put extra chocolate chips in them. We want to make a good first impression, don’t we?”
“I guarantee you that the new neighbors will not know the difference,” Hude said.
“But I will,” Amani said in a tone that meant she wasn’t going to budge.
There were two things that his sister took seriously—writing and baking. When she had her mind made up about one of them, it was no use trying to persuade her otherwise.
“Where’s Grandma?” Hude asked, changing the subject.
“She’s in the garden. I’m sure she could use your help.”
Hude quickly gulped down a glass of water before leaving through the kitchen door that led to the back patio.
“Here, let me do that Grandma,” he said.
Hude helped Grandma Hana move a large bag of mushroom manure across the lawn to her vegetable garden. He opened the bag and dumped it next to the pumpkin plants.
A few minutes later Fenby Moore pulled up his old, long bed pickup truck in front of the new neighbors’ house. The truck was dark green with the words ‘Fenby Moore’s Landscaping and Yard Service’ painted in yellow on the side doors. Hanging from the rear-view mirror was a faded macramé bracelet that his only daughter had made him decades
