She weaves through the guests, lifts her cupped hand to her forehead in adaab to the uncles seated on the couch, accepts the gifts or envelopes from the aunties with a polite thank-you. She watches Huda, standing near the sliding door with some girls her age, telling them about the goodie bags. Huda’s hair is cut short, like a boy’s. There is an M&M’s packet in each one, she hears her say. Huda has a whole year before she has to make any decision, and this feels unfair. She feels apart from all of them—the girls talking about M&M’s and the women wearing dupattas or scarves on their heads discussing what she does not care about, and she looks past them all to her plum tree, its pretty purple leaves rustling, its branches swaying slightly, and no one surrounding it or standing beneath its shade. How she likes to sit there and listen to the wind pass through its branches.
Some children are playing tag and others are playing hopscotch on squares drawn with chalk on the cement. Their fingers are dusty, powdery blue and purple. The girls jumping are young, their hair is worn down and it lifts up and falls wildly as they hop from square to square. She wishes her mother had told her about the party, so she could have invited her friends, Danielle and Charlotte, but she dismisses that thought as soon as it comes, realizing she would be too embarrassed to wear this dress in front of them, too shy to explain that the dinner is biryani and that there are no games planned, just children released into the yard, and that the adults are all there because it was more a party for them to mingle and less to celebrate her turning nine. What will she have to tell Danielle and Charlotte about wearing a scarf? What are the reasons to wear it, other than that everyone she knows from mosque wears it? And a frightening thought: What if after Wednesday her friends treat her differently? Will they know that she is the same Hadia, with or without her hair showing?
Hadia reaches the plum tree at the far end of the backyard. The only thing beyond it is its own roots and the wooden fence, and she picks at the bark that she loves, picks at it until a small piece breaks off, and she looks at it jagged in her palm, turns it around. There are many trees that she appreciates but only two in this world she loves, and the plum tree is one of them. She is lucky that the other is in their front yard, the magnolia tree, visible from her bedroom window. The plums are always too high for her and she remembers when she was little her father would let her climb onto his back to pluck one. Would he speak to her after Wednesday if she chose not to wear hijab?
“Happy birthday, Hadia.”
It is Abbas Ali, the eldest Ali boy. Hadia wraps her hand around the piece of bark. Its rough edges bite.
“You too,” she says.
Abbas laughs a little and she feels silly, realizing her mistake. Hadia looks down at her dress. If it were a yellow crayon in a crayon box it would be the one that was never used. It would stay sharp and unbroken. That and the gray one. Even the brown would be used before this kind of yellow. Abbas walks up to the plum tree and touches it with his hand also. He is the only other person here her age. She thinks that maybe she should tell him this, and that they can be friends for the duration of the party. Abbas’s hair is a little long for a boy’s, it falls in his face and covers the tops of his ears. If she started to wear a scarf he would never see her hair again. Danielle and Charlotte might still, when they were in the bathroom at school or if they came to her house, but Abbas is a boy who is not related to her and so he would never.
“This is my favorite tree,” she tells him.
Abbas looks up at it, and Hadia looks up too, past the branches and the leaves and the little plums straight to the bright sky. She squints.
“Because the leaves are kind of purple?”
“No. Just because.”
Abbas nods. They stand side by side. They watch children playing freeze tag, standing still, shocked expressions on their faces, arms stretched out and waiting for someone to tap their fingers. Maybe if she started wearing a scarf she would grow up right away. Maybe she would not be able to run at a party like this one. No boy would be able to touch her to unfreeze her or tag her. And she thinks of how, sometimes, when they go to Seema Aunty’s house, they all play soccer in the backyard because the Ali family has two soccer goalposts, and Abbas always invites her to play, and she does play even though she is not very good. But at least she is getting better, according to him. The last time they played was at his brother Saif’s birthday, and there was a jumpy castle too, and a popcorn machine. And it is when she is looking at Abbas in his green T-shirt that she thinks, I will not be able to play soccer anymore. Not with him, anyway. And I won’t get any better than scoring one goal in the last five minutes of our last game.
“Why aren’t you happy if it’s your party?”
Of course he is her friend. The wind blows and the branches move and make their wind and leaves sounds, and Hadia’s dirty-yellow dress fills up with air and she holds it down with her hands. Even her lace collar flares up. Someone opens the door and it is one of the uncles, holding a folded white cloth, which means the men are going to gather on the lawn and pray soon.
“I didn’t know I was going to have one,” she confesses, and once she does, it is easy to say, “I don’t know if I will like being nine. And I don’t like this dress.”
Abbas is quiet. He stretches for a plum, but he is too short. His fingers are inches away from the nearest branch, the plum hanging. Hadia is grateful he does not try jumping up and down to reach it, drawing attention to them and kicking up dirt. She wants to suggest climbing onto his back and reaching up. But that is forbidden. She knows that. She wonders what the size of the black mark on her heart would be if she did, and if it is worse than jealousy, worse than telling a lie. The uncle is trying to put the white sheet down but it keeps lifting in the wind.
“Why not? You look like the sun.”
She smiles for the first time that day. Baba barks her name in his angry voice, then says nothing after. He begins walking across the lawn to them. She looks at Abbas and remembers why they are not friends, not really. Maybe they are “acquaintances”—the word Baba uses when he tells her, remember, boys are not your friends, they are acquaintances when you are in the classroom, and you have to keep your distance. Abbas walks away without saying anything, becomes one of the children running, lifts his baby sister in his arms. His shirt is the kind of green that would get used a lot.
“Gee, Baba?” She uses her almost childlike voice. The little piece of bark cuts into her palm. She drops it into the dirt when he looks like he is a little bit mad at her, she rubs her reddened palm with her thumb.
“Why aren’t you playing with the other girls?” he asks.
“They aren’t my friends.”
The uncle silences the children, points to the house, and they begin to march inside. The older boys linger, knowing it is time to pray soon. Baba puts his hand on her head, and his hand has a weight to it, and Hadia tiptoes up to him a little to feel the pressure. She wants to say to him, remember when I climbed on your back and plucked the plums? But before she can, he reaches up, wraps his hand around one and tugs, the whole branch bending a bit before his hand returns with a small, deep-purple plum. He hands it to her.
“Thank you, Baba,” she mumbles, “and for the party too.”
He nods. They both turn to the men who have spread out the white cloth. Men are gathering in a row on the grass. She knows Baba will leave soon, walk up to take his place in the prayer line. As if he can hear her thoughts, he says to her, “Now you have to start praying too.”
Hadia looks up at him. She senses that he is proud. When she is standing next to Baba she thinks that she is ready for it all. He places his hand back on her head and she moves the plum from hand to hand, feeling its weight.
“Baba?”
“Hm.”
“Do you think I should start wearing a scarf?”