“Hey, I thought that was a pretty good one.”
I shoulder bump him, smiling in spite of myself. “Keep telling yourself that, Kelly.”
On our way home, we pass a footbridge that crosses the narrow canal between the island and the rest of the city. We cross, and when we reach the other side, I discover we’re only a few blocks from Coptic Cairo. I tell him about how Adam took me to the Hanging Church. “Do you want to go?”
“Let’s save that for our next wander,” Dad says. “I need to buy some flowers before your mom gets home from work. We’re having a date night. Without you.”
“?‘Date night’ kind of implies that.”
“You gonna be okay?”
“Maybe you could have Masoud babysit,” I say, which makes him crack up laughing.
The bowab is waiting for us when we get home. He gets up from his little stool when he sees us coming and presents me with a birdcage. Inside is a green bird with a rosy-colored face and bright, lively eyes. “Min alshshab,” the bowab says, pushing both his disapproval and the cage at me. “Min alshshab.”
“Do you have any idea what he’s saying?” I ask Dad. “Or why I am now in possession of a bird?”
“Maybe shab means bird.”
Masoud shoves a crumpled paper bag at me, then presses the button to bring down the elevator. As the three of us stand in awkward silence, waiting for it to come, the bowab eyes me with disdain. I think if he had his Quran, he’d shake it at me again.
“Shokran,” I say when the elevator doors open, but not even politeness and a smile can crack the old nut.
Once the doors are closed, I open the paper bag to find bird pellets, food and water dishes, a couple of wooden toys, and a note: “No goats at al-Gomaa today.”
I touch the paper to my lips, trying to keep from smiling. Failing to keep from smiling.
“It’s from Elhadad, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“A lovebird.”
“Yep.”
“You know”—Dad rubs the back of his head—“your mom and I . . . well, it’s our job to protect you from the hard knocks this world can dish out. But maybe this isn’t something we can protect you from. Maybe we need to let you and Adam figure things out for yourselves.”
“It’s too late for that,” I say. “But thanks.”
The lovebird’s new home is on top of my dresser, where she (he?) has an elevated view of the room. After I hang the toys and fill the dishes with food and water, I look up shab on the Internet. It means “young man.” Min alshshab. From the young man. Masoud’s disapproval makes sense. A gift from the young man who should not be buying me gifts.
I send the young man a text. I like birds better than goats.
CHAPTER 25
Mr. Elhadad is back in action the next day, driving my family to a summer open house at my new school. It’s located in a suburb of Cairo that looks relatively young. Out here, beyond Mokattam, there are villas with their own yards and new apartment buildings in various states of incompleteness. The school campus is modern and professionally landscaped with palms and immature shade trees, and we are greeted by the administrative team at the front door before being ushered into the auditorium.
“Pretty swanky place.” Dad fiddles with the shirt button at his wrist. Salty language and tattoos are standard issue among the guys on his boat, and my dad doesn’t care what conclusions people draw about him based on his ink. But he says he never wants Mom and me to be judged by his life choices. “I feel like we might be dragging down the property value.”
According to the school’s website, most of the students are Egyptian and the rest of us are the children of ambassadors, corporate CEOs, and expatriates from around the world. Even though my parents can afford the tuition, we’re definitely not on the upper end of the socioeconomic scale.
There are about a hundred students in the senior class—a little more than at my small school in Ohio—and a few turn to look in our direction. I wonder if they’ve all known each other for years or if some of them are new like me.
The director gives a standard-issue welcome speech before sending us off to tour the campus. The classrooms are pretty much the same as any other classroom, but the teachers are as multicultural as the student body, which is different for me. My old school was predominantly white, predominantly Catholic.
Mom introduces herself to each of my teachers and proudly tells the soccer coach that I started on varsity as a freshman. She knows I have to try out for this team, but that doesn’t stop her from giving him the full rundown on my high school career. I kick a ball to my dad. He traps it with his knee and sends it back, giving it enough lift for me to head it. We mess around like this until Mom is done bragging.
“I’m surprised you don’t keep my soccer résumé in your purse,” I tease as we cross the field back to the main building.
“He’ll remember who you are,” Mom says.
“Yeah, the American girl with the pushy mother.”
Dad snickers, making her laugh. “Maybe I got a little carried away,” she admits. “I’m allowed to be proud of you.”
“And your mom’s memorized those stats for just such an occasion,” he points out to me with a wink. “Don’t pee in her Wheaties.”
The whole student body regroups in the canteen for a buffet luncheon, a spread that’s a mix of traditional Egyptian foods and “American” standards like fried chicken, sausage rigatoni, and french fries. As I dish a little koshary onto my plate, my thoughts drift to Adam. I wonder if he likes his new job. I wonder if he knows he’ll make bank on tips, especially if he remembers to smile. I hope he’s happy.
We share a table with a United States ambassador and his family, including a daughter in third grade and his son, Ethan, who will be a senior like me. Ethan’s light brown hair is tall and swoopy on top, and his khakis are rolled at the ankles in a deliberately messy way. He looks like he’s come from a photo shoot and his smile says he knows he’s good-looking.
“How long have you been in Cairo?” Ethan asks as our parents exchange greetings and launch into small talk.
“About six weeks.”
“Where do you live?”
“We’re in Manial.”
His eyebrows pull together as if I’d just told him we live on the moon. “Huh. That’s different.”
When we were scouting places to live in Cairo, we checked out villas and apartments in Maadi and Zamalek, where many expatriates live, and Garden City, where the embassies are located. All of them boasted quiet, leafy streets and lots of things to do, as well as proximity to other expatriates. But the rents were out of our reach, and Dad didn’t really want to live anywhere that was heavily populated with Americans. I don’t tell Ethan this, though.
“Our apartment is right across the street from the Nile,” I explain. “My mom fell in love with the view.”