“This is our last year,” he says. “My dad’s appointment ends right around the time I graduate and I can’t wait to get out of here.”
“Really? Why?”
“It’s hot as balls—”
“Ethan, language,” his mother says, her voice low and soft. He rolls his eyes and forges on. “There’s nothing to do and everyone hates us because we’re American.”
“I don’t think I’ve met anyone who hates me.” I play innocent, even though I’m pretty sure Adam’s mother is not my biggest fan. Or the tongue-clicking woman on the metro. Or Bahar. Or Masoud. (Okay, maybe I have met several people who hate me.) Except after the words leave my mouth, I realize it sounds like I’m flirting with Ethan.
He cocks his head and aims a sly grin at me. “I can see why.”
His smoothness seems practiced, as if he tries on smiles every morning until he finds the one he thinks will be most devastating. Even without Adam as a comparison, Ethan Caldwell is totally not my type.
“A bunch of us are going sandboarding at the dunes at Fayoum next weekend,” he says. “Do you want to come?”
The point of Mom’s elbow against my arm encourages me to say yes. Last winter I went snowboarding with my friends. None of us had ever tried it before, so we did a lot of crash-landing in the snow. If sandboarding is anything like snowboarding, I’m already really good at falling down. “That sounds like fun.”
Ethan programs my number into his phone, then excuses himself to go talk to a table full of his friends. My phone beeps with an inbound text. Now you have my number. Use it any time.
I head to the dessert table, stepping up beside a tall girl about my age with dark skin and natural black curls spiraling down her back. “Any idea what’s good?”
“Dude.” She smiles. “Dessert. It’s all good.”
“True.” I laugh, choosing a bowl of om ali—the Egyptian equivalent of bread pudding. Grandma Rose is the wizard of bread pudding, so I might be setting myself up for disappointment, but it’s one of my all-time favorite foods.
“I’m Vivian. Senior. Originally from upstate New York.” She gestures toward a table where her parents are talking with another family. “My dad works for a global management consulting firm, which is basically biz babble for helping companies make more money.”
“I’m Caroline,” I tell her as Vivian selects an Egyptian dessert that looks like pudding sprinkled with pistachios. “A new senior from Ohio. My mom runs a OneVision clinic in Manshiyat Nasr.”
“So what’s your thing?” she asks as I follow her outside. Some of the little kids have migrated to the playground, while the older ones sit at outdoor tables. We find an empty table. “Mine’s volleyball.”
“Soccer.”
“Competition for positions on that team is tough,” she says, and a new worry opens up in my head. I hope Aya and I will hear back from the Daffodils soon.
Vivian and I compare class schedules for the fall—we have only English in common—and talk about the colleges we’re considering. “My dream school is NYU,” she says. “I’m looking at Cornell and Skidmore, too.”
“I like Kenyon, Denison, and Case Western in Ohio,” I say. “But my mom went to medical school at Fordham. My dad was living in the Bronx at the time and she met him while she was there, so I think they can both see me going to Fordham.”
“Can you see yourself going to Fordham?”
“After a year in Cairo, I feel like New York City will probably be a piece of cake.”
“True,” Vivian says. “Can’t hurt to apply.”
“Are you going sandboarding next weekend?”
“I wasn’t invited.” She hesitates a moment, then lowers her voice. “I’m not saying the kids here are racist, but it can be kind of cliquish along ethnic lines, and Ethan Caldwell tends to hang with his own, you know?”
“Really? I thought because the school is so diverse—I guess that’s kind of naive, huh?”
Vivian nods. “Seems like the more money a person’s family has, the less tolerant they are. And that applies all across the board.”
“That sucks.”
“Yep.”
“What if I invited you?” I ask.
“If you ditch me when we get there, you don’t get a second chance.”
“Based solely on first impressions, I’m about a hundred percent certain I’d rather hang out with you than Ethan.”
“Of course you would.” Vivian cocks her head and flashes a very Ethan-like grin as she aims finger guns at me, cracking me up. Then, in her normal voice, she says, “So I guess I’m going sandboarding.”
We swap phone numbers before going back inside to track down our parents. My mom is with Ambassador Caldwell, and both of them have their cell phones pressed to their ears. Mom is worrying her lower lip between her teeth.
“What’s going on?” I whisper to Dad, who’s standing beside Mr. Elhadad.
The room has gone unnaturally quiet.
“A couple of humanitarian aid outposts in the Sinai, including a OneVision clinic, were attacked by a group claiming allegiance to the Islamic State,” my dad says. “The ambassador doesn’t think we have cause to worry here in Cairo—his own kids are staying put for now—but your mom is on the phone with OneVision.”
“Oh my God. Was anyone hurt?”
“That’s what we’re waiting to find out.”
My eyes travel around the room. Some of the people look worried, others angry. Someone’s father—a white man—wonders aloud why Muslims don’t police themselves. Accusing eyes turn toward the Muslims in the room and the air feels combustible.
“Thank you,” Mom says into her phone, drawing my attention back to her. “No one from OneVision was killed,” she tells us. “But the other organizations lost several staff members and patients.”
Ethan shakes his head. “This place sucks.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Why kill people who are trying to help?”
“ISIS wants foreigners and all their influence out,” Dad says.
“They oppose anyone who does not follow the law as they see it,” Mr. Elhadad says. “Even Muslims. Terrorists make no exceptions for anyone who does not believe exactly as they do.”
I think about asking him why Muslims don’t come together to stop this from happening, but I think I already know what he would say. Too many people here in Cairo—and probably in all of Egypt and the other predominantly Muslim countries—are just trying to make ends meet. Their days are full and their wallets are not. And if the Egyptian government can’t bring running water to every tap and electricity to every building, can they finance a war? Or maybe I’m wrong and these governments can afford war. Maybe not all Muslim governments see the Islamic State as a threat. Maybe some even sympathize with their aims. It’s complicated, and I feel sad, fortunate, and a little bit ashamed that if things go wrong, my family has the option to just walk away.
CHAPTER 26