“Ideally, but I can play midfield, too. Whatever you need.”
“We lost our scoring forward when she graduated from college. We can use the strength up front.”
“I can’t promise goals.”
Jessica smiles and aims her thumb at Karin. “You got past her once. That’s a good start.”
“So I have to ask . . . what’s up with the Daffodils?”
Karin’s face dimples as she shakes her head. Clearly this is a question she’s gotten before. “Since we’re based in Garden City, we wanted a name that reflected that. I suggested we call ourselves Nightshade because it’s deadly, you know?”
“That would make sense.”
“Exactly, but Jess decided that because daffodil bulbs are poisonous, the flower is both beautiful and deadly. Great in concept. Not so much in execution because most people just think our name is cute.”
“But we know the truth,” Jessica insists. “That’s all that matters.”
Karin’s indulgent smile makes it clear that their friendship is more important than the name of the team. “Okay,” Karin says. “Let’s get to work.”
She puts us through some agility drills, and before the two-hour practice is over, we run another scrimmage. She positions me at right forward and Aya on the bench.
“Don’t read anything into it,” Karin assures her as we gather up our gear bags after practice. “I’ll do a lot of shuffling around until I find the best combination. And you will play.”
“I have never been a member of a team before,” Aya says. “So it doesn’t matter if I play only a little or not at all.”
“Practices are Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday.” Jessica hands us a printed sheet of all the players’ names and phone numbers. “Games are on Sunday evenings when most of the Christian religious services are over and the sun is low. Hope to see you next time.”
A dark-haired toddler runs to Karin and hugs her legs. She scoops him up and as she blows raspberries on his chubby cheek, her whole demeanor softens. He giggles and she leans forward to kiss a man who has the same dark hair as the little boy.
“This is my husband, Mohammed,” she introduces. “And our son, Isaac. Caroline and Aya are new players and I have high hopes we might actually win a game with Caroline as striker.”
“That’s high praise,” Mohammed says, his accent an adorable mix of Australian and Arabic. “Good luck to you, Caroline. Nice to meet you, Aya.” He takes Isaac from her. “I’ll meet you at the car, love.”
“Is he, um—is he Muslim?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Karin says. “Originally from Jordan.”
“How . . . ?” I trail off, leaving the question unfinished. It’s too forward to ask her if she converted to Islam for him. Or how they make their relationship work.
“I’m not easily offended,” she says. “So if you’ve got a question, get on with it.”
“Has it been hard?”
Karin’s laugh rings out. “It’s been a bloody nightmare. Mo’s mother spent the better part of his life laying the foundation for an arranged marriage to the daughter of one of their neighbors. Then he came home from college with a blond, agnostic, big-mouth Australian wife, and to say it didn’t go over well would be an understatement.”
“Did she get over it?”
“Well, it helps that I’ve converted,” she says. “So now she tolerates me. Fortunately, we only visit Jordan once a year. The rest of the time we are blissfully happy and trying for baby number two, which is too much information, isn’t it?”
“A little, but that’s okay. Did you, um—did you convert for him?”
“Actually, my husband encouraged me to study and decide if Islam was for me. Some of my extended family members back home think he forced the conversion, but Mo said I should want it for myself. Not for him.”
I try to imagine myself in Karin’s place, married to a Muslim (okay, I picture Adam), living in Cairo for the rest of my life. Converting to Islam. That’s the hardest piece to envision. Catholicism has been a part of my life since baptism. I struggle to wake up on Sunday mornings for Mass, but once we’re at church, I don’t mind being there. I like listening to the Scripture readings. I like the off-key way our parish priest performs the singing parts. I like what I believe and can’t see myself ever giving that up.
“I’m guessing you’ve got yourself an Egyptian boyfriend then?” Karin says.
“No. I mean, not really.”
She laughs. “It’s a yes-or-no question.”
“It’s complicated.”
Karin slings her bag over her shoulder and pats mine. “Welcome to real life.”
? ? ?
Dad goes back to the States again and real life moves on. I go down to the street each morning to buy bread, exchanging salaams and piastres with the bread seller. Mr. Elhadad drives Aya and me to soccer practice.
My parents put the kibosh on the trip to Hurghada, so instead Vivian and I create a game called “Elhadad Says” in which we ask Mr. Elhadad to drop us off somewhere in the city he thinks will be interesting. On our first day out, he takes us to Cairo Tower for a panoramic view of the entire city at 614 feet. The next time he takes us to the Egyptian Museum, where we overdose on pharaonic mummies.
I teach Stevie G. to sit in my hand and let me stroke his belly. I send Hannah’s box with the hieroglyph bracelet and a postcard filled with Xs and Os but get an e-mail in return telling me she’s been so busy with work and Vlad that she didn’t have time to send a box for me.
I try not to think about Adam, but he is always somewhere in my head.
It’s a Monday afternoon when I go downstairs to Mr. Elhadad’s car and find Aya sitting in the passenger’s seat—and Adam behind the wheel.
“Surprise!” she shouts.
“What’s going on here?” I get in the backseat and close the door because nosy Masoud is watching. Adam looks at me in the rearview mirror with such longing that I want to wrap him in the fiercest hug and never let go. “Where’s your dad?”
“I convinced him to let Adam drive me to practice,” Aya says, her smile huge and proud. “I told him you were at Vivian’s house and would be meeting us at the soccer field.”
“You lied?”
“It had to be done,” she insists. “My brother’s unhappiness makes me sad. He misses cooking and he misses you. At a wedding in Helwan last week, the aunties were conspiring to match him with an Egyptian girl.”
My heart constricts at the thought of Adam with someone who is not me. “Were they, um—did they succeed?”
He looks relieved as he shakes his head. “No.”
“The two of you must be together,” Aya says.
I love her dedication to romance, but I also know how difficult this is for her brother. As happy I am to see him, I don’t want to get my hopes up.
“I cannot sneak around like Magdi,” he says.
She shrugs. “Don’t sneak. Just decide being together is more important than anyone who says you can’t be happy—even if it is our parents who are saying it.”