It’s kind of a mess.
Learning Objective: to analyze character development and complete an in-role writing task
A blast of heat hits my face as I walk out of our hotel into the fierce sunlight. We are visiting Morocco during the hottest month of the summer. Luckily, there’s an air-conditioned taxi parked in front of the building, and I hop inside with my parents. Baba asks the driver in broken Arabic to take us to the hospital. He says hospital, but he means the orphanage on the fifth floor of the hospital building in Meknes.
When my mom left our home in Virginia to visit the orphanage last year, I imagined it was like the one in the movie Annie. But Mama told me that it wasn’t anything like that. There was no mean Miss Hannigan, no singing and dancing, and a lot more boys than girls. One of those boys was my new little brother, Hakeem, who I’m about to meet for the first time.
We arrive at the square gray building and there’s no elevator. For the next few minutes, all we hear is the slap of our shoes against endless stone steps in the sweltering stairwell.
“At least we got a workout in today, right, Aleena?” Baba says to me. I’m too hot to smile at him. I’m carrying the raccoon backpack I brought for Hakeem and wearing my matching penguin one. Sweat is dripping down the back of my neck.
When we finally reach the top floor, my heart is hammering in my chest. It’s only partly because of the stairs. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for ever since my parents asked me and my older brother, Bilal, if we would “welcome a 3-year-old boy into our family.”
It was an easy decision. I felt like I already knew Hakeem. We’d been getting photos and videos of this curly-haired kid with shiny brown eyes since my mom’s first visit to the orphanage.
Now, almost a year later, we’re bringing him home. Bilal’s not here because he has summer training with his soccer team and can’t miss the first four days of his sophomore year of high school. I’m supposed to be starting middle school next week, but I wouldn’t trade being here for anything.
Illustration by Anne Lambelet
A lady with a smiling face and a blue hijab greets us and ushers us into a small room. Another family is already inside with a toddler, who’s playing with a red soccer ball.
“This is it,” Mama says as she squeezes my hand. “Are you ready?”
“Naam.” I practice my Arabic for “yes.” I’ve been writing words and phrases like “kan bgreek,” which means “I love you,” in a notebook, since Hakeem doesn’t speak English and we don’t speak Arabic.
“Remember,” Mama says to me, “we can’t take Hakeem with us today. We have to wait for his paperwork and passport. And that could take two weeks.”
“I know,” I reply.
The door opens and in walks the blue-hijab lady with a little boy clutching her hand. It’s Hakeem. He seems smaller than in his pictures, but just as adorable. We’ve been sending photos and videos of ourselves, so he should be able to recognize us.
Hakeem doesn’t move as he scans the room. Then he suddenly lights up as he looks at me. I smile and open my arms for a hug. He runs toward me . . .
And right past me over to . . . the red ball. The other kid grabs it before Hakeem can pick it up.
“Hakeem, here,” I quickly say, holding out the backpack I brought him. I unzip it and show him the stuffed dog inside.
Hakeem glances at me before turning back to the ball. It bounces on the floor, and Hakeem watches until it stops. He throws it and watches it bounce again. It’s like we aren’t even in the room.
“What is he doing?” I whisper. “Why isn’t he coming to us?”
“It’s OK, love. I don’t think he’s seen a ball before.”
Mama settles into a bench and smiles. She doesn’t seem to mind that she’s just traveled across the world to finally be with her son and that he hasn’t noticed her. But she doesn’t take her eyes off Hakeem for a second.
“Aren’t you happy to see Hakeem again?” Baba searches my face on our way to the orphanage the next day.
“Yeah, but I don’t think he likes me,” I say, thinking about how he was more excited about a ball than meeting me.
“I’m sure it’s not that,” Baba says. “It’s all overwhelming for him. He’s just overstimulated.”
Overstimulated. That’s the understatement of the year. It turns out my new brother can’t sit still. The crayon set and coloring book I bring him? They entertain him for about two minutes. The Elmo puzzle? He doesn’t understand what to do with it and throws the pieces all over the place. But every day, Hakeem wears the backpack I brought him. And as each day goes by, he sits in my parents’ laps longer, hugs me harder, and repeats “kan bgreek” when it’s time for him to return to his room.
One day, we go on a tour of the orphanage. The blue-hijab lady, who I now know is named Sister Khalida, first takes us to the space for babies, filled with rows and rows of metal cribs. A couple of babies are crying, and the rest are sleeping or just lying there.
Sister Khalida stops in the middle of the room and points to one crib over and over again.
“That must be where Hakeem slept,” Mama says, wiping her eyes. I imagine a tinier version of him lying here with no mother or father to love him, and my eyes fill up too.
Next, we go into the room for kids who are older than 2, like Hakeem. The kids aren’t there, and I’m a little relieved. It’s hard enough to see the rows of cots.
“They have food and clothing and a place to sleep here,” Mama says aloud to no one in particular. “But no playground, no bath toys, no cuddle times.”
I can’t wait to get Hakeem out of this place.
Illustration by Anne Lambelet
“Mama!” I yell. “Hakeem messed up my room again!”
I look around my room, which is a blur through my angry tears. Before Hakeem came home with us a month ago, it was perfect. The walls were painted exactly like I wanted: pink and gold. Now there are ugly marker scribbles everywhere that won’t wash off. Baba promised to paint over them more than a week ago, but he still hasn’t done it.
Mama rushes in.
“It’s not so bad,” she sighs as she surveys my books dumped out of the bookshelves, my hamper knocked over, and all my LEGO creations smashed into pieces.
“It’s not your room.” I sniffle. “Why is he always in here? Why can’t I get a lock on my door?”
“We are not going to lock your brother out of any part of the house. He has to learn.”
He has to learn. That’s the new understatement of the year. Hakeem gets a pass on everything because he doesn’t understand English, or because he’s never seen books or LEGOs before. Sometimes it feels like he hasn’t learned anything since he left the orphanage.
Before I can stop them, images of the orphanage fill my mind. I picture Hakeem’s cot and I start to feel guilty . . . until I spot the slime.
“Aaaaah!” I wail. “Look!”
Right in front of my closet, all my plastic bags of colorful slime are open and have oozed onto my cream-colored carpet.
“Oh,” Mama frowns. “This is bad.”
“I know!” I start to cry. “This was my best batch of slime. I used all my glitter in it!”
“You shouldn’t have left it within Hakeem’s reach,” Mama scolds as she examines the damage to the carpet.
“So it’s my fault ?” I know I shouldn’t be yelling, but I can’t help it. I already got into big trouble when Hakeem cut his own hair, for leaving scissors “within his reach.” He seems to be able to reach anything and find everything, no matter where I hide it.
“Stop shouting. You can always make more slime. This carpet is another story. Did you have to dye this stuff pink and orange?”
“All you care about is the carpet. And his feelings,” I mutter.
It’s the same way with my dad and Bilal. They always take Hakeem’s side. It’s not fair, because it’s always my stuff he messes up, not theirs.
Hakeem sticks his head inside the door, smiles his most charming smile, and points at me. That’s usually enough to make me smile back and forgive him. But not today.
“Get out !” I slam the door.
Whenever I complain about Hakeem ruining my life, my parents like to remind me of the day I said yes to adopting him. But what did I know? I wasn’t even 11 years old yet.
I ignore Hakeem for the rest of the day. When he makes funny faces and tries to get me to laugh during dinner, I look away.
As we pull up to the soccer field, Bilal comes running to the minivan in his training jersey.
“Can I take Hakeem to meet the team?” he asks.
“Now? I need to get back by six for a conference call,” Mama says. “And Hakeem didn’t take a nap today. He’s really tired.”
Mama yawns as she says the last words, and I can tell she’s tired too. She’ll never admit that Hakeem is wearing her out. The rest of us get a break during the day, but Mama works from home. I overheard her last week complaining to Baba that she can’t get anything done and needs time to herself.
“I’ll be quick. Come on, Hakeem, the guys want to meet you.”
“Guys,” Hakeem repeats. He’s turned into a parrot the past few days, repeating everything we say. It’s cute, but I’m still mad. It’s been three days since the slime incident, and my carpet has a gigantic stain. Between that and the marker on the walls, my room is wrecked.
“Yes, we’re going to see the guys.” Bilal picks Hakeem out of his booster seat and starts to walk away. Then he turns back.
“Come on, Aleena.”
I scramble out of the car behind them. Bilal’s team is always psyched to see me, especially if I’m in my soccer uniform. I love it when they call me Little A and let me kick the ball around with them.
“There he is!” Bilal’s best friend, David, is beaming as we approach. “Hey, big guy. You know how to kick a ball?”
“Ball!” Hakeem says, and David and the rest of the team laugh.
The next thing I know, Hakeem is running all over the field and the whole team is cheering for him.
I’ve been showing him how to kick the ball around in the backyard, and it’s amazing to see how good he is, especially since a month ago he didn’t know what a ball was.
“Bee-laal !” Hakeem says Bilal the way they do in Arabic, and everyone starts chanting, “Bee-laal! Bee-laal! Bee-laal!”
I stand on the sideline, feeling invisible. After a couple of minutes, I walk back to the car.
“What are they doing?” Mama asks.
“Playing soccer,” I grumble.
“Didn’t I tell Bilal I have to get home? Can you please go get them?”
I’m deciding whether to protest when I see Bilal and David walking to the parking lot. David is carrying Hakeem, and when they get to the car, Hakeem gives David a high five.
“Hi, Mrs. Siddiqui,” David says. “Hey, Little A! Next time we need you to play too OK?”
I nod as Hakeem says, “Little A!”
“Let’s go home,” Mama says.
“Home?” Hakeem asks, turning to me. I’m the one he always turns to when he doesn’t understand something.
“I’ll show you what it is when we get there,” I promise with a sigh.
As we pull into the driveway, I motion toward the house. “Home, Hakeem,” I say. “This is home.”
At bedtime, I hear Hakeem and Mama in his room. For the past week, before getting tucked in, Hakeem has been pointing at his wall with the airplane decals, his bucket of cars, his comforter, and his other things, saying “thank you” to each of them. Tonight, I hear him pause and then add, “Thank you, home.”
Illustration by Anne Lambelet
“Can you make sure he doesn’t bother us?”
I’ve planned out every detail of my art-themed 12th birthday party. We’re going to do two craft projects in the backyard. With eight girls coming over, the last thing I want is for Hakeem to get in the way.
“Yes.” Mama exhales slowly. “I’ll keep him inside.”
As everyone starts to arrive, Hakeem is surprisingly calm. Maybe he’s acting shy because there are so many girls, but he stands behind Mama and peeks out at them.
“He’s so cute,” Priscilla says with a little wave. “Hi, Hakeem!”
“Don’t talk to him,” I warn. “He’ll want all your attention, and you’ll have to high-five him 50 times. Let’s go in the backyard.”
We start with a sand art project. I carefully fill a bottle with layers of different-colored sand and top it with a cork. Everyone’s looks great, but Keisha is so meticulous with the funnel that her finished bottle looks professional.
Next, we move on to painting mugs. I decide to paint my mug for my mom, since Hakeem broke the handle of her favorite one last week.
“Are you girls thirsty?” Mama comes outside carrying a pitcher of pink lemonade and some cups.
We take a break from painting and sit in the grass under the tree, sipping our drinks and talking. Keisha starts to tell us a story about her teacher who adopted a shelter dog and then had a horrible allergic reaction and now is looking for a new owner. We’re all talking about how we wish we could help when I hear Hakeem’s voice.
“Leeeeeena! Play?”
I turn around and see Hakeem beckoning me from behind Izzy.
“You’re supposed to be inside,” I say. “Go back.”
Hakeem shakes his head and waves his fingers at me like he’s casting a spell. That’s when I notice that they are covered with sand. Multicolored sand.
“Mama!” I yell as I run to the sand art station. Sure enough, it is destroyed. Hakeem dumped out every one of the little bottles into an empty flowerpot.
“What did you do?” I cry as my friends catch up to me.
“What a monster!” Priscilla declares. “You were right!”
“You ruined all our work!” Keisha accuses Hakeem, and I see him shrink from the harshness of her words. Part of me is glad. He deserves it.
Mama and Baba come running.
“I thought he was with Bilal!” Mama says.
I stare angrily at Hakeem.
“Leena . . .” he starts to say. But then his face crumples and he runs to Mama and hides. I’ve only seen him cry twice before—when he said goodbye to the kids at the orphanage and one night at home when he first arrived.
“I’m sorry, hon,” Mama says to me. “Don’t let this ruin the party, OK? I’m bringing the food out in a moment. Hakeem, you come with me, mister.”
Hakeem follows my parents into the house. There are tears on his face and sand all over his shoes.
“I’m so glad I don’t have a little brother,” Izzy declares.
“But I wanted one so much,” I remember.
“Yeah, until he ruined your stuff and trashed your room,” Carmen adds. “I would be so mad.”
I don’t even remember telling my friends about that. Baba finally painted over Hakeem’s scribbles on the walls, and a steam cleaning made the carpet stain a lot lighter. It finally feels like my room again.
“No wonder you don’t want us to come over here most of the time.” Keisha sighs. “I don’t blame you.”
“Me either,” Priscilla agrees. “He’s so annoying.”
I know my friends are trying to make me feel better, but it isn’t working. Instead, their words swirl inside me and make me feel emptier than the bottles without any sand left in them.
“No. You shouldn’t say those things,” I finally respond. “Hakeem’s learning. He didn’t have anything in his orphanage, and he gets overstimulated. He just wanted to play with the sand. We can put it back in the bottles even if it’s mixed up, maybe add glitter or beads.”
I look at my friends and wait for their reactions.
“Okay.” Keisha shrugs.
“He is cute,” Priscilla concedes.
Mama brings out cupcakes arranged in a tower. Each one has a candle on it. Baba comes out after her, carrying a fruit platter. Bilal trails behind with plates and forks.
“Ready to sing?” Mama asks cheerfully.
I glance around and see Hakeem standing alone inside, his face pressed against the glass of the sliding door.
“Hold on.”
I walk to the door and open it. Hakeem grabs my hand and practically dances outside.
“Now I’m ready,” I say.
Everyone sings to me, including Hakeem, although he’s making up his own words. Hakeem’s birthday is next month. I decide that he needs to practice before he turns 5, so after I blow out my candles, I ask Baba to light them again.
Hakeem is so excited that he almost touches a candle. He sticks his finger in a cupcake, licks off the icing, and spits while he blows. We all cheer for him, and he beams and gives everyone high fives.
I suddenly remember my birthday wish from last year, back when we were talking about Hakeem becoming part of our family. It came true.
Hakeem is home—and I’m the one who got to teach him what that means.
Copyright @2019 by Hena Khan. First published by Crown Books for Young Readers. Reprinted by permission of the Proprietor.
This story was originally published in the September 2020 issue.
1. PREPARING TO READ (5 minutes)
2. READING AND DISCUSSING (45 MINUTES)
3. SKILL BUILDING AND WRITING (20 MINUTES)
