Yusuf Azeem Is Not a Hero Read online

  He grinned at her. “You’re right, of course.”

  She grinned back. “Me hungry,” she said. He speared a piece of chicken with his fork and popped it into her open mouth.

  Abba came home an hour later, grumbling about his new assistant at the dollar store. “He said he had a year’s experience when I hired him, but the way he stocks the shelves, it seems like he’s never done it before.”

  Yusuf had moved into the living room, watching a documentary about a new type of robot that assembled cars in half the time it took human engineers. Aleena snuggled next to him, singing under her breath. It was either the Barney song or something from the Muppets. They all sounded the same to Yusuf. “Maybe the guy knows a better way to stock shelves,” he told Abba. “Like, by colors or size or something.”

  Abba took off his socks and leaned against the couch back next to Yusuf. “No, his system makes no sense,” he said, shaking his head. “Not that I can see, anyway.”

  The robots were just a long arm and a slim metal body, but they had pushed sixty-five engineers out of an auto plant in Michigan. “New systems often don’t make sense to the old generation,” Yusuf murmured.

  “What’s that?” Abba asked, frowning.

  Yusuf shook his head. Thankfully, at that moment Aleena noticed Abba. She scrambled off the couch and launched herself at him. “Abba! Abba!” she shouted. “You came home!”

  Abba picked her up and whirled her around. “How’s my favorite little gurya?”

  “I’m not a dolly!” she replied, laughing.

  “Sorry, you look just like one!”

  Yusuf went back to his documentary, lost in a dream world where he could build robots that functioned like brilliant metallic geniuses. Abba and Aleena sat next to him, but he hardly noticed.

  At a quarter to six, Amma came in from the garage holding a big brown box with torn edges. “I need to get cleaned up,” she announced. “Yusuf, be a darling and put this box in the front hallway for your uncle Rahman. They’re his old books, and he keeps forgetting to take them with him whenever he visits.”

  “Only if you promise never to call me darling again,” Yusuf replied without looking away from the television screen.

  Amma dumped the box on his lap. It gave off a faint cloud of dust. “I gave birth to you, so I can call you whatever I like.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Yusuf sighed.

  Abba stood up as well, holding a dangling Aleena from his arm. “And take your sister in to get her changed, please. She stinks.”

  Aleena thought that was hilarious, and she went into a peal of giggles and sniffed her armpits in an exaggerated way. Yusuf switched off the television. He took the box with one hand and his sister with another, and marched out of the living room. The robots were lucky. They didn’t have any family to take care of. No wonder they could get so much done so quickly.

  Uncle Rahman arrived at six o’clock, holding warm plastic bags full of food. He was Amma’s younger brother by six years, and a research scientist in a university hospital in Houston. Every six months, he traveled along I-45 to Dallas to teach a week-long course in something called genetic mutation. On his way back, he always stopped in Frey. Like clockwork.

  This was the second visit of the year. Yusuf couldn’t wait to hear about his class. There was always something interesting going on at Uncle Rahman’s work.

  But first Amma showed off her new garage office. “It’s got a working fan and everything now!” she boasted, while Abba muttered under his breath. Yusuf had to admit the place was quite comfy. There was a bright patterned carpet on the floor, and a little area for Aleena’s toys. “Very nice, Farrah baji,” Uncle Rahman said, smiling.

  “Nice, yeah, but where am I going to park my car now?” Abba grumbled.

  “That piece of junk can stay in the driveway,” Amma told him. “Nobody will steal it even if you ask them to!”

  Aleena pulled at Uncle Rahman’s hand. “Now see my room,” she said, and they all moved back to the house.

  Yusuf set the table while Amma poured the Chinese food into porcelain dishes. “In movies they just eat straight out of the takeout boxes with chopsticks,” he complained.

  “Television isn’t real life, my boy.” Amma licked a spot of soy sauce on her finger. “I prefer to have my meal look nice, even if it’s takeout.”

  Uncle Rahman coming over was always fun, but the Chinese food in Frey was terrible. China Star on the corner of Rochester and First was run by a Mexican family, and their signature dish of kung pao was laced with cilantro. Somehow this made the food even more endearing to Yusuf’s family. “Who doesn’t like a good sprinkling of cilantro?” Abba would always say.

  Not Yusuf. Cilantro belonged in Pakistani food, mixed with chickpeas or curry, or sprinkled over a hearty daal. It had no business being mixed into Chinese food. Still, everything tasted better when Uncle Rahman was around, and Yusuf was glad he hadn’t eaten too much pulao.

  He counted the dishes. Vegetable fried rice. Beef with broccoli. Ginger chicken. Uncle Rahman always brought enough to last the next day too. “Where’s the kung pao?” Yusuf asked, disappointed.

  “Don’t be ungrateful; there’s plenty of food,” Amma told him. “Go call everyone for dinner.”

  Uncle Rahman smiled at Amma when he saw the porcelain dishes. “We could have eaten from the takeout boxes, you know. Less dishes to wash.”

  She smiled back and ruffled his hair. “I don’t mind doing dishes for my little brother.”

  They ate in silence for a while, the only sounds the slurping of milk from Aleena’s sippy cup. Yusuf tried to block his ears, but she was sitting right next to him, grinning.

  “The twentieth anniversary of the attacks is coming up soon,” Uncle Rahman announced.

  Abba drank some water. “Does it matter? It’s been twenty years.”

  Uncle Rahman looked stern. “You don’t mean that. You know it still affects us every single day. At work. On the street. At the airport.”

  Abba shoveled pieces of ginger chicken into his mouth. Yusuf could tell by the speed of his fork-to-mouth action that he was annoyed. “Work never stops because of an anniversary. Just keep working and ignore all the noise, that’s my philosophy.”

  “Philosophy . . . ?” Uncle Rahman’s voice rose to an alarming level.

  Amma put her hand on his arm. “Let’s not talk politics, please. Not in front of the kids.”

  Immediately her brother took a deep breath and tried to smile. “Of course, Farrah baji, you’re right. Tell me, Aleena jaan, how old are you now?”

  Aleena laughed with her mouth open, specks of rice on her tongue like snowflakes. “Guess,” she said, holding up three fingers.

  “Three?” Uncle Rahman’s black beard quivered in surprise. “I can’t believe it! You’re such a big girl now.”

  “And Yusuf is twelve now,” Amma interjected proudly.

  Uncle Rahman turned to him, startled. “Really? When did that happen?”

  Yusuf rolled his eyes. “Almost twelve,” he corrected. “Today was the first day of middle school.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “What did you mean, the attacks?”

  Abba made a noise in his throat, like he was irritated. But Uncle Rahman shook his head at him, took a minute to swallow his food, and then replied seriously. “Twenty years ago our country was attacked by terrorists. The date was September 11, 2001. Next month will be the twentieth anniversary of that event.”

  Yusuf wrinkled his nose. He wasn’t a baby. He knew about 9/11. He thought about the blue banner in his school hallway. Never forget. “Twenty years? That’s ancient history.”

  Uncle Rahman lost his smile. “Don’t tell me you don’t learn about 9/11 in school?”

  Amma waved a fork in the air. “They do, just a little bit. A small lesson here and there. Not the way they teach it in other states. Sarah was saying they have units in social studies every year.”

  Yusuf hadn’t known this. His cousins in California learned about 9
/11 in school every year? Here in Frey, they hardly discussed it. He looked up. Uncle Rahman was staring at him like it was his fault. “History informs the present, my dear nephew, and so it affects the future,” Uncle Rahman told him.

  Yusuf spent the rest of dinner thinking about this statement, while the adults talked. Aleena fell asleep with her face on the table, snoring lightly. Yusuf finished his food and went to his bedroom to work on Scratch. Aleena’s unicorn had been glitching, but he knew how to fix it.

  Uncle Rahman came to say goodbye just before bedtime. The box of old books from the garage was tucked under his arm. “I found something of a relic in this box of books, and I thought you should have it,” he told Yusuf, holding out a battered leather journal.

  Yusuf switched off his laptop. “What is it?”

  Uncle Rahman tapped his finger on the cover of the journal. “I was your age when 9/11 happened. It was an emotional time for everyone, and it was hard for me to process. My English class project that year included journaling, and I ended up writing about some of my experiences in here, trying to figure things out.”

  Yusuf squinted through his glasses. “Figure what out?”

  “Everything. Life. My place in the world. How it all changed in an instant, how I became a stranger in my own country.”

  Yusuf had so many questions. He opened his mouth to speak, but Uncle Rahman had already turned away, leaving the journal on his bed. “Please . . . don’t tell anyone about this. It’ll be our secret.”

  And then he was gone.

  Journal entry 1

  August 28, 2001

  It’s exactly one week since sixth grade began. It’s the first time I have a locker, and I’m going to decorate it with mini posters of Harry Potter and Hermione. Jonathan thinks that’s too silly. He says characters in books can’t be our idols. I am 100 percent sure he’s going to put up pictures of football players or something. The best thing is that our lockers are next to each other, and we’re together in every single one of our classes too, including English with Mrs. Clifton, who’s making us keep this journal as writing practice. Jonathan thinks it doesn’t really matter, because she said we don’t need to turn it in. I think I should definitely make my weekly entries, just in case she wants to take a look at some point. Plus, she said it’s ten extra credit points. “Who cares?” was Jonathan’s predictable response.

  Jonathan O’Reilly is weird, but in a good way. He makes me laugh when I’m sad, by telling jokes about the chicken crossing the road or something. Corny, is what I tell him. He shrugs and replies, “Who says corny is bad?”

  He’s right, of course. Corny is good.

  Getting ten extra credit points is even better. I want to keep my track record of all As, because Abba gives me money for each A I get on my final report card. This year I’ve got my eye on a brand-new Discman from Sony, and I need all As to make it happen.

  Mrs. Clifton gave us some examples of what to write about in the journal. For instance, you could write about your summer vacation, she said in class when she announced the journaling project.

  So here goes.

  My family went to Pakistan for summer vacation, just like we do every single year since I can remember. Abba never goes, because he can’t leave work at the university for so long, but our cat, Silky, keeps him company. Amma takes the three of us—Farrah baji, Sarah, and me—on our annual vacations.

  It’s always super-hot in the summer, but that also means mango season. Mangoes are the supreme fruit, but not the ones we get here from Mexico. The real mangoes are the ones in Pakistan . . . soft and delicious, so that the juice runs down your chin when you bite into them. Oh, and we also get to see all the people Amma and Abba left behind when they came to the U.S. a thousand years ago.

  Okay, it wasn’t a thousand years. More like twenty years ago. Abba came as a student, and then got married after graduation to Amma and brought her here to Houston. I’ve seen their wedding pictures: lots of dancing and smiling, and tons of food. Seems like fun!

  Another thing that’s definitely going to be fun: middle school. In fact, I predict that 2001 is going to be the best year of my entire life.

  4

  The next morning, there was another paper in Yusuf’s locker.

  Go home.

  It was the exact same paper as last time. White. Lined. The same cursive writing in black pen. He swallowed. Then he closed the locker door and studied the front of it. There was one long vent on the top, to let in air. Anyone could have slipped the paper inside without even having to slow down as they passed. He gripped the locker door and swallowed again. It was clear that the messages were meant for him.

  Or were they? He’d just had this locker for two days. How did anyone find out it was his? Was someone stalking him? Was the locker list on a bulletin board somewhere in the school? Yusuf’s stomach lurched.

  He opened the locker door and stared at the paper some more. Go home? What did that even mean? He’d just gotten to school; it was almost time for science class. He took the paper—and the one from yesterday—and hid them on the top shelf of the locker. Abba always said, “Out of sight, out of mind.” Maybe that would do the trick.

  In science class, Mr. Parker gave a quiz on yesterday’s safety rules. Then they watched a short video about how to conduct science experiments. “Who knows the first step of the scientific method?” Mr. Parker asked with arched eyebrows when the video finished.

  Yusuf raised his hand. “Making an observation,” he said.

  “Nerd,” someone coughed from the back of the class.

  Mr. Parker ignored everyone and started to write the steps of the scientific method on the whiteboard. Yusuf could recite them backward in his sleep, but he took notes anyway.

  Just before class ended, Mr. Parker passed out flyers about the robotics club. “Tuesdays and Thursdays from three to four, right here in this room!” he called out. “It’s really fun, I promise!” Most of the students were already talking and packing their books. Nobody took a flyer except Yusuf.

  He waited until the bell rang and everybody had left. Then he went up to the teacher’s desk, flyer in hand. “It doesn’t say anything about the club fees,” he asked quietly. “How much are the fees?”

  Mr. Parker looked at him without speaking. Up close, the wrinkles around his eyes were mini craters. Then he answered, “The club is free for now. I usually don’t get enough kids interested in robotics here. They’d rather play football.”

  Yusuf nodded. Football was the lifeblood of Frey. “Will we be prepping for the TRC in this club? That’s what we did in elementary school. As practice, anyway.”

  Mr. Parker narrowed his eyes. “The Texas Robotics Competition is a serious event, son. It requires at least six kids on the team, and not just any kids. They’d have to be really good at robotics and building things. I haven’t been able to get that many to sign up since 2012. Do you think this year will be any different?”

  Yusuf nodded so vigorously his backpack slid down his arm and onto the floor. “Yes, sir. My friend Danial and I have been working toward TRC since third grade. You can ask our science teacher, Mrs. Oldham, from Frey Elementary School.”

  Mr. Parker nibbled on his mustache. “We’ll see. All I can tell you is, join the after-school club and hope for the best. That’s where you’ll practice programming basics using LEGO Mindstorms. If we get enough kids for the TRC, we’ll begin meeting on Saturdays to work on our robot.”

  Yusuf didn’t tell him he’d already programmed LEGO Mindstorms at least thirty times. He nodded his thanks and turned to leave, then paused. “Who’s the mentor for TRC?”

  “Me.” Mr. Parker gave a little smile. “Guess you’ll be seeing a whole lot of me this year.”

  As Yusuf was leaving, Mr. Parker called out, “You’re Azeem’s son, aren’t you? From A to Z Dollar Store?”

  Yusuf turned around and nodded. There was only one dollar store in Frey, and there was only one Azeem. “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. P
arker nodded thoughtfully and went back to the papers on his desk. “Welcome to sixth grade.”

  In the cafeteria at lunchtime, Yusuf and Danial pored over the robotics club flyer. “The worst part of this entire thing is the TRC club on Saturdays,” Danial complained. “My dad will never let me skip the mosque for that.” He was eating paratha and omelet he’d brought from home, because his parents didn’t allow non-halal food.

  Yusuf, on the other hand, was chomping on a chicken barbecue sandwich straight from the cafeteria. No longer bringing lunch from home was the ultimate sign that he was cool. He looked dreamily at the chalkboard menu above the lunch counters. Pizza day was Friday. Tomorrow.

  “Are you listening to me?” Danial hissed. “The TRC club is on Saturdays, which is when we all go to the masjid for Sunday school. Did you forget?”

  Yusuf hadn’t forgotten. Sunday school at their masjid had temporarily shifted to Saturdays because of construction, but they still called it Sunday school out of habit. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out. Maybe my amma can convince yours. That way we can bypass the fathers altogether.”

  Danial grunted. “Your mom’s no fool. Remember how last year she made you go to Sunday school in the middle of a tropical storm? You were the only kid there that day.”

  Yusuf hadn’t forgotten. “It wasn’t raining so badly when we left the house,” he protested. “Anyway, it’s been an entire year since that happened. I’m going to try talking to her over the weekend.”

  Danial pushed his egg pieces around in disgust. “Whatever.”

  Yusuf polished off the last of his sandwich and jabbed a barbecue-smudged finger on the robotics flyer. “The bigger problem is that we need more players to form a team. Mr. Parker said he can never get enough kids to join the competition.”

  “Really?” Danial pushed his lunch box away with a groan. “Where will we find other kids as much into LEGO and robots as we are?”

  “You mean obsessed like us?”

  “Have you noticed how most kids would rather play football or even watch a football game than write code?” Danial asked. “And they’re so rude here. Nobody says hello, and one kid pushed me as we were leaving the class. Forget about saying sorry. Middle school is hard, dude.”