Yusuf Azeem Is Not a Hero: Chapters 1–6

Someone jostled his side lightly as they passed.

“Can’t,” he replied reluctantly. “My mamoo is visiting at dinner.”

“It’s perseverance,” whispered Yusuf, but nobody could hear him over the noise.

Danial hefted his new Star Wars backpack higher on his shoulder.

“Those are all baby classes.”
“No, they’re not,” Yusuf replied cheerfully. Firmly. “They’re the most essential classes. Nourishing the body and the brain and the spirit.”

“He says we should know what’s going on around us. Learn about the worst and hope for the best.”
Danial chortled. “Yeah, he’s always saying that. He should make a poster and hang it over his checkout counter next to that plaque of his. Or maybe even replace that old plaque. It’s getting rusty.”

Not only was there a mini lab explosion, but the tech’s eyebrows had gotten singed because he forgot to wear goggles.

He took a deep breath and said, enunciating each syllable clearly, “Yusuf Azeem, sir.”

Amma was cleaning out the garage when Yusuf got home from school. “Salaam alaikum! Just the boy I wanted to see,” she said, giving him a quick hug. Her knee-length white tunic had smudges of dirt on it.

Then, as an afterthought: “Don’t fill your stomach, though. Rahman mamoo is already on his way here, and he promised to bring Chinese food.”

Every six months, he traveled along I-45 to Dallas to teach a week-long course in something called genetic mutation.

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.

Cilantro belonged in Pakistani food, mixed with chickpeas or curry, or sprinkled over a hearty daal.

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

“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 nodded so vigorously his backpack slid down his arm and onto the floor.

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.”

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.”

The original village didn’t have a name, but it had an orchard, a winery, and a cotton gin.

Frey boasted a lot of typical small-town things. A nineteenth-century courthouse that now also included the Frey Family Museum. A corn maze that was open all night in the fall, if you dared to enter it. A still-functioning stone fountain and three quaint little bed-and-breakfasts. Groves of peaches that supplied many of the grocery stores in southeast Texas. And sixteen churches in a variety of denominations.

Frey boasted a lot of typical small-town things. A nineteenth-century courthouse that now also included the Frey Family Museum. A corn maze that was open all night in the fall, if you dared to enter it. A still-functioning stone fountain and three quaint little bed-and-breakfasts. Groves of peaches that supplied many of the grocery stores in southeast Texas. And sixteen churches in a variety of denominations.

Their “mosque” was a dingy mobile trailer at the back of Abba’s dollar store. It was small and hot and dark, and smelled like old newspapers even when you opened every single window at the back. It was no longer a viable option, as Abba was fond of saying.

Their “mosque” was a dingy mobile trailer at the back of Abba’s dollar store. It was small and hot and dark, and smelled like old newspapers even when you opened every single window at the back. It was no longer a viable option, as Abba was fond of saying.

“It’s unseemly to be praying like heathens in the parking lot of a decent business,” he’d said gently one time.

“It’s unseemly to be praying like heathens in the parking lot of a decent business,” he’d said gently one time.

Sameena Aunty was a dragon, handing out punishments with righteous glee.

Today Amma was wearing a long checkered blouse and black pants, with a black hijab covering her head casually. She only wore it in the mosque and when praying, unlike Sameena Aunty, who wore it 24/7, even in 110-degree weather. Danial speculated that she even wore it to sleep.

Today Amma was wearing a long checkered blouse and black pants, with a black hijab covering her head casually. She only wore it in the mosque and when praying, unlike Sameena Aunty, who wore it 24/7, even in 110-degree weather. Danial speculated that she even wore it to sleep.

“Anything else?” Amma prodded, looking at Yusuf.
He shook his head, and Amma went back to her book.

Rusty came over to Yusuf. He knelt and scratched her back with gentle hands. She was orange and scrawny, living off the trash in the back parking lot, which wasn’t a bad thing because the visitors to the mosque trailer always left behind delicious treats like chicken bones with the flesh still hanging off, and beef tendrils, and lamb hoofs.

Rusty came over to Yusuf. He knelt and scratched her back with gentle hands. She was orange and scrawny, living off the trash in the back parking lot, which wasn’t a bad thing because the visitors to the mosque trailer always left behind delicious treats like chicken bones with the flesh still hanging off, and beef tendrils, and lamb hoofs.

Plus, Amma always brought back the fat trimmings from her weekly treks to the halal meat market in Conroe.

Yusuf debated if he should ask about Saturday school. Abba didn’t really have control over his after-school activities. Those were Amma’s realm, and she was the tyrant queen. Yusuf decided to keep quiet.

Yusuf cleaned up aisle three by himself. He affixed all the new price tags and then picked up the old products and took them to the storeroom.

When he came out, the blond woman and the man with the tired face were gone, but someone else was talking with Abba—an old woman with white hair tied in a bun and gnarled hands she waved around as she talked.