Amina's Song: Chapters 26–38

“First I use this scissor tool right here to chop up the sample like this,” he says. His eyes are intense as he concentrates on what he’s doing, and he bites his lower lip. Next we listen to each snippet and choose our favorites, which Nico splices together.

Mama gives me a glance as she walks out of the kitchen, and I wish I could read her mind right now. And if I could, I’d remind her about Mario telepathically.

“We need to add a countermelody to accent the sample.” Nico picks up where we left off as if nothing colossal just happened.

“Like the finishing touch. Like how when—how do I explain it? Kind of like when chefs put those little leaves on top of fancy desserts.”
“You mean garnish,” Mustafa says as he comes into the kitchen.

“Nico. He’s new. And really nice.”
Mama’s eyebrow goes up again.
“And he’s Egyptian,” I add as an afterthought. “On his mom’s side.”

Mama shrugs. “It’s a close-knit community, but fine. I can ask later. So...what are you working on?”
“Nico knows how to make music. Like how to produce songs. And he’s showing me how.”

“Yeah. Mario was my best friend, and he was a boy. Remember? It wasn’t a problem back then. Girls and boys can be friends, can’t they?”
“Well—I mean—yes—I suppose,” Mama stammers.

Malala describes her childhood village in the mountains of Swat so clearly I can imagine the crisp clean air, waterfalls, and jagged cliffs with narrow suspension bridges. The humble home she lived in sounds so different from Thaya Jaan’s three-story house with its green gates, carport, manicured lawn filled with fruit trees and flowers, and my favorite veranda.

Malala describes her childhood village in the mountains of Swat so clearly I can imagine the crisp clean air, waterfalls, and jagged cliffs with narrow suspension bridges. The humble home she lived in sounds so different from Thaya Jaan’s three-story house with its green gates, carport, manicured lawn filled with fruit trees and flowers, and my favorite veranda.

“Salaam!” I say, holding out my arms for Sumaiya, who nose-dives into my chest. She looks straight into my eyes and babbles a greeting.

“That wasn’t on purpose! I went into the hall, and he was there.”
Soojin cocks her head sideways like a pensive owl. “Okay, so tell us—what do you think is happening?”
“I don’t know,” I admit.

“I don’t know. Something like ‘Soojin Is Awesome,’ to the tune of ‘Everything Is Awesome’?”
“That would be ridiculous,” Emily says. She arranges the markers in rainbow order. “But we will make you some awesome signs.”
“Fine,” Soojin concedes. “But I still need something to set my campaign apart.”

“Like community service?”
“Yeah.” I’m glad to change the subject and share what I’ve been mulling over since Imam Malik visited. I want to make Soojin’s campaign stand out and be more than the same old tired promises and think I might have the answer.

“Are you sure?” Rabiya looks sheepish. “I told my mom I asked you about the identity crisis thing, and she was mad at me for talking about things she says I don’t understand. She said you’re doing fine, for a teenager.”

Ms. Holly sings a bunch of nonsense words in a falsetto while she moves her head from side to side like a chicken. Nico turns to me with his mouth twisting in all kinds of directions, and I stifle a laugh.

Ms. Holly sings a bunch of nonsense words in a falsetto while she moves her head from side to side like a chicken. Nico turns to me with his mouth twisting in all kinds of directions, and I stifle a laugh.

“Isn’t that a bit, I don’t know, old-fashioned?” Julie asks as she scans the room, checking to see who agrees with her.
“Maybe. But it’s got everything.” Ms. Holly clutches her chest. “Romance, intrigue, friendship, redemption.”

“Isn’t that a bit, I don’t know, old-fashioned?” Julie asks as she scans the room, checking to see who agrees with her.
“Maybe. But it’s got everything.” Ms. Holly clutches her chest. “Romance, intrigue, friendship, redemption.”

“Listen to this,” she says.
A syrupy sweet voice starts belting out a ballad, singing to her love, to her “someone.” We all listen politely.

The halls are filled with seventh graders wearing white coats, army fatigues, dashikis, and a kimono.

The halls are filled with seventh graders wearing white coats, army fatigues, dashikis, and a kimono.

“Amina, you understand your presentation falls outside the parameters of the assignment,” Mr. Griffiths starts to say, pushing up his glasses and sounding exasperated. “The ones we spent a lot of time establishing as a department.”

“Amina, you understand your presentation falls outside the parameters of the assignment,” Mr. Griffiths starts to say, pushing up his glasses and sounding exasperated. “The ones we spent a lot of time establishing as a department.”

Emily is on the other side of me. She decided to be Ruth Bader Ginsburg, which made her mom super happy. She’s wearing a black graduation gown with a white collar sticking out, and her hair is in a tight bun with powder on it to make it gray. When the people around her move on, she smiles and waves to me with the meat mallet she is using as a gavel.

Nico writes the words down after the Punjabi with a pencil. “I think if you repeat the line in English, right here”—Nico pushes his hair out of his face, and I see his eyes are sincere—“it’s pretty much perfect.”
“You really like it?” I feel a rush of relief and giddiness.

Baba comes into the kitchen singing loudly in his extra-deep baritone, but he stops mid-note when he sees us at work. “Oh, sorry.” He grins. “I thought you might need a backup singer.”

The song starts with shots of our neighborhood, then it moves from our quiet street, to Southridge Mall, the Islamic Center, and outside my school. You see the back of me walking with my friends, wearing my backpack and headphones. And then it switches to scenes of me walking in the chaotic streets of Lahore, the colorful market, and the majestic Wazir Khan Mosque.

Thaya Jaan looks frail, and his hair and beard are uncharacteristically messy. When he sees me in the phone, he waves slightly but doesn’t speak. My throat tightens as I see this altered version of my uncle lying there.

As I exhale, Thaya Jaan motions for her to bring the phone closer. I look into his eyes, which are tired but resolute, and I know he’s still fighting for all of us. “We love you, Thaya Jaan.” I blow him a kiss.

“He’s going to be okay, right? Why isn’t he talking?”
“He’s really hoarse from the surgery, so it hurts for him to speak. But don’t worry, the doctors say he’s doing well. And it helps that he has all your love and prayers.”