“Where do you even find watermelons in December?” Keith asks.
I don’t blame him for wondering. His family shops in the grocery store with a long deli counter, a whole aisle for sliced bread, and a floral section with orchids and bouquets of roses. We shop there too – sometimes. But mostly we get our vegetables and the ingredients for Mom’s smoothies from the Asian grocery store where there are eleven different kinds of squash but only one kind of sliced cheese.
“Easy. We grow watermelons in our backyard,” I say.
“False,” Keith replies, giving me a sceptical look.
“False,” I admit.
“And why watermelons?”
“They’re supposed to represent happiness and love,” I say, and feel my ears get hot. I could kick myself. When Keith asked if my family had any plans for winter break, I somehow stumbled into telling him about my namesake holiday, the winter solstice. I have managed to make it sound as sappy as a drugstore on Valentine’s Day. Keith probably thinks it all sounds bizarre.
At the beginning of the school year, we walked home separately. Yusuf leaves school one period early as part of his independent study and Keith was his friend, not mine. Yusuf walks home alone, picks up the used car Dad bought for us to share, and either drives himself to the middle school to mentor a couple of kids who are learning guitar in an afterschool program or goes to Crescendo, a music studio, to work on composing music. It’s the perfect independent study for him. He’s oddly patient with kids, and at Crescendo, where he also practices with his band, he teaches young, aspiring musicians about chords and how to hold a guitar. They like him because he’s younger than the other teachers and he helps the kids learn to play their favorite songs to make them love the instrument. By the end of the semester, he has to turn in an original song and a paper on the impact music has on children.
I thought about doing an independent study in art, but I was afraid I’d have to display my work at school, and there was already enough judgment happening in the hallways. I stuck with regular classes instead.
Without Yusuf, I would trail behind Keith with my headphones on. One day, he stood at the corner until I caught up. He tapped his ear, and when I paused the music on my phone, he told me it wasn’t safe to walk and listen to music.
I told him I was surprised he cared so deeply about pedestrian safety, though what really surprised me was that he’d noticed me behind him.
We walked the rest of the way home that day and every school day since, talking about music and climate change and debating whether our science teacher had performed his own hair transplant. Since Keith’s house is first on our block, my parents don’t see us walking together, which is a lifesaver. I don’t need them flipping out about me talking to a boy.
I mean, it’s not like we’re dating.
We’re just two people walking in the same direction and talking about matters of general interest. And that’s why I’m struggling to understand why I told him something that’s probably got him wondering what else goes on in my house. His family celebrates holidays that need no explanation and are guaranteed to be days off from school. But when I’d said tonight was our winter holiday, Keith seemed sincerely interested, so I rambled on.
“It’s not just watermelon. We have pomegranates and dried fruits and nuts and my mom lights a bunch of candles. Then we stay up till midnight reading poems and stuff.”
I look at him from the corner of my eye, unsure what he’s thinking.
“That sounds a lot like telling stories around a campfire at night.”
I feel relieved, like I was half-afraid Keith was going to accuse me of witchcraft. Yusuf’s right. I really do need to chill out.
“Yeah. Except we do this in the comfort of our living room. I’m a big fan of indoor plumbing.”
“That’s wild. We have so much in common,” Keith says in mock wonder, and I bite my cheek to avoid grinning. “So what poems are you going to read tonight?”
I shake my head.
“My parents read the poems. My brother and I just listen.” It’s kind of embarrassing that I can’t read and write in the language we speak at home, so I leave that out. I also don’t want him to ask me to say something in Dari for his entertainment. My first week riding the bus to middle school, a girl asked me to say something in my language. She and her friends leaned over the seats to get a listen. In my half-broken Dari, I told her that her teeth reminded me of burnt corn. The girls giggled and one tried to mimic the sounds. They asked me to repeat myself three times before they remembered to forget about me.
“I’m pretty sure the last poem my mother read to me was written by Dr Seuss,” Keith says. That gets my attention.
“Are you a Dr Seuss fan?”
“A lyrical genius,” Keith says.
“Just to clarify, was your mom reading this poem to you when you were five or last week?”
The look of faux outrage he gives me is golden. Keith is a walking GIF.
“You know what? That’s cool. I’m a big boy. You can’t hurt me,” he says, then he stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I think he would have killed at a school visit.”
“I dunno,” I say. “A few of his books got pulled for racist images. And anyway, he was an introvert. Spent most of his time alone, writing, and pretty much stayed away from kids.”
“Okay, I want to unhear that. But the introvert stuff – that seems like an artist vibe, so it makes sense. Yusuf said you’re an artist.”
“He did?” I ask, surprised to hear him say so. “I draw a little.”
“That’s cool. He said you’re really good. Do you ever post your stuff?”
I shake my head. A knot forms in my belly at the thought of sharing my drawings. Why does my brother always need adult supervision? I’m not sure why Yusuf felt compelled to mention this to Keith.
“Not really,” I say, trying to sound unbothered. “It’s just a hobby. Not like Yusuf. He’s the one who’s really pursuing his art.”
“Oh yeah! I hear Yusuf’s band is going to be playing at WhereHouse. Do you get VIP tickets or something?”
WhereHouse is a funky, punky space on the outskirts of town. I haven’t been there but checked out some pictures online when Yusuf told me they were hoping to play in this year’s Battle of the Bands there. The unimpressive but popular venue is four walls and a stage. Attached to it is what they call a restaurant, though it has fewer items on the menu than a food truck. There’s also a bar next door in a place that’s technically not part of WhereHouse but shares a wall, which is why Yusuf swore me to secrecy on this gig. Our parents would be less than thrilled to know he was playing so close to a bar.
“I don’t know,” I tell Keith. “I like watching them perform, but…”
Does Keith know Yusuf is hiding this from our parents? I don’t want to out him. It always feels a little juvenile to have to sneak around instead of having parents who can be cool with what their kids are doing.
Excerpted with permission from Spilled Ink, Nadia Hashimi, Quill Tree Books.
