Rebels by Accident (5 page)

“Very nice,” I say, extending my hand too.

But when Ahmed takes my hand in his, he doesn't shake it. He holds on to it with both his hands and says, “Have a good time in Egypt. And, Mariam, I bet your
sittu
isn't as tough as you fear.”

I stare at him for a moment, trying to remember if I'd said anything about Sittu on the plane. I know he was eavesdropping on our conversation, but I'm almost positive I never said a word out loud about Sittu. Maybe he's a mind reader. I pull my hand from his and rejoin Deanna.

The officer takes our passports. He examines them for a moment, then taps Deanna's passport. Deanna turns to me. “You don't remember how you say hello, do you?”

“Hello,” I say.

“I mean in Arabic.”

“
Ahlan
,” the customs officer says dully. It doesn't sound like he appreciates that Deanna is trying to speak his language.

“That's it!
Ahlan
!
”

The customs officer starts looking back and forth between his computer and Deanna's passport, exactly like the other officer did before the guards took the man away.

“
Asalaam
alaikum
,” I say, just like Baba taught me.

“
Wa-Alaikum-Salaam
.”

He can smile. I smile back.

“My favorite color.” He points to my red suitcase.

“Mine too,” I say as I smile wider.

“You are sad?” he asks Deanna as he points to her mouth.

“Just tired,” she says, skirting the question.

“What is the reason for your trip?”

“We're here to see my grandmother.”

“Her
sittu
,” Deanna adds.

This makes him smile again.

“Before I let you both through, you have to promise me one thing.” The officer pauses, waiting for our answer.

“Yes,” we say in unison.

“You must learn to speak Arabic.” He laughs this time.

“That's the plan,” Deanna says.

I nod.

“
Ahlan
wa
sahlan
,” he says. “Welcome to Egypt.”

As we head for the sliding glass doors, Deanna and I glance at the green metal door. We don't say a word, but I know we're both hoping the family is okay.

“You told your
sittu
about my smile thing, right?” Deanna asks. “I don't want her to think I'm not happy to see her when we first meet. First impressions are important, you know.”

Deanna always acts like she doesn't care what people think of her. I envy that. So why does she have to pick now to care about what someone thinks? Especially someone who is as uptight as Sittu?

“She's going to love you,” I say, wanting to believe it, but I can't imagine Sittu loving a rebel.

Sittu kisses me on both cheeks so hard I feel like she's leaving bruises. I'm glad the kisses she gives Deanna seem a lot softer. Sittu looked taller from a distance. Standing next to her, I see she's short like me. Still, Ahmed's right. She really is beautiful.

“Wasn't there someone to help you with your bags?” Sittu asks, looking down at our luggage. “Didn't you see the men wearing the gray uniforms? They're usually there to help, grabbing the tourists' bags.”

Deanna and I look at each other. I guess that guy wasn't trying to rob us after all.

Sittu says something in Arabic to me.

“Sorry.” I shrug.

“You don't speak Arabic?” she asks, shaking her head, but I know she knows I don't speak Arabic. “All those books I've sent you! Your father should be ashamed of himself. I suppose that's what happens when people move to the big U.S. of A. They forget where they came from.”

I want to tell her Baba hasn't forgotten, that he talks about Egypt all the time. But somehow, I think she'd be able to tell I was lying.

“Deanna, you are very beautiful,” Sittu says. “Are you sure you are not Egyptian?” I'm relieved she's being nice to Deanna.

“I wish,” Deanna says. “My mother's a little bit of a lot of things: English, Italian, Swedish, German, Portuguese, and some Irish. There's some Native American mixed in there too. And my father…”

Deanna pauses, but before she continues, Sittu says, “My son told me about how much your mother wanted you.”

“That's me—a spermie,” Deanna laughs.

Sittu looks confused.

“It's what Deanna calls herself, because her mom used a sperm bank.”

“Very funny. My son did mention what a good sense of humor you have.”

“Your son's pretty cool,” Deanna says.

“Well, he can be a bit of a hothead,” Sittu says—almost the exact same thing Baba said about her. Baba actually said “heated head.”

“Mariam's
sittu
—”

“What is this ‘Mariam's
sittu
'? Just call me Sittu.”

“Okay, Sittu. I don't know if your son also told you about… Well, I just want you to know it may not look like I'm happy to be here, but I am. I'm so happy.”

“What are you talking about? I have never seen happier eyes in all my life, and I have been alive a very long time.” Sittu touches Deanna's face where her smile should be. “When you walk into the room, the sun enters with you.”

Deanna looks like she's actually turning red. I've never seen her get embarrassed before.

I nudge Deanna. “Now you're supposed to say something nice to her.”

“Like?”

“The flowers only grow when you arrive,” I say. Baba and I did this all the time when I was younger. I used to think it was a game Baba made up.

“At least your
baba
taught you a few things,” Sittu notes, as if I'm not a complete disappointment to her.

“You keep going back and forth, trying to top each other with compliments,” I explain to Deanna, trying to avoid Sittu's gaze.

There's something in the way Sittu stares at me that reminds me of when I was interviewed for private high school. My parents thought it would be a safer environment for me. Both Baba and Mom were going to have to work two jobs just to pay the tuition, yet they really wanted me to go. I did really well on all the tests, but the woman who interviewed me shook her head throughout my interview, as if everything I said was wrong. She even shook her head when she asked me my name, and I know I got that answer right.

“So it's like a contest?” Deanna says.

“Something like that,” Sittu says. “Mariam's father was always good at contests.” She kisses me on both of my cheeks again but not as hard as before. “
Yalla
.”

“So you want us to wait here for you?” I ask. “Or is there a better place to wait?”

“Wait?” Sittu looks confused. “Why would you wait here?”

“You said
yalla
, ‘I go,' right?”

Sittu shakes her head. “Mariam.” She sighs like I just failed some big test I didn't even know I was taking. “
Yalla
means ‘let's go,' as in ‘we go.' Even the little Arabic you know is wrong.” She shakes her head again.

I glare at Deanna, but she's too busy looking at everything around her to notice. Now it makes even more sense why the guy kept pulling harder on Deanna's suitcase every time she said
yalla
. The poor guy thought she was telling him we were all going with him.

“
Yalla
,” Sittu repeats as she goes for my suitcase.

“I can carry it,” I say.

“Why carry it? It has wheels.” In one easy motion, she pulls the handle up and it's ready to roll. Of course.

I grab one of Deanna's suitcases, and together, the three of us
yalla
.

• • •

When we exit the airport, the sun is so bright Deanna pulls a pair of sunglasses from her backpack. Sittu pulls a pair from her handbag. With their sunglasses on, they look like they're related and I'm the friend.

“You didn't bring glasses to protect your eyes?” Sittu again shakes her head at me. I'm starting to feel like I have a bobblehead doll for a grandmother.

“I forgot them.” I squint at the men calling us to their cabs. Sittu waves them off.

“Well, try not to squint. You'll make wrinkles.”

“Hey, I got it!” Deanna shouts. Several people walking toward the cabs stop and look at us. Sittu and I turn to Deanna. “With your beauty the world needs no flowers,” she says.

Sittu lets go of my suitcase and kisses Deanna on the forehead. “Deanna, you are Egyptian!” Deanna must be beaming inside.

Maybe Egypt won't be so bad for Deanna after all.

I'm another story.

“There's our driver,” Sittu says, walking toward a man about Baba's age wearing a blue polo shirt and beige khaki pants.

Without a word, he takes a couple of our suitcases and slides them into his trunk.

“
Shukran
,” I say, thrilled I said
thank
you
in Arabic so naturally.

“
Afwan
,” he replies. That's how you say “you're welcome.” I have to remember that.

“This is Salam,” Sittu says.

“Your name means
peace
,” I say.

Sittu peers at me over her sunglasses. “Very good.”

I feel like I just answered the $100,000 question on
Are
You
Smarter
Than
a
5th Grader?

“Welcome to Misr,” Salam says in an accent a lot heavier than Sittu's. He starts loading the rest of our bags into the trunk.

“Misr?” Deanna looks at me.

“That's the real name for Egypt,” I explain.

Sittu nods.

“Why don't we say Misr too?”

“Too hard to pronounce, I guess.”

“Misr,” Deanna says. “That's not so hard.”

“Americans can be lazy.” Sittu lifts her cheeks like she's trying to smile, but she looks more like she's snarling at me.

Is she calling me lazy? I want to tell her Americans work all the time, but I don't want to be rude.

Salam holds the passenger door of the backseat open for us. Sittu insists Deanna and I each take a window seat while she sits in the middle. I feel around for my seat belt, but there doesn't seem to be one.

“Are you missing something?” Salam asks.

“No, nothing,” I say.

Salam closes the door. He walks around to the driver's side and gets in. He takes a drag off a cigarette burning in an ashtray on the dashboard.

“Salam,” Sittu says, pointing at the ashtray.

“Sorry,” he says in English, and flicks his cigarette out the window.

“I don't mind if he smokes,” I say.

“I do,” Sittu says.

And we're off.

I start to rub my arms. It's colder than I ever imagined it would be. Baba said January is one of the cold months in Egypt, but I thought he meant sweater-weather cold. This feels like winter-jacket cold.

“Salam.” Sittu taps the back of his seat. “Please put on some heat.”

“Madam?” He looks at us through his rearview mirror.

“My granddaughter seems to be cold.”

“I'm fine.” I stop rubbing my arms. I don't want to cause trouble. Salam turns on the air, and it smells like something died.

“Awful, Salam.” Sittu holds her nose. “Just awful.”

“Excuse me, Salam”—Deanna leans into the front seat—“but do you have the vent open or closed?”

Salam plays with a button on his climate control panel, and instantly, the air smells much better. “
Shukran
,” he says.

“Don't mention it,” Deanna says.

“She's a smart one,” Sittu says to me. I smile, but I have to admit there's a part of me that wishes I were the smart one.

Sittu leans over Deanna and points out her window to a large steel gate. “That's Kiddie Land.”

I bend my head, and I can see the lights of a Ferris wheel in the background. “Is it a place for little kids?”

“It has stuff for older kids too. The Rainforest Cafe is there,” Sittu says.

“I love the Rainforest Cafe,” Deanna says. “I've been to two of them in the States.”

“I've always wanted to go there,” I say.

“We shall go then,” Sittu says.

“Really?”

“Why so surprised?”

“I'm not surprised.” I'm shocked. Maybe Sittu is just acting nice in front of Salam, and when we get back to her place, she'll be all lock-us-up-and-throw-away-the-key.

“Your eyes are the size of dinner plates,” Sittu says.

“See, I told you,” Deanna says.

“Told her what?” Sittu asks, turning to Deanna.

“She just thought—”

“Nothing,” I say through gritted teeth.

“If it's nothing”—Sittu turns her head to me—“then it has to be something.”

Great. Now she's correcting my English too.

“Well,” I say. “I just thought—well, Baba said…”

“That I ruled with an iron fist?”

“Actually, a metal fist.”

“Your baba always did have trouble with American idioms.”

“Did you live in the States? Your English is awesome,” Deanna says.

“When I was a child, the British still occupied Egypt. My father, Mariam's great-
giddu
, made us all learn how to speak ‘the language of the enemy,' as he called it. This way, they can't put you down to your face.”

“But how do you know American?” Deanna says.

“American?” Sittu asks. “Is this a new language?”

“I mean you say things like an American…with an English accent.”

“Satellite.” Sittu smiles. “I love those American sitcoms.”

“You have a television?” I say.

“Again, the dinner-plate eyes. What did Baba say about me now?”

“That you thought television destroyed the brain.”

“The young brain. But at my age, I say there's not too much damage left to be done. Salam, some music.”

Salam doesn't respond. He's looking down at his phone.

“Salam?!” She taps him on the back. “What did I tell you about texting while you drive?”

“Is that an iPhone?” Deanna bends her head into the front seat. “I really want one, but my mom doesn't want to change phone companies.”

“Sorry, madam. But I was just looking at my Twitter feed. My cousin says there is a call for demonstrations—”

“Like what's happening in Tunisia?” Deanna slides forward even more. “That would be so cool.”

“What's happening in Tunisia?” I ask, regretting the words as soon as they leave my mouth.

“You don't know what's happening in Tunisia?” Sittu sounds as if I'd just told her I didn't know who the president of the United States was.

“My parents don't watch the news,” I tell her.

“Because your parents choose to be ignorant about the world, does that mean you have to be ignorant too?”

I don't know how to answer this, so I just look out my window.

Sittu makes the same sucking sound with her tongue and teeth that Baba makes when he's disappointed in me. Until the other night at the jail, I hadn't heard that sound in a very long time. “There's a revolution happening in Tunisia, Mariam. People have taken to the streets. They have had enough of the corruption.”

“A lot of people were killed,” Deanna adds, turning to us.

“Is that going to happen here?” I ask, trying to hide the panic in my voice. What were my parents thinking? Sending me to Cairo when people are dying in Tunisia? Actually, I have no idea where Tunisia is or how close it is to Egypt. I don't dare ask.

“Salam, please,” Sittu says.

“Music, of course,” Salam replies.

“Is that a cassette player?” Deanna leans forward, pointing to a slot in the dashboard. “How old is this car?”

“If something works, why replace it?” Sittu says.

Salam pops a cassette into the player.

“Classic,” Sittu says. “My favorite singer in the whole world.”

“Great sound,” I say, hoping to score some points. “Who is it?”

“Umm Kulthum,” Sittu says. “She died in the seventies. I sent you some of her music. Didn't you listen to it?”

“Oh, of course,” I say. “I just didn't recognize—”

“How could you not recognize Umm Kulthum? No one sounds like her.”

“The cassette is of poor quality,” Salam interjects.

“Yes, this isn't a very good copy,” Sittu says.

Salam and I make eye contact in the rearview mirror. He nods as if he understands I am thanking him for saving my butt. I never listened to any of the music Sittu sent me for more than a few seconds. Once I heard the Arabic, I turned it off. Not to mention the music was on cassettes and we no longer have a cassette player.