At some point a bell rang, and soon the door opened and five students, all of whom appeared to be Asian, came laughing and talking into the room. They all looked very American in their blue jeans and sweatshirts with big letters on the front. Meli pulled her dress over her knees and buttoned the front of her wool cardigan. She must look very peculiar to these students, who seemed so happy and at home in this new country.
The teacher was talking. Meli must pay attention. "These are our new friends."
Did she say "friends"?
"Hello," said Mehmet formally. "I am Mehmet Lleshi. I come from Kosovo. I am Albanian. This is my sister. Her name is Meli Lleshi." He glared at Meli. So Meli tried to smile.
The others grinned and nodded. "Meli, Mehmet. I want you to meet..." And then Missus whatever-her-name-was said everyone else's name. It was all a jumble to Meli. She was relieved when the teacher started the lesson for the class. Mehmet was listening carefully. He didn't try to participate, but Meli was sure her brother knew exactly what was going on—unlike Meli herself, whose head was pounding with exhaustion and confusion.
***
The first weeks were pure torture for Meli. Even when a teacher was kind enough to ask another student to make sure Meli got to her next class, she felt lost and alone in that gigantic place.
Oh, Zana, 1 wish you were here.
The only time she saw Mehmet at school was in the ESL class, and he was so intent on learning English as quickly as possible that he had no time for her. If she dared complain about anything, he would pretend not to understand her. "Speak English, Meli. It's the only way to learn."
She tried to speak, but the effort was too great. She gave up and simply listened. She envied the little ones. They not only chattered away at school, but they played with neighborhood children after school and on the weekends. They could translate for Mama and Baba before Mehmet could. It made him so angry that he studied ten times harder. He listened to the radio or watched TV when he wasn't actually studying. "To get the pronunciation right. You have to get the pronunciation or they laugh." Mehmet couldn't stand to be laughed at. His younger brothers and Vlora just laughed right back when the neighborhood children laughed at them. Besides, the pronunciation seemed easy for them.
Mama shook her head. "They're forgetting Albanian," she said.
But if English was hard for Meli, it seemed almost impossible for Mama and Baba. They went to a course at the library three mornings a week, but they refused to speak in public. If they needed to go to the grocery store or post office, they always took one of the children to translate for them.
The biggest problem for them all was Baba. He needed to get a job, but what job could a middle-aged man do? One who was hopeless in English?
"What kind of work did you do in Kosovo?" Mr. Craven, one of the welcomers, asked.
"He owned a food market," Mehmet answered.
"Oh," said Mr. Craven, and the tone of the "oh" meant that Baba's previous occupation was of no help in his new situation. With no English, he could not even clerk in someone else's grocery store. Finally, after weeks of trudging the streets and standing in line at the employment office, Mr. Craven found a little downtown restaurant that needed a dishwasher. The owner agreed to give Baba a try. Adona went with him the first day so that she could help the owner explain everything to Baba. From then on, he was on his own. A little of the old Baba shone through when he told the children about his new job. "The church people agreed to sponsor us only until we could get settled," he said. "We have to begin taking responsibility for ourselves." Still, even working long hours every day, his pay was poor—not nearly enough after taxes to pay the family bills—so they remained dependent on the welcomers. Meli liked "welcomers" better than "church people." That reminded her too much of the Serbs.
It was hard to explain American things to Baba. Although Adona had told the welcomers about taking off shoes when they came into Leshis' apartment, sometimes they forgot. It was very hard for Baba not to look shocked when some big American tromped around with the same shoes on that he had worn in the street.
"It's the American way, Baba," Mehmet said. "They don't mean to be rude."
Baba would shake his head. "It's a very strange way," he said.
Even stranger was trying to tell Baba about Hell-o-ween. The younger children had come home from school all excited about dressing up and putting on masks and touring the neighborhood for gifts of candy—especially the candy part.
"No," said Baba. "Absolutely not. Even if we are poor, we do not beg."
"Everybody does it," Isuf said. "Not just poor children. Everyone."
"Baba," Mehmet said, "it's like in Kosovo when the children ask for candy on the holidays. No different."
"What kind of people hide their faces? Only people who plan bad things—people who are ashamed of what they are doing. Not my family. Not my children. No."
The men who burned the farm hid their faces,
thought Meli, but she hoped by now Isuf had forgotten that day.
"And," Isuf went on stubbornly, "we have to buy candy to give to the children who come here."
"We have no money for candy," Baba said. "Not even for our own children."
Isuf was beside himself. "If we don't go out and we don't give candy, what will I say at school? People will think we don't know about Hell-o-ween."
"People will be right. We don't know," said Baba.
"Maybe," Mama said quietly, "we should find out about this strange holiday."
Mehmet did and learned that on Main Street all the stores gave out candy to children on Hell-o-ween afternoon. "But it's called 'Halloween,' not 'Hell-o-ween.' And no one thinks it's begging. I'll take the boys and Vlora downtown while you're at work."
"No masks!" Baba said.
The children didn't care about the masks. They were so thrilled to be allowed to take part in the candy collecting. Mehmet gave each of them a little bag that was filled to the brim in less than half an hour. Then he marched them home.
"Now," he said, "each of you must give me your candy."
Adil groaned.
"Why?" asked Vlora.
"You always want to tell everyone what to do," complained Isuf.
"If it weren't for me, you wouldn't have any candy. Now hand it over. We have to save some to give away tonight, and the rest we'll put in a jar and it will last a long time."
***
The next holiday was something called Thanksgiving, but they were allowed to take part without argument, as Baba approved of thanking God for their safety and health and shelter and food. They were invited to a huge dinner at one of the local churches—not the one that their welcomers had come from, but some of them were there anyway, dishing out plates of turkey and potatoes and green beans and something they called "stuffing" and a bright red sweet gelatin that went with the meat. Then afterward they had pie and coffee.
"When do they thank God?" Baba asked Mehmet.
"At the beginning, when people shut their eyes, that was it."
"They don't kneel to pray here?"
Mehmet shrugged. "They don't make so much of prayers here," he said.
***
Christmas, Baba had heard of. How could you live among Christians and not hear of it? Again, though, there didn't seem to be much religion in it.
"What is Santa Claus going to bring me, Baba?" Vlora asked.
"I don't know this Santa Claus person."
Once more, Mehmet took charge. He wheedled a little money from Mama and got the younger children presents "from Santa Claus": a tiny doll for Vlora and a soccer ball for Isuf and Adil to share. It was hardly enough to brag about to their friends, but it was something, and Meli was grateful that Mehmet cared enough to make them feel included in the American celebrations. The welcomers came with gifts: warm socks, gloves for the older members of the family and mittens for the younger, winter caps, and a ham for their Christmas dinner so big that it lasted a month. They hadn't eaten pork in Kosovo—it was against Muslim customs—but somehow in this land of strangeness it felt fitting.
Then it was 2000, a new year, a new century, a new millennium. All the terror and loss the family had endured since the day of the pelican were in the past. All the wars and oppression that their nation had suffered were of another age. "Everything is new!" Baba declared. "
Alhamdulila!
God be praised!"
***
Meli found she was actually getting used to school. She didn't know for sure when the torrents of noise broke into sentences that actually made sense to her, but by her fourteenth birthday in June, English was no longer the headache-making racket it had been in September. Her ears had become accustomed to its strange sounds, and the new words began to feel far less clumsy in her mouth. There was a special school term in the summer for people who needed to catch up. The days were hot and the building was not air-conditioned, but her old school had been even hotter. The classes were small, and she could understand almost everything that went on. It was only when the other students talked and joked among themselves that she had trouble following.
As for Mehmet, he had discovered that there was a group of boys who gathered every afternoon on the school soccer field to play. At first he just stood and watched, but soon he joined in, so Meli would go on home without him. He would return later, his face flushed, his eyes wide with excitement. It was a real regulation field with good, almost new balls, and the other boys were skilled enough to provide a challenge. "Of course, I am the best," he declared.
Mr. Marcello, the high school boys' soccer coach, stopped by one afternoon to watch the boys play. When the game was breaking up, he called Mehmet over and asked him to try out for the regular team.
***
One afternoon in August, when the boys' team had begun its fall practice, Meli took Isuf and Adil over to the school to watch Mehmet and his teammates. She tried not to gaze across the school grounds to the distant field where the girls' team was practicing. If only she had been allowed to play at home. It looked like so much fun, and here girls could play, too. But she'd never learned; she'd only watched.
"Look, Meli, over there. Those are girls."
"I know, Isuf. They have a girls' team, too."
"Really? Then why don't you play?"
"I don't know how."
"Yes, you do. You've watched millions of times. You could do it." Then, without another word, Isuf took off running toward the far field.
She shaded her eyes, trying to see where he had gone.
"He's talking to somebody," Adil said. "Is he supposed to talk to strangers?"
"I think it's a teacher, Adil. It's okay."
"I think we'd better check on him."
She took his hand and walked over to the other field. Isuf was talking animatedly to a woman.
"She's the coach, Adil. It's okay. She's a teacher."
Adil let go of Meli's hand and ran over to his brother. Both the coach and Isuf turned to see where Adil was pointing, and then they followed him to where Meli stood.
"Your brother tells me you might be a soccer player," she said.
Meli shook her head. "No, it's my older brother who is the soccer player. Not me."
"But if your brother is such a fine player, I suspect you might have some talent as well. How about coming tomorrow and trying out for us?"
Meli's heart began to pound.
What if...?
"I don't think my father would ... I mean, in our family, girls don't..."
"Would you like for me to call him?"
Meli shook her head. "He doesn't speak English ... well, not yet. He's studying."
"I'll ask him!" Isuf said.
"No," said the coach, giving Isuf a pat on the head, "I think we'd better leave it up to Meli to ask."
Isuf, however, couldn't contain his excitement. As soon as they got in the door, he went running to Mama. "Guess what!" he cried. "Guess what!"
"I'm not so good at guessing." Mama was cooking supper. She stuck the tip of her finger in the dish, licked it, and sighed. "Never the right ingredients here. It doesn't taste right, whatever I do."
"Your food is always good, Mama," Meli said. "What do you want me to do to help?"
"Tell her, Meli. Tell her what the teacher said."
Now Mama was paying attention. "What did the teacher say? Is something wrong?"
"No. It's fine."
"Go on, Meli. Tell her!"
"Tell me what?" Mama asked.
"The teacher, the coach—her name is Mrs. Rogers— well..."
Now Mama had both hands on her hips. "Yes?"
"She wants me to ask Baba if I can join the soccer team." Mama shook her head. "He won't have you playing a boys' game."
"They have two teams, Mama. One is all boys—that's Mehmet's team—and the other is only for girls."
"They don't play together?"
"No, Mama, it's entirely separate."
"Oh. I never heard of this. Just in America, huh?"
"No. I've seen it on television. Girls play in a lot of countries."
"Is that so?"
"But if you think it is better not to ask Baba..."
Mama went back to her cooking. "He has so many worries right now. He works so hard and has so little money. Granny is so frail. We don't know if she lives or dies."
"I won't ask, Mama. It's all right."
"But Mama, the teacher told her to ask Baba. She
has
to ask Baba," Isuf said.
"Did the teacher tell you to ask?"
"It's all right, Mama. I don't even know how to play. I've only just watched the boys."
Mama left the stove and came to Meli. She took Meli's face in both her hands. They were rough and warm. "Is this something you would like to do, my dear one?"
"Yes, Mama."
"Then we will ask your baba."
At first Baba said no, sports were for boys. Girls should help their mothers, not run around panting and yelling and kicking balls at each other.
"You said yourself, Hashim, that this is America. It is a place of new beginnings. Things are different here. Why don't we let our Meli try ... see if she likes soccer ... see if she is good enough to play on a team just for girls."