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This is the worst Eid ever!” Aleeza flops onto the sofa and grabs the TV remote.
“You’ll wrinkle your outfit,” Bisma warns.
“I don’t care,” Aleeza says, then quickly adjusts her kameez beneath her. “It doesn’t feel like Eid. Baba’s not here. We were supposed to leave for the party like an hour ago. And now we’re stuck at home, because people are coming over.”
“Your whining doesn’t make it any better,” I snap at her. She’s right that it’s been a pretty disappointing day so far. Baba had to fly out for an interview in Maryland early this morning, before the rest of us went to the mosque for prayers. It’s our first Eid without him, and everyone’s been on edge. But it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon. Maybe things will turn around.
“Come on, guys-it’s Eid,” Bisma pleads. “Can’t you be nice to each other today?”
“She should be nice. Jam’s always mean to me!” Aleeza shakes her finger at me, and her eyes fill up.
So much for things turning around. There’s no way to sugar- coat it: My youngest sister is spoiled rotten. Aleeza’s only ten, but that doesn’t stop her from bossing around Bisma, who’s a year older than her. And it doesn’t matter to her that I’m thirteen and in middle school. Aleeza doesn’t respect me like she should.
“Jameela!” Mama calls to me from the kitchen. “Can you go down and get the nice napkins? From the garage?”
“Okay.” I’d rather face the lizards in the garage than listen to Aleeza whine for a second longer. Ever since Bisma saw a baby gecko scamper along the walls and freaked out like it had escaped from Jurassic Park, I’m the only one of us girls who dares to go in there alone.
The air inside the garage is suffocating, which isn’t surprising, since it feels like five hundred degrees outside. This year Eid fell in August, the hottest month of the summer. Today also happens to be the kind of record-breaking scorcher of a day that earns Atlanta the nickname Hotlanta.
The jumbo pack of napkins is on a crowded shelf, next to a box marked “JAMEELA’S STUFF: PRIVATE!!!” where I’ve stored my old journals and collection of last year’s middle school newspapers. I was the only sixth grader who was an assistant editor and had an article in every issue of the paper, so I saved two copies of each. I resist the urge to carry the box inside so I can reread them, savoring each word like I want to.