A Long Pitch Home Read Online Free PDF Page A

from our side. “Click on the camera—yours has a red line through it.”
    A few seconds pass before Baba says, “Ah! It is here. Can you see me now?” The black on the screen fades, replaced by my father’s face. He looks confused, like he’s peering into a deep, endless hole.
    We cheer, and that answers Baba’s question.
    â€œI do not know how long the power will be on,” Baba says, and it is only now that I realize the electricity here in America hasn’t gone out yet. Maybe it goes out at night when nobody notices.
    Uncle leans in and says, “I will leave you, then, to speak to your lovely family, Bhai jaan . Eid Mubarak . I only wish you could spend it with us.”
    Baba nods but does not speak. Sometimes my heart gets in the way of my words, and I think it is the same for Baba.
    Uncle places his right hand over his heart. “Next year.” He smiles. “We will all celebrate together, inshallah .” He rises and slips from the room.
    Baba reaches for the screen like he’s touching our faces to make sure it’s really us. Humza shrieks and claps his pudgy hands. Baba laughs.
    My mother’s eyes shine at this gift of seeing Baba’s face.
    â€œHow is life in America? Tell me everything!”
    Hira must have only heard the word everything , because she tells Baba every single last detail of our first twenty-four hours in America, from the green grass that tickles your bare feet to those furry, bushy-tailed rats— squirrels —that run everywhere here in Virginia.
    When my mother finally gets a chance to talk, she is quick to praise Uncle and Auntie’s hospitality. Hearing how well we’ve been fed and how comfortable our beds are, my father looks less worried. His face loses some of its lines, and his shoulders relax.
    â€œHow was the feast?” Ammi asks.
    â€œWe missed you.” Baba’s smile is sad.
    It is strange to think that Baba, Daddo, and everyone in Pakistan have already celebrated the end of Ramadan, when our celebration is just starting.
    Behind Baba, Daddo pads into the room, wearing her nightdress and carrying a glass of water. Her face breaks into a smile when she sees us.
    â€œDaddo!” Hira cries, waving both hands.
    My grandmother leans toward the screen, close enough that I can see the threads of silver woven through her black braid. She sighs. “I made entirely too much jalebi for the feast this year.”
    Mentioning my favorite dessert is Daddo’s way of saying that she misses me, so I say, “We miss you, too, Daddo.”
    She blows us more kisses and then says, “I am putting these weary bones to bed. Eid Mubarak to all!”
    She pats Baba’s shoulder. “Good night, my son.” He pats Daddo’s hand before she turns and heads to bed. I think of all the times she told stories to me before bedtime, and I wish she were here with us now.
    Hira starts talking again. Listening to her, you’d think we were on vacation, having a great time. Except I am not having a great time. I should be back in our kitchen with Baba right now, sneaking a crunchy crust of a leftover samosa when Daddo isn’t looking.
    â€œBilal?” My father’s voice calls through the computer, and I realize now that my mother, Hira, and even Humza are looking at me, waiting. For what, I’m not sure. Did Baba ask me a question? I blink.
    â€œI’m here, Baba.” I move closer to the screen. For the past two days, I have been planning out all the things I want to tell Baba, and now I cannot think of a single one.
    Hira, who obviously does not share my problem, blurts out, “Guess what, Baba? We saw fireworks, and I met a new friend! Her name is Lizzie.”
    Baba smiles. “How lucky Lizzie is to have you as a friend.”
    â€œAnd I am going to start Girl Scout camp on Monday. Auntie says I’ll get to do swimming and make friendship bracelets and catch