A Long Pitch Home Read Online Free PDF Page B

she puts it out to dry on her balcony directly below ours. But when she forgets to bring it in during monsoon season and the rain soaks it through, even Mr. Ali can hear her shouting nine floors below when he reopens his tea cart after the rain.
    My grin fades. “What if I forget everything?”
    â€œYou won’t, Bilal jaan .”
    For the second time in my life, I don’t know if I believe my father.
    Then I have an idea. “Stay right here, Baba.”
    He laughs. “Where else would I go?”
    I race from the room, grab the pad of paper and pencil near the kitchen phone, and then dart back to the computer screen.
    I jot something down on the pad and then hold it up.
    Baba leans in, adjusts his glasses, and reads my writing:
    â€¢ The smell of rain during monsoon season
• Mrs. Ahmed’s laundry-screeching voice
    I place the pencil and paper on the table, next to the keyboard. “When we talk or write, I will trade you one new thing in America for one Karachi memory. That way, you will know what to expect when you get here, and I will remember everything about Karachi.”
    â€œI like that idea.” Baba nods, and holds up a hand. “Stay right here.”
    I laugh. “Where else would I go?”
    Baba disappears for a few seconds, and then he’s back in front of the screen, holding up a notebook and a pen. “I’ve given you one memory—no, two! Now it is your turn.”
    How to begin? Everything is new here—I could list a million things. “You told me today smelled like rain. In America, it smells like cut grass. Gardens here have grass carpets called lawns , and people like to cut the grass with a machine. And if the cut grass gets on the sidewalk, they blow it away with another machine.”
    Baba shakes his head like he can’t believe such a thing. He writes on his paper, then holds it up for me to see:
    â€¢ The scent of cut grass
    â€œI have started my list,” Baba declares. “When I miss you, which is a hundred times a day, I will look at the list and it will feel like I am right there with you.”
    I hold up my thumb to the computer’s camera for Baba to see. “In America, a thumb sticking up means something is good. Jalaal told me.” I raise my other thumb and grin. “Your idea is a two-thumbs-up idea.”
    I wait to see how Baba reacts, because a thumb up in Pakistan is definitely not the kind of gesture for good ideas. In fact, Mudassar got sent home from school one time when he did this to Yusef, who said Mudassar’s sister smelled like a camel.
    Baba’s eyes grow wide, and then he laughs louder and longer than I have heard him laugh for many months. I laugh, too, and soon we are both wiping away tears and catching our breath.
    â€œI don’t recommend you share this new custom with Daddo. Your grandmother would not appreciate the humor like we do.” Baba picks up his pen. “But I have heard of this American gesture. I am going to write that down.”
    My mother’s voice calls from the kitchen. “Bilal, time to let your father go to sleep. It is the middle of the night back home.”
    I sigh.
    Baba laughs. “Tell your mother I heard that. And she is right. We will talk again tomorrow.”
    â€œOkay. Good night, Baba.”
    â€œTake care of that eye.”
    â€œI will.”
    He blows me a kiss, and I catch it and press it on my heart. I blow him one back, and he does the same.
    My hand hovers over the touch pad before I guide the cursor to the icon of the red phone, but I don’t want to click it.
    Baba must feel the same way, because he says, “On three, okay?”
    I nod.
    â€œOne, two . . . three.”
    I still don’t click on the red phone, but Baba does, because there’s a booping sound, and then he’s gone.
    The clanking of pots and spoons drifts in from the kitchen, mixed with Ammi and Auntie’s laughter. Usually the feast