Rebels by Accident Read Online Free PDF Page B

cup my hand over my face.
    â€œI like it. I think it’s him,” Deanna says, nodding to a tall man a few feet from us. He’s wearing a fancy suit and tie, talking on his cell phone.
    â€œHis cologne, my God—”
    â€œI love it when guys wear cologne.”
    â€œIt smells like he took a bath in it.” I prefer a guy to smell clean, like he just bathed with hypoallergenic and environmentally friendly soap. “Let’s just get our luggage and get out of here,” I say.
    It takes us a while to find the baggage area because Deanna insists on asking for directions in Arabic. It’s not until I finally ask someone in good old American English that we’re directed to the right place.
    When we get there, instead of conveyor belts helping you easily find your bags, the luggage is just scattered all over the ground. What a mess.
    Deanna and I walk around, like, hundreds of suitcases and boxes, trying to find the red suitcase Mom bought when we went to Disney World. It’s a blinding red, so it should be easy to spot, along with Deanna’s banana-yellow bags. But I don’t see it anywhere.
    â€œListen,” Deanna says. “Do you hear that?”
    â€œAll I hear are lots of people speaking Arabic.” I step around an overstuffed suitcase with rope holding it together. “Here’s a question. Where’s our luggage? I bet they lost it.”
    â€œBut, Mariam, doesn’t it sound cool? All the—”
    â€œThere!” We point at the exact same time.
    Deanna chatters on, but I’m not listening. A man in gray overalls follows us to our bags. He says something in Arabic, and then takes Deanna’s bag. She pulls it away from him.
    â€œHelp!” I scream. A few people turn to look at me, but when the man yells something else to us in Arabic, they turn away.
    â€œ Shukran . Yalla ,” Deanna says.
    â€œ Yalla ,” the man says, pulling harder on Deanna’s suitcase.
    â€œ Yal-la ,” Deanna says slower. This time she yanks her suitcase free. “Mar, get your luggage. Hurry!”
    I try pulling out the extendable handle to roll my suitcase, but it’s stuck, so I just grab the regular handle. Deanna picks up her other suitcase, and we run.
    We don’t stop until we reach customs, which looks like a total mob. Deanna wheels her suitcases behind her. I try my handle again—still stuck. Of course , I think.
    â€œWow, I can’t believe that guy tried to steal your luggage,” I say, as we pass a family going in the direction we just came from. The mother is holding two babies in her arms; both are crying, but she seems too determined to get where she’s going to notice.
    â€œHe probably thought it was his.”
    â€œDeanna, come on. How many people have banana-yellow suitcases?”
    â€œWell, it was strange—I kept saying ‘ yalla ’ to him, and instead of letting it go, he just kept saying ‘ yalla ’ back to me.”
    â€œWhat does yalla mean?”
    â€œYou should have paid more attention to your Arabic lessons. Yalla means ‘I go.’”
    â€œSee? I told you. He was trying to take your suitcase. He was saying ‘I go’ back to you.”
    â€œMaybe,” Deanna says, “but right there in front of all those people?”
    â€œMom says sometimes the worst crimes happen in front of a whole lot of witnesses who do nothing. Hey, do you think we’re in the right place?”
    â€œThe signs say ‘Customs.’” Sarcasm oozes out of her. “And see those guys up front, sitting behind the brown tables, checking passports? Well, I bet they’re customs officials.”
    â€œI know this is customs, but how do we know when it’s our turn?”
    â€œLet’s wait here a few minutes and see what happens.”
    I agree, not knowing what else to do.
    â€œThe galabeya looks so much more comfortable than a suit.” Deanna nods