Read Online A Long Pitch Home by Natalie Dias Lorenzi - Free Book Online

hand—“Bilal.”
    I recover in time to say, “It is nice to meet you, too, Madam.”
    She smiles and looks to another woman standing beside her. “Mrs. Wilson will be administering your English test today, Bilal. I’ll be translating for you as needed.”
    Why does she need to translate in Urdu if it’s supposed to be a test of English?
    Mrs. Wilson begins with easy questions, asking me where I am from and what I like to do. When I talk about cricket, she looks confused, and I hope this does not lower my score. But Mrs. Fayad smiles and nods, so maybe it will all turn out okay.
    Mrs. Wilson hands me a book and tells me a little bit about the story, then asks me what I think will happen in the story.
    How am I supposed to know? I glance at the picture of the boy and the dog on the book’s cover. The dog does not look like he will bite the boy, but I don’t know for sure—maybe the boy found the dog wandering in the street. Maybe when the boy’s mother finds out he is touching the dog, she will get very mad and make the boy take an extra-long shower. Then I remember that Americans have dogs for pets. I decide this is a trick question, so to be safe, I say, “I don’t know what will happen in the story.”
    Mrs. Wilson nods, then asks me to read the story aloud. I freeze. What if I make mistakes? How many mistakes can I make and still pass the test?
    I look at the first sentence, and I don’t even know how to say the first word. I read the whole first sentence in my head and realize the first word is the dog’s name. I have never heard of this name, and I am not sure how to say it.
    â€œAnytime you’re ready to begin,” Mrs. Wilson says, tapping the eraser side of her pencil on the paper in front of her.
    I take a breath. “Har—Har—vay?” I begin, then wait for her to correct me.
    â€œHarvey.” She nods like she’s agreeing with me, but the name she said was different from the way I said it.
    I swallow. “Harvey was a good dog—” Then I get to another word I don’t know. “Us . . . usoo . . . usoo-a-lee?”
    â€œUsually,” Mrs. Wilson says, with that same nod.
    It goes like this for another few sentences, until she finally says,“You’re doing a great job, Bilal, but let’s try a different book.”
    I am not doing a great job. Mrs. Wilson never thought I was doing a great job, either, because next she gives me a baby book—a story with only one sentence on each page. I read every single word with no mistakes.
    â€œHmm,” Mrs. Wilson says. “Let’s try something in the middle.”
    So then I have to read another book with some hard words but not too many. Mrs. Wilson seems happy with that, and I let out a breath. Maybe now the test is over. Except it’s not—now I have to tell what happened in the story. After that Mrs. Wilson asks me if I have a connection to the story. I don’t know what this means, so I say no. Then she asks me what message the author is trying to tell me. Is there a secret message in the story? If so, I have no idea what it is.
    â€œNow on to the writing,” Mrs. Wilson says. She slides a piece of lined paper and a pencil over to me and says, “Write about what you’ve done over the summer.”
    I look at that single sheet of paper and think there are not enough lines for everything I could write about this summer. I could write that when my father disappeared, it was the worst three days of my entire life. And the day he came back was the best day. I could write that I thought everything would go back to normal once Baba came back, but then it didn’t; we left almost everything we owned and came to America, where I don’t understand most of what people are saying, and I am learning a game called baseball that doesn’t make any sense, and I miss playing cricket with my friends.
    The lines swim before my