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

eyes, and suddenly I am tired. Tired of English and tired of not feeling smart, tired of missing my father, and tired of living in a house that is not mine. Just tired.
    â€œBilal?” Mrs. Fayad says my name softly, then continues in Urdu: “This is for writing.” She pats the paper. “Here is where you can write about what you did this summer.”
    â€œWhenever you’re ready, Bilal,” Mrs. Wilson says.
    I nod, then write:
    This summer I move to America. I learn baseball.
I miss Pakistan.
    I hand her the paper. She looks surprised, but she takes it from me and scans my writing. “Do you want to add anything else?”
    â€œNo, thank you, Madam.”
    I stand.
    Mrs. Fayad smiles and says, “Well done,” but I can tell Mrs. Wilson doesn’t think I did well at all. She leads me out to where my mother and Auntie are waiting. As soon as they see me, their eyes open wide in a way that means, “How did it go?” I shrug and slip into the seat next to my mother. Humza sleeps in his stroller. He is lucky to be so little. He does not have to take tests or go to school or learn more English.
    Five minutes later Hira comes bounding out the door, holding a lady’s hand and looking like she’s won a prize.
    We get the results of our tests, and now I know why Hira is so happy. “Her English is coming along beautifully,” says the lady, who introduces herself in Urdu as Mrs. Hakim.
    Auntie smiles at Hira. “My niece and nephew were learning English in school back in Pakistan and are good students.”
    Mrs. Hakim beams at my sister. “Hira is a level 3 ESL student, which means she’ll likely be monitored in her regular classroom by an ESL teacher in case she needs support. She will only be pulled out of class for extra help when she needs it, not on a regular basis. She should do fine in the regular classroom setting.”
    Ammi smiles at Hira. “She is very talkative.”
    Mrs. Hakim laughs. “This is an advantage; you will see. She is not afraid to make mistakes, and that is how she will learn English even more quickly.”
    Mrs. Hakim exchanges thanks with Auntie and my mother, then leaves us with Mrs. Fayad. After the glowing words Mrs. Hakim had for Hira, Mrs. Fayad looks sorry for whatever she is about to say.
    â€œBilal did a nice job, too,” she says, looking like I didn’t do a nice job at all. “He does have a solid base in English.”
    My mother nods.
    â€œHe will start the year as a level 2 ESL student.”
    My mother’s smile fades, and I wish I could fade right into the carpet. Hira slips her hand into mine. Even she feels bad for me.
    Mrs. Fayad continues in Urdu: “Bilal will receive special instruction from an ESL teacher. He’ll spend most of his time in his fifth-grade class, but he’ll meet with the ESL teacher for anywhere from sixty to ninety minutes each day, depending on how quickly he progresses.”
    Sixty to ninety minutes? A day?
    I have studied English four more years than Hira has, yet I am the one who needs extra help? I know none of this is Hira’s fault. But when she looks up at me with a sad face, I turn away.
    My mother thanks Mrs. Fayad and nudges me to do the same. “Thank you,” I mumble, slipping my hand from Hira’s and putting both hands in my pockets. But thanks for what? For proving my little sister is better at English than I am? We leave the room and head back down the hall in silence.
    You take English for five years and you think you know something, but then you come to a place where people speak a different kind of English, and you realize you know nothing.

 Nine
    E very morning after saying all the words in the Fajr prayer, I ask Allah for this to be the day that Baba tells us he is coming to America. For the last forty-five days, the answer has been “Not yet.”
    These last few weeks have been a blur of baseball camp, more new