Huda and Me by H. Hayek (summer beach reads TXT) 📗

At that moment, all us kids jumped up from our seats and cheered. Even Raheed bobbed his cute bum up and down in Omar’s arms, drool running like melted ice over Omar’s shirt.

No parents. Only us kids. With Mr Kostiki next door. Coco Pops three meals a day. This was even better than a holiday to Lebanon.

Mr Kostiki’s eyes jerked open and he jolted up from the couch, looking confused about where he was and what was happening.

This time Mum had to raise her voice. ‘Ya wlad! Kids! Sit!’ She’d stopped rubbing her hands together but still had that look on her face. ‘Your dad and I aren’t going for a holiday. We are going because my mum is very sick.’

My heart sank.

‘You know we’ve been saving for years hoping we could all go as a family, but my mum needs me to care for her now. And …’

She looked at Dad, like she was asking him to finish her sentence.

‘And Aunt Amel will be babysitting you.’ Dad said it quickly, and then his eyes darted to the floor.

We all knew what that meant. The party was over.

The Aeroplane

Red Tooth goes into an office with a clear glass door. She’s taken our passports and tickets with her. She taps at the computer. Then she picks up the phone and dials.

‘I’m sorry, Akeal,’ Huda whispers.

I’m praying there’ll be no answer. That the phone will ring out. That maybe all the phone lines will be busy by some miracle. I feel like getting out my prayer mat and putting my head on the floor right there and then. Oh God, please don’t let it all end here.

The line connects and Red Tooth taps her pen on the desk as she talks, never taking her eyes off us. One of the security guards has his hand on his belt buckle – he’s getting ready to take out his handcuffs. Finally Red Tooth hangs up the phone. Her heels clicking on the tiles sound louder and louder as she closes in.

This is what dead meat feels like.

When she starts talking, I’m so anxious I can barely understand what she’s saying. Huda grabs my hand and holds it tight. I can’t remember the last time she held my hand.

‘You must be very careful not to’ – I vomit in my mouth a little. I don’t want to go to prison – ‘trip on the step as you board the plane.’

She scans our tickets and hands them back to us with our passports. Then she points to her name tag.

‘My name is Rosetta. If you need anything throughout the flight, please let me or one of the flight crew know. Have an enjoyable trip.’ She smiles.

‘Thank you very much, Miss Rosetta.’ Huda releases my hand and grins. She skips ahead to board the plane.

I don’t understand what’s just happened. How did we get away with it?

I hurry after Huda, who grabs three headsets from a tub in the winding corridor leading to the aeroplane. ‘They’re free!’ she shouts, waving them over her shoulder without looking back. I whisper to God, making a special prayer that we will get to Lebanon safely. By the time I reach the plane doors, Huda is annoyed.

‘Take your time, why don’t you?’

‘I was praying. You should too.’

‘Already did.’

I don’t believe her but I’m too tired to argue.

‘Anyway, let’s get out of this dump and go see Mum and Dad,’ she says.

The plane is huge. There are rows of two seats against the windows on both sides, plus a row of four seats in the middle.

Most people are already seated, and as we walk towards our row at the back of the plane Huda smiles at the people she passes. Even though her hair hasn’t been brushed in a couple of days and she slept in the clothes she’s wearing, people think she’s adorable. I can tell from the way they smile at her and then at each other.

As if to prove me right, a woman with straight black hair, big eyes and tiny eyebrows clutches Huda’s wrist as she walks ahead in front of me. ‘Are you two sweethearts travelling alone?’

The woman is around Mum’s age. The man she’s with stops reading his book and peeks at us through his thick-framed glasses.

Huda nods slowly, like a sad orphan. ‘Yes, we’re unaccompeed minors,’ she says in a glum voice.

The woman makes a small whimpering sound and puts her palm on her cheek. She and her partner look at each other, smiling, but with pretend sad eyes. ‘Well, you just let us know if you need anything. We’re right here. You be brave, okay?’

Huda tilts her head to the side and nods. ‘Thank you,’ she sniffs and continues to shuffle down the aisle. I can tell the woman and her partner wish they could wrap my sister up and take her home.

We find our row, and Huda takes the spot near the window. We stuff our backpacks under the seats in front of us, then Huda looks past me to the middle row next to us and grins. ‘Look, Akeal, it’s that Muslim grandma.’

She’s referring to a frail, hunched-over nun sitting alone in the middle of the four seats across from us. ‘She’s a nun, Huda,’ I say.

‘Wow, a Muslim nun!’

‘No, she’s not Muslim. That’s a habit on her head.’ I remember back to my World Religions class last year.

‘What kind of habit does she have? Does she always scratch or something?’

Huda smiles at me cheekily as the old woman turns slowly and looks at us. Huda mouths the words ‘As Salamu Alaykum’ to her and puts her hands on her chest, like she’s seen older people do at the mosque.

I shake my head at my sister, but the old woman just smiles back. I’m about to try to explain to Huda again what a nun is when a man with a whole tub of gel in his hair comes towards us. His white shirt is