Yusuf Azeem Is Not a Hero: Chapters 13–18

The walk wasn’t too bad, except it was already hot enough to wilt the weeds that peeked from the cracks in the sidewalk.

The rickety old gate hung open, and he let himself in with his wagon saying, “Mrs. Raymond? Hello?” loudly all the while.

Jared picked up a paintbrush and dabbed some more brown dots around the red splotches. “After my mom was deployed overseas, and I moved in with Grandma, the doctor said I should try painting. For my nightmares.”

Yusuf couldn’t imagine never having met Abba. He also couldn’t imagine a day without Amma. He stared at the painting, trying to say something that would match the enormity of Jared’s losses. But he couldn’t, so he stayed quiet.

They ducked through a doorway that connected to a little house on the other side, old and ramshackle but neat as a pin.

Yusuf stared at the paintings. They were all abstract slashes, some in pastels, others in dark angry colors. In a few, he could make out distorted faces.

Yusuf stared at the paintings. They were all abstract slashes, some in pastels, others in dark angry colors. In a few, he could make out distorted faces.

Yusuf expected Cameron to argue, but he kept quiet. He looked almost subdued, like he wasn’t sure what he was doing with a group of self-professed nerds on school property on a Saturday morning.

“Let’s not kid ourselves,” he said nervously. “The chance of winning is, like, minuscule. You’d need to create an amazing machine, then win three out of three eligibility matches in the regionals, and then be one of the top five in the regionals. And the final state contest is huge. That’s where the other contestants are, like, robotics gods or something. Those guys probably drink gallons of coffee and work with robots all day long.”

“Let’s not kid ourselves,” he said nervously. “The chance of winning is, like, minuscule. You’d need to create an amazing machine, then win three out of three eligibility matches in the regionals, and then be one of the top five in the regionals. And the final state contest is huge. That’s where the other contestants are, like, robotics gods or something. Those guys probably drink gallons of coffee and work with robots all day long.”

He should apologize, but Yusuf was transfixed at the sight of Ethan’s dad—Mr. Grant—standing way too close to them.

His sleeves were rolled up, and Yusuf couldn’t stop looking at those beefy forearms full of tattoos. “Why. Are. You. Here?” repeated Mr. Grant from clenched lips.

The morning was overcast, as if a storm they couldn’t see yet loomed on the horizon.

On the sidewalk was a small stage with blue carpeting and a white plastic podium.

How bad could the parade be? Then he turned to the post office and saw the other Muslim families clustered together with grim looks on their faces.

Abba, standing on the other side of her, whispered, “Shush, this is important stuff,” as if the mayor was the most riveting old man on earth.

“That Trevor Grant is a real tool,” Mr. Khan said, digging a pita chip into his hummus with such force that it snapped.

Another uncle shook his head. “They’re hooligans, that’s what they are. Going around calling us the enemy...how dare they? My grandfather was the first doctor this town ever had. Built the clinic I practice in every day.”

Nobody seemed to have heard Mr. Khan’s instruction about halting the construction at the mosque. Yusuf tried protesting, but Amma and Abba still went the next morning.

“Yes, Aunty,” he said meekly. Cameron Abdullah wasn’t worth a lecture.

“Have you done your homework?” she interrupted.
Yusuf wasn’t sure what she was referring to. Homework was usually memorization of a verse from the Quran, or a hadith. “Yes?” he ventured.

“There were actually two migrations,” he began. “The first was around the year 613, when the early followers of the Prophet fled to Abyssinia in Africa. A kind king gave them refuge there.”

Abba was ecstatic. He invited the visitors over and plied them with food. “Please, eat with us! Farrah, bring some Coke! What will you have, young man? I’ve seen you before in my store, haven’t I? Welcome, welcome!”

Miss Terrance tapped a knuckle on the whiteboard. “The parade wasn’t just about the floats and the band, was it?” she asked. “There was a greater purpose, a bigger commemoration.”

Danial was so shocked his mouth fell open and bits of peas from his samosa dropped onto his shirt.

Cameron didn’t reply. He was looking intently toward the cafeteria door. “Incoming,” he said in a low voice.

Ethan Grant and his friend Sammy had entered the cafeteria. Their faces wore identical hard looks and ugly scowls. Before Yusuf could steel himself, they were looming over his table like predatory birds over frozen mice.

Ethan growled. For a minute it seemed like he would hit someone or something. Then his face relaxed. “Hey, Cam, haven’t seen you in a while. Why’re you sitting with these pathetic losers? Let’s roll.”

Yusuf decided that writing the 9/11 report might help him figure out Ethan and his father. Why he wanted to do this wasn’t very clear to him, except that he kept remembering the topic of persecution from the previous Sunday school class.

Then other words caught his attention. Terrible words. The Patriot Act. The War on Terror. Islamic terrorism. Enemies.

Yusuf looked up, startled. It was Madison. She slid into the seat next to him and peered at his computer screen. “Secret surveillance. Ooh, are you writing a crime novel or something?”

“Here’s the scenario: A garbage truck has collapsed in the middle of the road, spilling trash of various sizes into oncoming traffic. You have to build a robot that will clean up the trash and pile it into containers, all the while dodging cars and pedestrians. The garbage is of different sizes and has to be sorted before being put into the containers.”

“Here’s the scenario: A garbage truck has collapsed in the middle of the road, spilling trash of various sizes into oncoming traffic. You have to build a robot that will clean up the trash and pile it into containers, all the while dodging cars and pedestrians. The garbage is of different sizes and has to be sorted before being put into the containers.”

Abba gives Friday sermons about forgiveness and mercy, and how our hearts bleed for our fellow Americans. His voice is always soft and unwavering. I’m sure I’m not the only person who finds calmness from his words.

Abba gives Friday sermons about forgiveness and mercy, and how our hearts bleed for our fellow Americans. His voice is always soft and unwavering. I’m sure I’m not the only person who finds calmness from his words.