Free A Long Pitch Home by Natalie Dias Lorenzi Page A

baseball, and apple pie.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Jalaal laughs at the look on my face. “It’s a saying. If something is really American, they say it’s like mom, baseball, and apple pie.”
    I have never tried apple pie, but why are moms so American? Moms are everywhere, including Pakistan.
    Jalaal keeps glancing my way; I can tell he is worried about me. I smile so he won’t worry, and also so he’ll stop looking at me and watch the road.
    Jalaal turns onto our street—his street—and that’s when we see Olivia heading down her driveway, toward a Jeep where some other kids are waiting.
    Olivia’s face brightens when she sees us. I wave and call, “Hi, Olivia!” out the window.
    Olivia ducks her head into the Jeep, says something to the driver, then crosses the lawn. Jalaal is out of the car before I even unbuckle my seat belt.
    â€œHey, Jalaal.” Olivia smiles and tucks some hair behind her ear. “We’re going to the lake for a swim. Want to come?”
    I wonder for a second if Jalaal even heard her, because he’s standing there looking like he’s forgotten how to speak.
    Olivia gives my shoulder a gentle punch. “Hey, Bilal. How’s baseball camp going?”
    I tilt my head while I think of how to answer. “The last day is tomorrow.”
    She smiles. “That bad, huh?”
    I like Olivia.
    The Jeep’s horn beeps twice. Olivia looks back, holds up her index finger, then turns back to Jalaal. “So do you want to come with us?”
    Jalaal finds his voice. “Sounds fun—but I can’t.”
    The light in Olivia’s eyes dims. “Okay. Maybe another time.”
    Jalaal shoves his hands into his front pockets, and now he and Olivia look like drooping mirror images of each other. “Sure. Another time.”
    Olivia takes a deep breath. “Okay.” She smiles at me. “See you guys around.”
    Before I can wave, she’s halfway to the Jeep. The boy in the driver’s seat starts the engine, and they back out of the driveway. Jalaal looks like that Jeep is dragging his heart right down the street with Olivia. I reach up and clap my hand on his shoulder, like he does to me when he knows I’m feeling down.
    It seems to work, because he blinks and opens the back door of the car. We pull out our baseball bags and lug them into the garage before heading into the kitchen.
    Auntie is waiting for us with tea. “Boys!” She smiles.
    From the living room my mother’s voice mixes with Hira’s laughter and another girl’s voice that’s kind of familiar. “Bilal?” my mother calls. “Is that you?”
    I stride into the living room and stop short.
    There on the couch, talking to Hira, is Jordan.

 Ten
    W hat surprises me most is Jordan’s hair. I’ve only ever seen it in a dark, curly ponytail, or tucked up inside her cap. But now her hair is loose, almost touching her shoulders. She definitely has that thing Jalaal calls hat head .
    Eventually I find my voice. “Why you are here?”
    My mother smiles but says, “Bilal! Don’t be rude.” Thankfully, she says this in Urdu, which I assume Jordan does not understand.
    Until Hira translates: “My mother says Bilal is being rude.” My sister shakes her head, as if the burden of having a rude brother is just too much to bear.
    â€œHira,” my mother whispers, and gives her a look that stops Hira’s head-shaking.
    Jordan stands, her face red. “I have to go, actually.”
    I know I should say something, but I can’t stop staring at her red face. I mean, it really is red. I’ve never seen a face change colors that quickly.
    My mother clears her throat. “Bilal, why don’t you offer our guest some more tea?”
    I reach out to take Jordan’s almost-full cup.
    â€œUh, no thank you.” Jordan hands over the tea. “I really need to get