Rebels by Accident by Patricia Dunn Read Free Book Online Page A

me for what feels like forever, then says something to Ahmed. A question, maybe, it’s hard to tell. Ahmed shows him his passport, waves toward us, and nods a lot. The soldier looks at the passport, glances at us again, then clicks his tongue and says something else in Arabic. What is he saying? Is Ahmed in trouble? Deanna grabs my hand. Her palm is sweaty but so is mine. If they take Ahmed into that room, I don’t know what we’ll do. What can we do? I want to go home.
    â€œ Shukran ,” Ahmed says as the soldier gives him back his passport and walks away.
    â€œWhat was that about? Are you in trouble?” Deanna asks Ahmed, letting go of my hand.
    â€œWe are all—”
    â€œIn trouble?” I shout.
    â€œWe’re in the wrong line. We need to be over there.” Ahmed lifts his chin to the sign that says “Foreign Visitors.” “We’re in the line for the Egyptians. Come on.” He starts off without looking back, his long legs taking him quickly away from us.
    â€œI thought you and Mariam were Egyptians,” Deanna says as she drags her two rolling suitcases behind her.
    â€œI’m American. I was born there, and I’m proud to be one,” I correct her, scurrying to keep up with her and Ahmed.
    The “Foreign Visitors” line is straight and orderly, like the cafeteria lines at school.
    Ahmed whispers to us as we fall in behind him, “This is good he noticed you. They treat you better if you’re American.”
    â€œThat doesn’t make any sense,” Deanna says.
    â€œIt doesn’t seem fair,” I add.
    â€œWelcome to Egypt.” Ahmed pulls out a handkerchief that’s the same blue as his tie and wipes his forehead.
    â€œAre you feeling okay?” I ask, now noticing how much sweat is dripping off his face.
    â€œThe air conditioner is not working too well in here. No surprise.”
    â€œI guess,” I say, though I’m actually feeling a little cold.
    â€œHey, is that your sittu ?” Deanna asks, pointing toward the glass doors behind the customs officers. Standing next to a man holding a cardboard sign with Arabic letters written on it is a thin woman with white hair. “Maybe. How do you know what Sittu looks like?” I ask.
    â€œThere are pictures of her in your living room.”
    I had forgotten about them. But in the pictures, Sittu’s hair has very little gray in it.
    â€œWave, Mar. Wave,” Deanna says, swaying her arms back and forth. “Mariam’s sittu ! Mariam’s sittu !” she yells until the doors slide closed. “Maybe that’s not her. She didn’t wave back or anything.”
    Now I’m sure it’s her. Sittu doesn’t seem like she’d be the waving type.
    â€œWhat am I thinking? Of course she didn’t wave back,” Deanna says. “She doesn’t even know me. Mar, when the doors open again, you wave.”
    â€œI don’t want to,” I tell her, but as soon as the doors slide open again, Deanna lifts my arm in the air, shouting, “This is Mariam!”
    The woman shakes her head like we’re embarrassing her or something, and I’m sure the expression on my face matches the one on hers, which tells the world, “I’m only here because I have no choice.”
    â€œYour sittu is a very attractive woman,” Ahmed says, looking better than he did a moment ago.
    â€œAren’t you married?” Deanna asks, looking down at his gold wedding band.
    â€œPlease excuse me. My comment was not meant to be in any way, uh, sleazy.” His accent sounds like Baba’s again. “I was only commenting like one comments on a work of art.”
    â€œOh brother,” Deanna mutters.
    â€œIn this case”—Ahmed smiles before he gives us the punch line—“it would be more appropriate to say, ‘oh sister.’”
    â€œYou’re a funny guy,” Deanna says.
    I shake my head