Grounded, p.1
Grounded, page 1
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.
ISBN 978–1-4197–6175–1
eISBN 978-1-64700-669-3
Text © 2023 Aisha Saeed, Sajidah Kutty, Jamilah Thompkins-Bigelow, Huda Al-Marashi
Book design by Chelsea Hunter
Airport map by Natelle Qwek
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I’m getting too old for this stuff. I mean, I’m twelve. That’s dumb close to teenager. Definitely too old to be spending all my time with a four-year-old. A four-year-old sister named Ruqi who talks too much and talks too loud, especially when I’m trying to hear the rhymes in my head. Her voice jumps in front of the lyrics every time.
Here in Hurston Airport’s indoor playground, I’m watching Ruqi again because my new baby brother, Hamza, started crying again. Mom scooped him up and said she would be right back, but I know that isn’t happening. I look at my phone—7:33 P.M. It’s been ten minutes. Still no Mom.
Ruqi has lots to play with here: a fake helicopter with a slide, a command center jungle gym, and the engine of a real airplane. Even I would check out that engine if I was still a kid.
But Ruqi’s not playing. She’s skipping over to talk to me while I’m watching Storm the Stage, a poetry slam show, on my phone. It’s hosted by Doc Hoffa, a rapper from way back who my parents love. My family even got to visit his extra-lavish mansion with marble and gold floors once, and that’s one funny story—
“You not listening! Let’s go on an adven-chuh!” Ruqi pulls my arm.
I shake her off and say, “The helicopter’s an adventure. Look inside. See how far you can fly away.” Thankfully, she hops over to it.
I’m chuckling, watching one poet describe himself as chocolate mousse, then cookie dough ice cream, when it happens: A rhyme drops into my mind.
I know from my dad, who performs poetry for a living, that when rhymes drop, you stop and catch them.
Because it doesn’t just happen every day. Definitely not when I’m watching this show. On this show, these poets make me shut up and listen, make me suck in my breath, make me rip out pages from my rhyme book to start all over again. To try to be just as good.
But then, I freeze.
Can I write something that cool?
That question sucker punches my it.
Not this time. I’m thinking about the slick ways this poet is comparing himself to desserts. So smooth. But I would never describe myself that way, I think. Nah. I’m not sweets, I’m . . . And it drops:
I’m the words to the song
The hammer to the gong
The beats to this rhythm
The—
“FEEK!” Ruqi screams.
“What?! I’m writing! Go play!”
But as I try to get ahold of the rest of the words, she keeps yapping.
“Let’s go to the shiny house! I wanna see it!” She’s been calling the gigantic glass box thing near our gate “the shiny house” since we first passed it.
Focus, focus. What comes next? What rhymes with “rhythm”? But the words are gone.
And when I finally look up from my notebook, so is Ruqi.
But I didn’t lose Ruqi. It’s not like that. I bet she’s at that glass thing she was talking about. I just got to be cool. Retrace our steps. Head back toward the gate.
I see that glass box with the silver tracks and metal balls inside that gleam even from a distance and almost run. Almost. I catch myself and remember the brand-new sneaks I’m wearing—white Air Force 1s that I finally convinced Mom to buy me. I’m not getting creases in them for nobody! Definitely not Ruqi. I speed-walk without bending my feet. It’s kind of a waddle, but I do it smooth.
She’s got to be there. It’s surrounded by kids wearing kufis and khimars, which makes me smile as I pass my hand over my own kufi. There’s hundreds of Muslims in this airport. Like us, everyone’s leaving MONA, the Muslims of North America conference.
Inside that big glass box is a contraption of balls ping-ponging and spiraling around tracks and gears in chain reaction after chain reaction. It’s kind of cool how they keep following the same mazelike path. I read the placard on the front: RUBE GOLDBERG MACHINE.
I almost reach out to pull the golden lever that activates the machine. I put my hands in my front hoodie pocket instead. A little boy pulls it, and five hanging steel balls start swinging back and forth. One ball hits the others. Clack! And the others hit back. Clack . . . clack, clack . . . clack, every ball has an impact. With all that going on, I see why little kids like Ruqi are into this thing.
But as I search the hijabbed heads around the machine, I don’t see Ruqi’s silver scarf with the sparkly unicorn headband she wears everywhere. I don’t see Ruqi’s face. My chest tightens. Is Ruqi okay? Of course, she’s okay! Breathe. Think . . . think . . . Where would she go?
I feel a buzz in my pocket and check my texts.
Mom: Salaam. Sorry I’m taking so long. Hamza got poop everywhere. You two all right?
Where would Ruqi go?
Me: Yeah we’re cool. I’m taking Ruqi to look at iPads.
Mom: Great. Meet me back at the gate when you’re done.
Don’t panic.
Mom: And sorry I exploded last night. Thanks for helping me so much with your sister.
I hear and feel a whimper come out of me when I think about last night. If Mom finds out I lost track of Ruqi again, I’ll get a whole lot worse than yelling.
I shove my phone in my pocket. No way am I getting grounded. I didn’t really lose her then, and she’s not lost now. Not really. She’s looking at iPads. She loves those. I flat-foot shuffle toward shops with flashy electronics that would grab a four-year-old. I stare hard into one store. Please let Ruqi be here. I can see from the startled eyes of a redheaded cashier with a tatted-up arm that I kind of spook her. I cock my head and give her my calmest, coolest smile. She smiles back. Look calm, I tell myself as I walk on. Looking calm makes things work out. Like last night.
At the fancy, boring conference banquet, listening to fancy, boring people speak, me and Mom and Hamza and Ruqi were sitting at a table with shiny dishes and too many forks and spoons for each person. As usual, Dad wasn’t there. Dad is AbdusSalaam Stiles, or Salaam Stiles, as everyone calls him—the Muslim Lyricist. He had been performing nonstop at the conference and was sleeping in the hotel until his next performance later that night.
Hamza started crying at the table. Mom left with him. It was just me and Ruqi again, but at least she was being quiet.
While the fancy, boring speech droned on, rhymes filled my ears. I pushed aside my plate and plopped my notebook onto the table. I went in. I wanted Dad to see these new poems. To see how good I was getting. Almost as good as him. We could be a father-and-son team. I pictured him asking me to tour with him as “Feek Stiles, the Muslim MC.” That made me laugh.
And then I was no longer hearing the fancy, boring speech. Instead, I heard Ruqi’s voice—on full blast! I looked to the stage and blinked a few times at the light dancing off her headband. This had to be a bad dream. The keynote speaker was staring at Ruqi like they were sharing an inside joke, while Ruqi was holding the mic, telling the whole banquet why it was important to take turns letting people talk.
I waddle-ran up there and snatched the mic. Look calm, I told myself before telling the audience something I don’t even remember that made them laugh, then yanking Ruqi off the stage. Mom yelled at me about it, said people came before poetry, family before art. But Dad’s not here with us at the airport. So much for “family before art.” I’m not mad about it. He has more important places to be than waiting around with us here.
I walk down the corridor. Look calm, look calm, look calm . . . Flat-foot step. A little smile. Ruqi isn’t lost. She is fine. She has to be. I push away thoughts of anything bad happening to her and shuffle on until I almost trip on something shiny.
I look down and yelp. Ruqi’s unicorn headband.
People come to airports to catch flights, to go places.
But I’m here for another reason too.
I’m here for my number-one mission in life.
That’s why I’m making my way back to TSA right now—far away from where Dad’s waiting for our flight at gate B10. He doesn’t know what I’m up to. He thinks we’re just here to get on a plane to visit his cousin in New York before we fly home to Doha after the MONA conference. (But, of course, there are more important things in life. Like life
I notice an electronics store up ahead and slow down. Should I? Check how much Dad paid for the phone he bought me before the conference? (I just need to know if it’s a bribe gift. Because.)
As I step inside the store, the phone in question reminds me not to get sidetracked from my mission by pinging a Google news alert for the keywords “Hurston airport cat missing.”
FAMILY OF CAT MISSING AT HURSTON AIRPORT: IT’S BEEN A WEEK AND WE’RE HEARTBROKEN
I click and read the article, but there’s no fresh information on Snickerdoodle, the cat.
Who is lost at this very airport I’m standing in right now.
A cat, scared for her life.
All alone, with no one to look out for her.
But not for long—because I’m going to find her!
As usual, I had been excited to come to the annual MONA conference. We’d been attending every summer since I was six, and now I have a crew of friends I meet up with each year, friends Dad finally let me hang out with by myself for the entire weekend. (While he did his own thing. A thing I knew about. That he didn’t know I knew about.)
This year, the regular conference excitement had been multiplied by a thousand when I discovered that we were flying through Zora Neale Hurston Airport.
I’d be able to help find the lost Snickerdoodle.
It’s my specialty.
Helping animals.
It’s too bad my MONA friends are not here at the airport right now, though. They completely know me and get why I’m here on earth—for my life purpose—and would jump in to help me without missing a heartbeat.
I believe everyone has a life purpose and that this is mine: TO PROTECT AND SAVE ANY AND EVERY ANIMAL IN MY VICINITY BY ANY AND EVERY MEANS NECESSARY.
I also believe in Allah, and I think He put me here at this particular airport exactly a week after Snickerdoodle went missing for this reason: I had to be the one to reunite her with her heartbroken family. (“Heartbroken” has been mentioned in almost every article on Snickerdoodle. And, really, if any family hadn’t been heartbroken about their cat wandering around pitifully in a huge airport, I’d probably want to give the lost animal to a better family.)
I found out about Snickerdoodle through the animal-rights forum I belong to, Animal Allies. We are a global forum of people of all ages who care about the well-being of all beings, not just humans. (That’s the mission statement of AA. As soon as I read it, I clicked JOIN.)
I lean against a counter in the electronics store and open my notes app to reread the facts I’ve stored about Snickerdoodle.
Name: Snickerdoodle Mildred Hoffman
Age: Twelve
Hometown: Los Angeles, California
Went missing on: August 27
Where: TSA screening at Hurston Airport; escaped when pet carrier was opened during security examination
Answers to: “Snicker,” “Doodles,” and sometimes “Milly”
Likes: Meow Mix Treats, salmon flavor; nose strokes; shoes; lying on paper
Dislikes: Wide-open spaces, babies, vacuums, tall men
Where had I gathered this extra-special, extra-specific information from? That Animal Allies didn’t provide?
Facebook. Which I’m not even allowed to join until I’m thirteen—not for another year and a half.
But Dad has a Facebook account, and before he banned me from it by changing his password, I used his account to message the Hoffman family on their page, SNICKERDOODLE IS MISSING: PLEASE HELP, to gather vital information. Like that Snickerdoodle loves Meow Mix salmon treats.
Which I have a huge pack of in my backpack now. To lure her when I find her.
I’d better head back to where she was last seen: the TSA security checkpoint. Dad wanted to go straight to our gate, so I wasn’t able to take pictures of the scene of the crime when we passed through earlier. (It’s a crime to lose an animal that was entrusted to the airport. In my mind it is, anyway. And if it isn’t a crime in the airport’s mind, I mean the airport staff’s mind, then that is a crime too.)
Before leaving the electronics store, I quickly check the iPhones on display.
So Dad had spent a lot on my phone.
That makes me feel a tiny pinch of guilt.
I practically ignored Dad the entire weekend, answering in short one-word or few-words sentences to any question he’d asked.
And then I left him at gate B10 when he asked if he could talk to me about something “important.”
I told him I needed to get food from the food court, which wasn’t true at all. (I’d stuffed myself with pancakes at the all-you-can-eat, all-day breakfast restaurant before we got a cab to the airport.)
While Dad knew all about my interest in Snickerdoodle, he’d told me he didn’t want me “wandering around the airport” so close to our departure time. Hence, the necessary secrecy.
Even though Dad is pretty laid-back at home with me, he’s all about sticking to official rules about things in public, while I think not all rules are meant to be followed.
Like, if a pet has been missing for an entire week, and is dangerously close to death, it’s time to break some rules.
Though I do feel a tiny bit sad remembering the way Dad’s face and body slumped in the chair at the gate when I almost ran away from him.
But then I remember something else, and the sadness disappears. It’s the thing I discovered when I used his Facebook account to message the heartbroken Hoffman family about Snickerdoodle.
Dad had signed up for the MONA matrimonial match dinner on Friday at the conference. And the MONA matrimonial speed match event on Saturday. And also the MONA matrimonial match database.
At first I didn’t know what all that meant. But then I looked up “matrimonial” and learned it meant he wanted to get married again.
He’d been BUSY the entire weekend. Trying to get married.
BY ANY AND ALL MEANS NECESSARY.
Talk about having a life purpose. Mine is saving animals, and Dad’s is getting a replacement mom for me? Without my permission?
I sigh heavily and then swallow a different sort of sadness clogging my throat before stepping out of the store.
I’m snapping some pictures of an empty corridor with carpeting (maybe very cozy for cats?) on my way to TSA when I see someone else, a kid my age, looking around for something. Could it be another lost pet?
I pause.
He’s wearing a hoodie like mine, except his is white, while mine is teal and tied around my waist. His head is turning wildly around, peering into the corridor I’d just taken a pic of, then peering into the sunglasses kiosk opposite to it.
It’s the kid who carried his little sister off the stage at the fancy MONA banquet dinner featuring Congresswoman Sarah Najjar.
He sees me looking at him and does a fast look away but then looks back and nods like he knows me or something.
It must be the MONA conference T-shirt I’m wearing.
“Did you lose something?” I ask. “A cat? Or some other pet?”
“What?” His body stills, and his hands go into his hoodie pockets. Like he’s protecting himself. Or trying to look unfrantic. “Why?”
Yup, he’s lost something. Something important.
“Because I’m looking for something too, and I can help you look?” I hold up my phone. “I’m looking for a lost cat myself. And I’m good at taking notes.”
“You lost a cat here?”
“Not me.” I swipe to find my screenshot of the SNICKERDOODLE IS MISSING: PLEASE HELP Facebook page. “This family lost Snickerdoodle.”
“You know them or something? The people who lost their cat?”
“I’m doing them a service,” I say, wondering if I should say I’d been hired by the heartbroken Hoffmans—because they had communicated with me via Dad’s Facebook messages. “I’m working for them. And I can help you too.”
He looks at me like some people do when I go on about animals for too long: eyebrows scrunched, trying to figure out whether I’m too weird to talk to or some kind of cool they don’t know yet. I swipe my phone again and show him my notes. I don’t know if that’s convincing, but he takes his hands out of his hoodie pockets and says, “Okay, yeah, I lost my sister.”
Whoa.
Please download.
Please download.
Please download.
