Out of Nowhere Read Free Page B

said.
    “Mother?” I said.
    He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Samira speak English good. So you come. Yes?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Just motioned for me to follow him and headed out of the gym.
    We walked. Far. And before long I was in a section of downtown Enniston I pretty much never visit. Right near the policestation and the skate park and the bread factory, which fills the air with the most amazing smells. The aroma of hot rolls greeted us when we reached his neighborhood, followed us as we trudged up the stairs that snaked along the outside wall of his four-story wooden apartment building.
    His door opened onto this little vestibule cluttered with shoes. Saeed kicked his off, adding to the pile. He didn’t ask me to do the same, but what the heck—I slipped mine off as well. He shouted into the apartment, announcing his arrival. He motioned for me to wait with the shoes while he walked ahead, then rounded a corner into a room I couldn’t see.
    A riot of conversation followed, absolutely foreign to me. Somali is a no-holds-barred language. Half the time it sounds like people are fighting with each other, but it’s just that they get that animated. The hands go, too, emphasizing each word. I think you’d render a Somali person partially mute if you tied their hands.
    Finally Saeed stuck his head around the corner and waved me in.
    They were all in the kitchen and looked pretty surprised about me being there. They were in the middle of making dinner. A big pot of something steamed on the stove, and the air in the room felt thick with cumin and curry. There was this old-looking woman who I guessed was his mother, standing near the pot, and a couple of little boys, and a girl about our age. The little guys were dressed like any American kid, in jeans and T-shirts, but the woman and the girl were in long skirts and head coverings. The girl was seated at the kitchen table, reading the papers Coach had given Saeed.
    I stood there, awkward as hell, while no one said anything to me. Finally the girl looked up.
    “My mother does not know how to write her own name. But I will write for her on these lines, and she will put her mark, and that is good, I think.” She stared at me, waiting for my response.
    “Sure … I mean, yeah. Whatever. It’s not like she’s signing away his endorsement rights or anything.” I laughed at my own joke. The girl didn’t smile. Instead, she turned to her mother and began speaking quickly and pointing to the papers. The mother nodded: yes, yes. I shifted from one foot to the other and back again. I didn’t understand why I was there. If Saeed’s sister could read and all, why had he dragged me home with him?
    I watched as the girl carefully wrote her mother’s name on the appropriate lines and pointed to where her mother should pen a big
X
. They did this very carefully, like they were signing a will or something.
    After they finished the permission forms, they moved on to the emergency contact card, where you list people to call in case you get hurt and your parents can’t be reached. You also have to list your family doctor and dentist, with their phone numbers and emails. Also list your health insurance. If you’ve got health insurance.
    The girl stared hard at this card and frowned. She said something to one of the little brothers, who ran from the room. We heard the door to the apartment open, then slam shut.
    “He gets the phone number for the people next door,” she explained to me. “But we don’t know anyone for the other line. And we don’t know any doctor.”
    There was a plastic clock on the wall just over the stove, and my eyes inadvertently glanced at it. I’d already been there twentyminutes. It takes my parents about five minutes, tops, to complete these papers every year.
    “Tell you what,” I said. I pulled out the kitchen chair alongside her and sat. I motioned for her to hand me the card and her pen. “I’ll put my mother down as Saeed’s