Chapter Text
1995.
Astoria, Queens.
New York.
Omar couldn’t believe his ears. The words flitted around in his brain like a bunch of butterflies, unable to stay still and absolutely erratic. He realized after a moment that his parents were still looking at him, waiting for his reaction. His little sister was humming to herself, playing with her dolls on the floor, unaware of the giant news just dropped on his head.
“I don’t want to go,” he finally settled on whining, drawing out the ‘o’ for a moment before his dad hit him with his signature Grow Up Glare.
“Omar, habibi, we aren’t going far! Astoria to Bushwick is only a half an hour-”
Omar cut his mom off with a squawk of indignance, “half an hour? That’s so long! I won’t be able to hang out with Tarik anymore. Or Fahim! Or even Missus Saif, she always makes the best ta’ameya! And-”
“Omar, enough.” His dad’s voice boomed loud enough to capture the attention of Amira, who dropped her dolls and shoved her hands over her ears. He cleared his throat and continued, “You will be able to see your friends again, we will come back to visit. But this move is good for us, and it will be good to get involved in a new community. I’m sorry you feel sad, but trust me, it will be good for us.”
They made the move, tearful goodbyes between the Zidan’s and the community they moved to many years ago, who made them feel like they were back home. Promises were made to call and visit, but all the adults knew it was unlikely.
New York swallowed you up, and neighbourhoods vibrated at different frequencies from one another. You could hope to see your friends who felt like family more than once a year, but the reality was that the kids would have to move on, and be okay with that.
Bushwick was totally different, felt gray in comparison to Astoria, and Omar was grumpy. He scowled the whole ride to their new house, scowled through getting his boxes put into his new bedroom that he didn’t have to share with his sister, scowled through shawarma dinner ordered in from the place down the street (that was admittedly not awful), and only relaxed his face at bedtime. He stared out his window, dusk settling in over the sky, now facing a stranger’s home instead of Ms. Saif’s, where the lights were always on and the smell of ta’ameya was ever present.
Even at ten years old, he knew that his parents made the right decision, deep down. But it didn’t mean he had to like it.
As Omar was stuck in his head, something caught his attention in his peripheral vision. He looked across the street to find a small boy with a giant flashlight flicking it on and off with a wicked grin on his face.
Once the boy noticed he had caught Omar’s attention, he disappeared below the window and popped up a moment later, smacking a piece of paper to the window pane that read:
Hi! I’m G,
or Garrett Frank Tomkins Jr.
What’s your name?
Omar smiled for the first time all day and held up a finger to tell G to wait a minute. This is his chance to start new in Bushwick. He dove into his unopened boxes of belongings and, after three boxes, finally found his school supplies. He spent a few minutes scribbling down a response and finally returned to the window, pressing the paper to the cool glass, watching as G read:
I’m Omar Adom Zidan
But you can call me OA.
G disappeared again, taking a few minutes longer than his last disappearance before popping back up, hair flopping into his eyes.
Wanna hang tomorow?
My mom is bringing your family food to say hello
A new friend already? Maybe Bushwick wasn’t so bad.
But OA would never consciously admit that to himself. He could still smell Ms. Saif’s food, it was too early to think of Bushwick as home.
OA scribbled back.
Yea that sounds awsome
See u!
–
OA woke up the next morning to the sound of birds, the smell of breakfast potatoes, and an unfamiliar room but very familiar sheets.
Right. Bushwick.
It was around 9AM, later than OA had slept in in awhile, so he changed out of his pyjamas, prayed, and padded down to the kitchen where his mom was just spooning out some potatoes and eggs for his sister.
“Morning, my darling boy, did you sleep good?” His mom asked as she pulled out another plate.
He hummed in response and hopped up onto the kitchen stool, slumping over slightly. He was still waking up, still reconciling with his new life. Maybe this is why adults drink coffee.
A few minutes later, a plate of savoury potatoes and eggs, sunny side up, were placed in front of him and he blew a kiss to his mom from across the counter before tucking into the meal. As much as he wasn’t sure about Bushwick, he still loved his mom.
“Omar, I have a question for you.”
Well, that never ended well. OA sat up a bit taller and looked at his mom, a gentle smile playing on her face.
“How would you feel about another brother or sister?”
OA blanched. Looked over at Amira, who was busy humming a little tune to herself as she pushed her scrambled eggs around her plate. Looked back at his mom, who was patiently waiting for his answer.
“It better be a little brother this time,” OA mumbled, turning back to his eggs.
She sighed, but before she could respond even further the doorbell rang.
OA rocketed from his stool to the front door, checking the window before opening the door. It was the kid from last night, G, and his mom, holding what looked like a casserole dish encased in tin foil.
They looked quite alike, with the same sandy blonde hair, greenish-blue eyes, the only difference being G’s explosion of freckles on his pale face.
“Hi sweetheart! My name is Gloria, and this is my son-”
G interrupted, “What’s up OA?”
Gloria looked at her son, “how do you already know him?”
G just looked at OA, and the boys giggled.
Gloria smiled, “Is your mom home honey?”
“Yes ma’am,” OA responded politely, but before he could call for his mom she appeared around his shoulder, and the two women exchanged pleasantries.
“Wanna go see my bedroom?” OA asked G, who lit up at the suggestion.
“Heck yeah.”
The boys scrambled up to his bedroom, where OA showed off his comic books, some action figures, and they talked to each other about themselves. OA was smiling and laughing for the first time since they got to Bushwick.
By the time dusk fell once more, OA was happier, more hopeful. Once again, maybe Bushwick wouldn’t be so bad.
“Mama?”
“Yes habibi?” His mom was sitting on the couch with a book, but put her finger on the page and closed the cover to look at her son.
“I definitely need another brother.”
2001
Bushwick, Brooklyn.
New York.
OA sucked the toum from his fingers and laughed at G, who was busy trying to keep his own shawarma from dripping the liquid gold garlic sauce all over the street as they walked home.
“It’s been six years G, how have you still not managed to figure out how to eat a shawarma properly?”
“Dude don’t ask me, you basically came out the womb holding one of these things so you can’t blame me for being 10 years behind.”
“I say it’s just incompetence,” OA replied with a snicker.
“Yeah? Well I say you’re just a shawarma snob, or a snobwarma,” G said, before they both stopped in their tracks to look at each other and dissolved into a fit of laughter.
They finally reached the front steps of OA’s home and clambered into the house, dropping shoes and light jackets in the closet as they closed in on the kitchen and said hello to his mom, who gave each of them a kiss on the head, and his sisters, who each giggled and squealed at the boys ruffling their hair.
OA was happy. It wasn’t Astoria, there were less Egyptian families, and he had to show G a way of life that included actual spices in his food, but he was happy. Maybe his dad was right, maybe this move into a new community was good for them. He had friends, he had a home, and he learned how to make a variety of Egyptian foods, including ta’ameya. It was good.
The boys settled into the living room to start on their homework, a plate of veggies and hummus placed in the middle of their papers and notebooks.
“OA, you finally get the nerve to ask Tara out yet?” G asked with a wiggle of his eyebrows and OA swiped him across the head.
“No way dude, I just about lost my lunch trying to say hi to her on the way to math. Imagine if I actually did it.”
“I’ll buy you shawarma for two weeks if you do it.”
OA paused, thinking about it. Realistically, the worst that could happen is he would get rejected and still get free shawarma for two weeks.
“Wrap or platter?”
“Wrap, I’m not made of money.”
“Deal.” OA grinned as G pumped his fist in the air and they shook on it.
“You’re gonna do it tomorrow, right?”
“Right. Now we gotta work on that English assignment.”
G groaned as he opened his notebook, “Oh great, not another ‘tell me about yourself’ assignment. I swear the start of every school year is always the same.”
“It’s not like it’s actual hardwork G, not that you’d know what that is,” OA snickered at G’s feigned offense.
“How dare you! You are right though,” G mused as he pulled out a pencil.
“That you don’t know hardwork?”
“No! That this won’t be that hard to do anyways. You wound me Zidan.”
They both laughed and got to work, writing out the same spiel they’d written out since the fourth grade about who they are, where they’re from, and their future.
“What’d you put for your future job?” OA asked a bit later around a bite of carrot and hummus.
“Stock market broker, duh. That’s where all the money is!” G replied.
“Dude last year you said it was engineering that was where all the money was,” OA said as he rolled his eyes.
“I’m allowed to change my mind! What about you?”
OA pondered the question for a moment, shrugging his shoulders, “I dunno man, maybe I’ll put teacher just to get brownie points with Ms. Rollins.”
“You absolute teacher's pet, I’m so proud of you,” G said and they both laughed, finishing up their papers.
“Hey G, what day is it?” OA asked as he wrote his name at the top of his work.
“Uh, September 10th, I think,” G replied.
“Great, thanks.”