1st 5 Pages February Workshop- Jreije

Name: George Jreije

Genre: Middle Grade Fantasy

Title: Jewels of the Nile

Bashir sprinted across the boardwalk alongside the Mediterranean coastline, three popsicles clutched tight between his fingers and dripping spots of orange, red, and blue across the scorched cement. Each step he took was like walking over hot coals. It had to be at least 95 degrees in Beirut today. Had Mama brought a few pieces of lahme, they could have cooked the meat into lamb kabobs right there on the ground.

“We’re here, Bashir!” Farrah gazed up from making kissy faces into her phone and waved him to the edge of the rocky coast beyond the sitting area. She and Ziad sat on the rocks along the clear waters, their legs submerged up to their knees.

Ziad dipped his buzzed hair into the water and pulled it back up. He shook his face and hair dry while his pale, heavyset figure and chubby cheeks shook with him. Farrah leaned away. Her long brown curls blew with the breeze and weeks under the sun gave her a golden tan, contrasting with the white bathing suit she wore. But her eyes soon fell away from Bashir’s face, down to the three treats in his hands.

Yalla! He needed to be quick across the last stretch of coast, speeding around occupied beach chairs and lounging families. Farrah was waiting, and she wouldn’t be impressed with a half-melted popsicle.

The Mediterranean’s salty, fresh scent carried him over to his two friends. He handed them each their popsicle and nudged a space for himself in between, their shoulders still slick from swimming. He eagerly stuck his feet in the water. Sweet relief.

While they all cooled down, Bashir brushed away a spat of black hair from his eyes, squinting from the too-bright sun. Augusts in Lebanon were the best for swimming, but miserable for just about everything else. Yet tonight was his last night in Lebanon’s capital and Bashir would trade anything to make it last forever. Tomorrow, it was back to America, to the frigid Boston winters. His friends were returning home, too. The day after Bashir’s flight, Ziad would be flying back to Michigan and Farrah to California, both too far away to sit side by side with, to listen to them complain about school and summer reading and all the other things Bashir couldn't hear his American friends talk about, because he had none. It was tough for a mute back home. Here, he could have a conversation spanning hours with just nods and smiles. The three of them simply understood each other.

“Sahtan,” said Ziad with a distinct lisp, raising his nearly-melted popsicle in a toast. “To surviving eighth grade. Next time we sit here, we’ll all be thirteen!”

Bashir and Farrah both raised their popsicles to toast. That’s when he noticed there was nothing but the stick left. He gazed down at lines of blue from his melted treat running down his bare chest. He gazed back up at Farra, fearing judgement, but she only grinned. She seemed to almost gaze through him and his insecurities.

“Uh-oh. Looks like someone needs a bath.” Ziad gripped Bashir’s thin arms. Before Bashir could do anything, Ziad shoved him into the water.

He didn't have time to curse Ziad as water cooled his face and head. He sunk deeper and deeper. The further down he went, the cooler the water. It relaxed his limbs and provided a welcome change from the heat. There was no need to resurface just yet, to get back to the real world. Up there, Bashir had to deal with bullies and schoolwork and all manners of wajbat―what his parents called responsibilities in Arabic.

So he swam deeper instead. Opening one eye, then two, sight settled in quickly. The depths were murky green amidst the sea plants. Fish darted by at frightening speeds, entire schools of them. No different than the girls back home, it seemed.

A gleam caught Bashir’s eye. He blinked and it was still there―an almost imperceptible shine, like a tear in the earth from which light emanated amidst the shades of red, brown, and green all blurring together underwater.

Commanding his burning lungs to hold firm, he swam towards that light. His heart began to thump faster. Seaweed brushed his chest and the fish became larger. He sank down further still, to where the sand and rock intertwined, where tiny critters crawled in and out of holes invisible to the eye. He reached along the rough sea bed. His palm ran alongside the smallest of crabs, then swept across more quickly as the need for air reached desperate levels. His fingers found a soft patch and dug in. Scooping weeds and pebbles, feeling something crawl along his knuckles and fell away, he retrieved the shiny mystery last of all.

Thoughts swimming, Bashir kicked off of the rocky sea floor and shot up towards the stronger gleam of the sun. That terribly warm ball in the sky welcomed him back as his head broke the surface and his mouth instinctively shot open. Bashir sucked in quick breaths, feeling his chest settle as he began to take in longer, soothing breaths of air. The popsicle stick floated right beside him.

“I didn't mean to push him, I swear!” Ziad’s lisp separated his voice from all the others, loud and worrisome. “He could be dead by now. I’m going in.”

Farrah shoved him away. “Are you crazy? Bashir is enough to handle on his own, I don’t want to rescue two idiots. I’ll jump in.” Bashir blinked the water out of his eyes, spotting Farrah toying with her earrings. “Hold these, you darn―

He’d just gained full vision, ready for Farrah come to his rescue when her neck tilted up and she spotted him. He quickly averted his gaze. Even if he wasn’t a mute, the sight of her would have been enough to render him speechless.

Farrah and Ziad waved him over and he swam toward them, now several feet off the coast. He was sure to keep his hand closed into a fist. The more he swam, the more sand filtered out his hand, so he squeezed harder, cautious not to drop his treasure. He held tight until, upon reaching his friends, he raised his arm and dropped a glittering golden ring onto the rocks between them. Neither made a word as Bashir hoisted himself out of the water, both curiously eyeing the ring.

“Where’d you find that?” Ziad’s eyebrows furrowed, his expression one of suspicion more than relief at Bashir’s return. “I push you into the water and you come back with a cool trinket. Not fair!”

“So you did push him, eh?” Farrah reached over and jabbed Ziad hard enough to elicit a yelp.

Bashir laughed but couldn't quite take his eyes off his prize. He claimed the piece of jewelry shamelessly, slipping it into his middle finger on the right hand. Holding it up to the sun, the shine intensified; he could feel his own smile growing. He’d gone with Baba to to Suh al-Dahab enough times to know that gold didn't rust, that it shined bright in natural light, and it was heavier than other precious metals. This was gold. And not just that, but there appeared to be three ridges along the top. Something looked to be missing from the ring, maybe a jewel or an ornament.

“This sun is roasting me like a chestnut,” groaned Farra. “And it’s getting way too crowded. Can we please get out of here?”

Ziad kicked his feet out of the water. “Ditto.”

They both looked to Bashir, who, gazing up from his ring, just shrugged. He got up with his two friends, still dripping wet. Thankfully, that helped in crossing the hot cement. They weaved around families playing with their young children and groups of old men stroking their chins over a game of backgammon. The steps carved into the ground had crumbled from decades of neglect, but the the local government had been hard at work rebuilding after all the tourists started coming.

Roads narrowed with modern luxury cars packing the sides. They contrasted against crumbling multi-story buildings, homes built during war time, back when Mama fled in secret to America with nothing to her name but the clothes she’d worn. The salt-water air eroded the paint, color faded like worn out sneakers. But by all that was holy, Bashir swore those faded buildings packed side by side were as beautiful as any urban neighborhood back home. Heck, this was home. The home of his ancestors, of Mama and her Mama and so on.

He walked behind Ziad and Farra, eyes shifting from one to the next as they carried on whatever they were arguing about this time. It was always something: which American city had the best hummus, who knew more Arabic words, and so on. Bashir hardly paid mind to their bickering. He never cared to talk anyways. Being mute seemed to fit his introverted personality.