How to Make S'mores

“It’s almost time for our big adventure!” Ms. Wehrle drops a yellow paper on my desk.

I must be hearing wrong when she says our class is taking a three-day trip to “study science and nature, and things you can’t learn in a classroom.”

Three days? I took trips at the Lahore Grammar School in Pakistan—my school until we moved to America this summer. But we visited places for a couple of hours. We didn’t sleep there.

When I show my parents the yellow paper, they don’t like the idea either. Abbu shakes his head. “I won’t send my daughter into the jungle with strangers!”

Ammi agrees with Abbu, and I sigh with relief. It’s bad enough being stuck in middle school every day. It’s taken me a month to stop getting lost in the giant building. I’m finally beginning to understand how things work in America (HERE) compared to Pakistan (THERE).

THERE everyone wore neat uniforms. HERE kids wear whatever they want—even pants with holes in them.

THERE my school was all girls. HERE half the students are boys.

THERE I had one class in English, and the rest in Urdu. HERE I think, write, and speak in English all day and go to a special English learning class, called ESL.

THERE I had my best friend, Deena. HERE I have nobody to talk to, share secrets with, or trade lunches with.

A week later, Ms. Wehrle calls me to her desk. “Raniya, I don’t have your permission slip for Outdoor Ed.”

“Yes, ma—” I stop in time before saying “madam,” like I called my teachers THERE. It slipped out of my mouth during the first week and everyone giggled. “I’m not going.”

“Why not?” Ms. Wehrle frowns.

“My parents said I can’t go,” I say.

“Oh. If it’s a matter of the cost, I’m sure—”

“No, thank you,” I interrupt. My face grows warm, and I look up to see if anyone is listening. THERE Abbu had a job at an office where he wore fancy suits and shiny shoes. HERE he goes to work in jeans and sneakers at a shop. But Abbu says we still have plenty of money.

“Well then, may I ask why?”

“Oh, um, I don’t know,” I mumble. A boy named Tony with dark hair is definitely listening from his desk.

“Would it be OK if I called your parents to discuss?” Ms. Wehrle asks.

“Yes. May I go back to my seat?”

“Of course.” Ms. Wehrle frowns again. 

As I walk past, Tony shrugs at me.

By the time I get off the bus and walk home, everything has changed.

“Your teacher called,” my father says. “She told me about the learning that happens at Outdoor Ed that can’t happen in a classroom. She said it’s safe, and she will sleep in the same cabin as you—all girls. 

I told her thank you very much and gave my permission.”

HERE I watch TV shows where kids roll their eyes at their parents and say things like “But, Dad,” stretching out their words so it sounds like “Daaa-ad.”

“Yes, Abbu” is all I say, although my heart is racing. At bedtime, I confess to my mother that I’m scared.

“You will be fine, meri jaan.” Ammi always calls me her “heart.” “Your teacher said it is most kids’ favorite part of the year.”

“It won’t be for me.”

“You always enjoy school trips.” Ammi brushes my hair out of my face.

“That was THERE. Please don’t make me go.”

“You will be fine.” Ammi smiles. But I see the worry in her eyes.

A few days later, I’m sitting on the bus with my Outdoor Ed group, called the Frogs. I’m gripping my lunch as I sit by the window, alone. Everyone talks in excited voices about what we’re going to do at this place called Skycroft.

The bus pulls away from school, and Ammi shrinks into the distance. Just before she disappears from view, she wipes her eyes.

As my chest tightens, I’m grateful she didn’t cry in front of me. I would have crumbled into pieces, and Ms. Wehrle would have had to sweep me off the sidewalk. Ammi never cries. Even when we waved goodbye to our cousins and left our happy life THERE in Pakistan to board a plane HERE to Maryland three months ago, she forced a smile at me.

I take a breath and wipe my eyes. I sink into my seat and wait for the hour-long ride to end.

I wake up when the bus stops. I look down and something is missing. My lunch bag! I turn around and see Tony, in the seat behind me, holding my lunch and grinning.

My heart sinks into my stomach. I’ve seen bullies on TV, stealing lunches and shoving kids into lockers. I don’t know what to do, so I turn back around and say nothing.

“Don’t you want this?” Tony asks, touching my arm. “I mean, what’s left?” he adds. “I tried half your sandwich. Was that spicy mayo?”

I can’t help turning around and staring at him. He really ate my lunch?

“Just kidding. Here. It fell on the floor while you were snoring.” He holds out the bag.

“Did I snore?” My face grows warm.

“Kidding. It’s so loud on this bus I wouldn’t know if you were.”

I don’t have an answer, so I grab my lunch bag and turn around.

We file off the bus, and it’s much colder than it was at home. Trees are everywhere. As we start our hour-long hike, I look at the ground, trying to keep mud from getting on my white tennis shoes. A pair of red sneakers is staying near mine. It’s Tony.

“I was in ESL for a while too,” he volunteers. “I’m from El Salvador. Where are you from?”

“Pakistan.” I say it the way we do THERE, “pok-iss-TAHN,” and I can tell he doesn’t understand.

“PAK-iz-stan,” I offer again, and now Tony nods.

“Well, see you later.” Tony catches up to another boy, who has blond hair. I glance around me. A girl from my math class is looking at me, a little smile on her lips. Her name is Eva. I keep walking.

Later, in the dining hall, I sit on a bench while Ms. Wehrle explains the rest of the day. Everyone groans when she says there’s another hike and cheers about something called s’mores. S’mores?

Tony catches my eye from another bench as I bite into my sandwich. I can’t help smiling and hold out half in his direction. He smiles back, shakes his head, and takes a bite of his own.

I’m assigned to the Laurel Cabin, and my group heads along a path to a box-shaped building. Inside are bunk beds, and everyone rushes to grab one. I start to worry that I’ll be sharing with Ms. Wehrle when I spot Eva alone next to a set of beds. 

“Can I share with you?” I ask.

“Sure. But can you take the top? I’m afraid of heights,” she says.

“OK.”

“You’re new, right?” Eva continues. “I moved here from France in the middle of fifth grade. We lived there for three years because my dad’s in the Navy. We move around a lot.”

“Oh.” That’s why Eva doesn’t sound French. She speaks just like the other kids.

“You’re lucky you started here in sixth grade.”

“Lucky?”

“The end of fifth grade had parties and a ceremony with a slideshow. I wasn’t in any of the pictures, and I didn’t know anyone.”

“I don’t know anyone,” I say.

“Yeah, but four elementary schools feed into our middle school. So everyone doesn’t know some people.”

I don’t see how that is the same as not having any friends, but I don’t say so. Instead, I ask: “What are s’mores?” 

Eva smiles mysteriously. “Oh, you’ll see.”

I learn what s’mores are after we eat cheeseburgers and fries for dinner. We go outside to a big fire and put big fluffy squares called marshmallows on long sticks to cook. They catch fire and we blow them out, and they turn black on the outside and gooey on the inside. Then we make a sandwich with them on sweet crackers and chocolate.

Eva is sitting next to me and also talking to another girl named Laurie. Tony and his blond friend come over to us with a huge stack of s’mores.

“We’re making a s’mores tower—the biggest ever!” Tony says.

“That’s not very big.” Eva looks unconvinced.

“That’s why we need yours,” Tony says.

Eva starts to hand him the squares she just finished assembling. Midway, she stops and shoves them in her mouth. She laughs as the marshmallow oozes through the sides.

We all tear into the s’mores tower, making it topple over and catching the pieces before they fall to the ground. My fingers are covered in melted chocolate and sticky marshmallow goo, but it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted in America.