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Mama!” I yell. “Hakeem messed up my room again!”

I look around my room, which is a blur through my angry tears. Before Hakeem came home with us a month ago, it was perfect. The walls were painted exactly like I wanted: pink and gold. Now there are ugly marker scribbles everywhere that won’t wash off. Baba promised to paint over them more than a week ago, but he still hasn’t done it.

Mama rushes in.

“It’s not so bad,” she sighs as she surveys my books dumped out of the bookshelves and all my LEGO creations smashed into pieces.

“It’s not your room,” I sniffle. “Why can’t I get a lock on my door?”

“We are not going to lock your brother out of any part of the house, Aleena. He has to learn.”

He has to learn. Hakeem gets a pass on everything because he’s 4 and doesn’t understand English, or because he’s never seen books or LEGOs before. Sometimes it feels like he hasn’t learned anything since we brought him to Virginia from the orphanage in Morocco.

Before I can stop them, images of the orphanage fill my mind. I picture Hakeem’s cot, and I start to feel guilty . . . until I spot the slime.

“Aaaaah!” I wail. “Look!”

Right in front of my closet, all my plastic bags of colorful slime are open and have oozed onto my cream-colored carpet.

“Oh,” Mama says, frowning. “This is bad.”

“I know!” I start to cry again. “This was my best batch of slime. I used all my glitter in it!”

“You can always make more slime. This carpet is another story. Did you have to dye this stuff pink and orange?”

“All you care about is the carpet—and his feelings,” I mutter.

It’s the same way with my dad and my older brother, Bilal. They always take Hakeem’s side. It’s not fair, because it’s always my stuff he messes up, not theirs.

Hakeem sticks his head inside the door, smiles his most charming smile, and points at me. That’s usually enough to make me smile back and forgive him. But not today.

“Get out !” I slam the door.

Whenever I complain about Hakeem ruining my life, my parents like to remind me of the day I said yes to adopting him. But what did I know? I wasn’t even 11 years old yet.

As we pull up to the soccer field, Bilal comes running to the minivan in his training jersey.

“Can I take Hakeem to meet the team?” he asks.

“Now? I need to get back by six for a call,” Mama says. “And Hakeem didn’t take a nap today. He’s really tired.”

Mama yawns as she says the last words, and I can tell she’s tired too. The rest of us get a break during the day, but Mama works from home. I overheard her last week complaining to Baba that she can’t get anything done and needs time to herself.

“I’ll be quick. Come on, Hakeem, the guys want to meet you.”

“Guys,” Hakeem repeats. He’s turned into a parrot the past few days, repeating everything we say. It’s cute, but I’m still mad about the slime incident.

“Yes, we’re going to see the guys. Come on, Aleena.”

I scramble out of the car behind them. Bilal’s team is always psyched to see me, especially if I’m in my soccer uniform. I love it when they call me Little A and let me kick the ball around with them.

“There he is!” Bilal’s best friend, David, is beaming as we approach. “Hey, big guy. You know how to kick a ball?”

“Ball!” Hakeem says, and David and the rest of the team laugh.

The next thing I know, Hakeem is running all over the field and the whole team is cheering for him. I stand on the sideline, feeling invisible. After a couple of minutes, I walk back to the car.

“What are they doing?” Mama asks.

“Playing soccer,” I grumble.

“I have to get home. Can you please go get them?”

I’m deciding whether to protest when I see Bilal and David walking to the parking lot. David is carrying Hakeem.

“Hi, Mrs. Siddiqui,” David says. “Hey, Little A! Next time we need you to play too, OK?”

I nod as Hakeem says, “Little A!”

“Let’s go home,” Mama says.

“Home?” Hakeem asks, turning to me. I’m the one he always turns to when he doesn’t understand something.

“I’ll show you what it is when we get there,” I promise with a sigh.

As we pull into the driveway, I motion toward the house. “Home, Hakeem,” I say. “This is home.”

At bedtime, I hear Hakeem and Mama in his room. For the past week, before getting tucked in, Hakeem has been pointing at his wall with the airplane decals, his bucket of cars, and his other things, saying “thank you” to each of them. Tonight, I hear him pause and then add, “Thank you, home.”

Can you make sure he doesn’t bother us?”

I’ve planned out every detail of my art-themed 12th birthday party. With eight girls coming over, the last thing I want is for Hakeem to get in the way.

“Yes.” Mama exhales slowly. “I’ll keep him inside.”

As everyone starts to arrive, Hakeem is surprisingly calm. Maybe he’s acting shy because there are so many girls, but he stands behind Mama and peeks out at them.

“He’s so cute,” Priscilla says with a little wave. “Hi, Hakeem!”

“Don’t talk to him,” I warn. “He’ll want all your attention, and you’ll have to high-five him 50 times. Let’s go to the backyard.”

We start with a sand art project. I carefully fill a bottle with layers of different-colored sand and top it with a cork.

“Are you girls thirsty?” Mama comes outside carrying a pitcher of pink lemonade and some cups.

We take a break and sit in the grass under the tree. We’re sipping our drinks and talking when I hear Hakeem’s voice.

“Leeeeeena! Play?”

I turn around and see Hakeem beckoning me from behind Izzy.

“You’re supposed to be inside,” I say. “Go back.”

Hakeem shakes his head and waves his fingers at me like he’s casting a spell. That’s when I notice that they are covered with sand. Multicolored sand.

“Mama!” I yell as I run to the sand art station. Sure enough, it is destroyed. Hakeem dumped out every one of the little bottles into an empty flowerpot.

“What did you do?” I cry as my friends catch up to me.

“What a monster!” Priscilla declares. “You were right!”

“You ruined all our work!” Keisha accuses Hakeem, and I see him shrink from the harshness of her words. Part of me is glad. He deserves it.

Mama and Baba come running.

“I thought he was with Bilal!” Mama says.

I stare angrily at Hakeem.

“Leena . . . ,” he starts to say. But then his face crumples, and he runs to Mama and hides. I’ve seen him cry only twice before—when he said goodbye to the kids at the orphanage and one night at home when he first arrived.

“I’m sorry, hon,” Mama says to me. “Don’t let this ruin the party, OK? Hakeem, you come with me, mister.”

Hakeem follows my parents into the house. There are tears on his face and sand all over his shoes.

“I’m so glad I don’t have a little brother,” Izzy declares.

“But I wanted one so much,” I remember.

“Yeah, until he trashed your room,” Carmen adds. “I would be so mad.”

I don’t even remember telling my friends about that. Baba finally painted over Hakeem’s scribbles on the walls, and a steam cleaning made the carpet stain a lot lighter. It finally feels like my room again.

“No wonder you don’t want us to come over here most of the time.” Keisha sighs. “I don’t blame you.”

I know my friends are trying to make me feel better, but it isn’t working. Instead, their words swirl inside me and make me feel emptier than the bottles without any sand left in them.

“No. You shouldn’t say those things,” I finally respond. “Hakeem’s learning. He just wanted to play with the sand. We can put it back in the bottles even if it’s mixed up, maybe add glitter or beads.”

I look at my friends and wait for their reactions.

“OK.” Keisha shrugs.

“He is cute,” Priscilla concedes.

Mama brings out cupcakes arranged in a tower. Each one has a candle on it. Baba and Bilal trail behind her.

“Ready to sing?” Mama asks cheerfully.

I glance around and see Hakeem standing alone inside, his face pressed against the glass of the sliding door.

“Hold on.”

I walk to the door and open it. Hakeem grabs my hand and practically dances outside.

“Now I’m ready,” I say.

Everyone sings to me, including Hakeem, although he’s making up his own words. Hakeem’s birthday is next month. I decide that he needs to practice before he turns 5, so after I blow out my candles, I ask Baba to light them again.

Hakeem is so excited that he almost touches a candle. He sticks his finger in a cupcake, licks off the icing, and spits while he blows. We all cheer for him, and he beams and gives everyone high fives.

I suddenly remember my birthday wish from last year, back when we were talking about Hakeem becoming part of our family. It came true.

Hakeem is home—and I’m the one who got to teach him what that
means.