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is my favorite part of Eid, even though we have to dress up.There will be gifts of money for my sister and brother, my cousin, and me. We’ll drink lassi , made of sweet yogurt, and eat until our stomachs won’t hold another bite. Then we’ll have dessert.
    But today I have already had my favorite part of Eid—Skyping with Baba.

 Five
    A s soon as I walk into the gym with Jalaal, anyone can see I’m different from the other kids at baseball camp. I’m the only one with a black eye.
    Kids stand in clumps around signs with words I have never seen before, like Dylan’s Dugout Crew and Hank’s Home Run Champs. I swallow.
    Jalaal scans the gym. “Your group is here somewhere.” He takes off his cap. I take mine off, too. I look around but have no idea which group is mine. Jalaal is one of the high school camp trainers, but not for my group. I wish he could be my camp trainer in case I have any questions. Maybe someone in my group will speak Urdu. If not, I will try my best in English, but I don’t know very many baseball words. Thanks to Jalaal, I do know glove , catcher , and pitch , and that is better than nothing.
    â€œThere’s your coach,” Jalaal says, flipping his cap back onto his head. “I’ll introduce you.”
    I flip my own cap back on and follow Jalaal over to a sign with more new words: Matt’s Mad Dog Mavericks. I smile, because even though I don’t know all these words, I do know what a mad dog is. Then I stop smiling, because what do mad dogs have to do with baseball? Maybe the mad dog is our mascot. But dogs are dirty creatures that run in the streets. Who would want a dog for a mascot?
    Jalaal calls, “Hey!” to a man with short hair the color of strong tea.They do a very complicated handshake, ending with a sort of hug and a fist-thump on each other’s back. I hope the coach doesn’t greet me that way, because I’ll never remember the hand motions. Luckily, he just sticks out his hand and says, “I’m Coach Matt. How’re you doing, big guy?”
    This is the second nickname someone has given me here in America. I wonder if I’m supposed to give people nicknames, too.
    I shift my baseball bag to my other shoulder and shake Coach Matt’s hand. “Hello, sir. My name is Bilal.”
    Coach Matt smiles. I can tell he is older than Jalaal, because he really needs to shave. Or maybe he is trying to grow a beard. But he isn’t old like my parents. He turns his baseball cap around backward. “Welcome to camp, Bilal.”
    â€œThank you, sir.”
    He gives my shoulder a side punch, and I take a small step sideways. Not because it was a hard punch, but because I wasn’t expecting it.
    â€œYou can call me Coach Matt.”
    â€œOkay, Coach Matt, sir.”
    Jalaal bends down and whispers in Urdu, “He means you can drop the ‘sir.’ Just ‘Coach Matt,’ or ‘Coach,’ is fine.”
    I feel my ears go hot. It’s one thing to know words in English, but another thing to know which words to use when and which words to leave out.
    Jalaal pats my shoulder and announces, “Well, I’m off.” He nods toward the opposite side of the gym before walking away. “See you later, little buddy,” he calls over his shoulder.
    â€œGood-bye, big buddy.”
    I want to run after him, but I know I can’t. Instead I take a breath and turn to join my group.
    The Matt’s Mad Dog Mavericks sign is surrounded by boys my age, all except for a tall boy with yellow curls sticking out from under his cap. This boy is big like Jalaal and throws his head back when he laughs at something one of the other boys says. He reaches over and punches a kid on the shoulder like Coach Matt did to me. The boy grins and punches him back. Obviously, shoulder punching is an American sign of friendship.
    When Coach Matt calls, “Hey, Kyle!” the yellow-haired boy