The Halimi Sisters

Chapter 2; Sneaky Sisters

 "What could possibly be better than attending boarding school?" Khadija grumbles.

" Yeah, and you're just a 4-year-old Malak, what do YOU know about New York's economy?" Marwa snickers.

"Well, for your infowmation, speaking 2 languages before kindergarten is pretty smart to me," Malak argues.

I groan, it's clear that even if the world blew up, my sisters would still have something to argue over.

"OK guys, be quiet, Malak, what's your plan?" I say.

" We can ask a family to take us in for adoption!" Malak says.

"Yeah right, like an American couple in NY would want to adopt 6 Arab girls who haven't had a proper shower since last month," Jannat says.

"Plus we're hustlers, we don't need a mom and dad to feed us," Khadija adds.

"Ok this isn't Tarzan, we'll find something to do, plus I have a better plan, and it actually involves a change," I say.

I planned to get a driver's permit the minute after my 16th birthday (which was in a week), rent a car, and flee the state so that we could live in a cheaper and warmer area, such as Florida or something.

"That's not gonna work," Jannat says.

"How do you know?" Khadija responds "You're only 12."

"Khadija, you literally just turned 13 four months ago."

"Yeah, but you should still respect your elders."

Oh my god. I think I might actually sell one of these girls to an American couple.

All 6 of us think about potential ways to make money. Malak and Hawa just tap their index finger against their chin like cartoon characters, while making exaggerated "Hmmmmms" every 2 minutes.

"I wanna go back home," Hawa adds

"We're only 5 minutes away from the metro station," Malak says.

"No, I meant Casablanca, I'm tired of these smelly white people," Hawa complains in Arabic.

Just to let you know, most of these girls talk in Arabic. I'm just translating for the humorous effect.

Speaking of translating... I have an idea.

"Girls, go to the Metro, Khadija and Jannat, you're in charge. I found a way to make money quickly, but it'll take an hour or 2." I exclaim, but I already know that at least one of them is going to be crying when I come back.

I forgot we had cousins here! They're all the way in Brooklyn, but I could bike in about half an hour. I grab an abandoned city bike on the side of the street, and pull out my phone. My cracked-up phone isn't the best, but I'm going to have to make it to Brooklyn somehow. I bike and bike and bike, I turn left onto Newbury Street, turn right, and go around the roundabout. Most of these words seem new to me, but I don't mind. After about 1 hour and 30 mins, I made it! I don't remember my aunt's address, but I remembered the iconic blue house that she posted on her Facebook.

I planned to get Auntie Hajar to raise us, and since she's super rich I could get into a good college and become a hospital translator/interpreter.

Knock knock

"Who are you?" A little Moroccan boy, no older than 3, with a perfect American accent, responds. I know exactly who he is. Two years ago, when Aunt Hajar and Uncle Rachid came over, they had just come with their 3-year-old daughter Sara, and baby son, Adam.

"I'm your older cousin, Lina," I responded. "Is this Hajar Halimi's house?"

"Yes... MOMMY!!! OUR COUSINS HERE!" Adam screams. Aunt Hajar appears from the kitchen, looking exhausted.

"Are you sure Habibi?" Aunt Hajar looked up in disbelief.

"Oh My God Lina!" Auntie said in Arabic, "I've missed you so much! Where's your father? Where are the girls? Come inside, Come inside!"

I slowly step into the fresh-smelling house, and I pull off my worn-out shoes onto the mat.