Habibi by Naomi Shihab Nye

with a red camel on the package and saffron, that spice that costs a lot of money in American grocery stores, very cheaply. You can also buy vials of holy oil and fancy jars of water from the River Jordan (stamped: For External Use Only, so you don’t get carried away and drink it) that has a Certificate of Authenticity in Arabic, German, and English on the side of the box. It also says the Bishop of Jerusalem of the Arab Episcopal Church authorizes it. Liyana thought you were supposed to dab it on your temples if you were having an extremely hard day.
    You can buy sweets and treats, gooey, sticky, honey-dipped, date-stuffed fabulous Arabic desserts on giant round silver trays. Some have layers of sweetened, toasted shredded wheat. Some are packed with white cheese or walnuts or pistachio nuts. The bakery shops have little low stools and low tables out in front of them. Liyana liked
katayef
best—a small, folded-over pancake stuffed with cinnamon and nuts and soaked in syrup. She took home three half-moons of
katayef
in a white cardboard box.
    If you asked the price of anything, the shop-keeper would say,
“Foryou….”
and pretend he was giving you a great deal, but you knew he would say that for anybody.

D ISPLAY
    Is the whole world really looking?
    Liyana combed her long wet hair out on the open front balcony of their house where the breeze smelled sweet as olive oil. Up the road, white sheets ballooned like parachutes from neighbors’ rooftop clotheslines. She wondered if Jackson had kissed another girl in the same movie theater by now. She tried to remember the way his crisp shirt collar stood up against his neck. She wondered if Claire had a new best friend. Her recent letter, on a blue air-letter sheet, didn’t say so. Far off, Liyana could see a girl with red hair running at the refugee camp, carrying something large in her arms. Was it Nadine? Then Poppy called her back inside.
    “Please,” he said urgently. “Don’t be so public about it. You’re making a
display
. Comb your hair in the bathroom. Comb it in your own bedroom! Don’t do it out there where all the taxis and shepherds can see you.”
    Sometimes he sounded as if she were breaking his heart.
    Liyana’s father still talked about shepherds as if they were everywhere. Now and then an ancient shepherd in a dusty brown cloak would pass Sitti’s house up in the village, tapping a wooden cane against the stones. He didn’t even turn his head to notice Liyana and Rafik staring at him from the doorway. All he cared about were his goats and sheep with painted red or blue bottoms so he could find them if they got mixed up with other animals. Maybe his own dusty memories followed him up the path.
    But Poppy acted as if their modern apartment on the Ramallah road was still surrounded by shepherds. Poppy saw what
used
to be there.
    Maybe, Liyana thought, he’s afraid a shepherd will fall in love with me and come ask for my hand. I will never
ever
give my hand away. Even the phrase disgusted her.
    Sometimes she heard her father say, “We are
Americans,”
to his relatives—when she walked the village streets alone just for exercise, pretending she was giving Jackson a tour, or when she flipped the round dial on Sitti’s radio, or when she slouched in the corner of Sitti’s room with a book in front of her face.
    Americans?
    Even Poppy, who was always an Arab before?
    Of course there was never any question abouttheir mother being an American, but Rafik and Liyana walked a blurry line.
    Liyana tipped from one side to the other.
    The minute Poppy told her to stop combing her hair on the balcony, she toppled onto the American side, thinking,
If I were at home on a beach I could run up and down the sand with just a bathing suit on and no one would even notice me. I could wear my short shorts that I didn’t bring and hold a boy’s hand in the street without causing an earthquake. I could comb my wet hair in public for a hundred dumb years.

L IT UP
    She