Rebels by Accident by Patricia Dunn Page A

has wheels.” In one easy motion, she pulls the handle up and it’s ready to roll. Of course.
    I grab one of Deanna’s suitcases, and together, the three of us yalla .
    â€¢ • •
    When we exit the airport, the sun is so bright Deanna pulls a pair of sunglasses from her backpack. Sittu pulls a pair from her handbag. With their sunglasses on, they look like they’re related and I’m the friend.
    â€œYou didn’t bring glasses to protect your eyes?” Sittu again shakes her head at me. I’m starting to feel like I have a bobblehead doll for a grandmother.
    â€œI forgot them.” I squint at the men calling us to their cabs. Sittu waves them off.
    â€œWell, try not to squint. You’ll make wrinkles.”
    â€œHey, I got it!” Deanna shouts. Several people walking toward the cabs stop and look at us. Sittu and I turn to Deanna. “With your beauty the world needs no flowers,” she says.
    Sittu lets go of my suitcase and kisses Deanna on the forehead. “Deanna, you are Egyptian!” Deanna must be beaming inside.
    Maybe Egypt won’t be so bad for Deanna after all.
    I’m another story.
    â€œThere’s our driver,” Sittu says, walking toward a man about Baba’s age wearing a blue polo shirt and beige khaki pants.
    Without a word, he takes a couple of our suitcases and slides them into his trunk.
    â€œ Shukran ,” I say, thrilled I said thank you in Arabic so naturally.
    â€œ Afwan ,” he replies. That’s how you say “you’re welcome.” I have to remember that.
    â€œThis is Salam,” Sittu says.
    â€œYour name means peace ,” I say.
    Sittu peers at me over her sunglasses. “Very good.”
    I feel like I just answered the $100,000 question on Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader?
    â€œWelcome to Misr,” Salam says in an accent a lot heavier than Sittu’s. He starts loading the rest of our bags into the trunk.
    â€œMisr?” Deanna looks at me.
    â€œThat’s the real name for Egypt,” I explain.
    Sittu nods.
    â€œWhy don’t we say Misr too?”
    â€œToo hard to pronounce, I guess.”
    â€œMisr,” Deanna says. “That’s not so hard.”
    â€œAmericans can be lazy.” Sittu lifts her cheeks like she’s trying to smile, but she looks more like she’s snarling at me.
    Is she calling me lazy? I want to tell her Americans work all the time, but I don’t want to be rude.
    Salam holds the passenger door of the backseat open for us. Sittu insists Deanna and I each take a window seat while she sits in the middle. I feel around for my seat belt, but there doesn’t seem to be one.
    â€œAre you missing something?” Salam asks.
    â€œNo, nothing,” I say.
    Salam closes the door. He walks around to the driver’s side and gets in. He takes a drag off a cigarette burning in an ashtray on the dashboard.
    â€œSalam,” Sittu says, pointing at the ashtray.
    â€œSorry,” he says in English, and flicks his cigarette out the window.
    â€œI don’t mind if he smokes,” I say.
    â€œI do,” Sittu says.
    And we’re off.
    I start to rub my arms. It’s colder than I ever imagined it would be. Baba said January is one of the cold months in Egypt, but I thought he meant sweater-weather cold. This feels like winter-jacket cold.
    â€œSalam.” Sittu taps the back of his seat. “Please put on some heat.”
    â€œMadam?” He looks at us through his rearview mirror.
    â€œMy granddaughter seems to be cold.”
    â€œI’m fine.” I stop rubbing my arms. I don’t want to cause trouble. Salam turns on the air, and it smells like something died.
    â€œAwful, Salam.” Sittu holds her nose. “Just awful.”
    â€œExcuse me, Salam”—Deanna leans into the front seat—“but do you have the vent open or closed?”
    Salam plays with a button on his climate control