Page 9 of Ember Rising

The baladi fried in butter and rolled in sugar and cinnamon that he sneaks me before my evening archery practice is our little secret. My mother would be cross if she found out, but Sayed’s job is safe because my father is very fond of him. Not only is he warm and kind, but he’s uniquely qualified to work in our bicultural household. He started his career in Cairo, then once he’d established several successful restaurants, he studied under a chef in New York for almost a decade.

Not only can Sayed perfectly prepare the traditional Egyptian dishes my mother insists on, but he also knows exactly how to season and sear the filet mignon my father loves. My mother wouldn’t admit it, but she’s quite proud of the reputation Sayed’s American food has garnered among the many people who attend dinners and parties at our home. People specifically ask if his garlic mashed potatoes and chocolate cheesecake will be on our menus.

I lean back against the counter, savoring the warm, sweet baladi.

“You should get to the range,” Sayed says softly. “Your mother will have your head.”

I ignore him because my mother’s entire life purpose is nagging me. Well, a solid ninety percent, anyway.

“Have you seen my father?”

“I thought I heard his voice in the kitchen earlier.”

I finish the bread and rub my fingers together to brush away the sugar, then walk over to the walk-in cooler, open it and step inside.

The wire shelves are neatly lined with ingredients, a picture-perfect three-layer cake with strawberry frosting sitting on one. Sayed must have made my father’s favorite cake for dessert at his first dinner at home after a nine-day business trip.

I grab one of the stainless water bottles Sayed left lined up on a shelf beside the door. When I walk out of the cooler, my mother is standing in the doorway, holding the door open with her back. Sayed is pretending to be immersed in his vegetable prep, not even looking in our direction.

“Mira, why aren’t you at the range? Sebastian is waiting.”

“I was getting water.” I hold the bottle up as I approach her, shaking it.

“There’s water in the kitchen refrigerator.”

“I know, but the walk-in cooler gets it colder.”

We’ve had this back-and-forth many times, but neither of us ever budges.

“You can either ...” She stops midsentence, sniffing and then furrowing her brow. “Is that sugar I smell?”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. She looks like a tiny, forty-five-year-old Egyptian woman, but she’s actually a vigilant drill sergeant. I hardly ever step out of line, but when I do, she catches me almost every single time.

“I made a cake with strawberry frosting, ma’am,” Sayed says, saving me. “It has quite a lot of sugar.”

She flicks her gaze to him, and then back to me. “This is more of a cinnamon sugar smell.”

I swear she’s part bloodhound.

“I need to get to my lesson,” I say. “Are you joining us?”

Even though she rarely shoots with me anymore, my foundation of archery experience comes from her. She won two silver medals and one bronze competing in archery in the Olympics for Egypt, and she taught me how to hold a bow before I learned how to hold a pencil.

“I’ll observe,” she says.

“Okay, let’s not keep Sebastian waiting.”

She flashes a one-second glare, but then gestures for me to walk through the door.

If not for my father’s insistence that I get the best education instead of trying to make the US Olympic team as soon as I can, my mother would be running me ragged at our home’s archery range seven days a week.

He lets my mother make nearly all of the household decisions, but he was firm when they decided to have a child that I would be born in the US and become an American citizen, and that I’d get a well-rounded education and choose my own professional path when I turn eighteen.

That’s three years away, and I plan to move to San Diego then, where I’ll train every day and try to make the US Olympic team. I love archery, and though my mother doesn’t often tell me she loves me and is proud of me, I see the slight upward tilt of her chin when she’s telling someone about my archery skills.

She wouldn’t push you so hard if she didn’t know you’re capable.

That’s what my father always says. He tells me I’ll be grateful one day that my mother made sure every door is open to me. She serves on the board of an organization that lobbies for women’s rights internationally, and I know she believes everything she does and says is an example to me.