The Great Race to Sycamore Street. J. Samia Mair

       The new neighbors

      A FEW days had gone by. Hude had spent most of his time in his grandfather’s workshop in the basement with the surprise Grandma Hana had given him. It was his grandfather’s archery notebook.

      It was filled with all sorts of useful advice about how to shoot better. Hude realized that he had been making some mistakes. His grandfather had also written step-by-step instructions on how to build a superior bow and what arrows worked best in different conditions. Hude was more excited than ever about the archery competition.

      Amani spent all of her time inside. She wanted nothing more to do with the seventeen-year cicadas. She had finished the Tad Walker adventure in the Amazon and was now reading the next book in the series. This time Tad Walker was in a race against his arch-enemy, who wanted to destroy a priceless aboriginal totem pole. Just as she got to the part where the hero was jumping out of a plane into an uncharted jungle, Hude burst into the room where she was reading.

      “It’s safe to go outside now!” he exclaimed. “You won’t believe how cool it is out there.”

      Amani looked out of the window. Not a single cicada in the air. The invasion was over. It was safe to go outside. Safe, if you didn’t mind walking on a carpet of cicada carcasses. A neighbor’s orange tabby cat named Miss Ginger lay lazily on the front walkway, passing a dying cicada back and forth between her front paws. Hude was on the front lawn picking up dead bugs. He had almost filled an entire trash bag. He was enjoying himself so much that as soon as he finished Grandma Hana’s lawn, he picked up all of the cicadas on the new neighbors’ property. He then offered to help an older couple down the street clean their yard. Hude asked Amani if she wanted to help, but she declined. She was writing all about it in her journal.

      “I smell chocolate chip cookies!” Hude said excitedly when he returned about an hour later.

      He reached for a cookie on the kitchen table, but Amani pushed his hand away.

      “These are for the new neighbors,” Amani told him. “Ours are still baking in the oven.”

      “Does it make a difference? I mean, they’re all from the same dough, aren’t they? I can eat one of these cookies now and replace it with one of ours when they’re done.”

      Hude again reached for a cookie and again Amani pushed his hand away.

      “It does make a difference, Hude. I made sure that all of the cookies in this batch are the same size and perfectly round. I also put extra chocolate chips in them. We want to make a good first impression, don’t we?”

      “I guarantee you that the new neighbors will not know the difference,” Hude said.

      “But I will,” Amani said in a tone that meant she wasn’t going to budge.

      There were two things that his sister took seriously—writing and baking. When she had her mind made up about one of them, it was no use trying to persuade her otherwise.

      “Where’s Grandma?” Hude asked, changing the subject.

      “She’s in the garden. I’m sure she could use your help.”

      Hude quickly gulped down a glass of water before leaving through the kitchen door that led to the back patio.

      “Here, let me do that Grandma,” he said.

      Hude helped Grandma Hana move a large bag of mushroom manure across the lawn to her vegetable garden. He opened the bag and dumped it next to the pumpkin plants.

      A few minutes later Fenby Moore pulled up his old, long bed pickup truck in front of the new neighbors’ house. The truck was dark green with the words ‘Fenby Moore’s Landscaping and Yard Service’ painted in yellow on the side doors. Hanging from the rear-view mirror was a faded macramé bracelet that his only daughter had made him decades ago. Mr. Fenby was like his truck—dependable, straightforward, loyal and sentimental. He was dressed in a brown plaid button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up just above his elbows. His blue jeans were nearly white, worn in through years of wear. He wore a dark gray baseball cap with the name of a local hardware store stitched in black on the front. His work boots were old but comfortable. He wasn’t tall, but he was strong, especially for a man his age. His skin was tan, rough, and he had hard calluses on his palms. He didn’t speak a lot but always had a kind word to say.

      Fenby Moore grabbed some equipment from the bed of his truck. He pulled out a piece of paper from the pocket of his shirt and studied it for a while. He made some measurements and then started to put stakes in the ground around the perimeter of the neighbors’ property. As he approached the peach tree, he stopped. He then noticed Hana and her grandson in the garden. He walked over to say hello.

      “Could that be Hude? Last time I saw you, you were only this high,” he said, putting his hand out in the air about waist high.

      “It is indeed. I couldn’t believe it myself,” Grandma Hana said. “Wait until you see Amani. She looks just like Sarah.”

      At that precise moment Amani walked outside holding two plates of chocolate chip cookies.

      “Mr. Fenby, I didn’t know you were here!” Amani said.

      She quickly set the cookies on the patio table and ran over to see him. Mr. Fenby had always been one of her favorite people.

      “My, my, young lady. It’s true. You do look just like your mother.”

      Amani blushed at the comment. She thought her mother was beautiful.

      “Are your parents visiting too?” Mr. Fenby asked.

      “No, they stayed in Philadelphia. But they’ll be coming to pick us up in a couple of weeks, after the County Fair.”

      “You know I’m counting down the days to the Fair,” Mr. Fenby said. “I can’t wait to have some of your grandmother’s peach pie. The County Fair hasn’t been the same without it, the last two years.”

      “You mean my grandmother’s and my peach pie,” Amani said proudly. “We’re entering the contest together.”

      “Then, I bet it will be the best peach pie ever,” Mr. Fenby said.

      Amani smiled.

      “I see that the peaches are starting to break color, Hana. When do you expect to harvest?” Mr. Fenby asked.

      “God decides that,” Grandma Hana said, “but I’m guessing about a week, inshallah. Harvest is near. And this year Hude is entered in the archery competition. He has been studying Garrett’s old notes.”

      “The fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Mr. Fenby said. “Hude, you probably know this, but your grandfather was the state champion. He made us all proud. There hasn’t been an archer like your grandfather in Fairfax County since he competed. There is this thirteen-year-old boy, J.J. McPherson, who is showing some talent. The one to watch, though, is his younger brother Bobby. He’s about