Chapter 1

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For every child who has ever stood on a doorstep, holding a small gift in shaking hands, hoping the door will open.

And for every child behind the door, hoping the same thing.

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The moving van was yellow.

That was the first thing Jalil noticed, because yellow was his favorite color and because the van was so enormous it blocked the whole view of Mrs. Parson's rose bushes across the street. The second thing he noticed was that it was Saturday morning, which meant he was supposed to be helping Baba fold laundry, but laundry could wait. Laundry always waited. A yellow moving van on Maple Street did not wait.

"Baba!" Jalil shouted, pressing his nose against the kitchen window. "Somebody is moving into the empty house!"

Baba came to the window, still holding one of Layli's tiny pink socks. He smelled like cardamom and the little paper bag of pistachios he kept on top of the fridge. Layli, who was fifteen months old, was already crawling toward the window in her pajamas, making her squeak-squeak sounds that meant she wanted to see too.

"Ah," said Baba. "So they have arrived."

"You knew?" Jalil said, spinning around.

"Your mother mentioned it. A family from far away. They have come a long way to get here." Baba smiled, but it was his careful smile, the one he used when he was trying to say two things at once. "Perhaps you and your friends can give them a proper welcome later. But not this minute, Jalil-jaan. This minute we are folding laundry."

Jalil folded laundry in record time. He folded Baba's shirts in lumpy squares. He folded Mama's scarves in fluffy triangles. He folded his own pajamas in something that was more of a ball than a fold, and Baba raised one eyebrow but did not say anything, because Baba was a kind man who knew when a seven-year-old had important things to do.

The minute the last sock was in the basket, Jalil was out the door.

Maple Street curved in a gentle horseshoe, with seven houses on each side. Jalil's house was in the middle of the curve, painted blue, with a little pomegranate tree in front that had not yet grown any pomegranates but Baba said it would one day. Two doors down lived Mei and her family. Across the street and a little down lived Amaya and her moms. At the very top of the horseshoe lived Diego and his abuela. And at the end of the cul-de-sac, past all the houses, stood the tree.

The tree was a big old oak with a scar on its trunk shaped like the letter D, which Diego claimed was for Diego, and Amaya claimed was for Dinosaur, and Mei claimed was just a scar. The four of them met at the tree most days after school, and on Saturdays, and on any other day when the universe seemed to call for meeting.

Today, Jalil thought, was very definitely that kind of day.

He ran down the sidewalk, sneakers slapping, and did not stop until he reached the tree. Mei was already there. She was always already there. Mei moved quietly, like a cat, and appeared places without anybody seeing her arrive. She was sitting on the lowest branch with her sketchbook open on her knees, drawing a bird that Jalil could not see.

"Did you see?" Jalil gasped. "The van!"

"I saw," said Mei. She did not look up from her drawing. "Amaya climbed up on her roof to see better. Her mom made her come down."

"Diego?"

"Getting his abuela's banana bread. He says we should bring them banana bread."

"Of course he does," said Jalil, grinning. Diego's abuela's banana bread was the best banana bread in the state of New Jersey, possibly the world, and Diego offered it up for every occasion, from birthdays to lost teeth to the first snow. "Did you see them? The family?"

Mei's pencil paused. She tipped her head the way she did when she was thinking, her black hair sliding over her shoulder. "I saw a little boy. Maybe three years old. He was crying in his mama's arms. And I saw a girl, maybe our age. She was holding onto her mother's skirt like this." Mei made a tight fist in the air. "Like she didn't want to let go."

"Oh," said Jalil. He thought about Layli, how tightly she grabbed his finger when she was tired. "Was she scared?"

"I think so," said Mei. "Her eyes were big. Like she was watching for something bad to happen."

Before Jalil could answer, Amaya came barreling down the sidewalk like a small brown comet, ponytail flying. Amaya never walked when she could run and never ran when she could sprint. She was the smallest of the four, but she made up for it with sheer speed.

"GUYS!" she shouted from three houses away. "GUYS! I KNOW THEIR NAMES!"

"Inside voice," Mei said automatically.

"We're outside."

"Outside voice, then, but quieter."

Amaya skidded to a halt at the tree, panting. "Their name is Abdullah. My mama-J went over to say hi. The mom's name is Mrs. Abdullah, and the girl is Noor, and the little boy is Sami. They came from Syria. Mama-J said they had to leave because of a war."

Jalil's stomach went cold and quiet. He had heard about wars on the news and from grown-ups talking in low voices in the kitchen, but he had never thought about a war being the reason a family ended up on his street.

"A war?" he said.

"Mama-J says they're safe now," Amaya said, nodding seriously. "She says we should be extra extra nice."

"We are already nice," said Mei.

"Extra extra, though."

"Okay," said Mei. "Extra extra."

Diego arrived last, walking fast but with his hands carefully cupped around a foil-wrapped loaf that steamed faintly in the cool morning air. Diego walked like he was carrying something important even when he wasn't, which was one of the things that made him Diego. He was the tallest of the four, with curly dark hair that refused to be combed and eyes that were almost always serious.

"Banana bread," he announced, holding it up. "Abuela says we can take it to them. But she says we should wait until tomorrow. She says people who just moved are tired and they don't want visitors bringing things. They want to put their couches in the right places."

"That's a very long wait," said Amaya, frowning.

"It's one day," said Diego.

"In kid time, that's a week."

"Abuela is never wrong about these things," Diego said firmly. He set the banana bread on the roots of the tree, and the four of them sat around it in a loose circle, looking at it like it was a campfire.

"Okay," said Jalil. "Tomorrow, then. But we need a plan."

"What kind of plan?" said Mei.

"A welcome plan," said Jalil. "A big one. The biggest one. Because this family came from far away, and they are tired, and the little girl is scared, and we have to make her not scared anymore."

Mei's pencil began to move again, sketching something at the corner of her page. "A welcome wagon," she said.

"A what?"

"My grandma used to talk about it," Mei said. "In the olden days, when a new family moved to a neighborhood, the other neighbors would bring a little wagon full of gifts to their door. A welcome wagon."

"We have a wagon!" Amaya shouted, forgetting the outside voice rule. "Mama-M bought me one for my birthday, the red one with the wheels that squeak!"

"Of course the wheels squeak," Diego muttered, but he was smiling.

Jalil leaned forward. The idea was already flowering inside him, big and bright. "Okay. Okay. A welcome wagon. We each bring something. Tomorrow. We pull it to their door. We leave it for them."

"I'll bring the banana bread," said Diego.

"I'll draw something," said Mei.

"I'll bring Pearl!" Amaya said.

"You cannot bring a cat," said Mei, alarmed, because Pearl was her calico cat and Pearl did not like wagons or new people or any changes whatsoever.

"Okay, not Pearl, but something."

"I'll bring some of my mama's Persian cookies," Jalil said. "The ones with the rose water."

They shook on it, all four hands stacked together on top of the banana bread loaf, which was not a very stable base but none of them minded. Overhead, the oak tree rustled in the spring wind, and somewhere across the street, the yellow moving van made a loud banging sound as the movers slammed its big back door shut.

That night, Jalil could not sleep.

He lay on his back and looked at the ceiling, which had glow-in-the-dark stars that Baba had stuck up there when he was four. Some of the stars had begun to peel, and one had fallen down onto his pillow last month, which was sad because he liked knowing they were there.

Jalil thought about the little girl named Noor who had held onto her mother's skirt with a tight fist. He thought about what it might feel like to leave a place because of a war. He wondered what Noor's bedroom had looked like, before. He wondered if she had glow-in-the-dark stars.

At breakfast, Mama made scrambled eggs with herbs and poured orange juice into the blue glasses. Layli banged her spoon on her high chair in a way that meant she was saying good morning to everyone she could see.

"Mama," said Jalil. "What does Noor mean?"

"Noor?" Mama paused, the spatula in her hand. "Noor means light. In Arabic. Also in Persian. It is a very beautiful name."

"Light," Jalil said softly. "Like a lamp?"

"Like a lamp, or a candle, or the sun. Any kind of light."

Jalil thought about that. A girl named Light, who had come from a place where bad things had happened. That seemed right, somehow, and also backwards. It seemed like the universe was being mysterious again, the way grown-ups said it was.

"We're going to welcome them today," he said. "Me and Mei and Amaya and Diego. We're making a welcome wagon."

Mama smiled. It was her good smile, the one with both of her eyes. "That is a lovely idea, Jalil. Would you like to bring some of our rose cookies? I can put a few on a little plate."

"Yes please. And Mama?"

"Yes, joonam?"

"Can you say a prayer for them? For Noor's family? The kind of prayer you say when somebody needs help feeling better."

Mama looked at him for a long moment. Then she sat down on the kitchen chair beside him and put her hand on the top of his head, gently, like she was smoothing down a flower. "Of course I will, sweet boy. And you can say one too."

"I don't know the right one."

"Any prayer from your heart is the right prayer."

When he opened his eyes, Layli had dumped her sippy cup all over the floor, and the moment of prayer was over, but Jalil still felt warm in his chest, the way prayers sometimes made him feel.

Out at the tree, everyone was ready. Amaya had dragged her red wagon up from her driveway, the squeaky wheels making a noise like a very sad duck. Diego carried the banana bread, wrapped in foil and then in a little tea towel with blue birds on it. Mei carried her sketchbook. And Jalil carried a small plate of rose cookies, each one a perfect round with a little dent in the middle.

"Do we knock?" Amaya asked.

"No," said Diego. "Abuela says when you welcome someone, you leave things, you don't bother them. You leave it and you run away."

"That sounds like a prank," Amaya said doubtfully.

"It's not a prank, it's a gift. A gift you leave is the best kind of gift, because the person isn't surprised by you, just by the gift."

"That's beautiful, Diego," said Mei solemnly.

"Abuela's words."

"She's so wise."

"I know."

They loaded the wagon carefully. The banana bread went in the middle, since it was the biggest. The cookies went beside it, on their plate. Mei opened her sketchbook and tore out a page that she had drawn on that morning — a picture of four kids and a big oak tree, with the words WELCOME TO MAPLE STREET written at the top in her best, biggest letters. Amaya put in a purple daisy she had picked from her garden, and also a pencil with stars on it, which was her favorite pencil, which was a big sacrifice.

"What if she doesn't like pencils?" Amaya said, suddenly worried.

"Everybody likes pencils," Mei said.

"What if she doesn't?"

"Then her little brother will."

"Oh yeah. Okay."

The wagon, once loaded, looked like something from a very small parade. They started down the sidewalk, with Amaya pulling and Diego steadying the load and Jalil walking in front to call out obstacles like cracks and pinecones and Mrs. Parson's sprinkler. Mei walked quietly behind with her sketchbook pressed to her chest.

The Abdullahs' house was a small white house with a porch that had not been painted in a long time. The moving van was gone now. In its place, there were three big brown boxes on the porch, still unopened. Someone had put a mat by the door that said WELCOME, which felt both funny and sad to Jalil at the same time — as if the house were welcoming them back, instead of the other way around.

The four kids stopped at the end of the walkway. Their wagon squeaked its last, dramatic squeak.

"Okay," Jalil whispered. "Who carries it up?"

"All of us," said Diego. "Group effort."

They lifted the gifts together, very carefully, and walked up the path in a tight clump. Then they set everything down on the mat by the door, arranging it like a small, strange picnic. The banana bread in the middle. The cookies beside it. Mei's drawing, propped against the banana bread. The purple daisy on top.

For a moment, nobody moved. They just stood there, looking at what they had made.

"Should we knock?" Amaya whispered.

"No," said Diego. "Leave and run. Abuela's rule."

"But how will she know it's from us?"

"Okay," Amaya breathed. "That's perfect."

They crept back down the walkway. At the bottom, they turned and looked one more time at the door.

And that was when the curtain in the front window moved.

Just a tiny bit. Just a flicker. A small face appeared for half a second — dark eyes, dark hair pulled back, a serious mouth — and then the curtain dropped again.

"That was her," Mei breathed. "That was Noor."

"She saw us!" Amaya said.

"Shhh," said Diego. "Come on. We leave."

They walked back down Maple Street in a slow, careful line, pulling the empty wagon behind them. Nobody said anything for a long time. In Jalil's chest, the warm prayer feeling was still there, a little stronger now.

Behind them, they did not see the front door open just a crack. They did not see a small hand reach out and pull the plate of rose cookies inside. They did not see the curtain move one more time, as a small girl looked out at the backs of four children walking away.

But something had begun.

Tommy Brennan lived in the red brick house at the bottom of the hill, the one with the basketball hoop that had lost its net. He was eight years old, the same age as Diego, but he was not part of the four. He had never been part of the four.

On Monday morning, the kids walked to school together, because school was only four blocks away and Maple Street kids mostly walked. Diego led the way, because Diego always led the way. Amaya skipped beside him. Mei and Jalil came behind, Mei counting the cracks in the sidewalk under her breath.

When they reached the corner of Maple and Oak, Tommy was waiting, bouncing a basketball so hard it left small dark circles on the sidewalk.

"Heard you went to the new girl's house," he said, without looking up.

"Her name is Noor," said Diego.

"Noor-noor-noor," Tommy said in a sing-song. "What kind of name is Noor?"

"It means light," said Jalil, before he could stop himself.

"It means weird," said Tommy. "It means she doesn't belong here. My dad says we don't need any more of them. He says they should go back where they came from."

There was a short, terrible silence. Diego's face went red in the cheeks and pale around the mouth.

"That's a mean thing to say," he said, his voice low.

"It's a true thing," Tommy said.

"It's not true."

"It is. My dad says."

"Your dad is wrong."

Tommy stopped bouncing the ball. "My dad is NOT wrong," he shouted, loud enough that Mrs. Parson looked out her window. "You don't know anything. You're just a kid. You're all just stupid little kids."

He grabbed the ball and ran, tearing down the sidewalk toward the school, his sneakers slapping hard against the pavement. The four of them stood on the corner, watching him go.

"I hate him," Amaya said, her voice shaking.

"No, you don't," said Mei quietly.

"I do. I really do."

"Hating him just makes another hater," Mei said. "Then there's two."

Jalil thought about that all the way to school. He did not understand how Mei, who was seven, sometimes said things that sounded like they came from a very old grandmother. But he was glad she had said it, because it was stuck in his head now like a song, and he thought he would not be able to hate Tommy today even if he tried.

Which was good, because he was going to need not to hate Tommy tomorrow. And the day after. And maybe for a long time.

After school on Tuesday, they met at the tree again.

Mei had been drawing all day. At recess, she had sat in her corner of the blacktop and drawn. At lunch, she had pulled her sketchbook out of her backpack and drawn between bites of sandwich. Now, at the tree, she showed the others what she had made.

It was a picture of Noor.

Welcome, friend. From Mei.

"Oh," said Jalil. "Oh, Mei."

"Is it good?" Mei said. She always asked this, and the answer was always yes, but she never believed it the first time.

"It's the best thing you have ever drawn," said Diego.

"It's so pretty," said Amaya. "I want to keep it."

"We can't keep it," Mei said. "It's for her."

They decided they would take it over right after dinner. Jalil's mama said she would put some more rose cookies on a paper plate, and Diego's abuela said she would send over a little jar of her honey. "For a new house," she told Diego in Spanish, touching his cheek. "La miel es buena para empezar. Honey is good for beginning."

They set off at dusk, when the sky was turning the color of a peach. The wagon squeaked. Mei's picture, rolled carefully into a tube and tied with string, sat on top of the honey jar like a treasure.

This time, they did not walk all the way to the door.

They did not walk all the way to the door because Tommy was there.

He was on the sidewalk in front of the Abdullahs' house, and he was doing something with his hands. It took Jalil a second to understand what it was, because it did not seem like something a boy would actually do.

Tommy was tearing up a piece of paper.

A piece of paper with drawings on it. A piece of paper with stars around the edges. A piece of paper that —

"That's my picture," Mei whispered. "That's the one I left on Sunday."

They had left the first drawing in the wagon, the simple one with the four kids and the tree. Noor or her mother must have put it back outside, maybe to take the wagon back, maybe because they did not know whose it was. And Tommy had found it.

He was tearing it into small, careful pieces.

And now he looked up, and saw them, and smiled.

"Oh," he said, loud enough for them to hear. "You made this? It's so ugly. Look what I'm doing to it." He held up a torn piece and dropped it into the grass. "I'm helping them. Nobody wants your dumb picture."

Diego made a sound in his throat that was almost a growl. He started forward. Mei caught his arm.

"Don't," she said.

"He is tearing up your —"

"I know."

"Mei, he is —"

"I KNOW." Mei's voice was not loud, but it was fierce. "Diego. Please. Please don't."

Diego stopped. But his hands were in fists at his sides, and his jaw was tight.

Tommy laughed. He laughed like they were the funniest thing he had ever seen — four kids with a red wagon, standing frozen on the sidewalk, unable to make him stop. Then he jogged away, past them, past the tree, back down the hill toward his house.

Behind him, the torn pieces of Mei's first picture lay scattered on the grass.

Mei put the rolled-up second picture back in the wagon. She did not say anything. Her chin was up, but her eyes were shiny, and Jalil could see that she was trying very, very hard not to cry.

"Mei," Amaya said, her own voice breaking, "I'll go punch him. I'll do it. I don't care. I'll go right now."

"No," said Mei.

"But —"

"We're not going to punch anyone."

"Then what are we going to do?"

Mei took a long breath. She looked at the scattered pieces of her picture on the grass. She looked up at the Abdullahs' house, where all the curtains were now closed.

"We're going to go get my sketchbook," she said. "And we're going to fix this picture. And we're going to make five more. And then we're going to figure out what to do about Tommy."

Diego looked at her like he had never seen her before.

"That's the longest thing you have ever said," he told her.

"It was kind of important," said Mei.

They pulled the wagon home slowly. Jalil bent down and picked up the pieces of the torn picture on his way, tucking them carefully into his pocket. He did not know why. But it felt like a thing that should not be left on the grass.

"Consultation," said Jalil's mama the next evening, "is what people do when they do not know what to do."

They were all sitting around the low table in Jalil's living room. The table was round, because Baba said round tables made everyone equal, and on it was a plate of dates and almonds and a small pitcher of tea. Layli was in her playpen, chewing on a stuffed elephant and babbling at it cheerfully.

Jalil had told Mama everything. About the wagon. About Noor's curtain. About Tommy and the torn picture. Mama had listened with her whole face, the way she always did, not interrupting. Then she had put the kettle on and called the other three kids over, and Mei's mom and Amaya's mama-J and Diego's abuela had all said yes, because this was how Maple Street worked.

Now the four of them sat in a row on the rug, and Mama sat on the couch with her legs tucked under her, and Baba sat in the big green chair holding a cup of tea he was not really drinking.

"What does consultation mean?" Amaya asked.

"It means talking together. Really talking. Listening and talking and trying to find the best thing to do, all together, as a group."

"Like a meeting?" said Diego.

"A little bit. But in a meeting, people usually want to win. In a consultation, nobody wants to win. Everybody just wants to find the truth."

"How do you find it?" said Jalil.

Mama smiled. "Slowly. And together. Everyone says what they think. Then everyone listens. Nobody is in charge. The idea belongs to everyone, once it is spoken."

"Even if the idea is bad?" said Amaya.

"Even then. Sometimes a not-so-good idea, once you look at it, shows you where the good idea is hiding."

The four kids looked at each other. Diego had his arms crossed. Mei had her sketchbook open to a blank page. Amaya was sitting cross-legged and leaning forward like a small tiger about to pounce. Jalil had a pillow on his lap.

"Okay," said Diego. "Who goes first?"

"Anyone," said Mama.

"I'll go," said Amaya. "I think we should find Tommy and tell him he is a big jerk."

"Amaya," said Mei.

"I'm just saying what I think. Like you said."

"That's fair," Mama said. "Go on."

"Okay. He tore up the picture. He said mean things. He deserves to be yelled at. I think we should yell at him until he is sorry."

"And if he is not sorry after you yell?" said Baba, quietly.

"Then we yell more."

"And if that does not work?"

"Then …" Amaya frowned. She chewed on her lip. "I don't know."

"Okay. That is a good answer. Keep going."

"I'll go next," said Diego. He uncrossed his arms. "I think we should tell a grown-up. His dad. Or the teacher. Or somebody. Somebody should make him stop."

"Grown-ups can help sometimes," Mama said. "But a grown-up cannot always make a heart change. A heart has to change because of another heart, most of the time."

"What about Mei's idea?" said Jalil.

"I didn't say my idea yet," said Mei.

"I know, but you always have one."

Mei looked at her sketchbook. She drew a little spiral in the corner, very lightly, like she was thinking with her pencil. "I think … I think Tommy is sad about something. I don't know what. But when he laughed today, his face did not look happy. His face looked like …" She searched for the word. "Like when Pearl hisses because she is scared. She pretends to be big, but she is scared. Tommy was hissing."

Nobody said anything for a little while.

"So what do we do with a hissing cat?" Baba asked.

"You don't chase her," Mei said. "And you don't grab her. You sit down near her and you wait. You bring a little something. Not too much. And you wait."

"Mei," Diego said, shaking his head, "you are very weird."

"I know."

"It is a good weird, though."

"Thank you."

Jalil hugged the pillow to his chest. His heart was doing something strange — it felt both hot and soft at the same time. "I think Mei is right," he said. "I think maybe Tommy is sad about something. But I also think we can't just be his friends for no reason. He hurt Mei. He hurt Noor. We have to say something to him."

"So you say both," said Mama.

"Both?"

"Yes. You go to him. You tell him that what he did hurt. You do not pretend. But you also go with a soft heart. Not to make him pay. To help him come out of the hissing place."

"That sounds hard," said Diego.

"It is hard," Mama said. "It is the hardest thing I know how to do. Even grown-ups are not very good at it. But it is also the only thing that actually works, in the end."

She stood up and went to the kitchen and came back with a plate of her rose cookies. She set them on the round table.

"Eat," she said. "Consultation is hungry work.“The Bahá’í community had never in its history experienced such a degree of collaboration with the rest of society and of commonality in goals and views in the path of service.”Every person you meet,“Often the aim may simply be to engage in an exchange of views so as to help clarify a certain matter and bring about unity of vision.”is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Even the mean ones. Especially the mean ones. 'Abdu'l-Bahá said something like that, a long time ago. Something about how we must see every person as a treasure that God has put in the world, and it is our job to help the treasure shine."

"Even Tommy?" Diego said.

"Especially Tommy."

Diego went first.

They all agreed he should, because Diego was the oldest, and because Diego was the most sensible, and because Diego could make his voice sound calm even when he was not calm inside.

Wednesday at recess, Diego walked across the blacktop to where Tommy was playing four-square by himself. Tommy was throwing the ball against the wall harder than was necessary, so that it came back like a small angry planet.

"Tommy," Diego said.

"What?"

"Can I talk to you?"

"No."

"Just for a minute."

"I said no." Tommy threw the ball again.

Diego took a breath. He had practiced this speech in his bedroom, in the mirror, with Abuela listening from the doorway and nodding. He had planned every word. But now, with Tommy right in front of him, the words felt hard in his throat.

"You tore up Mei's picture," he said.

"So?"

"It was mean."

"So?"

"So you should say sorry."

Tommy turned around. His face was red. "I don't have to say sorry for anything. I didn't do anything. It was just a dumb paper."

"It was not dumb. Mei made it."

"She's weird. She doesn't even talk."

"She talks. She talks to us."

"Yeah, well, nobody cares."

Diego felt the anger rising in him, up his neck, into his face. He had promised himself he would not get angry. He had promised. He had promised.

"You are a BULLY," he said, and his voice cracked on the second word. "You are a mean, stupid bully, and everybody knows it, and nobody likes you, and my abuela says —"

"I don't CARE what your abuela says!" Tommy shouted. He threw the ball, hard, so that it skidded across the blacktop. "I don't care what any of you say. Go away. Go play with your dumb friends. Nobody asked you to come over here."

Diego stood there for another second, his mouth open. Then he turned and walked back across the blacktop. His legs felt wobbly. His face felt hot.

When he got back to the others, Mei took one look at him and said, "It didn't go well."

"It did not go well," Diego said.

"I'm sorry," Mei said.

"I called him a bully."

"That is what he is."

"Yes. But I was supposed to not call him that."

They sat against the fence. Amaya patted Diego on the knee, very seriously. "It is okay," she said. "I will try next."

"You?" said Diego. "Amaya, you are six."

"And?"

"And he is eight."

"And?"

"He will not listen to a six-year-old."

"Actually," said Mei thoughtfully, "he might."

Amaya was not afraid of many things.

She was not afraid of the deep end of the pool. She was not afraid of the tall slide. She was not afraid of spiders, which Jalil was definitely afraid of, or of thunderstorms, which Mei was a little afraid of. Amaya had climbed her roof twice, both times without permission, and both times had been found sitting with her chin in her hands looking out over Maple Street as if she owned it.

But on Thursday after school, walking up to Tommy Brennan on the blacktop, Amaya's stomach was a small, twisty thing.

She did not show it. Amaya never showed things.

Tommy was on the swings today, swinging too high, leaning back so his hair almost touched the ground.

"Tommy," Amaya said.

"Go away."

"Tommy. I have a question."

"GO AWAY."

Amaya sat down in the grass next to the swings and waited. She did not say anything. She just waited.

Tommy swung for a minute. Then two. Then he jumped off, landing hard, and stomped over.

"What," he said.

Amaya looked up at him. She thought very carefully about what she wanted to say. She remembered what Mei had said about a hissing cat. She remembered what Jalil's mama had said about treasure.

"When did someone be mean to you?" she said.

Tommy's face did a strange thing. It froze, and then it twisted, and then it tried very hard to not twist, and then it did anyway.

"Nobody is mean to me," he said.

"Somebody was," said Amaya. "Because when you're mean, you look like somebody who already had mean done to you. Mama-J told me that once. When I pushed Kyle on the playground. She said hurt people hurt people."

"Your mom is dumb."

"My mom is super smart. She is a doctor. Don't call her dumb."

"Whatever."

Tommy started to turn away. Amaya scrambled up and walked after him, not close, just close enough.

"Tommy. Really. When? Who was mean to you?"

"Nobody."

"Tommy."

"NOBODY. I said nobody. Leave me alone."

But his voice had changed. It had gone thin and small, like a voice that was sharing a wall with crying. Amaya knew that voice. She had heard it in her own mouth, sometimes, in the middle of the night when she missed her grandmother in Japan, who she had only met twice.

"Okay," she said gently. "I'll leave you alone. But Tommy?"

"WHAT."

"We're doing another welcome wagon on Saturday. For Noor. She's really sad. She came from very far. She misses her old house. I bet you know what that feels like."

Tommy stopped walking.

He stood very still, with his back to her, and he did not turn around, and he did not speak.

"We could use your help. You could come. If you want."

Still he did not turn around.

Amaya nodded to his back, even though he could not see it, and she walked away, back across the blacktop, and she did not look behind her. Because Mei had said you don't chase a hissing cat. You put down the little thing. And you walk away. And you wait.

Later, at the tree, when Amaya told them what had happened, Diego said, "He is not going to come."

"Maybe not," said Amaya.

"Definitely not."

"Maybe not. But I put down the little thing."

Saturday morning came gray and cool, with a sky the color of Mei's pencil lead. The four kids met at the tree at ten, like they had agreed. They had the wagon. They had another plate of rose cookies. They had a new picture from Mei — the fixed one, the one with five stars in the corner instead of four, which Jalil had not asked about but had noticed. They had a jar of Abuela's honey and a small packet of Amaya's favorite seeds, which were sunflower seeds because Amaya had decided Noor's family might want to grow a sunflower.

And they had been waiting, all week, for one more thing.

At ten past ten, Tommy Brennan came around the corner.

He was walking slowly, with his hands jammed deep in his pockets. He was wearing a shirt that was a little too big. He did not look at any of them.

"Hi," said Amaya.

"Hey," said Tommy.

Nobody spoke for a long moment. Then Diego cleared his throat.

"You came," he said.

"Yeah, well," Tommy said. He shrugged. "I didn't have anything else to do."

"Right," said Diego. "Of course."

"Don't make it weird."

"I'm not making it weird."

"You are MAKING IT WEIRD."

"Okay, okay."

Mei, very quietly, stepped forward with her sketchbook. She opened it to a page she had drawn yesterday. She held it out.

It was a picture of Tommy.

Not a mean Tommy. Not a scary Tommy. Just Tommy, on a swing, with his hair blowing back and a small, surprised smile on his face, the kind of smile Mei thought he might have if somebody gave him something unexpected.

"I drew this for you," she said.

Tommy looked at it for a long time. His ears turned red.

"It's not very good," he said.

"It is, actually," said Amaya.

"Whatever. Yeah. Okay. Thanks." He took the picture. He folded it, very carefully, and put it in his back pocket. He did not tear it up.

Diego looked at Mei. Mei looked back. Something passed between them that was not quite a smile, but was close.

"So," Tommy said. "What are we doing?"

"Welcoming Noor," said Jalil.

"Okay."

"And Sami. Her little brother."

"Okay."

"And her mom."

"Okay, I GET IT."

"Right. Sorry. I just —"

"Let's go, Jalil."

They loaded the wagon one more time. The cookies. The honey. The sunflower seeds. The picture of Noor that Mei had drawn. And on top, carefully, another picture Mei had finished that morning — a picture of Noor's new house, with people standing outside it, all holding hands. There were five kids in the picture. Five, not four.

Tommy saw the picture. He did not say anything. But he blinked a few times, and his mouth twisted, and then he took the wagon handle from Amaya and said, "I'll pull it."

"Okay," said Amaya.

They walked in a loose clump down the sidewalk. Mrs. Parson was out in her garden and waved at them. A robin was yelling at another robin in an elm tree. Somewhere, somebody was mowing a lawn, and the grassy smell of it drifted over the street.

At the Abdullahs' house, they stopped.

"So what do I do?" Tommy whispered.

"You go first," said Jalil.

"Me?"

"Yes."

"But I don't —"

"You know," Jalil said. "You know what it feels like. To be new."

Tommy swallowed. He looked at the house. He looked at the door. His knuckles on the wagon handle were white.

"Okay," he said.

He walked up the path. He did not run. He did not drop the wagon and flee. He walked, slowly, pulling the squeaky red wagon behind him, all the way to the steps of the porch.

And then he did something nobody had told him to do.

He knocked.

Jalil gasped. Diego opened his mouth to say no, we agreed no knocking. But Mei put a hand on his arm. "Let him," she said. "Let him do it."

The door did not open right away.

For a long moment, the four kids on the sidewalk stood frozen, watching Tommy at the door. Tommy with his shoulders up by his ears. Tommy with one hand still raised, as if he were thinking about knocking again and then deciding not to.

Then, very slowly, the door opened.

A woman stood there. She was small, and her hair was covered in a soft blue scarf, and her face had kind eyes and a tired mouth. Behind her, half-hiding behind her skirt, was a little girl with dark hair and dark eyes and the most serious mouth Jalil had ever seen.

Tommy made a sound. It was not quite a word.

"Hi," he said, finally. "Hi. Um. I'm Tommy. I live down the street. We — these kids — we are — we are welcoming you."

Mrs. Abdullah looked past him, at the four kids on the sidewalk, at the wagon, at the cookies and honey and seeds and pictures. Her eyes crinkled. It was a small crinkle, but it was there.

"Welcoming," she said carefully. She had an accent that made the word longer and softer. "Yes. Thank you. We see your — the gifts you leave. Yes. Thank you."

"I'm Amaya!" Amaya shouted from the sidewalk, and then, "Sorry. Inside voice."

"You are outside," said Mei.

"Outside voice, but quieter."

Mrs. Abdullah laughed. It was a startled, small laugh, but a real one. She looked down at the wagon and then at her daughter behind her.

"Noor," she said softly. "Noor, ta'ali. Come."

The little girl did not come.

"Noor."

Still she did not come.

Mrs. Abdullah knelt down and spoke to her daughter in Arabic. She spoke for a long time, softly, her hand on Noor's cheek. Noor's eyes were very wide. They darted from Tommy to the wagon to the four kids on the sidewalk.

Tommy cleared his throat.

"Hey, Noor," he said. His voice was different. It was smaller. It was the voice, Jalil realized, that Tommy probably used when nobody was listening. "I, um. I moved here two years ago. And nobody — nobody did this for me. Nobody brought me a wagon. I used to sit in my room and cry about it, kind of. For, like, a long time. I was mad about it. I was really, really mad. And then —" He stopped. He swallowed. "And then I was mean to you. Which was dumb. Which was really dumb. I'm sorry."

He was looking at Noor, who did not understand most of the words. But she was looking at him. Really looking. With her dark, serious eyes.

"I brought you cookies," he said. "I mean, they brought the cookies. But I want you to have them. Because you're new. And new is hard."

He held out the plate.

Noor looked up at her mother. Her mother nodded, once.

And then Noor, very slowly, stepped out from behind her mother's skirt, and stepped onto the porch, and held out her hand for the plate of cookies.

Her fingers were small and cool. They brushed Tommy's.

"Shukran," she whispered. "Thank."

"You're welcome," Tommy whispered back.

On the sidewalk, Amaya made a sound like a sob and a laugh at the same time. Diego put his arm around her. Mei was drawing, her pencil moving very quickly in her sketchbook, trying to catch it all before it disappeared.

Jalil just stood there. In his chest, the warm prayer feeling was so big it almost hurt.

It was Sami who broke everything open.

Sami was three. Sami did not know about being shy. Sami saw five new kids on his porch and squealed with delight and toddled out between his mother's legs and attached himself to Amaya's knee like a very small, very enthusiastic barnacle.

"Oh!" said Amaya, laughing. "Oh, hi, you little —"

"Up!" said Sami. "Up!"

"He wants you to pick him up," said Mrs. Abdullah.

Amaya picked him up. He was heavier than she expected, and he immediately grabbed her nose.

"He's GRABBING my NOSE!"

"Yes, he does this."

"It's okay, I like it."

Everybody laughed, even Mrs. Abdullah, even — and this was the most amazing thing — even Noor. Just a small laugh. A small, surprised laugh. Like a laugh that had been hiding for a long time and had just remembered how to come out.

"Come to my house," Jalil said. "Please. All of you. My mama makes tea. And there are more cookies. And my baby sister is there, and she is very fun if you are three years old."

Mrs. Abdullah looked at him. She looked at Noor.

"Is — it is okay?" she asked. "We just come?"

"Yes," Jalil said. "It is exactly okay. It is the most okay thing."

So they all walked back down Maple Street. Tommy pulled the wagon. Amaya carried Sami, who was now pulling her hair. Mei walked beside Noor, not talking, just walking quietly next to her, so Noor would not feel alone. Diego and Jalil walked in front, leading the way.

At Jalil's house, his mama opened the door before they even knocked, because Jalil's mama always knew. She welcomed Mrs. Abdullah in Arabic, and Mrs. Abdullah's face did something like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

"You speak —"

"A little," Jalil's mama said. "A very little. My husband speaks some. And we have — we have cookies. Please. Please come."

They sat on Jalil's porch, because the sun had come out and it was warm now. Baba brought out tea in little glass cups. Mama brought the cookies. Layli sat on a blanket on the floor with Sami, and the two of them banged on a plastic bowl together in a way that was probably music if you were under the age of four.

Noor sat very quietly in a chair by the railing. She had not spoken again. She just watched, with her serious eyes.

And then Pearl came.

Nobody had invited Pearl. Pearl did not usually accept invitations anyway. Pearl was Mei's calico cat, who normally slept on Mei's bed and hated other people and did not go outside. But today, for some mysterious cat reason, Pearl had apparently decided to follow Mei down the street and up onto Jalil's porch, and now she was winding around Noor's ankles, purring like a small tractor.

Noor froze. Her eyes went very wide.

"It's okay," Mei said softly. "She likes you. She doesn't like most people. But she likes you."

Noor, very carefully, reached down. Pearl sniffed her hand. Pearl butted her head against Noor's palm. Pearl, to everyone's astonishment, jumped up into Noor's lap.

Noor made a small sound. It was a happy sound. The first happy sound any of them had heard from her.

She put her small hand on Pearl's back. Pearl purred louder. Noor laughed — a real laugh, a whole laugh, not a small surprised one — and looked up at the six kids around her on the porch, five now with Tommy, and her face was full of something that had not been there before.

"Cat," she said. "Cat is — good."

"Pearl," said Mei.

"Pearl," Noor repeated.

"Yes."

"Pearl is — my friend?"

"Yes."

Noor looked around. At Amaya, now playing pat-a-cake with Sami. At Diego, who was pouring tea for Mrs. Abdullah as carefully as if she were a queen. At Jalil, who was grinning so wide his face was probably going to hurt. At Tommy, who was sitting on the top step with his chin in his hands, looking like a kid who had found something he had lost a long time ago.

"Friend," Noor said again. This time not as a question. This time as a whole sentence. A whole, complete, seven-word sentence in one small word.

"Friend."

That night, Mei sat on her bed with her sketchbook and her best pen. She opened to a new page.

She drew a porch. She drew a chair by the railing, with a girl sitting in it and a calico cat on her lap. She drew five kids around the chair — one with a too-big shirt sitting on the steps, one with Sami on her hip, one pouring tea very carefully, one with a wide grin, and herself in the corner, watching.

At the top of the page, she wrote the word VIRTUES.

Jalil — he kept hoping even when Noor did not come out.

Amaya — she was brave when it was hard, which is real bravery.

Diego — he tried even when he got angry, and trying is the thing.

Me — I did not stop drawing.

Tommy — he came. He knocked. He said sorry.

Noor — she opened the door.

She closed the notebook. She set it on her nightstand. Pearl, who had come back sometime after dark, was curled at the foot of her bed like a small, complicated puzzle of orange and black and white.

Mei turned out the light.

Outside, Maple Street was quiet. The streetlights hummed. In the Abdullahs' new house, a light was still on in the kitchen, where Mrs. Abdullah was unpacking a box of dishes. Upstairs, Noor was asleep, and under her pillow was a picture of herself holding a flower, drawn by a girl she had known for less than a week but who already felt like a friend.

Down the street, in the red brick house, Tommy Brennan lay on his bed with a folded picture in his hand. It was a picture of a boy on a swing, with a surprised smile, drawn by a quiet girl in green pencil. He had unfolded it, and folded it, and unfolded it, and was now just holding it, very still, in the dark.

At the end of the cul-de-sac, the oak tree rustled in the night wind. It had stood on Maple Street for a hundred and twenty years. It had seen many welcomes. It did not mind seeing another.

Sunday afternoon, the Abdullahs came to Jalil's house for the Feast.

That is what Jalil's family called it — just "the Feast." It happened every nineteen days, and friends were always welcome, even ones who had only lived on the street for one week. Mama made rice with saffron and little bits of barberry that looked like rubies. Baba made kebabs on the grill. There were prayers at the beginning — short ones, for children — and the grown-ups sat in the living room and talked about the neighborhood, and the kids sat out on the porch and talked about everything and nothing.

Noor sat in the same chair by the railing, with Pearl on her lap again. Sami was on the floor with Layli, the two of them making a tower of blocks that Sami kept knocking over on purpose.

Tommy was there too. He had come with a plate of cookies his mother had made — store-bought cookies, with a small apology written on a napkin that said FROM TOMMY'S HOUSE. His hair was combed. He had tried, Jalil thought, and that was what mattered.

"Noor," said Mei, on the porch, holding her sketchbook. "Can I draw you?"

Noor tilted her head.

"Draw?" she said. "Draw — me?"

"Yes."

"Yes," said Noor. "Okay. Yes."

Mei drew. She drew Noor with Pearl in her lap. She drew her with her hair loose and a small smile. She drew her looking not terrified, not shy, not sad. Just a girl on a porch on a sunny Sunday.

When she was done, she tore out the page and handed it over. Noor held it in both hands.

"For me?" she said.

"For you."

Noor looked up. Her eyes were very bright.

"I draw too," she said. "At home. I have paper. I can draw."

"We should draw together," said Mei.

"Yes," said Noor. "Together. Friend."

"Friend," said Mei.

"Friend," said Jalil, who was listening from the step.

"Friend," said Amaya, who was listening from the other step.

"Friend," said Diego, who was listening from the railing.

"Friend," said Tommy, quietly, last, as if he had been waiting to say it for two years and was finally allowed.

The sun went down over Maple Street, slow and warm. In the kitchen, Mrs. Abdullah laughed at something Jalil's mama said, and it was the sound of a person who had not laughed for a long time remembering how. On the porch, five children and Pearl the cat sat in a quiet, easy row, and nobody spoke for a while, because some moments do not need speaking.

Somewhere inside, Jalil's baba said a short evening prayer. Jalil could hear the shape of it through the screen door. It was an old prayer, in a language older than Maple Street, older than the oak tree. Jalil did not know all the words. But he knew some of them, and one of them was light.

Light, he thought. Noor.

He looked over at the girl in the chair, with Pearl curled up in her lap, a drawing resting on her knees. She was smiling. It was a small smile, and a careful one, but it was a real one.

Welcome home, Noor, he thought. Welcome to Maple Street.

Under his breath, so quiet even Mei could not hear, he whispered the prayer he had made up the week before, in his own head, at the kitchen table.

Please help Noor not be scared. Please help us be good friends. Please help her find her light again, the one her name is about.

Above them, the first star came out. Below them, on the step, Tommy Brennan, who had been the meanest boy on the street a week ago, reached over and, without saying a word, took a rose cookie off the plate and handed it to Noor.

She took it.

She smiled.

She ate it.

And on Maple Street, in the gold-blue hush of a Sunday evening in spring, something that had been broken quietly, carefully, completely knit itself back together — because five children had tried, and then tried again, and then tried a third time, the way children do when something matters.

The welcome wagon was finished. The welcome, they all knew, was only just beginning.

THE END

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A NOTE TO READERS

Dear Reader,

Did you see the virtues in this story?

Jalil had hope. Mei had kindness that came through her pencil. Diego had courage even when he got angry. Amaya had bravery that wasn't loud — the kind of bravery that asks a hard, quiet question. Tommy learned to be sorry, which is one of the hardest virtues of all. And Noor — Noor was brave enough, at the end, to open the door.

Every person you meet is a little bit like Noor behind her curtain. Every person is a little bit like Tommy with his hurt. And every person can be, if they try, a little bit like the five children who filled a red wagon with cookies and honey and drawings and walked up a path to knock.

This week, look around your own street, your own school, your own lunch table. Is there a Noor nearby, someone who looks scared or lonely or new? Is there a Tommy, someone whose meanness might be hiding a sadness? Can you fill your own welcome wagon — even a tiny one, even just with a hello, a smile, a drawing, a seat saved on the bus?

The world is made of porches where doors have not yet opened. You can be the knock.

With love, Crimson Ark Publishing

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