Like waking up from a nightmare. Or opening your eyes to presents and cake. I liked it.
The music hit my ears again, and I looked ahead, spotted Aydin, and stopped.
He sat in a pair of black pants and a white T-shirt like me, but his was filthy with dirt smudges as he leaned over the plant bed and cut something. His hair, usually slicked back, laid dry and haphazardly over his forehead and temples, and a light sheen of sweat covered his forearms.
I stared at him, unable to move, because I couldn’t remember why I’d come in here, but I knew it was a secret. I hadn’t wanted to run into anyone. I thought he was still asleep.
He glanced over, dropping whatever he’d cut into the bowl and reached over, cutting some more.
I shifted on my feet, ready to turn around. I couldn’t go to the shed now.
But instead, he called me over. “Come here.”
I looked up at him again, seeing him concentrate on his task, and I walked over to his side, doing as he said.
He picked a strawberry out of the bowl and handed it to me, leaves, stem, and all.
I shot him a suspicious look, but I took it. He’d just cut it. It was probably fine.
Sticking it between my teeth, I bit into the small thing, pressing the chunk between my tongue and the roof of my mouth, sucking on the juice. My mouth exploded, savoring the flavor.
I nodded, swallowing and nibbling on the rest.
“Good?” he asked.
“Yeah, it’s… sweet.”
It was surprising.
“Mmm…” he agreed, returning to his work. “Yes.”
I looked at the remnants, knowing that real strawberries were this small. His tiny garden had tomatoes, basil, peppers, lettuce… I wouldn’t think he’d be into this, but I guess now I knew who was taking care of the greenhouse.
“Strawberries used to be sweet when I was young,” I said. “I don’t know. They’re sour all the time now.”
“Commercial strawberries the last couple of decades are bred to be big and beautiful, but that’s it,” he said. “They taste bad. I can barely eat any produce in the States.”
I looked down at him. “You’re not from here?”
He turned his eyes on me, cocking an eyebrow.
“The US, I mean.”
Okay, yes. I assumed we were in the States, but we might not be.
He returned to his task. “I was born in Turkey,” he told me. “My family relocated when I was fifteen.”
So he was an immigrant. Was it hard for him, being different in school? Trying to fit in?
“Did you assimilate quickly?” I asked.
“Assuming I had any ease assimilating to anything to begin with?” he joked, amusement in his eyes.
I couldn’t help it. I smiled.
I could relate.
I was the only kid in school who didn’t celebrate Christmas. Who didn’t take part in the annual winter pageants or do Secret Santa on the swim team.