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Mom, Dad, and I got off the bus somewhere in New York City, and it looked like all the people in Philadelphia times ten had been dumped on each block. They must have all been running late, because everyone was speed walking.

I wasn’t in any hurry. We were spending Eid here—in a strange city—with new family who didn’t act much like family.

Mom tripped after long-legged Dad, a former New Yorker, who strode through the crowds, wheeling a large suitcase. Wearing my lime-green sneakers and a matching hijab that whipped behind me in the spring breeze, I followed with a supermodel strut. I imagined the people rushing past me stopping and cheering for me, Hawa, the twelve-year-old Black American hijabi-nista on the runway!

“Hurry up, Hawa!” Mom yelled. “Stop tryna be cute!”

I ignored her, adding a sashay to my step.

We followed Dad down the steps to a grimy, dark underground station and sprinted toward the roar of an arriving train.

“Train to the Bronx,” Dad explained as we hopped inside.

I sat between Dad and Mom, who pulled out her phone and opened up her language app for the tenth time this trip. I couldn’t stop myself from rolling my eyes.

“Say it with me: tuh-nahn-tay, tuh-nahn-tay!” Mom was almost shouting, like Señora Moreno in sixth-grade Spanish.

I repeated her quietly. Maybe I could disappear into my jeans if I stared at them long enough.

“You not even trying, Hawa!”

I looked pleadingly at Dad.

“She’s doing okay. Don’t worry, Amina,” my father said to her, his African accent thick. He patted my braided hair and smiled. “This is my true Mandinka girl.”

I didn’t feel like a true Mandinka anything, but I smiled back. My father’s wide, childlike grin makes me smile even when I don’t feel like it.

“Amadou, how she gon’ talk to anyone?” Mom asked, her North Philly accent thick too. “Your aunt don’t speak a word of English.”

Why couldn’t Mom stop worrying about Dad’s family? Last year, when we first met Dad’s side of the family, they weren’t worried about Mom. Mom was gripping her phone a bit too tightly. I rubbed the back of her dark headscarf the way she sometimes does to mine. Her grip stayed tight.

“I can talk for us,” Dad said. “And Mariama speaks some English. Hawa can talk to Fanta. Fanta speaks perfect—like an American.”

I held back a groan.

“I just want Hawa to be proud of all the parts of who she is.” Mom looked hard at me. “You are Black American and Mandinka. Both are strong cultures. Love all of you, Hawa.”

Mom turned back to her phone, squaring her shoulders and saying the words on her app to herself now.

It was hard to love the idea of spending my Eid with Dad’s family from Guinea tomorrow instead of spending it with my best friends, Sanaa and Khalilah. I would miss the park where almost all of Philly’s Black American Muslims gathered each Eid to celebrate in their best clothes. I smiled when I thought about my Eid dress: a shimmery coral abaya with a matching jacket so long it reached the floor. I still couldn’t believe Mom had let me get it along with a turquoise purse and turquoise sandals! Mom always says I do too much when it comes to color—she likes dark and simple hijabs and abayas.

We were on that rocking train for so long I was almost dozing when Dad shot up from his seat. “We’re here!”

I took a deep breath. This year would not be a repeat of the last.

Dad’s family was waiting outside the train station: old Mama Dusu (Dad’s aunt) and her son, my uncle Kaba; Aunt Mariama (Kaba’s wife) and their four little sons; and of course, perfect Fanta. As the adults chattered in Mandinka and the boys ran in circles, I tried not to look at Fanta, although I felt her looking at me.

Mom grinned at Mama Dusu and Aunt Mariama.

“Assalamu Alaikum. Tuh-nahn-tay la?” she said slowly and carefully.

Her way of saying it sounded more Philly than African, but Mom was smiling like she had said a magic spell when she asked them how they were doing.

Mama Dusu and Aunt Mariama gasped and then laughed. I squeezed the handle of my suitcase.

“Welcome, my sistuh!” Aunt Mariama said, hugging Mom tightly. Mama Dusu, unspeaking but smiling, took Mom’s smooth brown hand with her two wrinkled ones and stared into her eyes, telling her welcome in her own way. I realized then that their laughs were warm, kind ones.

Fanta was laughing too.

I made my eyes into slits, letting her know I wasn’t playing any games after what she did last year. Fanta raised her eyebrows, then looked down.

The women began talking fast, with Aunt Mariama slipping back and forth between English and Mandinka to include both women in the conversation. Mom’s smile was huge now.

“Come talk to your cousin! Don’t be shy!” Dad grabbed my hand and pulled me toward Fanta.

“Uncle Amadou, I missed you!” Fanta squealed. Then, as if I were a little girl and not her same age, she exclaimed, “And Hawa, you’re almost as tall as me now!”

I gritted out a grin. “Almost!”

I was nowhere close. I had inherited my mother’s short roundedness—not like Dad’s family, who all had long, thin bodies.

“You two look more alike each day. Both so beautiful!” Dad continued. Fanta looked down. She probably knew he really meant her. Fanta had the kind of face that YouTubers show you how to paint on, with all the contours, except she didn’t have any makeup on. Her dark skin glowed naturally. My dark skin was just dark—no glow. Mom calls my features “striking.” I have too-big eyes, a too-big nose, and much-too-large lips crammed into a small face. I do have an amazing walk though.

We trudged a few blocks to their building and went up in a dim elevator that smelled like spices that had sat there too long.

A fresher smell of tender meat, stewed tomatoes, fried onions, fragrant peppers, and sweet cabbage filled their apartment. It was the last day of Ramadan; however, traveling Muslims don’t have to fast, so Aunt Mariama had cooked jollof rice for us. Smiling, she handed us large bowls. I dug in, stuffing a heaping spoonful into my mouth. The tender beef melted on my tongue. I scooped up another spoonful with a strange-looking string bean. I gagged, coughing up my food into a paper towel. My whole mouth was burning. Mom was taking small bites and discreetly drinking sips of water after each one. Dad, though, was quickly clearing his bowl.

“They aren’t used to it,” Dad explained. “I use mild spices at home and for Americans at my restaurant—I add the strong ones for the Africans.” I almost asked Dad, wasn’t I supposed to be African too? So much for being a perfect Mandinka girl.

Aunt Mariama looked pained.

“It’s good, Aunt Mariama,” I said. I nibbled on a small spoonful, blinking back the tears in my eyes.

“If you can’t take spice, have plantains. I made them,” Fanta suggested with that smile again.

“Thanks,” I mumbled. The sweet, soft plantains did help, and that annoyed me. How could a girl my age make plantains like that?

“Fanta, you cooking already?” Mom asked.

“Yes!” Fanta’s eyes lit up. “I love cooking. I’m baking cupcakes for Eid!”

“She used to watch me cook and learned how to cook African food. Now she watches cooking shows and cooks American foods too,” Aunt Mariama explained, pride in her voice.

“Could you teach me how to cook soul food, Aunt Amina?” Fanta asked.

“Of course!” Mom exclaimed.

I had to hand it to my cousin: No one was a better suck-up.

“You hear that, Hawa?” Mom said. “It’s time you learned how to cook too.”

“No, thanks,” I said.

Fanta looked away, then stared at the floor.

Mom glared at me until I looked away. I knew I was being rude, but I couldn’t stop myself.

After our meal, Mama Dusu, Aunt Mariama, and Fanta took Mom and me into a bedroom.

Fanta explained, “Mama Dusu made our Eid clothes!”

“But I already have—”

Mom stopped me with a stern look.

Spread out on a large bed were two outfits with golden bangles and earrings beside them. One was a large gown and skirt made of shiny brown fabric with a basic golden pattern in a simple, elegant style like Mom’s. And the other was a fitted top and matching skirt, which popped with a rainbow of colors moving in wild spirals.

Mama Dusu smiled proudly.

“How did she know our sizes?” Mom asked skeptically.

“Amadou told us! We wanted to surprise you,” Aunt Mariama replied. “Fanta and I picked out the fabric!”

I waited for Mom to say thanks but no thanks—that as nice as these were, we already had outfits. Mom started blubbering instead.

“Thank you,” she whispered through her tears. Then Aunt Mariama started crying and Mama Dusu too. Then they were all hugging and talking fast again. I wanted to yell, “Wait a minute! I already have the perfect dress!”

“Try it on!” Aunt Mariama said, lifting at the hem of Mom’s tunic. Mom allowed Aunt Mariama to undress her down to her slip and underwear like it was the most natural thing ever.

Fanta smiled that smile again. “You want to try yours on too?”

No way would I let Miss Perfect see my rolls. I snatched up the outfit and asked, “Where’s the bathroom?”

“We’re all women . . .” Aunt Mariama began, and then stopped. “Down at the end of the hall.” Aunt Mariama looked at Fanta, giving an order with her eyes.

“Do you need help?” Fanta asked.

“No, thank you,” I said.

She looked down, frowning.

In the bathroom, I put the blouse on first, a top that flared out like a mini dress. I wrapped the scarf around my head like Aunt Mariama’s as best I could. I put on the earrings and bangles and looked in the mirror. I looked . . . good—so surprisingly good I had to smile.

I tried wrapping the lapa, a long, wide cloth with no fasteners or strings. I tried two times, but each time the skirt fell down as soon as I moved. The third time, I wrapped it as tightly as I could—so tight it squeezed my waist.

“Are you okay in there?” Aunt Mariama called. I heard her fuss to Fanta, “I told you to help your cousin.”

“I’m fine!” I said, opening the door. Mama Dusu, Aunt Mariama, Fanta, and Mom were standing right outside. Mom looked stunning in her flowing gown.

Mom gasped. “Gorgeous!”

Maybe I would think about wearing this outfit for Eid. Maybe.

I took a step forward and toppled face-first to the floor. I couldn’t move my legs at all.

“Are you okay? We have to show you how to wrap it . . .” Aunt Mariama said, trying to help me up, humor in her eyes. The four of them looked at each other and then exploded into laughter.

“Hawa, I’m sorry,” Mom said, trying to catch her breath.

I wriggled to my feet and took pigeon-toed steps back into the bathroom, which made them laugh harder. Shutting the door, I yanked off the lapa, blouse, head covering, and jewelry. I wasn’t wearing any of it for Eid.

That night, after Fanta’s rowdy brothers were put to bed, the adults went to the last Ramadan prayer service at the mosque up the street. Fanta was puttering around the kitchen, and I went into her bedroom. We would be sharing it that night. I noticed another outfit of shiny purple fabric hanging up on the closet door—Fanta’s dress. I decided to pull out my own Eid clothes to make sure there weren’t any wrinkles. I took the coral abaya out of my suitcase and laid it out on the bed. I was just about to take out the matching jacket when Fanta walked in with two plates, a chocolate cupcake on each.

“I snuck us some early Eid treats,” she said, pressing a plate into my hand. She noticed my abaya, and her face dropped.

She plastered on her usual smile and said, “I was just going to show you how to wear your lapa.”

“I already have an outfit,” I said.

She gaped, then glared. “Why are you always like this?”

“Like what? I just want to wear my own dress.”

“You think you’re too good for us.”

“Me? I’m not the one always acting like Miss Perfect!”

“What does that even mean? I try to be nice, but you’re never nice back!”

“Nice? You? You upset my mom last time we were here!”

“How? She didn’t say anything the whole time she was here. Neither did you!”

I imitated her mousy voice. “You don’t speak Mandinka? No French? Only English? Ha-ha-ha.”

“I didn’t mean it like—”

I continued to mock her. “You’re the only child? Africans don’t do that! Ha-ha-ha.”

“I didn’t say that to your mom!”

“You said it to me, and you all laughed, and she heard you! At least we don’t have a bajillion kids in one little apartment!”

“Wait a minute!” Fanta snapped.

“At least we’re not too good to eat your greasy food! You and your mom didn’t even touch Mom’s food last time, and she was up all night making it! We ate your nasty, oily plantains anyway!”

“Stop! Stop! Stop! That’s not nice!” Fanta yelled, flailing her arms. A cupcake flew onto the bed, right smack-dab in the middle of my abaya.

She gasped. “Oh! I didn’t mean to!”

With a growl, I lunged at her. She turned to run, but I tackled her fast. I mashed cake into her face again and again.

“Get off!” Fanta threw me off of her.

She swiped the cake from her face and held me down as she smeared it on mine. I twisted around to get free, dropping my plate.

I leapt to the bed. Standing on top of it, I grabbed two gobs of cake from my abaya and wound up my arm like a pitcher.

“No!” Fanta shrieked.

I lobbed both chunks at the outfit hanging on the closet. She snatched my plate from the floor. I dodged one chocolaty throw, then another, but one hit me square in the nose. Fanta pointed and cackled.

I wiped my nose. “Well, you look a mess too!”

She touched her face, smearing even more icing on it. I laughed then.

I scooped cake off of my face. Licking it, I said, “You cook as good as you throw.”

We both laughed then, laughed until we fell onto the bed, laughed until we were crying.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said.

“Me too.”

“No, not just for this. For last year. We didn’t know much English when we met you. I said some mean things so I wouldn’t feel stupid.”

“We were embarrassed too, so we didn’t talk. I’m half Mandinka. I should know some words.”

“You’re lucky to have two cultures.”

“My mom says I need to love both of them.”

“Your mom is smart—nice too. I said that thing about Africans having lots of kids because I was jealous. You get your mom and a whole house to yourself, and we’re all crammed into this apartment.”

“Mom can’t have kids easy. I’m her miracle,” I said quietly.

“We learned that later. Uncle Amadou was so upset. We’ve been trying to make it up to Aunt Amina . . . and you.”

“Well, what do we do now?” I asked. Chocolate was on the walls and floor. My abaya and her gown were ruined.

“Our parents are going to kill us!”

“Not if they don’t know anything. Where do you keep your cleaning supplies?”

We scrubbed the floor and walls, and the room looked normal in minutes. I washed the stains out of Fanta’s purple gown and my abaya in the bathroom sink.

Fanta wrung them out and sighed. “They won’t be dry in time for tomorrow.”

I had an idea and ran into Fanta’s room. I took down the lapa that had been behind her gown and placed it next to my untouched shimmery jacket. Cute!

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The next morning, Fanta spun around in her purple lapa and my coral jacket, which came down past her knees. “I’m beautiful like you now!”

“Me? You’re the pretty, perfect one!”

“Oh, please! Everyone knows you’re the pretty one, Hawa,” Fanta said, and she meant it.

“Squat down low,” she said while wrapping my lapa as tight as possible. When I stood, the skirt was wound tightly around my waist, but I walked easily. I looked amazing in Fanta’s full-length mirror, and yet something was missing. I found the turquoise shoes and matching purse in my suitcase. Their color popped with my African outfit.

We celebrated Eid in a park in the Bronx where many other West Africans went, wearing dazzling colors against dark skin. Food was spread out on tables—many African dishes and sweets and also Hawa’s cupcakes and the bean pies Mom had made from an old family recipe. Mom was radiant as she laughed with Aunt Mariama and Mama Dusu, who was eating her third slice of bean pie. And I knew then what Mom meant about loving all of me.

Fanta introduced me to two of her friends, whose looks reminded me of Sanaa and Khalilah.

Without thinking, I said, “Tuh-nahn-tay la?”

“Tanasté!” they replied.

Fanta smiled. At first I thought she was mocking me, but then I realized her smile was warm and kind—maybe it always had been.

Fanta spoke: “The way you said that . . . it was . . . perfect.”