The unlovable alina butt, p.1
The Unlovable Alina Butt, page 1
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Praise For The Unlovable Alina Butt
“A heartwarming story of a misfit with no confidence who rises above it all…Filled with empathy, heart and humor, this book made me laugh and cry at moments. A compelling read that had me hooked to the end. Alina Butt is a very lovable and memorable character. She stays with you long after you finish the last page and close the book.”
—Shirin Shamsi, author of The Moon from Dehradun: A Story of Partition
“Hilarious and poignant. New immigrants will identify with Alina’s problems of fitting in…Alina’s journey, from being a scared girl lacking confidence to owning her heritage and being kind to everyone no matter what, is inspiring and heartwarming…. Alina Butt is anything but(t) unlovable!”
—Mahtab Narsimhan, award-winning author of The Tiffin
“Finding a new author is like finding a new friend. I’m sure you’re going to find Alina—and Ambreen—to be quite lovable!”
—Eric Walters, author of the Governor General’s Literary Award–winning The King of Jam Sandwiches
The Unlovable Alina Butt
Ambreen Butt-Hussain
Copyright © Ambreen Butt-Hussain 2023
Published in Canada and the United States in 2023 by Orca Book Publishers.
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: The unlovable Alina Butt / Ambreen Butt-Hussain.
Names: Butt-Hussain, Ambreen, author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20220249350 | Canadiana(ebook) 20220249369 | ISBN 9781459834910 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459834927 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459834934 (EPUB)
Classification: LCC PS8603.U868 U65 2023 | DDC jC813/.6—dc23
Library of Congress Control Number: 2021949083
Summary: In this novel for middle readers, eleven-year-old Alina has moved to a new school again, but this time she is determined to reinvent herself.
Orca Book Publishers is committed to reducing the consumption of nonrenewable resources in the production of our books. We make every effort to use materials that support a sustainable future.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover and interior artwork by Julie McLaughlin
Cover design by Dahlia Yuen
Interior design by Sydney Barnes
Edited by Tanya Trafford
Author photo by Hadia T.H. - White Cactus Studios
To Ammi and Daddy,
because I know it was all for us.
And to my husband, Salman,
for loving a Butt.
Chapter One
“Okay, get into line, everyone! Alphabetical order!” sang Ms. Pheasant, a bright smile on her face.
I knew it had been too good to be true. It was my third day at Greenhill Middle School, and up until that moment I had kept my secret safe. I had successfully been able to hide my true identity.
Assemblies in England really sucked. Back in Pakistan, we never had to line up in a particular order. We could stand wherever we wanted. As long as we were “as silent as a lizard on the wall.” That was what my teacher would say. Instead of spiders, there were lizards lurking around everywhere.
Those are just a few of the many things that are different here.
We moved to England three years ago, and this is already my fourth time being the new kid. You would think I’d be a pro at the whole thing by now, but nope, not even close. I’m still as awkward as ever. One thing I have learned, though, is that revealing my name leads to a year of constant mockery. Which is why I’d decided I was not going to let that happen again. Sixth grade was going to be different. No matter what.
“Let’s go, class! Choppity-chop-chop!” Any instruction Ms. Pheasant gave in her soft voice sounded like a song. My eyes followed her footsteps as she walked around the room, her long ponytail and flowery dress swishing as she moved.
A feeling of dread filled my entire body. All the kids around me started racing to line up.
What was the rush? We all knew our spots.
My heart pounded as I quietly sneaked to the front of the line. I stood there nervously with my head down, trying to breathe as little as possible, pretending I was invisible.
Ah. I should’ve known better. For some people the front of the line was too prized a place to let go of without a fight.
“That’s not your spot!” Adam Atkins shouted, wedging himself ahead of me. “Go back to your own spot!”
Oh no. I knew what was coming.
I started to prepare myself, scrunching up my face and squinting my eyes as if someone was about to hit me, hard.
“Your last name is Butt. Go back to your spot”—Adam leaned in and whispered the last word, the one I had been dreading—“butthead.”
There it was, like a slap in the face.
No. Sixth grade was supposed to be different. I had already come too far. I was not going to give up without a fight.
“Oh…um…n-no…my last name is a-actually Anwar. Alina Anwar.”
I couldn’t even look at him as I said it. I’m not a very good liar. Some would say that’s a good thing, but it’s a skill that would come in pretty handy in moments like these. Anwar is my dad’s first name and my middle name. I know. Weird. But I thought it might work.
It didn’t.
Adam kept going, getting louder by the second, his greeny-gold hawk eyes hooked onto their prey—me. The other kids started snickering and whispering. Now I felt all eyes on me. So much for being invisible. I was the total opposite, more like a fluorescent alien—and not the cool kind a kid might want to befriend, but a weird, ugly one that they’d just stare at from a distance. I could feel my ears burning. Beads of sweat formed on my nose.
Ms. Pheasant walked up calmly and whispered to us both, “Alina will stand in the front.”
Adam started to protest. “But she’s ly—”
“Alina will stand in the front,” she said again more firmly. She smiled and then winked at me.
Adam scowled, crossed his arms and stomped in line behind me.
Phew. That was a relief. I was so lucky to have Ms. Pheasant as my teacher. At least that was one good thing about this place.
Ms. Pheasant smiled down the half-decent line that had finally formed. “Thank you, everyone. Now, before you head into the gym, I want to let you know about auditions for the school play. This year we’re doing Cinderella! The sign-up sheet is posted outside.”
Everyone broke into excited chatter. The line that had taken so long to form started to fall apart. As Ms. Pheasant raised her arms to motion kids back into formation, she looked down at me and whispered, “Don’t forget to sign up!”
Who, me? No way. No, no, no. She doesn’t know me yet. Otherwise she would never suggest such a thing. She doesn’t know I have a hard time talking to just one person, let alone a whole hall full of people.
There was no way I could be in the play. Even if I had always loved the story of Cinderella, watched the movie a bazillion times and secretly dreamed a fairy godmother would come and transform me into a princess. Maybe I could be a rock or a tree. But definitely not a role where I had to speak.
Don’t even think about it, Alina. Squish that dream. Squish it. It doesn’t exist.
* * *
As we walked quietly to the assembly, like a row of perfectly lined-up ants, I thought about our school uniforms. On top each of us wore a white collared shirt, a bright-blue tie and a matching blue cardigan. Gray bottoms—skirts for the girls and pants for the boys. And while all the other girls wore cute, frilly, ankle-length white socks, I had to wear super-itchy tights.
Initially my mom had tried to convince me to wear pants instead of a skirt. We’re Muslims, and my mom is the most devout in our family, so I knew she didn’t like the idea of me going to school with my bare legs being exposed to “the world.” But she’d tried to make it sound like it was for other reasons.
“You will look so decent and smart, Alina,” she said. “And the pants will keep you warm. You say yourself it is always so cold here, even in the spring!”
“I’ll look like a boy, Ammi!”
After what had felt like hours of arguing, we’d finally compromised and settled on the itchy tights.
* * *
I snapped out of my memory fog when I heard Adam whispering to the boy behind him.
“Imagine Butthead as Cinderella.”
“Ewww!” said the other boy.
“She’d be the butt of all jokes!” Adam snorted. “Get it? The butt? Ha!”
I kept my eyes focused on the floor, trying hard not to let the tears come.
I may have been at the front of the line, but I knew I had failed.
My cover had been blown.
Chapter Two
My dad pulled into the school parking lot in our rusty red car. He greeted me with his usual big smile and chirpy “Assalamu alaikum!” That’s an Arabic greeting that basically means “peace be upon you.”
“How was school today?” he asked.
Somehow he was always in a good mood.
“Fine,” I said, not returning the smile. I closed my eyes and slumped my head back, thankful that the weekend was here. I tried hard not to imagine what I’d have to face next week now that my secret was out.
My dad was getting used to my monotonous replies. He had been dealing with them for the past few days now, and I had no plans of giving him anything better. After all, he was the reason for all this. The lifelong curse that was my last name. The move. Everything.
I didn’t say another word for the whole ride home.
We pulled up to our shop, King’s Fruit Market. That’s what it was called when we bought it. We live on top of it in a tiny apartment. Not long after we moved in, everyone on our street started calling my dad “the king.” So since my dad was now the king, I guess that made our house the castle…and me the princess?
I sure didn’t feel like it though. I just felt like a butt.
I rushed past the rows of colorful baskets of fruits and vegetables lined up outside and throughout our shop. I had to weave around customers carefully inspecting a single mango from the dozens of boxes or searching for just the right bunch of cilantro. I kept my head down to avoid making eye contact with anyone. I really wasn’t in the mood to talk.
I ran upstairs, threw my bag down, rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door behind me. The tears instantly started streaming down my face. They had been waiting for me to be alone. I turned on the tap to drown out my sniffling. But my mom, with her sixth sense, somehow knew something was up.
She knocked on the door. “Alina! What’s wrong? You didn’t even take your lunch bag out! Come quickly! Your food will get cold!”
Ahhh! What’s the hurry?
I had literally just gotten home and my mom already expected me to have taken out my lunch bag, put away my uniform and probably even finished my homework.
While my dad always appears to be in a state of bliss, as if he’s just returned from an island vacation, my mom runs around like she’s the prime minister, with a million things to do and a billion things to tell us. I guess they balance each other out.
“I’m coming…give me a second, Ammi.”
“What’s for dinner?” I heard my sister yell.
“Daal chawal,” my mom replied.
“Oh yay! I love it!” my little brother chimed in.
Nooooo! I hate lentils with rice. It’s my least favorite food. I would rather starve. Can this day get any worse?
We always had dinner together as a family—our “quality time,” my dad calls it.
I sulked as my mom plopped a spoonful of yellow daal on top of my rice.
“Chew slowly, Fahad Butt!” my mom reminded my brother. He was scoffing down his food as if he had a train to catch. But when my mom uses our full names, we know we could soon be in big trouble. Fadi started chewing in slow motion.
“Pass the salad please,” my dad said.
Salad in our house doesn’t look like the ones I see Ms. Pheasant eating at her desk, a mix of lettuce and all kinds of different vegetables. Ours is just cucumbers. With some black pepper sprinkled on top. You would never think we were sitting on top of a fruit and vegetable shop.
My sister started talking about every single detail of her day. Clearly hers had gone a lot better than mine. That’s nothing new.
Nadia always has a much easier time making friends in school. So far I have barely managed to say three words to the girl who sits next to me in class. Somehow Nadia instantly becomes the popular girl wherever we go. I guess being pretty helps. Or maybe it’s her confidence. She wouldn’t think twice about putting her name down on that play sign-up sheet.
She’s three years older than me, but everyone always says we look like twins. I don’t get that. Sure, we both have the same color of hair and eyes, and we both have freckles sprinkled all over our faces like confetti. But she has a perfect, dimpled smile and a cute little nose. And, most important, she knows how to talk to people without being awkward or weird.
I guess, according to my report cards, I am pretty smart. But my brown eyes are kind of like a goldfish’s, and my nose is big and a bit droopy. I’ve been trying to fix it by holding it up with my finger for long periods of time. This technique hasn’t worked yet. But if it does, that could be groundbreaking.
And then there’s my hair. I’ve always wanted bangs, but my mom won’t let me get them. At the salon we went to just before school started, the hairdresser said my forehead is too small for a fringe (that’s what they call bangs here). At least, I think that’s what she said. Her accent was a bit hard to understand. She and my mom basically communicated in sign language for a good ten minutes, and then she just ended up doing what her heart desired with my hair.
“You do not worry,” she said. “No worry here, please.”
When she was done she looked very pleased and said, “Heh? You like? You like?”
I stroked my frizzy hair slowly, which was now chopped bluntly right up to my ears. Of course, still no fringe.
My mom always tells me to be polite to my elders. So I gulped and tried to smile.
“Yes, thank you,” I whispered.
So now I have a bob cut. And not a very flattering one. My solution is to always take out a few strands of hair from the middle of my head and let them fall casually next to my cheek. It’s my substitute fringe.
To top off my look, my front teeth stick out like a rabbit’s every time I smile. Yeah, so that’s me.
* * *
As Nadia babbled on about her day, Fadi played with the crumbs on his plate with one hand, and his toy car with the other. Any stranger who sees my brother and me together knows immediately that we’re related. He’s just a smaller, more spaced-out version of me. He is in kindergarten in my new school. I don’t think he’s had any luck making friends either—he’s only five and hardly knows any English. He’ll pick it up fast though. It didn’t take me long.
We usually speak Urdu at home, but I hadn’t expected Fadi would yell “Assalamu alaikum, Alina Appa!” every time he saw me at school. I’d wave quickly, because I didn’t want him to think I was ignoring him, but I would start walking away a little faster. I didn’t need to give people another reason to notice me.
* * *
After we had finished cleaning up, my mom came to my room to ask me again what was wrong. I hadn’t said much at dinner.
“Something must have happened. Just tell me, beta.”
It was too hard keeping it all in. I burst. “Why do we have this name?” I yelled. “Everyone at school always makes fun of me!”
I don’t know why I bothered to say anything. As usual, because this was not the first time I’d brought this up, my mom looked offended. “So what? That is your name! Being a Butt is something you should be proud of! In Pakistan people love this name!”
“Well, we’re not in Pakistan!”
I felt like I had to remind my mom of this fact during every important discussion.
“Other kids should not be making fun. You should just tell them that this is the name you have been given, just like they have been given theirs. It does not make sense to laugh at something like this,” she said.
“Really?” I said. She didn’t seem to understand the seriousness of my situation. “How would you react if someone came to your school in Pakistan and said, ‘Hi, my name is Sara Pithi’?”
She burst out laughing. Pithi is a very crude way of saying butt in Urdu.
My mom took my hand and looked me right in the eye. “Alina, beta,” she said, still smiling, “everything about you is what makes you you. Never be ashamed of who you are. You must learn to love your name and own it with pride. And when you do, everyone around you will love it too.”
