Roaring, breathless winds whipped into swirling tornadoes.  Violently shaking sheets of metal were the difference between gracefully landing like an eagle or crashing down in a fiery blaze.  I sat frozen in my seat, afraid that if I moved in the slightest way, my world would collapse.  I gripped the arms of the chair with pale, bloodless hands. The continued turbulence of the flight left me apprehensive and praying for mercy.
    I saw the green seatbelt icon pop up overhead and secured my buckle with tremulous hands. "Attention passengers: Prepare for landing," the pilot announced over the loudspeaker.  The flight attendants made their last rounds, reminding everyone to keep their seats up, trays locked, and window shades open. I stared out the window as white wisps of air rushed past me.  With the gradual descent of the airplane, the clouds disappeared, and New York City came into full view.  I gasped in astonishment at the lofty glass buildings below.  Yellow cabs dotted the streets, and people bustled around like a swarm of bees.  The city’s chaos reminded me of how hectic it was back home.
    The narrow streets of Syria were always filled with people rushing to work, browsing the shops, or going to the food market.  I was lucky if I wasn’t covered with bruises after walking down the street.  Ancient buildings threatened to crumble as they towered over me in the scorching heat of summer.  Cars honked tirelessly, hoping to get through the people who had raided the streets. The smell of sizzling asphalt and fresh, hand-baked bread permeated the city. 
    I was jarred back into reality when the wheels of the plane hit the ground.  Everyone around me cheered, clearly glad to get off the 12-hour flight.  The pilot came back on the speaker and said, “Welcome to New York, and I hope to see you fly with Syrian Air again.”
    After waiting on interminable lines in the airport, it was finally time to leave.  All I had to do was find the Ackerman family.  It wasn’t as easy as it seemed.  People coming off of flights rushed in a million different directions.  My brain scattered and eventually I just roamed around the shops and cafes near the exit until someone tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Hi! Are you Salma Barakat?” with a thick American tongue.  I nodded in response and she said, “My name is Tristan Ackerman and I’ll be your foster sister while you stay in Havenhollow.”  I noticed she had blond colored hair, sapphire eyes, and freckles sprinkled across her face.  Tristan led me through other groups of travelers.  Soon we approached a bald, plump man whose mustache was tinted with gray streaks, a blond-haired woman with rosy cheeks and a young boy whose eyes were glued to his phone’s screen.  His chocolate hair and porcelain complexion oddly resembled my brother, Adam.  Adam was always the different one in the family.  Instead of having olive colored skin like the rest of us, he was much lighter and small in stature.  I couldn’t count how many times people had asked us if he was adopted.  He would always blush then flash his signature smirk.
    The older blond-haired woman who I assumed could only be Tristan’s mother looked up at me and smiled with a pair of gleaming eyes and glowing white teeth. Tristan joined her family and introduced me to them.  “Salma, this is Adeline, my mother, Ronald, my father, and Luke, my little brother.”  We all exchanged hellos, and they led me to their car.  When I stepped out of the airport, the sound of cars rushing along the nearby highway roared in my ears.  I looked up at the bright blue sky in a daze.  “So, what made you interested in joining Havenhollow’s foreign exchange program?” Tristan asked.
    “I wanted to learn more about the American culture.  Havenhollow sounded like a really nice town,” I lied.  My mind wandered to a place full of shouting and shoving, blazing flames and smoke crawling down my throat.  I could feel the ashes carried by a steaming gust of wind brush against my face.  The burnt belongings of people scattered across the sandy, dust-covered ground.  Clotheslines were left abandoned as refugees scurried like mice to their makeshift tents or at least those who still had tents.  Trucks charged through the camp and left tendrils of dust trailing after them.  Havoc pervaded the refugee camp, and I felt my pulse returning to normalcy. 
     “Oh, that’s cool,” Tristan replied.  The car ride through New York seemed to dwindle on forever.  I kept my gaze toward the window and watched each turn we made until there was no more highway, but instead, trees lining the sidewalks, joggers walking their dogs, and children playing in their front yards.  Neighbors grinned at one another and waved at all the passing cars. 
    After a few moments of silence, Tristan perked up and asked, “What do you think of Havenhollow so far? Any first impressions?”
     “Oh, it’s beyond what I thought it would be like.  Then again, I’ve only ever seen America through a television screen,” I said, my cheeks flushing.
     “Well, we’ve never been to Syria before either,” she added, obviously trying to comfort me after my display of ignorance.
     “Yeah, what’s it like? Have you ever seen an explosion?” Luke said, his eyes meeting mine for the first time.  His mother shushed and scolded him for being rude while I choked.
     I put on a fake smile and said, “The news doesn’t show the half of it.”
     After navigating the neighborhood, we pulled up into a driveway at last.  I got out of the car, stretched my legs, and joined the family as they entered the grand, blue house.  Tristan gave me a quick tour and I realized that the house was one bedroom short, despite its large size.  “Um, so where should I keep my stuff?” I asked.
     “We’re going to be roommates.  Doesn’t that sound like so much fun?  We are going to have the best time together!” Tristan exclaimed.  I nodded and she led me into what was unrecognizable to me as a bedroom, but a hoarder’s paradise.  Books were thrown all over the floor, laundry masked the bunk bed, and I’m pretty sure I tripped over a shoe after stepping over the threshold.
     “Wow, this is the biggest room I’ve seen for years,” I said, regardless of the bedroom’s untidiness.
      “Thanks,” Tristan said, blushing.  She let out a slight squeal and said, “Oh my gosh. I’m so excited for you! I think you’ll really love it here; you’ll never want to leave!”  I think she saw me flinch after she said that because soon she added,  “You look tired.  It’s probably the jet-lag.  I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the day; there is pizza downstairs if you are hungry.  See you later.”
     When she left the room, I let out an enormous sigh.  I cleared the bottom of the bunk bed and threw my luggage on top of it.  I unzipped the suitcase and stared at the photograph of my family that lay on top of my clothing.  The luminosity of Adam’s eyes caught my attention.  When we took that picture, he burst out into fits of laughter each time the camera shuttered.  It took us at least an hour just to get him to hold still.  His constant energy never seemed to end.  I heard a knock on the bedroom door and quickly folded the picture and slid it into my pocket.
     “Come in,” I said.  The bedroom door creaked open slightly and Luke’s head popped in.  “Hey,” I said and he walked into the room.
     “My mom wanted me to give this to you,” he said, but before he shuffled out of the room added, “Oh, and sorry about what I said earlier.”  Luke handed me a thick, white envelope with familiar handwriting written across the top.  I looked at it until I realized: it was from my mother.
     My hands trembled as my fingers ran over the seal of the envelope.  My breath became jagged and my heart beat erratically.  I exhaled and ripped the seal off cleanly.  The scent of basil seeped through; my mother still smelled the same.  The last time I saw my mother, we weren’t necessarily on the greatest terms.  Her face was wrinkled and her eyebrows formed an arch. That was a sure way to tell she was fuming.  My mom sent in an application for the foreign exchange program without telling me.  She just signed me up thinking I would get on a plane, abandon my family in Syria --one of the most dangerous places in the world--and have a good time.  I wasn't going to go without a fight and she knew it. The sound of my mother shouting,"You know you have to escape this madness! Why won't you appreciate anything I do for you?" echoed in my mind.  Why couldn't she understand I didn't want to leave her and Dad and Adam? What if something happened? I shook my head, wiped my face with my sleeve and opened the letter. I felt the rough paper scratch against my fingers; in perfect print, my mother's handwriting read:
Dear Salma,
     I know you may not have wanted to go to America by yourself, but you have to believe that I did it for your own good.  Anyway, I hope you enjoy yourself.  And don’t worry about us.  We’re fine; Adam says hi and that he wants you to get him a football while you are in America.  Your father demands to see pictures and lots of letters, okay?, I just hope you get the chance to be a normal teenager.  You deserve it.  We all miss you! Keep writing!
                                                             Love,
                                                                    Mama
   
     I put the letter away and laid in the bed.  The mattress molded to my aching spine; I imagined my family in our tent, sleeping on the rugged ground, clearly exhausted.  Adam would clutch his football close to his chest and wouldn’t let it go until morning.  It was his most valuable possession.  The sound of other refugees shuffling and birds shrilling would pierce the silence of the night and keep everyone awake.  I shuffled in the bed as the image of my family drifted away.  The weariness of my body left my consciousness waning.
     The next morning I woke up to the sound of my stomach roaring.  Tristan was already dressed, clad in a bright blue top and skinny jeans, an outfit clearly displaying her bubbly personality.  “Wakey, wakey,” she said as she fluffed her hair in front of the mirror.  I rubbed my eyes and pushed the covers off of me.  Rummaging through my suitcase, I grabbed the first thing I found and threw it on after taking a warm shower--the first one in a long time.  After joining the Ackermans for a complete breakfast of eggs, waffles and pancakes, Tristan decided to take me to see the town.
      Dozens of shops lined the streets of Havenhollow.  Each part of town we passed seemed to remind me of my family in some way.  The sporting goods store and its shelves filled with balls made me think of Adam and how much he would have loved it here.  As Tristan and I walked through the park, I imagined my family having a nice picnic filled with laughter like the days before the war started.   The small mall we passed sold an abundance of clothes-- ones that refugees would only dream of wearing. 
      My first day at Havenhollow High School was just as intense as I expected it to be.  I noticed people glaring at me as if I had two heads.  At one point, I saw a group of students pass Tristan and I and stare at me with wide eyes. I thought they would come up to me to say something but instead they gathered in a circle and began whispering to each other; my heart rate accelerated.  “Ignore them,” Tristan said, “Some kids in this school are just really insecure.”  She deliberately put on a tremendous smile, showing off all of her white teeth while we walked past the chattering group.  The hall immediately became extremely quiet; the silence was disturbing.  “See, that wasn’t so hard.  All you have to do is look people straight in the eye and they’re speechless,” Tristan said. I shook my head in disbelief and laughed.
     During my next weeks in Havenhollow, I learned that Americans have several very different customs.  For example, instead of greeting friends with a kiss on the cheek, a typical American high-fives another.  (On my first day of school, I learned that the hard way.)  I also found that Americans are generally not accustomed to writing from right to left.  My first English assignment proved that.  I have to say, despite my foreign tendencies, Tristan has stood by my side throughout my days in Havenhollow.  She has taught me all the necessities of being an average American teenager, including the importance of the words, “like,” “OMG” and “totally.” 
     After informing my family all about my “adventures” in an American society, I learned that the situation at the refugee camps had gotten increasingly worse.  On a daily basis, I kept track of the status of my country’s civil war.  No progress was made and I knew my family was paying the consequences.  The small rations of food had decreased drastically, the weather had ruined practically all the food grown in the camp’s gardens, and our tent had gotten destroyed when moths attacked one night.  I learned that Adam had a fever, and that there was hardly any medicine left in the camp.  I felt a deep pit in my stomach; the guilt of knowing that my family suffered while I indulged in luxuries of living in Havenhollow deprived me of any joy. 
     One day, I came home from school and one of my mom’s weekly letters had arrived early.  I opened it up and after reading through it, I dropped to my knees.  Tristan reached over to grab my arm and asked what was wrong.  I didn’t respond, so she took the letter out of my hand.  After a moment, she gasped and then rubbed my back comfortingly.  I reread the letter to make sure I wasn't dreaming:
Salma,
     I wish you were here right now.  I don’t know how to say this to you,, but Adam’s dead, Salma.  I’m dying inside.  It turns out his fever wasn’t just a cold.  He had measles-- the fatal kind.  Your father and I want you to come back to the camp for the funeral.  I still can’t believe what happened.  I hope you have a better time coping with this then I am.
Love,
      Mama

     “Salma, I’m so sorry,” Tristan said in a low voice, “I know how close you and your brother were.”
     “You don’t know anything! He’s not dead! It’s just a sick joke!  He couldn’t have died.  I mean, I didn’t even get to say goodbye, or tell him I love him.”
     I knew I should have been bombarded with thoughts, but my mind grew numb except for one thing-- I needed to see my brother.  “I have to go back to the camp now!  I need to talk to Adam!” I shouted.  Tristan looked into my eyes and led me to the couch.
     “I’m going to get you some water.  Then we’ll talk about it, okay?”
     “There’s nothing to talk about.  Adam’s not dead; I just need to see him.  I don’t want water.  All I want is to see my brother again!”  Tristan grabbed my wrists and told me to calm down.  She called her parents and explained what happened.  They immediately came over and told me they were sorry.
     “We’ll do everything we can to get you back to your family,” they said.  That afternoon lasted an eternity.  When we finally reached the airport, the Ackermans bid me farewell.  Tristan hugged me tightly and then wished me good luck. 
      “I wish I could come with you, Salma.  Write, okay? I’ll miss you,” Tristan said.  Tears began to form in her eyes as they glistened and she put on a sympathetic smile for me.   I whispered goodbye and then left for my flight.
      The flight to Syria whizzed by.  My mind circled and I became light-headed.  My stomach threatened to fold in on itself; nausea overcame me and the news of my brother rang in my ears throughout the entire flight.  My vision was blurred and oblivion took over.
      When the flight landed, I went to search for my family.  Outside of the airport, I saw my mother’s dark hair and my father’s tall figure but no sign of my brother.  I ran toward them and practically shouted, “Where’s Adam?” My parents looked at each other and said nothing.  “No, no, no, no, no!”  I screeched.  I fell to the ground, bawling.  Tears streamed down my cheeks and my eyes became swollen.  My heart throbbed, my shoulders heaved and my chest ached.  I was a hollow shell. 
     The funeral was dreary and lifeless.  I was too worn out to cry any more.  The color black swamped me.  I was confused, disheveled, and lost.  Adam’s death haunted me; I did not eat, sleep, or live for a second without falling deeper into the chasm of depression. 
      For the next few weeks, Tristan sent letters checking up on me and pleading for me to write back.  I ignored her requests until one day, the letters stopped coming.  It was then that I got out a piece of paper and the courage to write back:
   Dear Tristan,

          I’m sorry I haven’t responded to your messages.  Adam’s death is eating at my soul every day.  I can’t believe I turned my back on you and I regret it so much.  I need somebody else in my life.  I need you. I hope you decide to write back.  I learned that I’m never going to escape life’s horrors no matter where I go.  I guess I’m lucky I have you to catch me when I fall. 
               ~Salma