Extra Credit

by Andrew Clements

  “But I just got out here, Dad. And I need to be outside—you always say fresh air is good for me, right? And I’ll go back in an hour, I promise. Because I don’t have much homework at all tonight.”

  “You’ve got more homework than you think you do.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Well, the mail came early this morning, and there’s a letter waiting on the kitchen counter. You probably ran right past it. It’s from your pen pal.”

  “Cool!”

  “Yes, ‘cool,’ but you’re going to have to write a reply tonight, and that’s going to take time. So I want you to get home right now.”

  “Can’t I stay out for just half an hour?”

  There was a pause. “Back inside in thirty minutes, all right?”

  “Thirty minutes,” Abby said.

  “Promise?”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  “Good. See you soon, sweetheart.”

  “Bye, Dad.”

  Abby smiled as she tucked the phone back into her pocket. She had just won an argument, sort of. And she had bought herself half an hour of free time in the woods.

  However, eight minutes later she was standing in the kitchen.

  Because her woods weren’t going anywhere, and she’d been out there hundreds of times.

  But never in her life had she gotten a letter from someone who lived in the mountains on the other side of the world.

  CHAPTER 9

  ABBY IN AMERICA

  Abby stood at the kitchen counter, holding a letter with her name and address on it, looking at the strange writing on the airmail stamps.

  She started to rip the envelope open, but then stopped. She found a paring knife and used it to slit along the top edge so she wouldn’t rip any of the stamps on the front of the envelope.

  She sat on a stool at the counter, pulled the paper out, unfolded it, and began reading.

  Dear Abby in America,

  My name is Amira Bayat. I am ten years old and I attend grade four at my school here in Panjshir Province. Our village is called Bahar-Lan. It is about 120 kilometers north from Kabul, our capital city. It is not a great distance, but it is a five- or six-hour drive over bad roads. I have never gone there, but my father and my uncle Asif have made this trip many times.

  About your mountain question, the answer is yes. From anywhere in my village there are mountains to see. At night this time of year I can hear ice and snow sliding off the steepest places, crashing down to the valleys below. God help anyone who gets in the way.

  I am in a family of four people. My mother works at home and at a sewing group with five other women. My father and my uncle have a shop where they sell flour and rice and other grain and seed foods. And I also have one brother, Sadeed. He is a fine student in grade six, often at the head of his class. He is also very strong. He likes to read and draw. His teachers have told him that he has a gift for writing poems. But he is not conceited. He is quite a nice fellow. And he is superb at flying kites. He has won many of the kite fights.

  I see in your photograph that you are climbing on a wall of stone that is inside a building. Is this something you do often? Why?

  We do not have a camera, so I cannot send a photo. But I have asked my brother to make some little drawings. Do you like to draw? Do you have many books in your home? I know America is a very rich country. We have only one book at home right now, a novel that my brother has borrowed from our teacher.

  I usually write in a language called Dari, but I am trying to learn English, too. And my brother says I will be an expert in English one day, the way he is.

  Not all of the girls in my village are allowed to go to school. I love to read and study and learn, and I am glad my father permits this. I hope to attend a university one day and become a teacher. Our country needs many teachers, and I think I could be a good one.

  In your letter you said that you had heard about a lot of fighting in my country. What you heard is true. But in our own village, there has been no shooting or bombs of any kind for almost half of a year. That is good. During the worst fighting, I was only a baby. But my brother Sadeed remembers the sounds of bombs and shooting and screaming. He remembers the house across the main road from us that was blown up by a rocket. And he remembers how the grandmother of that family sat in the road and cried for two days and two nights. But this is now gone a long time. And things are better and safer now.

  Here is a poem that my brother wrote. In English it is odd, but I like it. He said I could send it to you.

  On a kite I have painted two eyes.

  When the kite flies I see beyond the mountains.

  And when I see the ocean I want to sit on the sand.

  I want to hear the waves and watch the boats.

  And now I pull my kite back to earth.

  I have to stop writing now. But I am glad to think that someone so far away will hold this very paper in her hand, and our same sun will shine light on the words as you read them.

  May this letter find you and your family well and happy, God-be-willing.

  Your friend in Afghanistan,

  Amira Bayat

  For more than a minute Abby sat there, holding the letter. It wasn’t like she never got any mail, because she did—things like birthday cards from her grandparents or reminders from the dentist’s office, and every month she got something from the local 4H Club. But this letter? This was from a girl who lived in a place where a rocket could blow up the house next door, a place where avalanches echoed in the night. This was completely new.

  Abby could see how hard the girl had worked on this letter. It was like every letter of each word had been drawn by an artist instead of written by a kid. There were no cross-outs, no eraser marks, and no spelling goofs—at least, none she could spot. Amira had even spelled the word “capital” correctly.

  And Abby was amazed that a girl of ten was able to express herself so well in a foreign language. She herself knew a few words in Spanish, like “buenos días” and “mañana.” And she also knew how to say “bonjour” and “au revoir” in French. But that was it. This girl must be a genius or something.

  Best of all were the three drawings that her brother had made. They were just done with pencil on some kind of typing paper, but they were wonderful.

  The first was a picture of the girl’s family, with a name written above each person. The mother, Najia, had narrow, stooped shoulders, but she seemed strong and graceful, her hands folded lightly together in front of her, relaxed, with her mouth and chin hidden by the scarf that also covered her head. The father, Zakir, was tall and thin, with dark eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a toothy smile, his face mapped by friendly wrinkles. He wore a dark vest over a long-sleeved shirt, and some sort of flat-topped, brimless hat that came halfway over his forehead. The girl, Amira, wore a head scarf like her mother, but her face wasn’t covered. It was a sweet face, bright and open, a warm smile on her lips. Except she looked like she might be a little bit cross-eyed. And, looking more closely, it seemed to Abby as if the girl also had a runny nose. The brother’s name was Sadeed, and he stood with his arms folded and his chin high. There was a powerful set to his jaw, and his eyes looked straight ahead, fearless, almost defiant. He wore a vest and hat like his father, and was nearly as tall.

  There was also a drawing labeled “outside the front door.” In the foreground, two goats grazed on low grass beside a dirt road. A pair of women walked beyond the goats. One of them wore a long dark dress that went from the top of the head down to the ground, completely covering her face. The other one was dressed like Amira’s mom, with a long dress, a heavy coat, and a head scarf that covered everything but her eyes. The woman with the head scarf carried some kind of woven basket held against her hip with one hand. Out ahead of the women, a young boy used a short pole to steer a donkey loaded with a pile of sticks. On either side of the road, a jumble of low, flat-roofed houses staggered off into the distance. It didn’t look much like Central Street in Linsdale.<
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  And last, there was a sketch of the mountains, jagged peaks covered with snow, rising up and up, towering into the sky, making the lanes and rooftops of the village below look like an ant farm.

  Rereading the letter, then looking more carefully at each picture, Abby felt ashamed of the letter she had sent to Afghanistan. As near as she could recall, she had spent about ten minutes on it. The letter she’d gotten back was so much . . . more. This girl named Amira had obviously spent a lot of time writing it, not to mention the work her brother had done on the drawings.

  But Abby’s feeling of shame didn’t last. It was replaced almost instantly by determination. Because she decided that her next letter was going to be as good as the one she had just gotten, maybe even better.

  When Mr. Carson arrived home from work around four fifteen, he thought he would have to call Abby in from the woods. But walking through the kitchen, he discovered his daughter in the family room, hunched over the card table, with maps and papers and encyclopedias spread out, scribbling into a notebook.

  “Hi, sweetheart—what’re you working on?”

  Abby didn’t look up. “Pen pal letter. Can’t talk now.”

  Her dad smiled and went back to the kitchen to start dinner.

  CHAPTER 10

  CELEBRITY

  All the kids in the morning class knew about Amira’s second letter, the one that had just arrived from her pen pal in America. It was a few minutes before the start of the morning session on a Tuesday in April, and they crowded around her, then shushed one another as she slowly read part of the letter out loud, translating from English. When she stopped reading, they begged for more, and pushed to the front of the group to get a turn looking at the envelope.

  But not Sadeed. He sat calmly at his place on the first bench, bent over his notebook, pencil in hand.

  Najeeb punched him on the shoulder and said, “Have you seen your sister’s letter, Sadeed? The envelope? It’s huge! And the stamps? Amazing—all kinds of pictures!”

  Sadeed sniffed. “It’s fine for small children and blockheads to get worked up about something like that. I have work to do. So stop bothering me.”

  Najeeb shrugged. “Suit yourself. But one of these days your brain is going to crawl right out through your nose so it can get some time off.” And he left his friend to his studies.

  Mahmood called the class to order, but before starting the lessons, he said, “Amira, will you come to the front and talk about the letter you sent to America? And also tell us about the one you have just received.”

  Amira pretended to be shy for a moment, but then she walked right to the front of the room. And, watching from the corner of his eye, Sadeed could tell she was pleased to be the center of attention.

  “Well,” she said, “my friend in America is named Abby, and she’s two years older than I am. And she has an older brother, and a mother and a father, just like me. She lives on a farm in the middle of the United States, in a place called Illinois. And she sent me a letter first, and then I . . .”

  Amira kept talking, and all the kids in the class listened and craned their necks as she held up some photographs for them to look at.

  But not Sadeed. He stopped listening, didn’t watch. But most of all he tried not to become angry or let his feelings show on his face.

  Because it was very clear that Mahmood had chosen to send his letter to America, not Amira’s. So Amira had done almost nothing to create the fantastic letter the American girl had gotten, and now she was the one up in front of the whole class, acting like she was a great writer.

  Despite his best efforts, Sadeed couldn’t help hearing Amira as she prattled on.

  “Girls in America are sort of different, but also the same. But my friend Abby’s school is very different from ours, much bigger, too. And they have one special teacher who does nothing but teach the boys and girls how to climb straight up a wall!”

  Sadeed forced himself to stop listening again and began to recite multiplication facts inside his head. And about three minutes later he was very glad when the teacher finally made Amira shut up and sit down.

  But all morning long, whenever the teacher was busy with the older students, Amira and her friends whispered about the letter.

  And all morning long Amira was famous, and she enjoyed every moment.

  And Sadeed didn’t.

  CHAPTER 11

  A REAL PERSON

  When he and his sister got home after school at midday, Sadeed said, “I should take a look at that letter. You’ll have to send one back to her now. And I’ll have to help you with the English again.”

  Amira held the letter behind her back. “Don’t pretend not to care, my fine Sadeedy-doo. I know you want to read it. You can’t wait to see what the American girl wrote. I saw you at school, acting like it’s nothing.”

  Sadeed scowled. “Just give it here, or I’ll make you write back to her all by yourself.”

  “Very well,” Amira said with a smile, “since you’re so desperate to read it. Because she loved your pictures. And your poem.”

  She handed him the letter and skipped toward the door. “I’m going to go help Mother with her sewing. So you can be alone with your girlfriend.”

  “Don’t be a cow,” he growled. “And come back soon. You’ve got to have another letter ready to send by tomorrow.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” she said, “because I know you’re dying to hear what I’m going to tell my friend Abby this time—all about my romantic brother!” And she ducked out the door before he could answer.

  Sadeed sat on the charpoy and turned the letter over in his hands. Najeeb had not lied about the envelope. It was big, as large as a whole sheet of notebook paper. The postage stamps had been arranged in the upper right-hand corner, nine of them. It was like a miniature picture tour of life in America. One stamp featured a smiling Mickey Mouse. Another showed a baseball player. There was a painting of a crouching mountain lion, another of a silhouette of a large deer with huge antlers, another of a beautiful insect that had four wings, a big head, and a long thin tail that made it look like a helicopter. There was a stamp with an image of a girl leaping above the five rings of the Olympic Games, another of the Chrysler Building in New York City, and one that showed a close-up of a bright yellow sunflower with a dark brown center. And in the center of the group was a stamp showing an American flag in the night sky with the moon behind it. Each stamp was a small work of art, and placed together, the effect was dramatic.

  Reaching into the envelope, Sadeed pulled out three pictures that had been printed in color. The one on top was a photograph of Panjshir Province, the kind that Sadeed had seen on a TV news report, a picture taken by a satellite in space. The girl had written along the top of the page, “I love your giant mountains!”

  The second photograph showed the richest, greenest cornfield Sadeed had ever seen. A man stood at the edge of the field, and the stalks towered above his head, each plant heavy with tasseled ears of corn. Behind him the land seemed to stretch on forever, with row after of row of green and gold plants. And above the picture she had written, “This is my dad in front of our cornfield last August. Can you believe how flat it is here?? Very boring.”

  The third image was smaller than the others, a rectangle in the middle of the page. It was a family portrait, with four people standing in front of a red brick fireplace. And Sadeed knew this photo was a direct response to the drawing he had sent of his own family.

  The girl had also written a name above each person. Her father, Robert Carson, wore a white shirt open at the collar, a dark blue suit coat, and a pair of tan trousers. He had brown eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses, a high forehead, and dark brown hair. He looked happy to be with his family.

  Her mother, Joan Carson, was almost as tall as her husband. Her hair was more blond than brown, her eyes were blue, and she looked right at the camera with a confident smile, her lips red with lipstick. She was wearing a pale green jacket over a white shirt, and her t
rousers matched the jacket. In real life, Sadeed had seen only one woman dressed in trousers before, an aid worker from the United Nations who had come to the village about a year ago.

  The older brother, Tom Carson, came next, and he had a wide grin on his face, as if he had just told a joke. He looked more like his mom than his dad, with reddish blond hair, blue eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He wore a white shirt and dark trousers, and his wide shoulders and large hands made him look like he had done his share of work around the farm.

  Last, on the right side of the group, was the girl herself, Abby Carson. She wore a long-sleeved white shirt tucked into a pale blue skirt, with socks pulled up almost to her knees. She was a lot thinner than her brother, with a narrower face, slimmer shoulders. She seemed tall to Sadeed, almost as tall as he was himself. And unlike that picture from the first letter where she had been clinging to a wall, now her face was aimed right at the camera. Dark brown eyes, like her father’s. Her hair was not as dark as her dad’s, nor as light as her mom’s. She was smiling, but she seemed more annoyed than happy, no teeth showing. She looked like she couldn’t wait to go and do something else. She had her arms straight down at her sides, her hands almost clenched into fists.

  The letter itself was very different from the first one. First there was the paper, which was a rich, creamy color, and it felt thick and heavy. The handwriting was much easier to read because the American girl had used a pen with dark blue ink. This time the words had been written with care.

  And looking more closely, Sadeed was surprised. Right below the date and the greeting she had written a word in Arabic script—not made very skillfully, but it was readable:

  The word was “salaam”—which means “hello” in Dari.

  A nice thing to add, Sadeed thought. Maybe this Abby girl isn’t such a blockhead after all.