Extra Credit

by Andrew Clements

  And when I see a green field like the one in the picture you sent, I do not think it is flat and boring there. One field like that would possibly feed all the people and animals in my village for a whole winter. That field is beautiful, like a smile of God.

  But since you like our mountains, I have sent you one. A small piece of one. Just a grain of stone, really. But if you put it with the pointed end up, and get your eyes down very close to it, you can see it is a tiny mountain. I picked it up today far from the road. And I think no other person in all of time has ever touched that stone until I picked it up and put it into the envelope with your name on it. So you will be just the second person to ever hold it.

  One last thing. This is a secret letter. No one must know I have sent it, and please, you must not write a letter back to me. But I will listen to hear if you say anything to me in the letters you send to Amira.

  And I hope you do not think I am being improper to speak to you this way. With respect, and with all hopes for your good health and happiness, Sadeed Bayat

  As Abby finished reading Sadeed’s letter, her heart was racing. And she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps just because the letter was such a surprise. But also because it was a secret.

  She quickly read it again, and then looked in the envelope for the piece of stone he mentioned. Something had made little dents in the paper of the envelope, but it was empty. And there was no stone on the countertop, either.

  She stood still a moment, mentally replaying how she had torn open the envelope and pulled out the paper. Then she got down on her hands and knees, her eyes aimed straight down. And the search began.

  Muddy footprints. Crumbs from a muffin. Dried drips of orange juice. A shriveled green pea. A dusting of flour at the end of the counter where her mom had rolled out some biscuits.

  But no rocks or pebbles. Not even any grains of sand.

  Abby dashed to the mudroom, zipped open her green backpack, and took out her flashlight. Back in the kitchen, she turned off the overhead light so the floor was more shadowed, then stretched out flat on her stomach, pressing her left cheek against the vinyl tile. She lay the flashlight horizontal to the floor, and clicked it on. Keeping the bright beam flat and low, she scanned slowly from left to right. Five feet away, next to the leg of the breakfast table, she saw a tiny bump. She got to her knees and stumped over, keeping the light aimed at it. And she picked it up between her left thumb and pointer finger.

  It was a piece of rock no bigger than half a kernel of corn.

  Kneeling beside the table, she placed the stone near the edge and looked to see if it had a point. Yes. She turned it until the point faced upward. And bending over so her eyes were level with the tabletop, she squinted. And there it was, plain as day: a small mountain.

  She picked up the tiny stone, got to her feet, and walked back to the counter. She put it into the envelope, then moved it around to see if it matched up with any of the dents in the paper.

  Perfect fit, first try.

  So now there was absolutely no doubt. Sadeed Bayat had picked up this very same little piece of rock. And he had sent it halfway around the Earth. To her.

  And in the entire history of the world, exactly two people had touched this fragment of the Hindu Kush mountains: first Sadeed Bayat, and now Abby Carson.

  Right then and there, Abby knew she was not going to hang this letter up on the bulletin board at school. No way. This one was personal. Plus, Sadeed had asked her to keep it a secret.

  She opened the drawer next to the stove, pulled out a plastic zipper bag, and put in the envelope, the little rock, and the letter from Sadeed. For safekeeping.

  And before she even got herself a snack, Abby ran upstairs to her bedroom, sat down at her desk, pushed aside the dictionary and the drill sheets from last night’s vocabulary study, and grabbed a pen and a blank piece of paper.

  She put the point of the pen on the paper, but then stopped. She leaned back and looked up at the corkboard on the wall above her desk. That was where she’d hung the four pencil drawings, the ones that had come in her first letter from Afghanistan. She looked at the family portrait, and at the boy standing on the far right side of the group, his arms folded, a confident look in his eye. And she couldn’t help smiling a little.

  Looking down, she wrote the date on the paper. Below the date she wrote, “Dear Amira,” just like always. And thinking ahead, she knew she would be writing Amira’s name on the envelope, too, just like before.

  But in the letter itself, this time she would be speaking not only to the girl, but also to her brother, Sadeed.

  And as she began the first sentence, Abby knew she was going to have to write two letters: one letter to send to Afghanistan, and another one that she could put up on the bulletin board at school. Without feeling embarrassed.

  CHAPTER 14

  CONNECTED

  As the month of April ticked by, Sadeed wished more and more that he hadn’t given his own letter to the bus driver that day. And if he could have taken it back, he would have. But the thing was done, and that was that. Now there was nothing to do but wait and see what would happen.

  And why had he done this? Sadeed knew why, and he didn’t like facing the truth about that. The main reason? Pride. And vanity. He wanted that American girl to know that he was the real letter writer, that they were mostly written by him, Sadeed Bayat. Because he didn’t want Amira getting all the credit for his fine English and his excellent writing.

  And another reason? Truthfully? Because it was a little dangerous. Because it was almost forbidden. And also because it was something new, something modern. Maybe the village elders would not give him a scholarship to go and study in Kabul, but he could still make his own connection beyond the village of Bahar-Lan.

  And really, he reasoned to himself, doesn’t my teacher want me to be independent? And modern? Didn’t he want me to be writing the letters to that girl in the first place? I know he did—I heard him say so right out loud!

  And Sadeed remembered also that it was Mahmood who had been giving him extra books to read, books that were not on the approved list from the Ministry of Education. And Sadeed had read them, understanding that his teacher was taking a risk to let him do so. Sadeed didn’t even tell Najeeb about these books. Or anyone else.

  These were books written in English, books from Britain and America. Sadeed had read Robinson Crusoe, and he had loved it—even though the shipwrecked sailor was a Christian and read from a Bible all the time. Still, he was a good man, and he was honorable.

  And he had read The Adventures of Robin Hood, and he had loved it—even though the good King Richard had been away in the Holy Land fighting the Saracens in the Crusades. But Robin Hood and his men? Noble. And Maid Marian? Beautiful and brave. And the Sheriff of Nottingham? A truly evil man.

  The most modern book he had read in English was called Hatchet, an adventure story about a boy who had to survive on his own in a harsh wilderness. Sadeed had barely been able to breathe as he’d read that book, and he started wishing the story would never end when he was only halfway done.

  And right now he was reading another novel, a difficult book called Kim, about a British boy in India who traveled about as a spy during the days when Britain had ruled that whole part of the world. Including Afghanistan.

  All these books were so different from the books that were officially approved for English language instruction. And who decided those books would be good for me? Sadeed asked himself. My teacher, that’s who. So is it any wonder that I wanted to write my own letter to someone on the other side of the world? Of course not.

  And the letter he had sent to Abby the American? It was a bridge, a link. Not like using the Internet or a cell phone, of course. But still, it was real, a solid connection.

  So on the Tuesday morning when the teacher handed Amira the new letter that had just arrived from America, this time Sadeed didn’t try to pretend he wasn’t interested. As his sister opened it, he raised his hand, and when M
ahmood nodded, he stood up and said, “I would be happy to read my sister’s letter out loud so that all the class could hear it.”

  Mahmood smiled and said, “And please, translate the letter from English into Dari as you read, so everyone can understand.”

  Amira slapped the letter into his hand and gave him a sour look.

  Sadeed walked to the front of the room and tried to look confident. But translating from English this way? In front of everyone? But he began, speaking in Dari, slowly and carefully.

  “Dear Amira,

  I hope things are good for you there in Bahar-Lan. Thank you for your last letter. It made me happy, to hear about how you shared what I wrote with your friends at school. I have been doing that too. In my classroom, I put a copy of all my letters to you up on the wall. And then I also put up the letters you send back. It’s part of the project I am doing. And the other kids here have started to pay attention now—thanks mostly to your good letters back to me. And the great drawings you sent.

  I’m sorry that I keep talking and talking about your mountains, talking about how they are so wonderful, and how they would be so much fun to climb. Because I’ve done some more reading about mountain climbers, like about this group of British climbers in the Himalayas, where one man died in a storm and another had to have both his legs cut off from frostbite. So I understand that mountains can also kill people. And mountain climbing isn’t always fun. And it’s never easy.

  Still, I think I just love the idea of climbing itself, of going up higher and higher, and being able to see so far away. When I climb on the wall here in my gym, two other people hold the safety rope for me, in case I fall. And they have really saved my life when I have slipped, right here in my school gym class. Anyway, I don’t want to talk on and on about climbing.

  But I also like all the different kinds of rope and the other equipment climbers use. And I love learning how to tie knots. There’s this great knot called the Alpine Butterfly that makes a loop in the middle of a rope. It’s simple, and it could save a climber’s life. Very cool. And there’s one called the Prusik knot, and you attach it onto a another rope. And you can use two Prusik knots with loops for going up or down on a rope, sort of like an inchworm. And then there are the metal links called carabiners, and all kinds of little clamps and wedges. So I like that part of it too. Sorry. I’m still talking about climbing. I’ll stop now. I promise.

  Here where I live the soil is so rich, and the crops here love to grow—as long as there’s enough rain. On my family’s land we grow mostly corn. The planting ended just a few days ago, because the last week of April is the right time to get the seeds into the ground.

  Anyway, this boy I know is really smart, and he had this idea that I could send you something. So I’m doing that.

  And what I’ve sent is a spoonful of Illinois soil in a little plastic bag.”

  Sadeed stopped reading and reached into the envelope. He pulled out the plastic bag and held it up a moment.

  “And if you pour out the soil, then press it flat, and get your eyes down close to it, it will be like looking at our fields right now, when it’s all just dark, flat dirt. Not like one of your mountains, with its point up in the sky.

  I picked up this dirt way back in the woods near my new tree fort. Because my friend had that idea too, that I could send you something that no other person had ever touched before.

  I really like that idea, that of all the people who have ever lived on the Earth, I am the very first one to touch this spoonful of soil. And now you are the second one. And then maybe your family, or kids in your class.

  It’s the kind of thing that makes you think. And my friend is so clever to have thought of this. And I’m going to thank him the next time we talk. But we don’t talk a lot. Because it’s not like he’s my boyfriend or anything. Because I don’t have a boyfriend. Because I really don’t think—”

  “Sadeed,” the teacher said abruptly, “we thank you very much for your excellent reading. But now we must get on with our lessons.” And he came and took the letter and the envelope and the soil and tucked everything into his vest.

  Sadeed quickly took his seat on the front bench, then bent down, picked up his notebook, and opened it, flipping from page to page, eyes on the paper, looking very busy.

  Sadeed was glad Mahmood had stopped him. He felt sure his face looked as red as pomegranate juice.

  Because from the first words of the letter, he had felt as if Abby was speaking almost completely to him, answering his letter, point by point. But not so anyone else would know. She was plenty smart, this girl.

  And she didn’t have a boyfriend.

  At that thought, Sadeed felt his face blush an even deeper shade of red.

  As the lessons began, Sadeed hoped that at the end of the school day, his teacher would give Amira her letter back.

  Because he couldn’t wait to read the rest of it.

  And then write a reply.

  For Amira.

  CHAPTER 15

  FLAG

  Amira began walking home with friends after school let out at noon, so Sadeed ran ahead. In his vest pocket was Abby’s new letter, which his teacher had given to him as he left the classroom—along with a frown. And Sadeed knew that one day soon, his teacher would want to have a talk with him about his letter writing. But today, right now, he had a new message in his pocket from his friend in America.

  Instead of following the main road to his father’s house near the other end of the village, as he passed the front wall of Akbar Khan’s compound, Sadeed turned left and walked along next to the high mud brick wall. Once behind the compound, there was only a scattering of houses, and the rocky land rose to a low ridge and then dropped away. He walked until he reached a path he knew, a shortcut that ran downhill, across a brook, then up to the ridge again close to home.

  A week of bright, sunny days had melted a lot of the snow, so the path was mostly clear. He began to trot because he wanted to get home and finish reading the letter—before Amira showed up and claimed it.

  Sadeed was headed downhill on the rocky path at a good clip when, just before he reached the brook, a stocky man stepped from behind an outcrop, blocked his way, then caught him by the arm before he could change direction.

  “Ho there, speedy one. Where are you going in such a hurry?”

  He spoke in Pashto, a language used by a lot of Afghans. His voice was deep and thick, and he had a firm grip on Sadeed’s arm. His turban drooped down to the middle of his forehead, and his neck scarf was pulled up to cover his chin and nose. Only the eyes showed, shining hard and dark, framed by the upper edges of the man’s beard. He had a big leather rucksack slung over one shoulder, and immediately Sadeed realized it was large enough to be hiding a rifle.

  Trying not to show his fear, Sadeed thought fast. And then he replied, also speaking Pashto, “I’ve just come from the house of Akbar Khan. He does business with my father, Zakir Bayat. And I’m late for work at my father’s shop. He’s expecting me.”

  All these things were true, and anyone from within a hundred kilometers would respect the name of Akbar Khan. But the man kept hold of his arm.

  “Well then,” he said with a laugh, “they will both be happy that I’ve caught you, because I was sure you were going to trip and fall into that brook. Might have broken your neck. Or worse. And I’m sure both those fine gentlemen would want you to show some gratitude to the man who just saved you. Perhaps give him some food. Even a little money.” Using his free hand, he began to pat Sadeed’s pockets. “What’s this?”

  And before Sadeed could pull back, the man plucked the letter out of his vest.

  “Aha, a letter,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Heavy. Must be important.”

  As he turned the envelope over, his eyes flashed and his fingers dug into Sadeed’s arm like a steel trap.

  He cursed, then made a sound, as if he were spitting. “The flag of America? You have business with the people who pollute our land and mur
der us? Do you spy for them? In Helmand a boy like you was hanged by the neck for having American money in his pocket. Did you know that? And my friends would do the same to you. We should go visit them, you and this flag.”

  “It’s—it’s not my letter,” Sadeed stammered. “It’s to a girl—look.”

  The man squinted at the envelope, and Sadeed realized instantly that he couldn’t read English. So he quickly pointed at the address and said, “See, it’s to a girl named Amira.”

  The man nodded as if he had read it. “And who is Amira?”

  “Just a girl,” Sadeed said. “And the letter came from some other girl no one knows . . . and . . . and that girl wrote to Amira first. At school.”

  The man made the spitting sound again. “Girls in this village go to school? Just like in America! Shameful!” And he let go of Sadeed’s arm, quickly ripped the letter once, then twice again, and threw the pieces to the ground.

  Sadeed took off like a rabbit. He dodged the man’s grasp, leaped the brook, and was halfway up the little hill before the last bits of torn paper had fluttered to the ground.

  “That’s right—run, boy,” the man called. “And tell this Amira and the other girls to stay at home where they should. And tell that foreign girl her letters are not welcome here.”

  Sadeed looked back over his shoulder. The man had vanished—but a moment later he saw his turban bobbing among the rocks as he picked his way along the path that followed the stream up into the mountains.

  Getting a fix on the man’s location, Sadeed did a quick mental calculation. He turned, took a deep breath, and dashed down the hill. He jumped the brook, stooped down, picked up every scrap of paper, and then grabbed the ripped plastic bag of soil. He glanced up—the man was still making his way uphill.