“I don’t know,” I mumble. We stand together to listen for Basir’s orders. Since he’s the tallest boy in the older class, he’s the captain. I stare down at our sandals, a collage of leather, rubber, and plastic. None look new, so mine, hand-me-downs from my cousin, blend right in.
“Reeeeeaddy?” the boys call out to us. They’re in a loose cluster on the other end of the schoolyard. My heart pounds.
“Boys, grab your feet,” Basir commands. “Here we go!”
I lock fingers with toes, my shoulder tight as I reach behind me. I wobble and look around to see if anyone notices. They all look steady on their feet, as if there are magic rods running down their spines that keep their bodies upright.
“Attaaaack!” The battle cry rings out, carrying across the yard and overpowering the sounds of the girls.
“Get him!”
“Watch out—on your left!”
I hop to my right, my left arm flailing, and wishing for a solid chunk of air to steady myself. Basir is just a few feet away.
How are they doing this?
If I can keep a good distance from Basir, I may be able to stay out of the action. That’s the strategy I’m going with. I tighten my grip and dig my fingers into the front of my sandal.
I take a few hops forward, a zigzag from where I started. They are on us now. Ten boys taking small hops toward us, shoulders and elbows jutting out as they near my team. The clash begins and boys start bouncing off one another.
“Get him!”
I watch Basir take a few steps forward. Two boys from the other side have been knocked out, falling onto their backsides. I watch them rise and walk over to the sidelines, faces sour.
I direct my attention forward again, reminding myself not to pivot. That’s when the boy with the W-I-Z-A-R-D-S hat catches my eye. He’s staring directly at me, as if there’s no one else in the yard.
I bounce in the direction of my teammates, unsettled by his glare.
But he comes straight at me, ignoring the tangle of boys. He rounds his way to me just as I try to bury myself amid my team. I’m not quick enough.
“Look out!”
He’s a few inches taller than me, and his eyes are narrowed. His hair is shaggy and uneven. He drives his shoulder into my side, charging at me with a loud grunt. I gasp, my hand slipping from my foot before he even makes contact with my body. I fall to the ground, hands outstretched.
“Got you!” he calls out triumphantly.
“You dog!” I scream. I am angry and frustrated and my hands burn from hitting the earth.
He laughs then turns his attention to the rest of my team, who have, by now, made it halfway across the yard and are completely unaware that I’ve been knocked out. His friends cheer him on as he knocks out two more boys. I am too frustrated to move. Why has my mother sent me out into the world like this? I don’t have what it takes. How could she not see that?
It is easy to dance like a boy. Boys sway side to side and raise their arms like they’re hoisting a trophy. That’s all they have to do. But everything else about being a boy is hard because it’s so different from being a girl. Trying to act like a boy is like learning a whole new language, and I am really struggling to find the words. If I start to cry, there will be absolutely no hope for me.
I’m brought out of my self-pity abruptly. The boys are shouting. My team has been toppled, every last one of them, even Basir. The W-I-Z-A-R-D-S boy, who knocked me over, has ripped through my classmates like a vengeful tornado. He will look my way. I should stand.
I can’t get to my feet fast enough. I am a tangle of clumsy joints and wimpy muscles. Why did I ever think I could do this? I watch the boy. He is grinning triumphantly. His friend throws an arm around his neck in a playful headlock.
The boy in the gray pantaloons takes off his W-I-Z-A-R-D-S cap. He steals a look over his shoulder and stares directly at me. His eyes are sharp, and his hair catches the sun’s light. His lips tighten at the disappointing sight of me.
I am still on the ground.
Seven
I carefully tear the last page from my composition notebook and write the letters out.
W-I-Z-A-R-D-S.
I try to say the word. Why-zar-dis. What could it possibly mean? I take the slip of paper and bring it to my sister Neela. She is sweeping the living room.
“Neela, can you read this word?”
She looks grateful for an excuse to prop the broom against the wall.
“Which word?” She takes the paper from my hand and stares at it long and hard. I think her eyes might scorch a hole through the letters. “Where did you see it?”
Neela knows a bit more English than I do because she’s gone to school longer and has had more English classes. She’s almost finished with high school. I can tell from the look on her face that she’s not all that sure what the word means.
“If you don’t know, don’t make something up,” I warn.
“I wasn’t going to,” she says, but her eyelids are blinking up a storm, so I know she’s not being completely honest. “I can’t remember what it means. I can ask my English teacher. Where did you see it?”
“Nowhere,” I say, turning my face. I may not blink my eyes, but I’m pretty sure I have some other tic that will give me away. “I mean, I can’t remember where I saw it. I was just wondering.”
“You’re acting weird,” my sister tells me.
“Not as weird as you,” I shoot back. Neela huffs and turns her back to me. I walk away quickly, trying to get away from the words she’s just said. I am acting strangely, but I don’t want to tell my sister that I’m scared of a boy at school. I don’t want her to know that after years of shooting my mouth off at home and playing the part of the heroic film star, I am uncomfortable with my new life in pants and I’m afraid that a boy at school is out to get me. I don’t want to sound that pathetic, so I keep it to myself.
I force myself to concentrate in class. My teacher has her eye on me. With my behavior, I’ve been marked as the one to watch.
“Obayd!” she calls out.
I sit up straight. “Yes?”
“Come and solve the problem on the board.” She holds out a stick of chalk. I rise from my spot on the floor and slide behind my classmates. I stare at the blackboard as I approach it.
She has written the number fifteen on the board.
“There are five people in your home, let’s just say. And there are eighteen apples in a box.” I nod, wanting her to know I am paying attention. My neck feels hot as I stand with my back to the rest of the students.
“You must divide the apples up so everyone has an equal share. How many will each person get and how many apples will be left over once you’ve divided them up?” She rubs her fingers together to get the chalk dust off.
“Speak as you solve the problem. Tell the class what you’re doing.”
The answer is simple. She’s not really testing my math skills, I realize. She’s testing me.
I bite my lip and think for a second. There is snickering behind me.
“If there are five people in the home . . . then . . . then . . .”
I press the stick of chalk to the board. My hand is shaking as I try to draw a line below the number she’s written. Under the pressure the chalk lets out a hair-raising screech. Hands fly up and cover ears. I cringe too.
“Class, that’s enough!”
I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. Are they staring at my legs? Are they imagining me with girl hair and realizing I’m a fraud?
“Obayd, we are waiting. Explain to the class how you would solve the problem.”
I remind myself to breathe. All I can think is that there is a classroom full of eyes staring at me. I wonder how many of them know what I really am. I don’t care about the apples. They can divide themselves.
“Forgive me, teacher.”
“For what?”
I look her directly in the eye and place the piece of chalk in her hand. I hear whispers. She see
s tears in my eyes and says nothing. She watches me return to my spot on the floor. The boy next to me looks at me, baffled. It’s unheard-of to disobey a teacher. I brace myself.
“Class, what has happened here?” Her arms are folded across her chest.
Responses come flying in. I feel like I’m back on the field, getting knocked around by one-legged opponents.
“Obayd’s not very good at math.”
“He’s scared of chalk.”
“Maybe he’s never had an apple.”
Hands clap over mouths to dampen the laughter.
I want to shrink into my clothes like a turtle.
Our teacher takes control of the conversation. She slaps a ruler against the wall three times and clears her throat.
“Knowing something is useless if you cannot share what you know. It’s almost like not knowing it at all. Obayd may very well be able solve the problem or even more complicated ones, but if he cannot tell us what he knows, we are left to think the worst.”
There is quiet in the room. I am filled with hatred for this teacher, knowing she set me up to fail.
Recess comes and I am, for the first time, relieved to get out of my classroom. At least outside, I can move away from the gawkers. But I am barely outside the double doors when I feel something slam against me from behind. I stumble and can’t catch myself. I’m on the ground.
I look back and see W-I-Z-A-R-D-S.
The other students are running past us. We are in an uneven face-off that no one else seems to notice.
“Get up,” he says flatly. I can’t see his eyes. They’re hidden by the rim of his cap. From this close, I can see the red threads of the letters. They’re wildly frayed and remind me of Meena’s unruly hair.
“What do you want from me?” I blurt out angrily.
“Now, there’s something,” he says, his lips curled in a sly smile. He keeps his eyes on me as I get to my feet slowly.
“What’s your problem? Just leave me alone.” I brush my hands against the seat of my pants.
“What’s your name?” He is unfazed by my attitude.
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because I bothered to ask. Has anyone else done that?”
No one else has.
“You’re not having an easy time with it. That’s pretty clear.”
“With what?”
There it is again—that awkward feeling of being naked right here in the schoolyard. Instinctively, I hunch my shoulders forward and start to cave in on myself. My eyes focus on a pebble and my lips tighten into a knot.
“There it is. That’s how I knew.”
“Knew what?”
He leans in. His face is so close that I can see the spidery blood vessels in the whites of his eyes. He’s about three years older than me and very intimidating. I pull back and turn my shoulder to him. If I can see that much of him, he can see even more of me. He smirks, hands on his hips. He is standing with his feet apart and his back straight. He is strong and confident and the opposite of me. I hate myself for being so meek.
“You’re one.”
I hold my breath. If he knows, I wish he would just say it. Maybe he’s not sure and he wants me to admit it. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction. But I can’t tell what he knows, and I’m not sure what to do.
“Get out of my face,” I hiss and start to walk away. That seems to be all I know how to do today.
“I know what you are,” he calls out behind me. The simple words make the short hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
Eight
I think about him all weekend. I dread going back to school because I know what awaits me there. Inside the classroom things are bad, and outside the classroom things are even worse. I can’t talk to my mother about anything. Just a few days ago, I overheard her telling one of my aunts that she wasn’t sure if she’d done the right thing by making me a bacha posh. And the last time I tried to talk to her about being a bacha posh, she got so anxious that she didn’t even seem to be making sense.
My sisters can’t help me. Things have totally changed at home. My parents act as if they have no idea that I’m a girl. My mother’s been sliding the biggest chunks of meat my way, and sometimes there’s none left for my sisters. Alia whines and pouts, but Neela just shakes her head. I haven’t washed any dishes or swept the floor in almost a month. The chores I used to do have been divided up among my sisters. This bacha posh thing has put a big wall between us.
Alia and Meena are in our bedroom. Meena is braiding Alia’s hair as they sing.
“Meena, do you want to watch a movie?” There is electricity today, and it’s been so long since we used our precious DVD player. When we were in Kabul, my sisters and I would borrow DVDs from anyone who had them and watch anything we could get our hands on. “You remember, Meena, the one where the father dresses up like an old woman so he can play with his kids.”
“That movie was ridiculous,” she says. She shoots me a skeptical look. “It made absolutely no sense. What man would ever dress up as a woman?”
Meena has a point but I don’t want to admit it. Even if it’s not at all a believable story, it made me laugh, especially when he was cooking and the stove set his fake breasts on fire.
“Oh, his voice was so funny. And his lady stockings!” Alia is giggling at the thought of it. Meena tugs at Alia’s braid as if to rein her in.
“Fine, then what can we do? We’ve all finished our homework. Do you want to go sit in the courtyard? Maybe play jacks?”
“O-bayd,” she says, making her mouth a perfect circle to say the first syllable of my name. It’s dramatic, which is not usually her thing but I guess things can change. “If you want to go and play outside, then you should do it. You can do it. We’re staying inside because we have to help Madar and listen in case our father needs anything, and we might have to help Neela, too. Since you don’t have to do any of that stuff, you should go out and play whatever you want.”
“Meena, what’s wrong with you? I just asked if you wanted to do something.” Meena is testy, like she’s mad about something but won’t say what it is so it comes out in different shapes and colors. I don’t think she’s really mad about me going outside into the courtyard. Alia looks over at Meena. She noticed too.
“I want to go—”
“Well, you can’t!” Meena snaps. She shuts Alia down like a lid slammed on a pot. Alia hunches forward, her brows knitted together in frustration. The younger you are in a home, the worse you have it. There are just that many more people who can tell you what you should or shouldn’t do. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard my grandmother say, God have mercy on the youngest in the house.
“Meena, leave her alone!”
Meena glares at me.
“Stay out of it. We sisters are talking. Go and do your . . . your . . . your boy stuff!” Meena’s seething as if this was something I chose.
Alia keeps her mouth shut. It’s no fun being in the middle, either.
“Leave that meat for Obayd. Let Obayd go and play. Fold Obayd’s clothes,” she says, mimicking my mother. “As if we don’t know that Obayd is not really OBAYD!”
“It’s not my fault, Meena,” I whisper. It is an awful feeling to think your sister is starting to hate you. “It’s not what I wanted. I’m not even good at it.”
I turn to leave the room. Just as I hit the hallway, I hear Meena call after me, but I don’t go back even though she sounds like she’s sorry for what she said.
The next morning, I’m back in class ready to be humiliated again, but my teacher does not call on me. She has a new victim, a boy not as timid as me but much worse at math. To act like you know the answer and then get it totally wrong is even worse, I think. It looks as though my teacher agrees.
I wish that could happen to the boy with the hat. I wish I could find a way to knock that smug look off his face. He knows what I am, but he did not scream it out to the others. Maybe he’s telling the boys in whispers I don’t hear
. Maybe they’ll all be staring at me when I get out there today. It won’t take long for word to travel.
I hit the playground with the others. I think of what I might say if anyone asks me if I’m a girl. He’s here. He sees me. No, he doesn’t just see me. He’s gloating over me, looking at me like I’m an algebra equation and he’s already figured out the value of x. I want to scream.
“Hey, boy!” he yells out. He walks toward me. My hands ball up, not into fists, but into things I will use to cover my eyes if I start crying. With the way my sisters have been acting, I’m starting to feel really lonely.
“Why did you turn around?” he asks me.
“Didn’t you call me?”
“You answer to boy? Are you a boy?” His tone is sarcastic, teasing, and there’s no perfect reply to his question.
“What do you want? Why do you have such a problem with me?”
He laughs, big enough that I see his teeth and the pink of his mouth. I hate that I’m shorter. Even when I’m not on the ground, I’m always looking up at this boy. I lower my eyes to his knees.
“I’m not the one who has a problem with you,” he says snidely.
“You’re not? Then who is?”
“You. You’re the one that has a problem with you.”
“Stupid. What do you know?” My words sound ridiculously small, like I’m throwing pebbles at a mountain.
“Little boy,” he whispers. “I don’t think any part of you is a boy.”
He gives me a quick shove. I’m not expecting it and fall back a step. He grunts.
“You see how easily you fall? You stand like you’re not sure you should be here. Are you supposed to be here, Obayd?”
“You . . . you know my name.”
“Yes, I know your name.”
“How do you know my name?” I’m puzzled. He is older than me. Not enough that we can’t play ghursai together, but enough that he shouldn’t care to know my name or anything else about me. Other than being someone to knock over on the schoolyard, I should be invisible to him. But I’m not.
“And why are you staring at my feet? Look at me.” With a quick chuck under my chin, he flips my gaze upward. Our eyes meet.
One Half from the East Page 4