I make a turn and head into the park, taking a path that snakes through the trees and grass. The perfectly gridded streets of Manhattan disappear behind me. I have to keep my focus because I can’t afford to get lost on this winding trail. I have to be sure I go straight across the park.
I’ve been ignoring a dark thought until now. It was easy to ignore it as long as Max was with me, but now that she’s not, the thought is back. What will happen if I can’t find Auntie Seema? Will I have to turn myself in? Will I be sent to foster care? If I asked them to send me to Afghanistan, would they? How will I find my mother there? Would we have to hide there? But they can’t send me away since I’m an American. Could I sleep in the park or on the sidewalk like some of the people I’ve passed by?
Just get across the park, I tell myself. You’re almost there now.
I’ve only been walking a few minutes when I hear it. It’s the unmistakable roar of a crowd cheering. Then I see the banners and shouting friends and coolers full of sports drinks.
I sigh and walk up to the sidelines, slipping between people whose voices have started to go hoarse from cheering. Green paper cups crunch under my feet. There is no getting away from them.
How does a runaway kid cross a river of marathon runners without getting caught?
This is one riddle I don’t have an answer for.
Twenty-Three
While I’m contemplating this new problem, I feel something vibrating against me. I look around, confused, until I realize it’s coming from the backpack I’m wearing.
Max’s phone! How had I forgotten? She must have turned it on and left it on.
I unzip the bag and feel around for the phone. My fingers touch something buzzing and I pull it out. I look at the screen and see a phone number with a 212 area code.
Should I answer it?
Before I can decide, the caller has hung up. I want to turn the phone off completely but I don’t. I don’t have Auntie Seema’s phone number, and I don’t dare try to call my mother again. There’s no one I can call, but the phone still feels like a lifeline. I turn the ringer on because I might decide to pick up the phone if the number calls again. I slip it into the backpack and stare at the runners’ path between me and the west side of Manhattan. Dr. Shabani is nowhere in sight. I wonder if she’s still running or if she’s already crossed the finish line.
The man next to me clears his throat and brings a shiny trumpet to his pursed lips. Where did he come from? He starts playing some kind of fight song and I can see the runners’ faces lift, their arms pumping at their sides determinedly. I don’t know what the song is but it seems to be telling them all: Don’t you dare give up now.
I see a folding table stacked with towers of small green cups and a water cooler that’s nearly as tall as me. There are three people standing by the table, filling cups and handing them to marathoners as they go by.
Mr. Fazio once told me that necessity is the mother of invention. It means that people start getting really smart when they need to—when there’s something that’s forcing them to think creatively. I really need to get across this path—the kind of need-to that should push me to have some brilliant idea.
The trumpeter plays on. He winks at me and waves his brassy horn around as he plays. His cheeks are red and puffed out like a chipmunk’s.
Without interrupting his song, the trumpeter kicks the paper cups away from his feet. His fingers go up and down and up and down on the keys of the horn.
That’s when necessity sparks a little idea.
I head to the table and smile widely at the women as I pick up a couple of green cups. I take a deep breath and remember how Max dove into the conversation with the man walking dogs. She was fearless.
“This is the best marathon, isn’t it?” I say as one of the women looks over at me, bright eyed and cheerful.
“It sure is!” she says, beaming. “This is my fourth year volunteering here. Can’t get enough of this!”
“So inspiring!” I say. I lean toward the barriers and reach into the running path. A woman in shorts and a tank top takes a cup from me. She huffs something that sounds like thanks. I pick up another green cup and smile back at the woman at the table. She’s bopping up and down on the balls of her feet with excitement.
I squeeze through a gap between the barriers and hold the cups out to runners passing by. They disappear from my hands and I turn back to the table, reach over the barrier, and grab three more cups. I take a step farther into the running lane. After these three, I can see that there’s an empty stretch of pavement before the next wave of runners. I’m in the middle of the path, my heart pounding.
“Here’s some water. Way to go!” I yell.
“Hey, kid!” A volunteer from the table calls out to me. She’s waving her arm around, beckoning for me to come back. “You can’t be in there. Get out of their way!”
I look back at her and then raise my eyebrows.
I look around as if I hadn’t realized where I was.
“Sorry!” I shout.
I dart behind the barriers on the opposite side of the course, getting out of the way just as a runner comes around the bend. I disappear into the folds of onlookers on the other side and speed walk away from the race.
Keep your cool, I tell myself. I’m not sure my maneuver was really a success. I start practicing my reply in case a hand lands on my shoulder. I was just trying to help out.
But I march onward, not running and not walking. No one approaches me, and I cross green lawns. I pass under the broad trees that cast shades like umbrellas. I ignore the growling in my stomach and pray that I’ll be at the west border of Central Park soon. A family of geese walks past me. They look at me cautiously then veer off the asphalt path and back onto the grass.
I miss my mother.
I let my fingers graze a lamp post as I walk—the metal feels cool against my fingertips. Where is my mother now? It takes almost a day of flying to go from New York to Afghanistan. I was six years old when she told me just a little bit about leaving Afghanistan to come to the US. She was walking me to kindergarten on a rainy day.
How long did it take to fly from Afghanistan to America?
Well, when I leave my home it was Tuesday, and when I came to America it was Wednesday.
You were over the clouds for one day?
We had to stop to change planes once. But yes, for one day I was.
What was it like to be in the sky?
Peaceful. In Afghanistan, I saw what people do to the earth because everyone wants to say this is mine. They break it. Destroy it. And even when there is nothing left, they say mine-mine-mine. The sky is not like that. We cannot break the sky.
What did America look like from the sky?
My mother became quiet then, like she’d never been asked that question before.
Like something out of a dream.
A good dream?
My mother let her broken umbrella fall to her side then. She let the raindrops slide down her cheeks. My question went unanswered, carried away in a blustery moment.
I am thinking about that day when I realize I’m standing next to a stone wall. I look skyward and see the wall stretches into a tower, atop which flies a proud American flag. Ivy trails the sides of the tower the way melted ice cream oozes down the side of a cone.
I go up the steps and enter a stone castle. How have I stumbled upon a castle in the middle of New York City? I climb farther. I am on a high balcony, eye to eye with an oak tree. Tall, bright buildings loom over the treetops, but they are nowhere near this castle that seems to have fallen out of the sky and landed in the heart of this vast park.
I move deeper into the castle. It is empty of knights, empty of dragons, empty of swords and gauntlets. I look over the balcony’s low wall. On the opposite side of the castle, there are moss-covered boulders.
“Max,” I whisper, looking down at a deep and rocky drop-off. “You would love this.”
My throat is dry. I see a spiral st
aircase, but I don’t have the energy to walk to the top. I find a room with narrow windows in the stone walls and give myself permission to take a small break. It’s even cooler in here without the sun’s glow.
I sit with my back against the wall and feel the emptiness all around me.
“Look at your Shah, Mom. Here’s your king sitting in a castle. Bet you never could have imagined this.” Is this what it feels like to be a king? Did my father ever feel like a king? I have a growing list of questions I wish I could ask him.
It’s dark in the castle, but there is a small window above my head. I know what my mother would say if she were here with me, looking at the opening in the stone wall.
I am that thing that falls on water without getting wet and falls to the earth without breaking. What am I?
“You are light,” I whisper, missing my mother so much it hurts.
The soles of my sneakers are in bad shape. I’m no marathon runner, but I’ve surely put lots of miles on them today, I think. I open the backpack, wondering if there’s any chance Max has forgotten some old granola bar or a few dollar bills. When I unzip the bag, I see Max’s crumpled Statue of Liberty shirt.
“I can’t believe you got away with that.”
It feels better to talk with Max as if she’s next to me. In a small way, it feels like she still is. I put the T-shirt on my lap and turn the bag upside down. Max’s spiral-bound notebook with the striped cover and embossed M on the cover falls onto the ground and lands open. I don’t move, remembering how Max wrote in that book as she sat hunched over it. Though I know I’m reading what she thought of as private, I lean in to see what she’s written. I do it because I think this might be a way to hear her voice.
It’s a letter to herself, neatly written words in black ink.
Dear Max,
There are a few things you should know about yourself—let’s call them Max Facts. I’m writing this because I don’t know what happens after brain surgery. I want us you to remember some important things, because if you forget these, you really won’t be the Max I’ve worked so hard to become. I’m going to try to include everything that’s important. I’ll add to this whenever I can, but I just came up with this idea, and your surgery is three days away. I guess I’ve been hoping the surgery wouldn’t really happen, and you wouldn’t need this list. But I still haven’t come up with a brilliant plan to avoid surgery so this is Plan B. Here goes:
Your favorite jeans are the dark-blue ones with the pink rhinestones on the back pocket.
You hate mushrooms. You’ve made it very clear that they are closer to shower mold than they are to real vegetables. After a year of arguments, Mom and Dad have finally accepted this. Do not lose this precious ground you’ve gained.
Get sesame seed bagels instead of poppy seeds. Way better and the sesame seeds don’t get stuck in your teeth the way the poppy seeds do.
Brianna Kinsley stole your basketball in second grade. Actually, if you forget this it’s all right. She’s been pretty nice since then. I’ll leave it on this list though, because if anything else goes missing, she should be high on the list of suspects.
Mrs. Roberts predicted you’d be a rocket scientist because you are awesome at math and are in general out of this world. You think this is a very cool idea and have added Mars to the list of places you want to visit.
Dad promised you an iPad for Christmas. Mom rolled her eyes, so she may try to argue against this, but a promise is a promise.
The nurse with the red hair calls you sweetie because she can’t remember your name. It’s not because she likes you that much. Please don’t wake up that naïve.
You hate having seizures. You hate the way they make you feel just before and for a long time after. You hate the doctor appointments and the way people look at you and the way people do anything they can to NOT look at you when they find out about it. But it’s not all bad. You know a lot about the brain and medicines and tests and hospitals, and you could probably be a really good doctor if people with seizures are allowed to be doctors. I doubt it. I don’t even think they can drive, which is too bad. I think you’d look good in a convertible.
I laugh, and my voice echoes against the cool stones of the castle. I’m sad that Max had to make this list, but think it was a brilliant idea to do it. The next page is written in blue ink. I’m surprised to see my name.
Jason D is a cool guy. He’s brave. That’s actually a word you hate but it fits him, and I can’t think of anything else. Going alone to find his aunt when his mom’s just been taken away is totally brave. Actually, if you’re grounded forever when you’re reading this and people say it’s his fault, you should know that Jason D is only partly responsible for that. You decided to go with him when you heard his crazy-but-not-so-crazy plan. You should also know that as scary and hard as this day has been, you don’t regret it for one minute. You’re finally going to the zoo and you’ve got a new friend with an amazing story.
I remember Max taking her notebook out while we were sitting on the rocks by the pond. Is that when she wrote this about me? There’s a lump in my throat. Max thinks I’m brave and I think I’m terrified. Which one of us is right? I don’t know, but her words make me think I have a chance.
You want a French bulldog. (Cats are not to be trusted. Ask Mom to tell you how you got the scar on your left forearm.)
Please don’t think this is everything. There are way more than ten important Max Facts, but now you’re on the run and there isn’t much time to write. Please try to hold on to the important stuff during the surgery. Please.
I close the notebook, missing Max even more. I hope that, whatever happens, she doesn’t change one bit.
Twenty-Four
I hear voices approaching so I throw everything into Max’s backpack and steal out of the castle, ignoring my hunger pains.
It doesn’t take long before I reach the end of the park. I step onto the sidewalk and see cars streaming down yet another busy avenue. There’s a man selling hot dogs out of a metal pushcart with a yellow-and-red umbrella. There are a few parked trucks behind him, the vehicles plastered with oversize menus. The sides facing the sidewalk have wide windows where people can place orders and pick up food. One truck has a picture of a great big taco on it. Another is painted in red, white, and blue stripes with La Casita written across the side, and a third has Kebab Express in green block letters. They all smell delicious and make my mouth water, so I turn away.
Across the street, I see another huge building. It looks something like the art museum we saw on the east side of the park. This building has four soaring columns at the entrance and a statue of a man on a horse in front of it. There’s a flag hanging from the light post on the curb.
American Museum of Natural History.
I know this museum. I haven’t been inside, but my mom and I watched a movie once that showed all the exhibits of the museum coming to life at night. The movie was funny and, to be honest, I pulled out some of my old action figures and stood them on my dresser, right next to a picture of my father, before I went to bed that night. I wanted them all to come to life while I slept.
I walk in the direction I’m hoping will lead me back to Seventy-Fourth Street. I’m relieved to see a sign for Seventy-Seventh Street. At least I know I’m on the right track and just three blocks away from Auntie Seema’s street. I keep my eyes straight ahead and cross three crosswalks without drawing much attention.
There’s a kiosk on the corner of Seventy-Fourth Street. The man inside the booth is talking on the phone, a small wired earbud in his left ear. I eye the bags of chips and boxes of candy greedily. I would give just about anything for a bag of pretzels right now. I walk a little closer, as if hoping the man inside the booth will offer me a free snack.
As I inch my way over to the stand, a stack of newspapers catches my eye. I freeze when I see AFGHANISTAN in big bold letters splayed across the front page. I pick up the newspaper.
VIOLENT ATTACK IN AFGHANISTAN
My stomach drops. I read on. I skim the columns for words I recognize, for any clue about where my mother might be.
Kabul was battered by yet another brutal attack . . .
. . . warlords refuse to participate in peace talks . . .
. . . at least forty casualties . . .
. . . civilians rush to local hospitals to donate blood . . .
“This is no library.”
The newspaper drops from my hands. I look up and see the man inside the booth staring at me with little patience.
“You want newspaper?” he says with a slight accent.
“Right, sorry,” I say as I straighten the newspaper on the stack. If my mother is being sent to Afghanistan, she’ll be sent to Kabul. That’s where this front-page blast was. I walk away from the stand, trying not to picture the kind of explosion that would have killed forty people.
Once I turn down Seventy-Fourth Street, I look for Auntie Seema’s building, my eyes scanning right and left down the block. I make it one block before I have to stop. I am breathing hard and fast, and it feels like someone’s hands are wrapped around my neck. I sit next to a pile of cardboard boxes.
Brutal attack . . . hospitals overwhelmed . . . donate blood.
How was my mother going to live in a place like that? I bury my face in my hands and groan.
The pile of cardboard boxes shifts, and I jump.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” shouts an unshaven man with a camouflage jacket and filthy-looking cargo pants. A knit skull cap covers his head and forehead. “You can’t just sit there!”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry . . .”
“You crying? Are you crying?” he asks, as if he can’t believe his eyes.
“No!” I say quickly.
“No one out of diapers should be crying. That’s what my momma used to tell me.”
I nod, and wonder what will happen if I start walking away. I peek at the long cardboard box he just came out of and see a couple of plastic bags tied closed and a frayed green comforter. There’s a coffee mug with a gold star on the side. In it are two pens, a toothbrush, and a pair of glasses. He’s got a couple of newspapers in there too. I’ve seen people on the street asking for money before. My mom usually gives them whatever change she has in her pockets or a dollar.
The Sky at Our Feet Page 13