The Eleventh Trade

by Alyssa Hollingsworth

  I slide into a chair at an unused computer. It still feels exciting—the musty smell of books and carpet, the ease of internet that actually works. Google loads so fast I hardly have time to open my phone’s note app before a list of results about pawnshops fills the monitor.

  Turns out, a pawnshop is a place where people can sell stuff for money. According to one article, stolen goods can be sold at a pawnshop—that’s one of the risks the owner takes when he makes a purchase. So it seems possible our rebab ended up in a shop like that.

  I run a map search and find about forty pawnshops in the Boston area. My heart sinks a little. But it’s something, and that’s more than I had this morning. I copy down the nearest address onto my phone.

  The computer next to mine is taken by someone, but I don’t look over, and he doesn’t say anything. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him pull up Tetris and begin to play.

  Once I finish typing out the addresses of the first ten pawnshops, I stick my phone into my backpack. My Manchester United key chain hangs from the zipper. It’s metal painted gold and red. The crest of a crowned lion spins in the middle. Baba bought it for me when the team beat Liverpool last year. And suddenly I realize: The Champions League final was yesterday. Baba and I forgot!

  I open a new tab and type in a search. Maybe if Manchester United won, it will help Baba feel better. At the very least, I can read the match news and tell him everything about it tonight.

  I open the first article that comes up, and right there in bold font is the headline Final Faux Pas: Pitiful Penalties Cost United Champions League Glory.

  Barely keeping in a groan, I scan the article. A video plays automatically while I’m scrolling, and I stop reading to watch. It’s the penalty kick. Manchester’s man lines up the shot, the one that should have taken the game. But as he prepares to kick, I can already tell what he’s going to do. This player always kicks to the far right—I know it; the goalie knows it. This time is no different. The goalie catches the ball easily, and just like that, they’ve lost.

  This time I really do groan, rubbing a hand over my face in frustration. I mutter, “He should have at least tried to fake the keeper.”

  “Yeah,” says the kid next to me. “That was terrible.”

  I jump. I hadn’t realized the kid was watching my screen. His hair is spiked with gel, and he’s wearing a T-shirt with three yellow triangles on it. Even now, he’s watching while the video plays over again.

  He adds, “I would’ve done a Panenka, definitely. That could have carried the game.”

  A Panenka is a pretty daring move—where the player tricks the goalie into moving right or left, then shoots the ball down the middle. As I look again at the video, I see how it would have worked. “You’re right. See?” I point to a moment when the goalie veers a fraction to the side. “He would have gone right and missed it.”

  The kid looks impressed. “Hey, aren’t we in language arts together?”

  Now that he says it, I realize he does kind of seem familiar. I nod.

  “Cool. Have you ever played—”

  Before he can finish, someone drops into the chair on the other side of him, elbowing him. In an undertone, the guy whispers, “Hey, Dan, what are you doing after practice?”

  While the first kid—Dan—is distracted, I grab my backpack, sign off of the computer, and slip out of the library. Dan doesn’t even notice.

  It was kind of nice to talk to someone about goal-kicking strategies, but I’m more comfortable on my own. Besides, I have something better to do—I have a list of pawnshops.

  Which means I have a plan.

  4

  For the next week, I use my time after school to search for the rebab while Baba works. He started his new job as a dishwasher the day after the rebab was stolen. In the same time, I’ve visited six of the forty pawn-shops and haven’t found anything. My plan is starting to feel like a long shot, but it’s my only lead. Today I’ll leave from Roxbury to go to Reed Jewelers and Pawnbrokers by the Ruggles T stop. I check that my train pass—my CharlieCard—is still in my pocket, and I head across the parking lot toward the street. Students gather in small groups near the basketball court and the bus pickup.

  A group of seventh graders are kicking a ball in an informal game on the playground. They’ve put two soda cans on either side to mark the goals. The tallest kid maneuvers easily around his opponents—even in the short time it takes me to walk past, I see him score point after point. The kid from my language arts class—Dan—is playing defense, but he isn’t holding up well.

  I continue across the parking lot, and my stomach growls. Yesterday was the first day of Ramadan. The full fast is not required at my age, but in Kandahar I would have started learning to fast back when I was ten. Baba and I were exempt during our travel, so it feels important to participate this time. Plus I hope that if I join Baba in the tradition, bringing a bit of home into our lives here, he’ll feel the sting of losing the rebab a little less.

  I haven’t eaten or had a drink since before dawn, and I won’t until sunset. It is only 3:10 now, so breaking the fast—iftar—is still five hours away.

  Today’s the hardest, I tell myself. It will be easier tomorrow.

  “Get it!” someone shouts. “Catch it before it goes in the street!”

  I turn and see my classmates racing after their runaway ball. It’s skidding toward me, a few feet to my right. I jog toward it, stop the ball with my foot, and kick it over the head of the tall guy on offense.

  With a bounce, it lands at the feet of an astounded-looking Dan. The tall one shoots me a dirty look as he pivots away, and all the defenders follow him with their eyes. But Dan’s still looking at me, so I gesture to the goal. Dan catches on, turns, and shoots the ball across the playground into the unguarded opening. It bangs against the chain-link fence.

  “Yeah!” Dan yells, fist-pumping the air.

  “Doesn’t count!” the tall one shouts over the celebrating team. “The ball was out!”

  I grin to myself and keep walking. But I’ve barely gone three steps when someone calls my name. I look around, surprised anyone even knows who I am.

  “Hey, Sami!”

  It’s Dan. I hesitate, unable to decide if I should wait or run. Several of the other kids watch as Dan jogs toward me, and my chest tightens. All the people looking at me makes my hands sweat.

  I turn away, but Dan has almost reached me. “Hey, wait up, Sami!” he calls. “Hold on!” And now he’s tapping my shoulder. I have no choice but to look at him.

  The tall one cups his hands around his mouth. “You just going to leave the game, Dan? We haven’t finished!”

  “I’ve got to go anyway!” Dan waves the guy off. “It’s just a pickup game,” he says to me by way of explanation. “My real team plays at the gym. Anyway. That was awesome! Perfect pass!”

  His enthusiasm is overwhelming and very loud. I don’t know how to respond, so I just stand there silently.

  He doesn’t even take a breath. “You really like soccer?” he asks.

  Football, my brain translates.

  “Oh,” I say. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “You any good?”

  “Yeah,” I say again, though it’s been a while since I played. “I guess.”

  “I’m on a team at this after-school place. They’ve got an indoor gym and we practice all year. We just lost a player, so I’m looking to add a new offense guy. You play offense? Forward, maybe?”

  I blink. He’s talking extremely fast, but I think he’s asking me to join his football—soccer—team. I’m not here to play soccer, though. I just want to keep my head down. Study hard. Find the rebab. Minding your own business is the way to survive when you’re always on the move.

  Except Baba and I aren’t on the move anymore.

  “Um, maybe.” I edge away from him. “But I have to go … somewhere … now. Roxbury Crossing T stop.”

  “You walking?” he asks, following me. “The gym’s this way. I’ll show
you.”

  I don’t want to see the gym. I just want to find the rebab. But I can’t think of a good excuse—one that won’t make him more curious—and now Dan is staring at me weirdly.

  “Okay,” I say, trying to sound calm. “Okay, yeah, lead the way.”

  “Wicked.” He gives me two thumbs up and starts off. He strolls down the sidewalk with his head high and his back slouched. I try to copy him as I follow. But he walks like the streets are his, and I walk like, well, like they’re his, too.

  “So, where’re you from, Sami?”

  “Afghanistan,” I say, and wait for him to tell me what he thinks of my country. Every American has opinions about Afghanistan.

  “For real? Bet you were glad to get out. My dad did a tour there. He said it was—” Dan glances at me and grins. “Well, he said it wasn’t great.”

  I think about the time before everything changed, when we had family dinners with a kerosene lantern during power outages, and Baba plucked the rebab’s strings whisper quiet, in case our neighbors were Taliban sympathizers. It was under the Taliban that music became illegal, and even the arrival of foreign forces didn’t always keep the Taliban from attacking people who broke their rules. It was a little exciting, back then. Exciting to feel like our family was a secret, our songs were a secret.

  But that was before the wedding.

  I want to tell Dan his dad is wrong, and Afghanistan has beautiful mountains and blue skies and more stars than you can see anywhere on this side of the world. But that Afghanistan—the one where you do not lose your family a little every day, where you do not live in fear of turning the Taliban’s head—does not really exist outside of my heart. I didn’t know how to explain it to people in Iran or Greece or Turkey, and I don’t know how to explain it to Dan.

  It’d be easier if I had the rebab. Then I could play, and he would hear.

  “Your dad is a soldier, then?” I ask instead.

  “Yep. In the army.” Dan cups his mouth and shouts at some pigeons, “HOOAH!”

  The pigeons scatter, and Dan laughs. I glance around to see if anyone has noticed us, but none of the walkers seem to care.

  “There’s the gym.” Dan points to a gray building. “You want to go in?”

  It’s fenced with high chain-link and razor wire spun across the top. I touch the scar on my arm, then check my phone. Three fifteen. The pawnshop doesn’t close until five, but I say anyway, “Oh, I can’t. I have to go. Sorry.”

  “Wow, that’s your phone?” Dan exclaims, tapping my screen. “Looks like my first one, and I got that years ago. Do you have any cool apps?”

  I glance from him to the phone. It sends and receives texts and takes notes, and its map works when I find free Wi-Fi or when we pay extra for data, like we did during our journey. That was all we needed it to do. “No?”

  Dan takes out his phone. It’s thinner than a pencil and bright green, with an expensive shine to it. I inch back, as if by looking I might accidentally break it.

  “So,” Dan says, scrolling through screens and then showing me his calendar. The only appointments on it are labeled SOCCER!! “Want to come tomorrow after school?”

  “Maybe. But I have to go now.”

  “Where are you going, anyway?” he asks.

  I hesitate, but nothing comes into my head except the truth. Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “Someone stole my baba’s instrument. I’m searching for it in pawnshops.” I immediately wish I could take the words back. Dan doesn’t need to know something so personal about me.

  “Nah, I don’t think you’ll find it there.” Dan glances down at his phone and starts typing. “What sort of instrument?”

  A little annoyed that he’s texting, I say simply, “A rebab.”

  “Like the vegetable?”

  “No…? It’s an Afghan instrument. A lute, sort of.”

  “Umm … Okay, spell it.” While I do, Dan taps and swipes. “This same thing happened to Father Steve—he’s a priest at my church. His guitar got stolen. Turned up on eBay. And…” He shows the screen to me. “Is that yours?”

  I gape. A picture of a rebab is on the listing. He wasn’t texting—he was searching. Reaching tentatively for the phone, I ask, “Can I see?”

  Dan hands me the phone. I try to hold it carefully as I tap through the pictures. They’re sharp and clear, with a clean white background, taken with a good camera. But I know it’s Baba’s rebab—it has a blue, white, and red tassel and star-shaped designs along the side. I can hardly believe Dan found it so quickly—I’ve been searching for a week!

  “That’s ours.” I raise my head and look him in the eyes for the first time. “How do I get it?”

  “Let me see.” Dan takes the phone back and types. “The lister owns a shop in Cambridge, apparently. The address is on his profile. Here, I can text it to you.”

  I give him my number, and a few seconds later the message dings on my phone. My hand over my heart, I bow my head out of habit. “Thank you!”

  “No prob.” Dan grins and copies me, hand over his heart.

  I hesitate, unsure if he’s mocking me. But before I can decide, he’s running into the gym’s courtyard, calling “See you tomorrow” over his shoulder.

  I have no thoughts about tomorrow—the rebab is just across the Charles River right now! I run down the sidewalk, jumping the spring weeds in the cracks.

  The Roxbury Crossing T stop is just around the corner. I need to get to the music shop and return home before Baba leaves work, or else he’ll know I’m up to something. And my plan is so new, I can’t share it with anyone yet.

  I swipe my CharlieCard at the turnstile, say a prayer, and wait for the train.

  * * *

  The address takes me to Creature Guitar, a green building covered in advertisements about its great deals. One red sign against the window reads GUITARS WANTED. Two tall buildings dwarf it on both sides, white and black graffiti across their walls. I hurry inside.

  A little bell rings as the door opens and shuts. Guitars hang on the walls—some of them sparkling blue, some of them regular wood. There are other instruments as well: mandolins like the ones in Greece, and banjos that look like pictures I’ve seen online.

  The owner watches me over a car magazine. He’s heavyset, with thinning brown hair, even though he’s not that old. I pick my way around the stuff.

  “Um, excuse me, sir?” I reach the counter, but it’s almost as tall as me. I can see more of the glass-enclosed amps and guitar pick selection than of the owner.

  “You after something particular, boy?” The man flips a page of his magazine, but he doesn’t look away.

  “I’m trying to find a rebab. It’s, um, an Afghan instrument—sort of has a boatlike base?” I outline the shape in the air with my hands. “It’s a long-neck lute with three main strings, two drone ones, and thirteen sympathetic. My baba—um, grandfather’s—was stolen.”

  The owner nods, and he bends behind the counter. “Something like that came in recently.”

  He straightens, and I cannot breathe. He’s holding the rebab. Our rebab. There are the familiar inlaid patterns of ivory and ebony along the base, the mother-of-pearl bright against the neck’s reddish wood, the beaded tassel hanging off the chipped pegbox.

  It’s Baba’s rebab.

  I lean up and reach.

  “Hold on. I’m not running a charity shop.” The man moves it away. He narrows his eyes. “This is a good instrument. It’s going for … seven hundred dollars.”

  “Seven hundred dollars?” My mouth dries. “But it was stolen!”

  “Not my fault. You got seven hundred dollars?”

  I shake my head. This can’t be right, but I don’t know enough about the law to protest more.

  “Well then.” The man shifts in his chair and leans to put the rebab back.

  “Wait!” I lick my lips. Seven hundred dollars! Baba barely makes enough to pay rent. All I own is my backpack and a few odds and ends. How do kids make money in Americ
a? “It’s a family heirloom. I can get the money.”

  The man studies me with a shrewd eye. He reminds me of the vendors at the market, examining every customer for their weakness.

  Seven hundred dollars! plays on repeat in my head. How will I get seven hundred dollars? I don’t know. I’ll have to plan the how later. But right now what matters is that I will. I clench my jaw and make myself meet his gaze without squirming. I can make the money—I can. If I believe it, so will he.

  Finally, he lifts his eyebrows. “Okay, kid. You have four weeks.”

  My held breath whooshes out of me. “And you’ll take down the ad from the internet?”

  “Sure. Whatever.” He shrugs. “I expect seven hundred dollars by July 5, or this goes right back on display.”

  “Yes, all right—thank you!” I make for the exit. I need to think, but right now I’m too dizzy with hunger and hope. Twenty-eight days from now is just before Eid al-Fitr, July 6, the end of Ramadan. At least, assuming the crescent moon is sighted then—if it’s cloudy or the predictions are off, it could be a day later. If I get the rebab for Eid, it would make the perfect gift.

  It isn’t until I step outside, into a cold drizzle, that I return to reality.

  I have nothing—no money, no valuables, no skills—and I need to make seven hundred dollars in one month.

  If I don’t, the rebab will be gone forever.

  5

  The middle school cafeteria always makes me wish for the school in Istanbul. We often shared meals there, seated on the ground, with little to give. But most important, it was quiet.

  Here, sound beats on my head in waves, so loud I hardly hear my own thoughts. All the voices merge into a roar, and the roar bounces around until it bleeds off the walls and pools in my ears.

  I sit cross-legged at the table in the farthest corner, which I’ve been using since my first day. The smell from the food line is less overwhelming here, and it’s slightly quieter than the center of the room. I set my backpack on the bench beside me and pull out my phone while the rest of the class gets their meals. I’ve already explained to the teacher—Mrs. Mulligan—about Ramadan, so she doesn’t pester me to get food. She’s sitting a few tables away, where she has a good view of everyone, and sometimes I catch her glancing toward me.