The Eleventh Trade

by Alyssa Hollingsworth

  I hang back, suddenly unsure about all this. The team members cast me curious glances, and they’re not just boys—there are three girls. They’re mingled in the group, and one—a girl with beads in her hair—watches me with open curiosity while she stretches her arms toward the ceiling. My head goes hot, and I drop my gaze to the court floor.

  I’ve heard of girls skateboarding and biking, and sometimes my girl cousins would kick a ball around on the flat roofs of our homes. But they were always fully covered and never on a team like this. I’m not surprised that girls and boys both play soccer in America, but being expected to play with girls still fills me with a rush of unease and embarrassment—like missing a step on the stairs.

  “Hello, Dan, Sami,” Coach says, lowering his arms. “Come on over. Dan, do you want to introduce—?”

  Dan jumps right in. “Hey, everyone, this is my friend Sami.”

  Friend.

  I blink at Dan. He says it—friend—lightly, freely. How can he mean that? He barely knows me. I certainly don’t feel like I know him.

  In Afghanistan, before the wedding, friends also came to me easily and swiftly. There is an Afghan proverb: The first day you meet, you are friends. The next day you meet, you are brothers.

  But now, in the after, how can I ever be sure there will be a “next day”?

  Dan lines up with the others and waves me over. A few of the kids call greetings to me. I join them, and Coach resumes the stretches. I try to follow along as we stand on one leg, then reach for the floor, then roll our heads around (my neck cracks when I do). Every move comes stiff and awkward, and I’m sure all the others are noticing when I lean too slowly or lift the wrong arm. My jeans don’t let me stretch as far as the kids wearing shorts, but I don’t have a change of clothes. Last, Coach has us jog around the gym. I love to run fast, but I hang back with Dan near the middle of the group. My sneakers smack against the hard floor.

  The rhythm of our footfalls pounds in my head, and my fingers itch for the rebab’s strings—for some way to find the song I hear in the beat. But my hands are empty. The melody stays hidden.

  When we finish the lap, Coach brings us to the center. “All right. Today we’re going to work on passes. At the end of practice, we’ll do a short game. Okay?”

  Dan hoots, and others bounce on the balls of their feet. I stick my hands in my pockets.

  Though I try to concentrate on Coach’s instructions about passing, I keep getting distracted. The girl with beads braided into her dark hair stands in front, a little space between her and the others. Whenever she shifts, the beads clink together. Every time it happens, I lose track of what Coach is saying.

  Dan leans over to me. “Layla”—he points to the bead girl—“is the best on offense. Even better than Pete. She rocks.”

  We run through the practice routines, and then Coach counts us into two teams to play the mock game. He passes out blue and red mesh shirts, to help make the sides clear. Two of the girls go on the other team—one of them (“Julie,” Dan whispers) taller than all of us, with her wiry black curls pulled under a headband, and the other (“Hamida,” I’m told) with long bangs she has to keep pushing back. Layla is put on our team—which Dan has dubbed the Tornado Sharks—and Dan gives me a big thumbs-up like we’ve won already.

  I stumble through most of the game. The floor doesn’t feel right under my feet, and the ball skids too quickly across the polished wood. We’re tied as we enter the last three minutes.

  I’m up the court when Dan passes the ball to Layla. A defender on the other team rushes her. She searches for an opening and spots me.

  “Sami!” she shouts, kicking the ball so hard it lifts off the floor.

  The ball soars straight to me. I hold my hands out of the way and bounce it off my chest. As soon as it hits the floor, I run it toward the goal. I almost trip on my first step and almost lose the ball on the second. But then my pace evens, and I find my rhythm. The ball moves with me instead of trying to slide away. It’s like a song—one that I’ve forgotten but my muscles remember.

  Another defender comes at me. I see Layla out of the corner of my eye and pass the ball to the middle of the court. One of the other kids goes after it, but Layla intercepts first. She’s waving me on, and I run toward the goal, my eyes never leaving the ball. The kids between us part for a second, and she kicks. I stop the ball and turn toward the goal.

  I’m through the penalty area. Two defenders close in on either side, and the goalkeeper sprints forward to block me. I drive the ball straight at the keeper. He catches it in his hands and lifts it to toss. Layla’s bright beads flash to my right. The keeper throws, but too low. I dive for the ball, hitting it with my head and knocking it crossways across the penalty area. Layla is right where I need her—she kicks the ball toward the net. For a moment everything goes quiet …

  And then the ball hits the net with a satisfying swish.

  All the sounds of the gym return with a roar. Dan jumps on me, screaming like we’ve just won a championship, and soon the rest of the Tornado Sharks join in, Layla among them.

  She punches me in the arm. “Nice header!”

  “That was amazing!” I gasp, out of breath.

  “This deserves a selfie!” Dan pulls his phone from his pocket and leans in, stretching out his arm. Layla backs up a step, so it can be just me and Dan, but he says, “Get in!”

  Grinning, Layla throws an arm around my shoulders and gives a thumbs-up. Next to her in the preview, I’m pale—though not nearly as pale as Dan. He might as well be a ghost. Giddy happiness bubbles in my chest, and I laugh, not even looking at the screen.

  The phone makes a camera sound, and Dan brings it close to look. “That’s a new profile pic right there.”

  “Send it to me!” Layla says.

  I look over her shoulder as she pulls the picture up on her phone. My breath hitches in my throat. In the image, my smile is wide and open. It’s my plar jan’s smile. Pashtun men don’t normally smile in pictures, so I had no record of his smile—I had forgotten the way he held his head back and his eyes scrunched up. But here it is, in my own face.

  I had forgotten.

  “Great job, everyone,” Coach says above the chatter. “Awesome teamwork! Our time’s up now, but I’ll see you all tomorrow. Have a good rest of the day!”

  The kids jostle past me to gather their stuff, and I remember the real reason I’m here. I rub away the sting in my eyes with the palms of my hands, then turn around to Dan. “Do you think the iPod’s charged enough?”

  “Oh, right!” Dan sprints to his backpack, and I follow. He grabs the iPod and charger. I watch while he holds down the power button.

  Nothing.

  “Hm. It’s not the battery,” Dan says. My heart sinks. I traded the key chain for nothing.

  Dan must see the expression on my face, because he adds, “It’s okay; I have another idea.” Dan looks around at the other kids grabbing their backpacks. “Benj, do you have a guitar pick?”

  “Um, probably?” The goalie from the other mini-team drags his red backpack next to Dan’s and digs around. “What do you need it for?”

  “Magic,” Dan says loftily.

  I glance between the two of them, trying to keep my confusion hidden. If the iPod’s too broken to charge, what else can Dan do?

  Benj finds a black guitar pick and tosses it to Dan. “You have to give it back. Hamida’s brother loaned it to me.”

  “I just need it for a second.”

  To me, Benj adds, “Hey, sweet move for the score. Where’d you learn that?”

  “Around.” It feels too complicated to say in Istanbul—that will only lead to more questions.

  Dan catches my eye. “Sami, can you ask Coach for a business card?”

  “Um—all right.” I step away, uncertain, then jog off. I find Coach finishing packing his gym bag with the soccer balls. Layla’s been helping, and they’re talking about something when I reach them.

  “That was some fancy
work, Sami,” Coach says, spotting me. He zips his bag shut. “Glad to have you on the team. Have you recently moved to the area?”

  “Thank you—and yes. Just this month.” I swallow on my dry throat so my voice won’t rasp. I’m more thirsty after the exercise, and I will not be able to drink until sunset at eight o’clock.

  “Where are you from originally?” Coach asks.

  “Afghanistan.” He looks surprised, but I press on before he can say anything. “Do you have—a business card? Dan asked.”

  “Not for myself,” Coach says, even more puzzled.

  “I don’t think that matters.” I look over my shoulder. Dan’s doing something I can’t see, but other team members have gathered around him.

  “Okay, well, I have this.” Coach stands and takes a wallet from his back pocket. He tugs a card free and offers it. The paper feels flimsy. The design is pretty simple: just white paper with black text.

  “Thanks!” I say again, turning around.

  Layla follows me at a trot back toward the others. “Hey, ah, what are you guys up to?”

  I falter, my neck heating and my tongue going itchy. “Just … trying to fix something.”

  Dan’s amassed a small crowd. I squeeze around Benj and another kid to see what he’s doing. He has the iPod open so the insides show. My heart flops down to the pit of my stomach. I didn’t tell Dan to take it apart!

  “Whoa,” Layla says.

  “Dan pried it open with a guitar pick,” Benj tells her.

  “Got a card?” Dan reaches toward me without looking up.

  I pass the card to him, not sure what to say or do. Silver squares and circles dot the shining green plastic, the patterns almost like a city map. A narrow orange-and-black ribbon connects the back of the iPod to the front. Exposed, it seems fragile.

  “Perfect.” Dan puts the iPod down and folds the card. He licks the edge and tugs the paper apart in a narrow strip.

  Layla slips around the other side of Benj. “Gross!”

  “Is that your iPod?” Benj asks Dan.

  “Nope. Sami’s.”

  “For real?” Benj glances at me skeptically. Then he sighs. “I’ve been wanting one forever. My abuela only speaks Spanish, and my Spanish is worse than her English. If I had an iPod, I could download lessons onto it. I did all the research and everything, but my aunt still says it’s too expensive. How’d you get this one?”

  “Traded.” I lean in to watch while Dan tears the small rectangle into a smaller square. I hesitate, but add, “If Dan can fix it, I was hoping to trade it for something else.”

  “Like what?” Benj asks quickly. “I’ve got stuff.”

  I’m not sure what I’d want to trade for, but then, I’m not even sure the iPod will be tradable. “Well, nothing in particular. I won’t know till I see, probably.”

  “You’ll be here tomorrow? I’ll take pictures of my stuff at home tonight. Then you can see them after practice, and we can decide on a swap. Yeah?”

  I nod, but I’m not really listening. Dan’s stuck the square of paper against one of the pieces inside the iPod, and now he’s carefully putting it back together.

  He holds up the guitar pick without lifting his head. “Here, Benj, take this.”

  Benj retrieves the pick. I crouch beside Dan, holding my breath.

  “Here we go…” He presses the circle button and the on button at the same time.

  Black screen.

  Then it turns blue, and the Apple logo flashes.

  “Eureka!” Dan shouts, fist-pumping the air. “Magic Dan does it again!”

  I carefully take the iPod from him while Layla and Benj lean in to get a better look, pummeling Dan with questions. My fingers tremble, but for once it’s not the hunger or the sadness that’s gnawing my insides.

  It’s a painful warmth. Hope.

  * * *

  TRADE LOG

  Days: 26

  THINGS TO TRADE:

  iPod (repaired!!)

  Coins—Afghanis: 2, Iranian rial: 1, euros (Turkey and Greece): 5 (Miss Juniper?)

  COMPLETED TRADES:

  1. Manchester United key chain -> iPod

  * * *

  8

  The next day, Baba and I are putting on our sandals after the Friday service and prayer at the Islamic Society of Boston Cultural Center. The shoe cubbies are on both sides of a long atrium, the men’s on the left and the women’s on the right. Behind Baba, people linger in the bright room under the dome, talking and laughing. Baba has been quiet. It’s become almost normal since the rebab was taken—Baba’s strange quiet.

  “I think I’ll go to practice at the rec center again this afternoon,” I say in Pashto. I want to see what Benj will have to offer for a trade, but it’s true when I add, “I might keep going regularly, you know? It’s kind of fun.”

  Baba slips the strap over his heel before he answers. “So, you like your team?”

  I nod. “Dan’s cool—though, well … enthusiastic. And Benj seems nice. And Layla’s a great player.” I wiggle to my feet and hold a hand out for Baba. “Though it’s strange playing indoors instead of on the street or rooftops.”

  With a soft chuckle, Baba lets me help him stand. “Ah, Sami, we are in a new world. Best get used to it.”

  His eyes don’t crinkle. And his mouth loses the momentary almost-grin. The sadness seeps into his silences.

  My plar had silences like that. Seeing Baba’s stooped shoulders and loose hands brings back a memory I’d nearly lost, sudden and vivid and painfully bright.

  I walked into the living room where my plar sat on a toshak, feet flat against the floor instead of legs crossed. He stared down at the cell phone in one hand, his other hand worked into his hair, his glasses sliding slowly down his nose. He didn’t push them up. The Taliban had called. Again. I sat beside him, leaning to check what his phone said. It was blank, our reflections gray in the glass. My plar put his arm around my shoulder. His hand was too tight.

  Did he smell like dust or like chai? Was the phone cracked, or was it new? I think he had just changed the number.

  But I can’t remember more than that image—the memory slides out of my brain slick as a snake over sand. It’s gone, like the rebab.

  Baba walks on toward the mosque’s exit, past the coffee shop—closed for Ramadan—and the other people. The imam stands near the door to say farewells as the congregation leaves. Baba stops to speak with him. I hang back, still thinking about Plar.

  “Hello?”

  A man has stopped in front of me, smiling with a friendly crooked tilt to his mouth. His smile and well-trimmed beard look familiar

  He chuckles. “You have an intense stare. Do you know that?”

  “Oh.” I shake my head.

  “Farid.” He offers me a hand. “Farid Wazir. We haven’t actually been introduced. I didn’t realize you attended this mosque.”

  “Sami Safi.” I shake his hand, trying to remember why I recognize him.

  “I’ve missed seeing you and your grandfather in Harvard Station. It was wonderful to hear a traditional Afghan instrument on my way home from work. Much better than the opera singer.” He makes a face.

  It clicks—he’s the man who gave us twenty dollars, just before the rebab was taken. “Thank you,” I say. “We’ve missed it, too.”

  “Uncle Farid!” someone calls. A girl my age comes running up. “Oh! Hi, Sami.”

  “Hi,” I say. She tucks her bangs back under her hijab, and I realize it’s one of the girls from the team. “Hamida?” It comes out as a question, and I wince.

  She nods. “Yep!” Then she turns to Mr. Farid. “Here’s my sketch from today.”

  I get a glimpse as Mr. Farid turns it this way and that. In pencil, Hamida’s drawn an intricate geometric pattern worthy of framing.

  “This is very good,” Mr. Farid says, giving me a full view. “Don’t you think, Sami?”

  “Yes,” I readily agree.

  Hamida looks pleased. “It’d look better if I h
ad a set of Prismacolor markers. Or gel pens. Or charcoal, even. My parents are convinced I’m going to be an engineer, so they don’t need to buy me real supplies. Cliché, right? But Uncle Farid thinks there might be hope for me.”

  “You might be in for some new art supplies when your birthday comes around.” Mr. Farid smiles, passing back the drawing.

  Hamida rolls her eyes. “That’s months away!”

  Baba has finished talking to the imam and turned back to me.

  “Assalamu alaikum,” Mr. Farid greets him.

  “Walaikum assalam,” Baba answers in kind.

  “Baba,” I say, “this is Mr. Farid Wazir and his niece, Hamida. He used to pass us on his commute. Mr. Farid, Hamida, this is my grandfather, Habibullah Safi.”

  “I was just getting to know your grandson,” Mr. Farid says. “I’m a big fan of your music.”

  The wrinkles across Baba’s forehead deepen, but he bows his head graciously. “Thank you. Music is our joy.”

  “I have not seen you in some time. I suppose you found a more stable job?” Mr. Farid asks with genuine curiosity. “Street performance isn’t always the most steady way to earn a living, though practical ways are probably less enjoyable.”

  Baba’s jaw tightens, and he stares at the floor. My own heart burns thinking of Baba washing dishes instead of playing the rebab. The silence stretches until I think I might burst.

  “Baba found something, yes. But, ah, I’m afraid we need to be going. I have soccer practice and Baba has work.”

  Mr. Farid glances at Baba, his expression confused. “I hope you both have a good week, then. Perhaps you can join us on Sunday—several members will be gathering at Kennedy Greenway for some games before iftar.”

  “Thank you,” Baba says softly, nodding. “We would be honored to join you.”

  Mr. Farid holds out his hand to shake Baba’s. “May you find peace in Ramadan, inshallah.”

  “Inshallah,” I echo. Baba mouths the word, releasing Mr. Farid’s hand.

  “You’re going to practice?” Hamida asks. “We could walk together.”