“No, um, I’ll be a minute,” I answer, my neck heating.
“Okay, then—see you there!” She waves and runs ahead.
Holding Baba’s arm, I walk him to the exit. He barely lifts his gaze until we’re on the sidewalk outside. I want to say something to make his shame and sorrow leave—something to make him proud and happy again, to remind him he is not only a dishwasher. But what can you say when you have nothing? When even your music has been taken from you?
I consider telling him the truth about the rebab and the trades. But his pride would be hurt, and he would insist on getting it himself. He’s already working so hard, and the loss of the rebab isn’t his responsibility—it’s mine. The only way to redeem my mistake is to recover it myself and give it as a gift on Eid al-Fitr.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I’m sorry I lost the rebab.”
“Sami jan,” Baba whispers. “It’s not your fault.”
He presses his lips together and then tilts my head down so he can kiss my hair. His words are meant to comfort away the stinging in my throat. But his arm is heavy around my shoulders, and silence falls between us, just like it did with my plar.
My plar knew, I feel. He knew he would die. That’s what his silence meant.
I look at Baba, a raging, breaking, tearing question taking shape in my mind—a question that I’m terrified to let fully form.
Will I lose Baba like I lost Plar?
“Have a good practice,” Baba says gently. “I will see you tonight, inshallah.”
“Inshallah.” I nod. He goes the other way.
I don’t move until he’s disappeared around the corner.
* * *
TRADE LOG
Days: 25
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
* * *
9
School only has a half day on Fridays, so I don’t need to go back to class—I can just go straight to soccer practice. When I reach the rec center, Dan is waiting in the courtyard, hopping on one foot, then the other. I knew I was late, but I didn’t realize Dan would be waiting for me.
“What took so long?” Dan calls while I’m still on the other side of the fence. He waves his phone, pointing at a text. “Hamida got here ages ago, but Julie’s going out with her family, so we need you to make the teams even.”
“Ages?” How fast was she running?
“Five minutes. Whatever. Come on!”
I quicken to a sprint, and some of the sadness sheds off me. “What did Coach have you work on?”
“Just more passes.” Dan hurries me inside, bouncing around like a dog herding sheep. “Everyone wanted to practice their heading and chest-bouncing after what you did, so we also played with that. Benj almost got a black eye. It was awesome!”
Miss Juniper looks up from her travel book when the door dings. She smiles. “Hello, Sami. Good to see you again. Did your parents get a chance to sign those permission forms?”
“Oh! I forgot.” I hesitate. “It’s okay if my grandfather signs instead, right?”
“Sure.” She smiles, absently tapping a finger against her euro necklace. “Just bring them in soon, okay?”
“Yes, miss.” The coins are in my backpack, and I’d like to talk to her about them. But Dan’s shoving the pen and clipboard into my hands, so I guess I’ll discuss a trade after the game. I scribble my name down.
“Dan,” Miss Juniper says, “what were those magazines Coach Austin had in his bag yesterday?”
“Game Informer? Only the best guides to the best new video games.” Dan’s momentarily distracted. “It has reviews and game play and features for recent releases.”
Miss Juniper laughs, which makes the freckles on her face scrunch into a bigger blob. “That’s all? Well, you tell him I’m a pretty big fan of Zelda. I’d love to hear what the magazine says about that.”
“For real?” Dan grins. “What did you think of the final boss in—”
“Um, Dan?” I pass the clipboard to Miss Juniper, glancing at the clock over her desk.
“Right! Soccer!” Dan takes off for the hallway but spins around again. “We’re definitely talking afterward, Juniper!”
“Got it!” She waves.
I follow Dan into the gym. Everyone’s already been divided into teams, and they’re practicing bouncing the balls on their heads when we come in. Layla gets three in a row before Dan announces, “Let’s go!”
Coach tosses me a mesh shirt and puts us in our positions. Benj catches my eye and mouths, After.
I nod. I still need to arrange a trade for the iPod with Benj, too. What could he have found? I push the thought away.
Soccer now. Trades later.
* * *
After an hour, we wrap up the game in a tie: Tornado Sharks and Grizzly Bear Vampires 6–6.
“All right, everyone, good effort,” Coach says, lifting his voice to get our attention. “Have a great weekend, and I’ll see you all on Monday. We’ll go over dribbling then.”
As soon as Coach finishes, Benj runs to his backpack, takes out his phone, and returns to me. “Look—I’ve got pictures!”
“Hold on. I want to see!” Dan says, joining us.
We all lean over Benj’s phone together. Benj narrates as he flicks through the photos. There’s a stack of paperback books (Dan scoffs), a painting of a flower in a cracked frame, an assortment of old T-shirts Benj has outgrown, and a box with three weird-looking small statues (Benj insists they’re figurines, which as far as I can tell is just a fancier word for small statues). The figurines are kids with pale skin and blue eyes. One is a boy carrying a girl, one is a boy with a fishing pole, and another is two girls whispering together.
“They’re made of clay or something,” Benj explains. “They’re from my great-grandparents—my aunt got them when they died. Anyway, she says they’re weird, and she’s trying to get rid of them.”
I scroll through the pictures once more, unsure if any of this would be useful to me.
Dan’s already shaking his head. “Benj, that iPod’s probably worth eighty, a hundred dollars. This is just a load of junk.”
Benj glares. “Not junk. Someone might pay a lot for this stuff.”
Dan snorts.
“I’ll think about it.” I hand Benj his phone. “I can let you know soon.”
With a doubtful nod, Benj tucks his phone into his pocket.
“Hey, Sami!” Hamida calls, trotting over. “Let me give you my number—then you can text us if you decide to join us on Sunday.”
“Oh.” I fish around in my pocket for my phone. “All right.”
“Benj, are you still coming?” Hamida asks while she waits.
“Is Omar?”
Hamida rolls her eyes. “Yes, he’ll be there with his guitar.”
“Then I’m definitely there.”
I exchange numbers with Hamida, but I slip away while she chats with Benj. Layla stands by the backpacks alone, texting, but also casting little looks at the team as they pack up and mill around. It reminds me of how I used to type on my phone while I was sitting alone in the cafeteria—trying to look busy. She stands up and pulls on her bag when I approach, and I get the bag of coins from my own backpack before I swing it over my shoulders.
She eyes my hand. “What are those?”
“Coins.” I shrug. “I thought Miss Juniper might like to trade for them.”
“Trade?” Layla echoes.
“Yeah. I’m trying to—earn extra money.” I don’t want to talk about the rebab, especially after Baba’s silence today.
“Ohh!” Layla exclaims. She leans closer to me and lowers her voice. “Don’t trade with Juniper. Trade with Coach.”
I frown at her. Why would I give them to someone who, as far as I can tell, couldn’t care less about coins?
“Coach likes Juniper
,” Layla explains, rolling her eyes. “He’s been trying to talk to her forever. If you trade him the coins—”
“He can give them to her,” I finish, catching on. My mind starts racing. I glance across at Coach. Dan is with him, and I hear him say gaming and Zelda while Dan helps gather the equipment. “Thanks, Layla!”
If I make a trade with Coach instead of Miss Juniper … A plan forms in my mind.
I run over to Coach, coins clutched in my hand. Dan is heading to the wall to grab his backpack. Now or never.
“Coach, ah…” I trail off, my face getting hot, suddenly unsure how to say any of this. Even if Layla’s right and Coach likes Miss Juniper, that doesn’t make it less embarrassing to say.
Coach puts the last soccer ball in his bag and glances at me with his eyebrows raised a little. “Yes, Sami?”
I shake the bag so Coach can see the coins through the plastic. “I—um—Layla thought you might like these? Um, or Miss Juniper might…?”
His face brightens with interest, and he takes the bag. The coins shift as he angles it to examine each. “These are really cool, Sami. Where are they from? I recognize the euro.”
“Afghanistan, Iran, Turkey, Greece.” I point as I say each country.
Coach whistles. “You’ve been all those places?” He turns them over, still in the bag. “Why are you giving them away?”
“Well, not … giving, exactly.” My face grows hotter. “More like a trade. I was wondering if you’d maybe be willing to trade the coins for one of your game magazines?”
With a surprised laugh, Coach kneels by his bag. “Sure. I don’t normally keep them long anyway.” He takes a pile of eight magazines and offers them to me. “Here you go. One for every coin.”
“Thank you!” I take the magazines. Second trade complete.
“Did I see you making a deal with Benj?” Coach asks as he eases the strap over his shoulder and stands. “What are you doing all this trading for, Sami?”
Instead of meeting Coach’s eyes, I glance at the magazines’ covers. “Oh … just … trying to get something back.”
Before Coach can ask more, Dan joins us. “Wait, what’s happening here?” he asks. “How’d you get those?”
“Have a good day, Sami, Dan,” Coach says, shifting the gym bag and heading to the exit, the coins still in his hand.
I explain the trade to Dan. His eyes have grown to twice their usual size by the time I’m done. I can’t even make my proposal before he cuts in. “I’ll trade for those! I’ll check tonight. I bet I have something you could use. We’ve got plenty of stuff lying around.”
“Okay.” I slip the magazines carefully into my backpack. The gym has emptied by now, and Dan and I leave together.
In the main lobby, Coach is showing Miss Juniper the coins. She’s grinning, pushing her red hair aside to get a better look. Layla’s at the end of the hall, peering around the corner.
“What are you doing?” Dan asks loudly as we come up to her.
Layla jumps and glares. “I was trying to watch, idiot,” she retorts. Then she motions to me. “See? Wasn’t I right?”
I nod. “Thanks for the tip.”
Layla tilts her head, and the beads in her hair clink. “Are you only interested in trading with the team? Or are you open to trades from other places?”
“I want to do more—I just don’t know where to look,” I answer. “Why?”
Layla grins. “I have an idea.”
* * *
TRADE LOG
Days: 25
THINGS TO TRADE:
iPod (repaired!!)
Game Informer magazines (Dan)
COMPLETED TRADES:
1. Manchester United key chain -> iPod
2. Coins -> Game Informer magazines
* * *
10
Saturday comes, and while Baba is busy working, I find myself on bus 41, arms crossed loosely over my chest. Layla watches out the window and sometimes comments on things we pass, like odd-looking apartments or yards where dogs sit by the gates. As we go farther from Roxbury, the redbrick apartments change to big, fancy houses.
“My mom wants to live in one of those Victorian townhouses, but Dad says that’s only going to happen if we find buried treasure.” Layla swings her legs, glancing at me and then at the window. “I like our apartment, though. We’ve lived there pretty much my whole life.”
I nod and scoot closer to the edge of the seat. No one else on the bus seems to care that I’m sitting next to her, but I still can’t relax. Even though we are classmates, we’re not children any longer, and we are not related.
“Why did you live in all those places?” Layla asks suddenly.
“Huh?” I rub my thumb against the scar on my arm, hidden by my sleeve, and try to pay attention.
Layla’s looking at the seat in front of us. She presses the sole of her shoe against the back and lets it slide off. “You said you’d been to all those places with the coins. But you haven’t just been there, right? You lived there.”
I watch her put her foot against the seat again. She’s not pushing hard enough for the person in front of us to notice—just tapping it. Her question lingers between us. Why did we live in all those places? Because of the war. Because the Taliban tried to kill us. Because my parents died. Because it wasn’t safe in Iran. Because Europe sounded better. Because Sergeant Pycior convinced us America would have more opportunities. Because … because a lot of reasons that don’t actually give an answer.
“I mean, we were refugees, but…” I trail off. Words swirl in my head, Pashto and English and Greek. None of them explain it, though. Not really. At last, I say, “I don’t know. I don’t know why.”
She glances at me but doesn’t say anything. We sit in silence until we arrive at the bus stop a few minutes later and clamber off together. The street bustles with traffic and Saturday shoppers. Around the corner, someone plays a saxophone. An Indian restaurant is at the end of the block, and the smell of curry makes my empty stomach rumble.
“The shop’s right here!” Layla points to a green awning between a noodle restaurant and the Indian bistro.
COBWEBS ANTIQUES & JEWELRY is printed on the window in bold white letters. Flower pots and wire birdcages are arranged outside the door, spilling onto the sidewalk. Layla pats the head of a lion statue as she walks past.
I follow her inside. A bell rings to announce our entrance. Two middle-aged women and an older man standing near the counter on my left look up.
“Hiya, Layla!” the man says, smiling.
“Hi, Mr. Byrne!” Layla squeezes around the women as they resume their conversation, and she makes her way deeper into the room.
I follow, trying to avoid knocking into all of the items haphazardly on display. An antique trunk on the floor has an old map propped against it. A bright red Chinese lantern hangs from the ceiling; its black clumps of string sway above my head. A sheathed dagger sits on a low bookshelf to my right, and old wooden clocks tick on top of a table packed with small decorative boxes. Little framed pieces of paper say YES and YOU DESERVE IT and TREAT YOURSELF.
“My mom normally works downstairs,” Layla says over her shoulder.
Sure enough, when we round another bookshelf, a cramped stairway appears. Mirrors and paintings of ladies in large, cloudlike dresses decorate the walls. Chai cups and books sit on the edge of the steps. I keep to the left to avoid accidentally kicking anything.
“Mom!” Layla calls, going to the bottom step and then edging aside to make room for me.
“Oh! Hi, Lay.” A woman wearing a bright orange scarf wrapped around her hair rises from behind a counter piled high with odds and ends. “I didn’t realize the bus had come already.”
“Mom, this is the friend I told you about—Sami.” Layla leans against the wall and pokes me. “Sami, this is my mom.”
“Call me Michele,” Layla’s mom says. “I’m so glad you’ve come by! Layla doesn’t normally bring friends over.”
T
here’s that word again—friend. The “first day” has passed—I’ve been to the rec center twice this week. Does that mean we’re friends? In America, maybe friendship will be different—maybe the word is safer here. Less costly, less vulnerable.
“Nice to meet you.” I avoid saying her name, knowing instantly that I will not be able to call her Michele. In Afghanistan, I was never allowed to address an adult by their first name. I would usually say tra for “aunt” or akaa for “uncle,” even if we were not related. But it would be too strange to explain that to Layla’s mom.
“Come on back and I’ll show you around,” Mrs. Michele says, motioning me to enter. “Layla said you might like to explore a bit. You’re looking for knickknacks to trade?”
Layla stays where she is, so I hesitantly slip around her and into the room. It’s about half the size of the one upstairs, and just as crowded. There are so many items, and all of them so small and colorful and interesting, that it’s hard to focus on any one thing. I glance at Layla, but she shows no sign of following.
“So, this is Cobwebs,” Mrs. Michele says, spreading her hands to include the mini house statues to her left and the pile of books to her right. “Founded by the lovely Patrick Byrne, who’s from Ireland, and the shop is as eccentric as he is. How much has Layla told you about all this?”
“Only a little,” I say, half watching while Layla picks up an owl statue the size of her hand and examines it.
“Well, we get a lot of our stuff from estate sales.” At my confused expression, she adds, “An estate sale is like a big yard sale—um, market—but in someone’s house. Normally they hold them when the owner dies and relatives need to sell his or her belongings.”
I glance around again. All these things belonged to dead people.
“So we have quite the collection.”
“Including those creepy puppets.” Layla leans out of the stairwell to point at the far wall. Angry-looking painted puppets hang from pegs just below the ceiling. “Their eyes are weird.”
She’s not wrong. The puppets’ black eyes stare at me when I shift my weight, their half-smiling faces fixed almost in sneers. I tug my sleeves lower over my hands and turn away. Mrs. Michele shakes her head but smiles.
The Eleventh Trade Page 5