The Eleventh Trade

by Alyssa Hollingsworth

  “They’re from a collector, and they’ll be snatched up soon. Anyway. We’ve got a back room over here with some new arrivals. Want to see?”

  I nod.

  “Excellent. Let me show you around some more.”

  “I’m going to talk with Mr. Byrne,” Layla says, slipping up the stairs. “Catch me on your way out, Sami!”

  “Okay.” I try to push down the uncertainty and shyness creeping over me.

  “He’ll have her immigrating to Ireland before long,” Mrs. Michele says with a laugh. She looks a lot like Layla when she does, though she has faint freckles on her dark cheeks, while Layla’s are just plain. “So, this is where I work, mainly, logging inventory and keeping an eye on customers who come downstairs. We have warehouses off-site where our estate purchases go initially, but when we’re ready to restock, we bring them here.”

  She leads me down an even smaller hallway. White lights are strung from the ceiling, and tables covered in lamps are pushed to one wall, while more mirrors are leaned against the other.

  It’s another basement room, crammed with boxes and furniture. Near the end of the room, my gaze catches on a small statue of the Parthenon sitting on a pile of books. I pause beside it. When I lived in Greece, we could sometimes see the temple on a distant hill, high above the city. In person, it looked more crumbly than this little statue. Someone told me the pollution has damaged it so much you could stick a pencil through one of the columns. Some boys I met in Turkey, who had been held in detention in Greece, said every night they would look at it all lit up from their cell window.

  “Cool, isn’t it?” Mrs. Michele lifts the Parthenon. “We’re just using it as a weight—it’s not worth much—but it’s a neat piece. Here, you can hold it.”

  Carefully, I take the miniature. If I put my hands together, it fits on my open palms. The weight presses down into my skin while I examine it closer, closer than I ever got in person. The air stills, and I can almost smell the exhaust from cars, hear them honking as they rush down the street.

  “It’s strange how things hold memories,” I say, half to myself, half thinking of the rebab. “They almost … hide them away for later.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Mrs. Michele says.

  I glance at her, embarrassed I said anything. But her expression is kind. She absently tucks a tuft of frizzy black hair under her scarf.

  “I grew up as an army brat,” she explains. “We moved around a lot. There was this certain teddy bear—whenever I hugged it, I’d go straight back to our first move, when I was five years old. Strangest thing.” She touches a pair of silk gloves on the table beside us. “I wonder what these hold. It makes them precious, even if no one’s here to unlock those times anymore.”

  My hands shake suddenly, and I almost drop the monument as an image presses up in my head with smothering force:

  Shattered glass across the courtyard and the sweet smell of grapes mixed with air on fire—

  The almost-memory sits sticky in my head. Without meaning to, I whisper, “Some memories should stay locked away.”

  The words sound stupid as soon as they tumble out of my mouth, and my neck gets hot.

  Mrs. Michele tilts her head. “Maybe,” she says finally. “But in my experience, the memories we try to contain have a way of breaking free. And then they just hurt more.”

  Anger flares in my chest, so sudden and unexpected that my breath catches. What does she know about painful pasts? Even locked away, the memories claw at my mind, trying to suffocate me in shattered glass and gunpowder smoke. If they weren’t contained, they would consume me. But her eyes fog over, and my anger drains away. I know that look. Lots of people have suffered. Not just me.

  “Well, so this is room one,” Mrs. Michele says with a little laugh. “Come on—let’s find out if Mr. Byrne’s promised Layla a visa yet.”

  I put the Parthenon back on the books and follow her. Near the door, I spot something I never expected to see. My heart pounds.

  Figurines. Figurines of pale, blond, blue-eyed boys with bicycles and girls carrying baskets.

  Just like the ones Benj wants to trade.

  Ahead, Mrs. Michele calls back to me, “Are you coming, Sami? Or did you find something you want to buy?”

  “Coming,” I say as I hustle to the stairs.

  As soon as I catch up, I pull Layla aside while Mrs. Michele speaks with Mr. Byrne. “Do you have Benj’s mobile number?” I ask.

  “Mobile?” She frowns. “I have his cell.”

  “Yes—that.” I’m so excited, I want to bounce on the balls of my feet. “Can you give it to me?”

  “Sure…” She takes out her phone, we exchange numbers, and in a minute Benj’s contact information appears on my screen.

  I send him a text: Hi, this is Sami. Could you send me a picture of those figurines?

  “Sami, come meet Mr. Byrne,” Mrs. Michele says as I slip my phone back into my pocket. We exchange introductions and talk briefly, but the whole time I’m listening for a response from Benj.

  My phone dings a few minutes later. Benj has attached his pictures. I glance at Mr. Byrne and clear my throat, uncertain. He looks up from arranging necklaces.

  “Ah—I saw some little statues downstairs. They looked like this?” I hold out my phone. “I wondered if you’d buy more, maybe?”

  “Mmm.” Mr. Byrne flips through the images. “These are nice Hummel figures. This one’s number one hundred forty-three, if I’m not mistaken? Mm-hm. I’d have to see them in person, of course, but I’d probably offer forty or fifty dollars.”

  I lower my head. I was hoping for more for the iPod—it’s the most valuable thing I have.

  Mr. Byrne is still looking through the pictures. “Yes, I’d say forty or fifty apiece.”

  My head pops up. “Really?” I blurt. That would earn me more than one hundred dollars!

  “Really.” He passes the phone back to me. His eyes are twinkling. “Bring them by and we can work out a deal.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  I type out a quick message to Benj:

  Bring your figurines to practice. The trade is on!

  * * *

  TRADE LOG

  Days: 24

  THINGS TO TRADE:

  Game Informer magazines (Dan)

  PLANNED TRADES:

  iPod for figurines

  Figurines for money

  COMPLETED TRADES:

  1. Manchester United key chain -> iPod

  2. Coins -> Game Informer magazines

  * * *

  11

  On Sunday, Baba and I decide to accept Mr. Farid’s invitation and join some of the mosque members for an afternoon at Kennedy Greenway, a park in central Boston. It’s definitely better than sitting at home, waiting for sunset to come so we can eat. Besides, Benj is going to be there, and he’ll bring the figurines. If I’m careful to keep it from Baba, I can work a trade into this afternoon.

  Baba and I arrive at the State Street T station and follow a line of red brick cutting through the gray pavement. The trail brings us past the deepest parts of the city. When I tilt my head back, the blue skyscrapers seem to brush the scattered clouds above. The roads are all but empty of cars, which seems strange to me, but plenty of people are on foot. Music flits through the air, and street performers play, circled by onlookers. Smells grow stronger—pasta one moment, then burgers, then spices, then coffee. It’s so full, so alive, that it’s almost like I’m in an Istanbul bazaar.

  But the nearby food makes my stomach clench, and I can hardly appreciate all the bustling because of my hunger.

  “Perhaps we should hurry through,” Baba says, a knowing gleam in his eye. “It does not do to linger so near temptation.”

  I smile and pick up the pace.

  Baba doesn’t say much as we move past the street performers. I keep glancing at him, trying to read his face. At the sound of music, I feel an ache in my chest, and I’m sure he must feel it, too: the wish for the rebab, and a co
rner of our own to play on.

  We go through a shopping center to another crosswalk. An abandoned carousel is on the far side, with sheets draped over to cover it. A man glides by on a scooter, using a huge plastic bag for a sail. A breeze smelling more of salt than food loosens the tight hunger in my stomach.

  Finally, we’re in sight of a green park, where families picnic and couples walk their dogs. A group of people from our mosque chat and laugh under the trees. Some teenage boys are kicking around a soccer ball, while elderly men sit on blankets with chess boards. Hamida is bent over a sketch pad. An older boy plays the guitar beside her, and Benj crouches nearby, studying the boy’s fingers as he explains chords. Mr. Farid laughs at something the man next to him says, but when he spots us, he waves. Baba lifts his hand, turning toward them.

  Beyond the gathering is the Charles River, deep blue under the clear sky, with white boats docked at the wharf.

  To me, Baba says in Pashto, “I did not realize it would be so near the water. Will you be all right, Sami?”

  “It’s fine,” I answer, my face heating. The spot is well away from the riverbank. Even though fear churns in my stomach, I know there’s no reason to be nervous. Water’s always had this effect on me, even before I stepped into the boat that took us from Turkey to Greece. But I don’t want to cause a problem. Not when the lines on Baba’s face have begun to relax. Not now that he stands straighter and his eyes move quickly to take in the surroundings.

  He’s not smiling. But it’s still something. I don’t want to ruin it by drawing attention to the past.

  “It’s fine,” I repeat, a little quieter, as we reach the group.

  Mr. Farid rocks to his feet and shakes Baba’s hand. “Assalamu alaikum, friend. I’m so glad you have come.”

  “Walaikum assalam. We are pleased to be here.”

  While Mr. Farid introduces Baba to his companions, I edge toward Hamida. The boy strumming the guitar must be her brother—they have the same eyes—and his quick song plays along with the shimmering shadows of the leaves. Part of me wants to watch him, to study the chords and see how it’s different or similar to the rebab, but it’s clear he already has an all-absorbed fan in Benj. Instead, I try to get a look at Hamida’s drawing over her shoulder. She’s working with a pencil, sketching short, quick lines.

  “Hi, Sami,” Hamida says, glancing up and covering her sketch with an embarrassed smile.

  My neck heats, but I smile back. “Hi.”

  One of the soccer players calls, “Hey, Omar, come take over for Omid!”

  “Sorry, Benj,” says Hamida’s brother—Omar. He holds out his guitar. “Here, you can practice until I get back.”

  “Wow, thanks!” Benj settles with the guitar in his lap while Omar goes to join the team. Carefully pressing down on the strings, Benj manages a wobbly chord. He grins at me. “Hey! How’s it going?”

  “Good.” I sit beside him, folding my legs under me.

  “I’ve got the things…” Benj looks around and then drags over a box about the size of my backpack. “Three creepy figurines, as ordered.”

  I pull the iPod from my backpack and hold it out. “One fixed iPod, as agreed.”

  We swap, and I can’t help smiling wider. Next step: get back to Cobwebs Antiques and sell the figurines.

  Hamida leans over to peer at the box. “What’s in there?”

  “Figurines.” I unzip my backpack to squeeze the box inside. “I need to sell them at Cobwebs—I’ll probably go tomorrow after school.”

  “But then you’d miss practice!” Benj protests.

  “Yeah, you can’t miss! Before you started coming, Layla would always take the game practically by herself.” Hamida snaps her fingers. “That’s it! Doesn’t Layla’s mom work at Cobwebs?”

  “Yes…”

  “Layla lives near you, Hamida—I mean, I’m pretty sure.” Benj frowns, thinking. “Do you have her number? I have it—in my phone—somewhere—” He swivels around, keeping the guitar on his lap while he pats the ground nearby.

  Hamida tilts her head. “No, I don’t … But if I did, I could just take them over this afternoon. Then no one has to miss practice!”

  And, I realize, I won’t have to hide the box from Baba. “I have her number,” I volunteer. “My phone’s right here. I could … ask for her address?”

  “Good idea!” Hamida says.

  I type out a message while Benj finds his phone (he was sitting on it) and Hamida sketches a bit more. After I send the message, I find myself watching her work. She keeps looking from her page to the harbor and back again. My stomach gets a weird knotted feeling, and suddenly I’m not so interested in her drawing anymore.

  I turn my attention back to my phone at the same time that Layla’s reply pops up on the screen.

  “Layla’s in if we can work out how to get the figurines to her. Here’s her address,” I say, and read it out loud.

  Hamida starts nodding before I’m even done. “Yep, I live right down the street! Cool! So, I’ll take the box to Layla after the picnic.”

  “Are you sure?” I make myself look her in the face. I want to be absolutely positive she doesn’t mind. “I don’t want to inconvenience you…”

  She waves off my concern. “Nah, it’s fine. I’ve never been to her house before—I can’t believe she lives so close!”

  “It would be an enormous favor, Hamida.”

  Hamida pulls the box out of my backpack and sets it next to her. “Don’t even worry about it. Now, Benj—have you figured out ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ yet?”

  “Pfft, I’m a pro at that!” Benj starts playing a tune in stumbling strums. Omar, running past us with the game, gives him a thumbs-up.

  Hamida sets aside her sketch and leans over to correct Benj’s position. I glance down at the open page—a near-perfect copy of our harbor view. I look at the docks to compare it with her drawing. But almost immediately my stomach begins to tighten, like I’m a string on a kite and someone’s winding me around the spool. Hamida and Benj’s conversation ebbs into a murmur. Excusing myself, I grab my backpack and sit down beside Baba, who’s taking a rest at the fringe of the men’s circle. Baba’s gaze catches on my bag, and he frowns at the empty zipper where my key chain used to hang.

  “What happened to your Manchester United key chain?” he asks in quiet Pashto.

  “Oh,” I stammer. “I—lost it.”

  “Sami…” Baba sounds annoyed. “You know that was important. You are not so careless.”

  I shrug and loop my arms around my knees and try not to feel like the ground’s sinking away from me.

  Baba shakes his head slightly and turns to face the boats.

  A flash draws my attention to the harbor. The ferry boat backs away from the dock, and the windows blink again with the sun’s reflection. People move around on the top deck, exposed to the open air.

  Even though the day’s warm, my skin goes all sweaty and cold.

  In my head, I’m on the plastic boat during our crossing three years ago. The sea tosses us up and down, up and down. Salt coats my skin and clothes and hair and mouth. We have no drinking water. There is water in every direction, but we have no water. Time has lengthened beyond measuring—I am too sick to think of it. There is only the rise and fall, rise and fall, and the whimpers of a child smaller than me and the occasional murmur of men. I have stopped asking Baba how far it is or when we will arrive.

  “Sami.” Baba nudges my shoulder.

  I look up at him, but my mouth is too dry for talk.

  “Sami,” Baba says again. Baba is here, beside me, in Boston, on dry ground. He is not the Baba who stares out across the water, searching for land that never seems to come. “Sami, get up and walk around. We’ll go home, away from the river.”

  The green grass feels like it’s rising and falling, rising and falling, but I climb to my feet. Sluggish and unsteady, I pace slowly while Baba rises. My face burns, but none of the others seem to notice. Baba takes my backpack,
makes our excuses to Mr. Farid and the others, and starts walking me down the path toward the street. Before I turn, Hamida points to the box and gives me a thumbs-up. I can’t make my mouth smile back, but I nod to her.

  As we walk back to the T stop, the wind pricks the sweat on my arms. My thoughts drag in my head, slurring one into the next.

  I try to focus on when we finally saw land, and the strangers who rushed to pull the boat to the shallows, and the blankets they wrapped around us, and the priest who gave us scraps of carpet to kneel on as we prayed our gratitude.

  But thinking of landing makes me remember the two people in the boat who did not move. How others dragged their bodies onto the sand.

  With an effort, I force myself to look around. A mother with a stroller jogs past. Some young men play catch. Kids chase pigeons. Baba’s hand rests on my shoulder, and he rubs his thumb back and forth, back and forth. This is the world I live in now. This isn’t the Mediterranean Sea. The ferry boat in the harbor is well equipped. No one is in danger.

  As the memory passes, I feel foolish. “Sorry,” I mutter to Baba.

  “No,” Baba says, firm but quiet. “It is the way that it is. I know this. Khuday Pak mehriban dey.”

  God is kind. I lean my head against his arm and close my eyes tightly.

  * * *

  TRADE LOG

  Days: 23

  THINGS TO TRADE:

  Game Informer magazines (Dan)

  PLANNED TRADES:

  Figurines for money

  COMPLETED TRADES:

  1. Manchester United key chain -> iPod

  2. Coins -> Game Informer magazines

  3. iPod -> Figurines

  * * *

  12

  Three days later, I’m sitting in the school cafeteria at the Murder Corner (that’s what Dan calls it) under the water stain. The room smells strongly of greasy cheese and overcooked vegetables. Even though I’m here every day, it still takes effort to think around the sounds of plastic trays banging and students talking. Last week, Mrs. Mulligan said she could make arrangements for me to stay on the playground or in the library instead of being in here, but I don’t want to create a fuss. Besides, Dan sits with me now during the lunch period.