I clench my jaw but don’t answer. Of course Dan’s only thinking of the game.
As Peter walks out, his foot hits my ankle, and I bite my cheek to keep from gasping. Something tells me that wasn’t an accident.
Baba goes last, quiet and thoughtful. We walk together down the now-empty hallway, my hands clenched around my backpack straps.
He doesn’t speak until we reach the school parking lot. Then he slowly turns. In Pashto, he says, “You told me you lost the key chain. Why did you lie?”
“I-I did not think it was a big deal.” I hate the words as I say them. But if I told him the truth, my plan would fall apart. He wouldn’t let me do the trades, and then we might never get the rebab back. “I thought it didn’t matter.”
He studies me, and it takes all my concentration to keep from squirming. “Do you have the iPod, then?”
I hesitate. “No. I gave it to someone else.”
“Sami, what is happening?” His voice softens, like it does when he’s worried. “Why are you keeping these things from me?”
“Nothing’s happening. It’s fine.” I stop at the corner. His restaurant is straight ahead, but I need to turn to go to the rec center. “I have to get to practice before it’s over.”
Baba hesitates but finally puts his hand on my head. “We will talk about this when I get home,” he says. Then he goes on down the street.
I keep my eyes fixed on the red hand of the crosswalk sign. I won’t tell him the truth until Eid. I just need to come up with a better story.
The lie feels wrong, though—it makes my head itch and my toes curl. I’ve never had to keep something from Baba before. It makes me feel unclean.
This is all Peter’s fault. And Dan’s, for giving Peter ammunition, whether intentionally or not. If Dan hadn’t told Peter about fixing the iPod, it never would have escalated this far.
The red hand changes to a white walking person.
I’ll think about the lie later.
Right now, I need to deal with Dan.
* * *
TRADE LOG
Days: 20
Have: $145
Need: $555
PLANNED TRADES:
Game Informer magazines for combat boots (Dan)
COMPLETED TRADES:
1. Manchester United key chain -> iPod
2. Coins -> Game Informer magazines
3. iPod -> Figurines
4. Figurines -> $145
* * *
14
When I come into the rec center gym, Coach is already running the team through the last half of the game. I hang at the edge, disappointed, though I knew it would be nearly done by now. Dan’s already in the action, even though he could only have arrived a few minutes ago.
The door swings shut with a loud bang, and Coach notices me. “Come on, Sami! Benj had to leave early. You can make the teams even. You’re on blue today.”
I jog over. Dan is on my team, which irritates me. I’m not sure I want to see him at all after he blurted about the iPod to Peter. If he had just kept his head down, none of this would have happened. Baba wouldn’t be disappointed in me. Peter wouldn’t be dead set on hating me even more. I try to keep my expression neutral as I pull on the blue mesh over-shirt. Everyone has stopped to wait. With another prick of annoyance, I notice Layla’s on red. That does not bode well for our offense.
“All right, everyone, let’s kick off again.” Coach arranges us. He has to put me on defense because Dan’s on offense. I normally don’t mind defense, but today I want to grind my teeth in frustration. “Three, two, one—”
Dan kicks off, and the offense runs down the other end of the gym. I move from one foot to the other, watching the ball get passed around on the far side. Dan takes it too close to the goalkeeper, and she grabs it and throws it above their heads.
Layla is on it the moment it hits the floor. I run for her, but she slides around me, and before any of us can do anything, she’s shot it into the goal.
The other team shouts in victory.
Dan trots to us, red-faced and scowling. “Jeez, Sami, you’ve got to stay with her!”
My fists clench, and my face goes hot. “Maybe if you hadn’t gone so close to the goal before you were ready to shoot, the ball would still be in their half.”
Dan’s glare darkens, but Coach claps his hands.
“Return to position! And keep it light!” he calls with a look at us. Great, now Coach is mad at me, too. “Get ready for kickoff.”
I retreat to my place on defense, and Dan takes his spot farther up. I try to push the anger away, to concentrate on the game, but mostly I just want to kick the ball into Dan’s head.
When the ball comes into my area again, Dan trails the red team kid. I shove myself in the way, steal the ball, and shoot it toward the middle of the court instead of passing to Dan.
“Hey!” he snaps, but doesn’t have time to say more before he has to run back down the court.
Soon it’s clear we’re losing the game. Dan and I keep clashing. I pass the ball too far once, so Dan loses it. I pass it too hard later, so it hits him with a smack in the shins. He elbows me out of the way when he runs past and shoots it over my head twice.
“What’s your problem?” Dan hisses under his breath while we wait for another kickoff.
“What’s yours?”
We’re so far behind it’s hardly worth trying. Layla loses a pass, and the ball skids in my direction. One of the larger red team players sprints right at me. I get the ball out from under my feet and pivot—but my shoe skids on the gym floor and I fall. Pain shoots up my leg, but I hardly notice. The other team steals the ball. Someone grabs my arm and pulls me up. Dan. He doesn’t look at me or say anything, though, just jogs after the players, too late to stop them from getting another goal.
Now the other team is one point from a win. There’s no way we’ll catch up, but Dan goes after the ball anyway. I don’t know if he’s too stubborn to admit it’s a lost cause, or if quitting just isn’t in his playbook—on or off the field. Somehow he makes it around their defense and charges straight for the goalie—a girl with wild, kinky hair who’s taller than all of us—but she doesn’t back down. The trick doesn’t work. She grabs the ball and throws.
With a bounce, it lands near me. I get ready to pass it back to an offensive player, but I’m instantly surrounded. I try to keep the ball between my feet, but Layla and the others—it feels like at least twenty kids—keep trying to get around me. The world tightens, full of ankles and elbows and sweat, and I’m entirely cut off from my team.
My lungs shrink.
Cold sweat breaks out across my arms and face.
Then Dan shoves in and kicks the ball away. My frustration starts to flare—but instead of following the ball to try to control it himself, he actually lets Layla steal it.
While their team bolts off toward our goal, Dan casts a glance at me. “Okay?”
My chest hurts. And it feels like I haven’t breathed in a while. But I nod. “Thanks.”
The other team gets the winning point, and Coach calls time. They erupt into celebration. Dan grimaces and shrugs. My anger finally dissolves. And I’m suddenly ashamed of the way the game went.
“Hey,” I say, offering my hand to him. “That was a pretty cool chip—would’ve been a good Panenka, if we were on penalty.”
“Yeah.” He hesitates, then shakes my hand. “Too bad Julie doesn’t budge for anyone.”
We stand there in awkward silence while the rest of the team talks about the game.
Dan scratches the back of his head. “Hey, um, sorry about Peter. The guy’s a real jerk.”
“Yeah.” I pause, not sure what else to say. I wasn’t really mad at Peter—he acted just how I’d expect. But Dan … Dan betrayed my trust. “It’s all right. Maybe just … don’t say so much next time?” It comes out like a question.
Dan groans. “Yeah, I really wish I’d kept my mouth shut. He just makes me so mad!”
I
t’s not an apology, but at least he can admit he made a mistake. “Were you two friends?” I ask.
“Since third grade.” Dan frowns. “But not anymore.” He shrugs his shoulders and then turns to me with a grin. “You want to do the trade now?”
“All right,” I say, even though I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to how quickly Dan can change the subject.
I follow Dan across the busy room and open my backpack. The magazines in hand, I rub my thumb along their spines. Dan pulls out his dad’s combat boots and tosses them to me. They land with a thud at my feet. They’re black with dark buckles and thick straps instead of laces. The grooves on the bottoms are worn down a little, but not bad.
“Those work for you?” Dan asks, rubbing his shoulder and rolling his head. “’Cause I don’t want to lug them home.”
“Yeah, these are good.” I give him the magazines. “So your dad was a tanker?”
“Huh?”
“His boots are tanker boots. That’s why they don’t have laces.”
“Oh.” Dan flips through the glossy pages. “Yeah, I guess.”
He doesn’t look at me, and a silence stretches between us. I examine the boots. They might still be touched with a bit of Kabul mud or Kandahar dust. While he was away from Dan, he was walking in my land. Fighting in my land.
My stomach feels like it’s being stretched, pulled farther and farther from me. His dad and my plar fought on the same side. If they were stationed in the same battalion, they might have even given their lives for each other.
I glance over at Dan. Even though he made a huge mess of everything today, I think he is my ally. But I’m still not totally sure he’s my friend.
* * *
TRADE LOG
Days: 20
Have: $145
Need: $555
THINGS TO TRADE:
Combat boots
COMPLETED TRADES:
1. Manchester United key chain -> iPod
2. Coins -> Game Informer magazines
3. iPod -> Figurines
4. Figurines -> $145
5. Magazines -> Combat boots
* * *
15
“Hey, did you just do a trade?” Layla asks from behind me.
I jump, surprised. Dan seems startled, too.
“You guys okay?” She looks between us.
“Yeah,” I answer. Dan nods. “We’re fine. Just traded the Game Informer magazines for combat boots.”
“Nice! And I have the money from Cobwebs.” Layla digs an envelope out of her backpack and passes it to me. “What are all these trades for, anyway?”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” Coach says, walking over.
Dan glances up, his mouth open to answer for me. But he hesitates. Closes his mouth. Turns to me. “You should tell them.”
My head screams that telling more people is dangerous. That the more people know, the more opportunities there are for something to go wrong. But Layla and Coach are already involved—Layla helped me do the trade with Cobwebs, and Coach gave me the magazines. And I don’t think they’re like Peter. I don’t believe they’ll use the truth to hurt me.
And suddenly I have the urge to tell them everything, as if my honesty now will help the lie to Baba be less of a stain.
Bending my head, I say in the direction of the combat boots, “My baba—grandfather—had a rebab. It’s an Afghan instrument. He used to be a professional player, with concerts and everything. When we left Afghanistan, he carried it with him during our journey—it was one of the only things we brought. But about two weeks ago, I was playing it in a T station, and someone stole it from me. I found it in a music shop in the city, but the man won’t give it to me unless I pay seven hundred dollars. I don’t have any money, so I’m trying to get seven hundred dollars with trades.”
Coach frowns, but one of the other kids calls a question to him. He moves off to answer.
“Oh, wow.” Layla makes a face and tugs a braid. “Crazy! How could someone just take something like that?”
“Right?” Dan chimes in. “And the shop guy is a real sleaze to not give it back.”
Layla’s phone buzzes, and she checks her messages. “I’ve got to go. But my mom says there’s an estate sale on Saturday. Do you guys want to join in? Could be a good place to find more stuff to trade.”
“Poke around someone else’s stuff? Definitely!” Dan grins. “I’ll ask the Parent.”
I hesitate. Saturday is the only day Baba has off this week. I can’t pass up the opportunity to purchase more items to trade, but I don’t like to think of him sitting alone in the apartment.
Layla nudges my shoulder. “Your grandpa could come, too, if he wants.”
“That might work,” I agree. Maybe a day out would lift his spirits.
“Great. Text me your addresses and we can pick you up on our way. I’m excited! I need to find a birthday present for my mom—” Her phone buzzes again, and Layla hurries toward the gym door. “Got to run! See you then!”
Dan puts the magazines carefully in his backpack. “Julie wants those combat boots—I bet you anything. Even if they don’t fit, she’d trade her right arm for them.”
“Julie?” I glance toward our teammates. Only a few are lingering to talk.
“She was the keeper on the other team today.”
I spot her. She’s wearing a T-shirt a few sizes too big and has her curly hair pulled back in a bushy ponytail. “Why would she want your dad’s combat boots?”
“She plans to join the army, first chance she gets.” Dan rocks to his feet. “I told her I’d bring ’em by, so I think she’s brought some pictures of stuff for you to look at. I’ve got to get home—Mom will freak if she gets back from lawyer-talk and the house is a mess. See you tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
While Dan leaves, I tie the boots’ straps together. They definitely smell like they were in combat—rank with old sweat. Hopefully Julie won’t mind.
“Sami?” Coach comes up beside me.
“Yes, sir?”
“I had an idea—it might help you get some extra money. I have a friend at Northeastern University who is working on his PhD. His dissertation is about the migrant crisis—I mean, that’s part of it—and he’s trying to collect firsthand stories from people who have made it to the US. I’m pretty sure he has some funds to compensate you for your time.”
It’s a bit difficult to understand him—there are a lot of words and I’m not totally sure of their meaning. “What would I have to do?”
“Just meet with him, talk about why you left Afghanistan, and what happened between then and now.” Coach fishes in his pocket and pulls out a business card. “Here, this is his information.”
I take the card. It’s just like the one we used to fix the iPod. My thumb leaves a dirty smudge on the white paper. Coach’s friend’s name is printed in bold, black letters, LINCOLN TRUDEAU, with his number and email address below. There’s another line I didn’t notice before:
PhD Candidate, Northeastern University—Communities Re-Formed on These Shores: An Examination of Historical and Recent Migration to the Eastern US Through the Lens of Cultural History, Adaptation, and Society.
“He’s a great guy,” Coach says. “I’m sure he’d love to talk with you.”
“Thanks,” I say, but I doubt I’ll contact him. I try not to remember what happened to my home, so why would I talk about it with a stranger? The trades are going well—it’s nice of Coach to come up with a way for me to make more money, but I don’t need it. “I will think about it.”
“I understand. You have a printer at home?”
I shake my head.
“No problem. I’ll ask Juniper to print off the permission slip, just in case you decide to talk with Lincoln. Actually—have we had your grandfather sign the forms for the rec center yet?”
I shake my head again. “I was going to make sure Baba does tonight. But I do have those forms.”
“Okay, definitely br
ing them on Monday.” He pauses. But he just flashes a smile at me. “See you tomorrow.”
“See you.” I go back to tying the boot straps together, and once I’m sure my knot will hold, I swing my backpack on one shoulder and the boots on the other. I look for Julie and spot her across the room, already staring at the boots.
I take a deep breath and walk toward her. But when I get there, before I have a chance to say anything, she asks bluntly, “Dan said you might trade those?” She immediately pulls out her phone. “He told me to bring pictures for you. Here, have a look.”
I lean over her shoulder while she scrolls, tucking the business card into my back pocket. Julie has an old winter coat, some DVDs, German shepherd stuffed animals. None of it gives me any real ideas. Where would I trade them next?
A medium-sized bin of something that looks like markers pops up on her phone.
“Hold on.” I stop her before she flies past. “What’s this?”
“Bin from art camp. My mom made me go last year.” Julie taps the photo to make it bigger. “There’s a ton of stuff in here. Some Spectrum Noir markers, a sketchbook, colored pencils, watercolors…”
Hamida draws. She can do so much with just a pencil—and she told Mr. Farid she wanted real supplies! My heart pounds, and I start to grin. “I’ll trade you for the supplies.”
“You got it, trade boy. I’ll even dig through my things and see if I can find any more art stuff to throw in.”
“Great.” This is perfect—better than I could have asked for. “I’ll hold the boots, and we can trade at practice?”
“You got it.” She gives me a thumbs-up and then follows her friend out.
I trail behind, pleased. But as I’m walking through the main lobby, Miss Juniper waves me over.
“Hey, Sami, here are the forms,” she says, passing them to me. “Two for the rec center, in case you need extra, and one for Lincoln Trudeau, if you decide to talk to him.”
Unease pricks up my back. I take the forms slowly. “Thanks.”
Coach stands by the desk, watching. “You know, Sami—” he starts, then hesitates before he goes on, “This doesn’t have to be just for the money—sometimes it’s good to talk to someone. My parents came over from Somalia. I think, maybe if they had talked more…” He sighs. “But maybe they couldn’t. I don’t know. It’s worth a try, though, right?”
The Eleventh Trade Page 8