The Eleventh Trade

by Alyssa Hollingsworth

  My mor jani beamed at him, bright and radiant as the summer sun. “I suppose I could.”

  When she smiled like that, my plar always looked at her in a way I found embarrassing. I returned to my reading to avoid noticing them.

  I wish I had paid more attention. Maybe I would remember them better.

  Mr. Lincoln laughs through this story, and it makes it easier to begin to talk of the bad times—the fear of the Taliban’s return, the years my plar spent trying to get visas so we could leave for America. Some of his friends made it and left ahead of their families to build a new life and smooth the way for them to come. But when an interpreter fled the country, the Taliban often kidnapped sons and brothers and fathers. Sometimes the lost ones were returned for a ransom. If the family could not afford the cost, or could not pay in time, the stolen person was killed.

  So my plar wouldn’t leave before us. Even when the calls began.

  I would find him, sometimes, on the toshaks with his phone in his hand. He would stare into the distance, into our future. I think, now, that he knew what would come. But he would not leave us. He kept trying.

  Even with his English, even with Sergeant Pycior’s help, my plar could not get his applications approved. The forms just became longer and longer. The politics became more and more complicated.

  “Then, in the spring, one of my cousins got married.” I pause. My palms sweat. My skin crawls. The table seems to grow and press against my chest, and I imagine people are peering through the glass walls at my back. I glance over my shoulder. No one is there. Where is the exit? How will I escape if the door to the stairs is jammed? Would the bathroom across the hall be safe, or would they search there first?

  This room has no protection. Someone could shoot straight through that glass. It’s probably not blast proof. Anything would shatter it.

  “Hey, Sami?” Mr. Lincoln says gently. “How are you feeling?”

  I turn around again and try to swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m fine,” I answer automatically. But my hands are shaking on the table. I’m cold and hot at once.

  “You don’t have to talk about the wedding,” he says. “You’re in charge of the conversation. Maybe we should skip ahead?”

  But I should be able to say it. After all, three years have passed. And there is no one looking for me here.

  Still, my body and my heart don’t understand how to remember right. They only know how to relive the bad stuff over and over and over again, until it feels like it’s happening in this room, right now. I wish my body could remember how it felt when my plar was happy. I wish my ears could relive my mor’s laugh in the same stark, vivid way. Instead, my memories of before keep fading, only coming clear at random, while the memory of the wedding always lurks, like a wave in the back of my mind waiting to pull me under.

  I feel like I should be able to say it, but Mr. Lincoln says I don’t have to, so I force the bad memories to return to hiding. It takes me a few seconds to find where the story turns safe again. “We—just Baba and I—took a bus to Nimruz. It’s southwest of Kandahar, where you can find smugglers to take you across the border.”

  They charged us nearly all our savings. The last truck had been shot at, and a few passengers had died before the rest were deported back to Afghanistan. Others who tried the crossing were beheaded, or tangled in the barbed wire, or simply lost. Using a smuggler did not mean we would be safe, but going through the treacherous, brutally guarded terrain without one was almost certain death.

  We went, and God blessed our path. We reached Iran and stayed a month in our relatives’ back room. Once we had rested, we started hearing the whispers of Europe. Hope.

  As I tell my story, the words take me over. It’s like I’m the instrument, and they are playing me, saying things I did not know, things I had forgotten. They rush on, even when I want to close my mouth, even when I want to cry. They have to get out. I can’t control them. Mr. Lincoln isn’t even asking questions—it’s just me, talking and talking and talking, trying to get to the end.

  We made it to Turkey and then took the boat to Greece. Everything was chaos, and we lived in a public park for a few days before we found an affordable, cramped hostel room. We shared it with twenty other men while we waited for money to be wired from a distant uncle in Kabul.

  Then we happened to meet Sergeant Pycior again, now discharged and working with a nonprofit. He convinced us America might still work. It wasn’t too late to fulfill Plar’s dream for us to live there.

  “They’re saying the borders out of Greece will close soon,” he told us, “and the atmosphere is already strained. America would be better.”

  He helped us return safely to Istanbul, where it was marginally more comfortable to live, even though Baba wasn’t allowed to work. Over the next three years he helped us with the visa applications. He had contacts in the States, and he did everything he could in honor of my plar.

  Finally, we came to America. We had a few weeks to get settled, with the help of our placement agency, but then the rebab was stolen. I finish my story by explaining my quest. The words fade, leaving the room silent. My whole body aches. My lungs heave like I’ve been running or sobbing. My bones feel loose and jiggly. Mr. Lincoln’s eyes are red. I don’t know when he cried. I am more tired than I’ve ever felt in my entire life.

  Mr. Lincoln opens and closes his mouth. Finally, he says softly, “I don’t have any words.”

  I lower my gaze, unsure if I should apologize, unsure how to respond. A heaviness hangs in the air, expectant.

  Mr. Lincoln turns off the recording. He pauses, exhales. “You’ve broken my heart, Sami.” Then he bends until I have to meet his eyes. “Thank you. Thank you for sharing your story with me.”

  Maybe I should thank him for listening, or asking, or being so kind. But I am too tired. I do not have anything left to say. I’ve exhausted all of my English. I just nod.

  “It might have a better ending by Eid al-Fitr,” I finally say to fill the silence. “Inshallah.”

  “Inshallah,” Mr. Lincoln echoes, smiling faintly. Then he digs in his pocket. “I’m tired now, so you must be completely done in. I have compensation for you, but I’m afraid it’s not that much. I wish I had more to give.”

  He passes fifty dollars to me. That’s half the price of the computer earned back. Not too bad, I think, though I’m so exhausted I hardly know what to feel. I thank him softly as I add it to my plastic bag of funds. His smile gets a little wider.

  “Hold on!” he exclaims, springing to his feet. “I have an idea. Wait a second.”

  He’s out the door before I know how to respond. I turn in my chair to watch him run down the hallway. All my muscles hurt. I’ll have enough trouble just getting through my homework before iftar and bed.

  Mr. Lincoln returns after a few minutes, four heavy-looking books in his hands. He sets them down with a thud on the table.

  “These are textbooks I’ve kept since my master’s degree,” he says. He taps the spines. “I’m a bit of a sentimental sap, but I don’t need them. If you want, you can take them to sell—that should get you about a hundred or more, I imagine. Would that help?”

  I blink in surprise. “I don’t—I shouldn’t—If fifty dollars is what you’re giving everyone—”

  “Seriously, you would be doing me a favor.” Mr. Lincoln smiles. “These things keep getting in the way in my office—that is, my advisor’s office. We have to share a space, and we’re both pack rats. If it’s up to me, I’ll be holding these books until the day I die. If you take them, you’ll be saving me a lot of trouble!”

  A smile tugs on my mouth. “Okay, I guess.”

  “Here, let’s see if we can squeeze them into your backpack.”

  We manage it, though by the end my bag weighs almost as much as I do. Mr. Lincoln adds the mulberries to an outside pocket and then helps me lift it on. All the way downstairs and to the courtyard, he teases me about being careful to not break my back.

  Once
we’re outside, Mr. Lincoln points to Ruggles Station. He asks, “Think you can get home from here?”

  “Yes, thanks.” I shift the straps, trying to ease the weight off my shoulders. “Da khuday pa aman—I leave you in God’s peace.”

  Mr. Lincoln hooks his thumbs on his suit pockets. “Da khuday pa aman,” he says in a clumsy attempt at the phrase.

  I hesitate, smiling. “Actually, it is the person leaving who always says, Da khuday pa aman—the person staying replies, Pu mukha de sha.”

  “Oh!” He beams. “What does that mean?”

  “May you face only good.”

  Mr. Lincoln becomes more serious. “Pu mukha de sha, then. I do hope you have many good things ahead, Sami.”

  I bow my head out of habit, then turn toward the station. Though I’m carrying my weight in books, I feel just a little bit lighter.

  Six trades. I’m drawing closer to the rebab.

  * * *

  TRADE LOG

  Days: 15

  Have: $75

  Need: $625

  THINGS TO TRADE:

  Laptop (waiting on battery)

  PLANNED TRADES:

  Combat boots for art supplies (Julie)

  Textbooks for money

  COMPLETED TRADES:

  1. Manchester United key chain -> iPod

  2. Coins -> Game Informer magazines

  3. iPod -> Figurines

  4. Figurines -> $145

  5. Magazines -> Combat boots

  6. Story -> $50 + textbooks

  * * *

  20

  Two days later, the bell rings on the last class of the school year. I weave around yelling kids, grab the stuff from my locker, and hurry to meet Dan by the basketball court.

  “We made it!” he shouts, holding up his hand.

  I high-five him without hesitating. I can hardly believe I’ve survived to the end of the term. Tests are done, and I think I did all right. For a few months, I won’t have any more classes. I won’t have to worry about Peter glaring at my back. Instead, I can focus all my attention on getting the rebab.

  Dan waves to some of his other friends as we make our way past the court and the playground. “Okay, where are we at with the trades?”

  “Julie’s bringing her art supplies to practice today and I’ll trade her for the combat boots. Then I want to show the art supplies to Hamida.”

  “Wicked.” Dan bounces his backpack higher on his shoulders as we round onto the sidewalk and pause at the crosswalk. A bunch of other students are gathered there to wait.

  “The laptop battery shipped, finally,” Dan adds. The light changes from a red hand to a walking person. Most of the others turn left to the corner store, but we cross toward the mechanic’s shop. Dan has to raise his voice above the machinery. “It’s supposed to be here Friday afternoon. I’ve finished all the virus scans and stuff on the laptop, so it’ll be good to go as soon as the battery arrives.”

  “Okay. And then we list it on eBay?” I try not to sound too anxious. The battery is taking longer to come than I thought it would, and I don’t have much time to make up the money I spent on the laptop.

  “Yep.”

  We come to the other side of the shop, out of sight of the school. A group of kids is farther on, but it’s less crowded overall. Loud steps follow us, composing a beat in my head.

  The beat quickens. I turn.

  Peter’s right behind me, but he doesn’t look my way. “Hey, Dan.”

  Dan stares straight ahead, not acting surprised. “Hey, Pete.”

  “Good riddance to seventh grade, am I right?” Peter walks on the other side of Dan. He waves back toward the building. “See ya, detention-prison!”

  Dan ignores him and says to me instead, “Do you know when the next trade will be?”

  I glance between them, the unspoken tension making my muscles bunch up under my skin. I don’t want them to fight like they did about the iPod. “Um, it depends on if Hamida is interested in the art supplies. We can figure it out today, though.”

  “Cool. Let me know.”

  “Dan, did you see Justin puke after laps on Tuesday?” Peter cuts in. “It was awesome.”

  “Yeah. It was funny, I guess.” Dan shrugs and turns into the rec center courtyard.

  Peter keeps pace, and an uneasy realization dawns on me. He’s coming with us. I joined at the start of the month, when Peter couldn’t play. Of course he’s back now. He’s the regular—I’m the temporary, the fill-in.

  The glass building flashes in the sun, the tarmac warm—familiar—beneath my shoes. I clench my backpack straps in my hands and stand straighter. I’m on this team now, and I don’t have to be afraid.

  Besides. There’s no reason Peter and I can’t be on the same side.

  The bell chimes as Dan opens the door. Miss Juniper is at the desk talking with Coach. She laughs at something he says and then smiles at us. “Good afternoon. Oh, hello, Peter.”

  “Hi.” Peter snatches the clipboard as soon as Dan’s done and signs in before me.

  “I’ll see you guys back there in a minute,” Coach says. “So, Juniper, did you finish the book on Iceland? What did you think about…”

  After I write my information, I walk toward the hallway. Dan follows me, frowning at Coach and Miss Juniper.

  “Weird,” Dan mutters.

  “Do Coach and Juniper have a thing?” Peter asks.

  Dan shrugs.

  “Weird,” Peter agrees.

  I open the door to the gym and go inside. Most of the team is already clustered in smaller groups talking. Their voices echo in the large room, and I catch bits of conversation about summer break and the Fourth of July. Dan dumps his backpack by the wall, and Peter puts his down beside it. I set mine next to Julie’s, so I can be sure to trade with her—my seventh trade—before we leave. It’s easy to spot her bag because it’s covered in army patches.

  Peter keeps on Dan’s heels. “So, Dan, my mom is going to rent Super Smash Bros. next week. You want to come over and play it?”

  “Can’t. Sami and I have plans.”

  “For the whole week?” Peter glares at me. “What’re you doing this time? Burning some American flags?”

  I flinch.

  Dan clenches his fists. “If you just tried to not be a racist moron and asked Sami nicely, maybe I’d tell you.”

  Peter’s eyes harden. He’s ready for a fight.

  This conflict has to be defused before it gets worse. I don’t really trust Peter with the truth about the rebab and the trades, but I have to find some way to calm him down. “I’m trying to get back something that was stolen,” I blurt out. “You are welcome to help if you’d like.”

  Both Peter and Dan look at me, startled.

  “There would still be time for Super Smash Bros., probably,” I suggest.

  Peter scowls. “No offense, but I didn’t invite you.”

  “No offense,” Dan snaps, “but that’s pretty offensive.”

  “Dan, it’s fine,” I try to cut in. I need them to stop arguing. If they get me into trouble again, Baba may ask more about my time at the rec center, and someone might let it slip about the trades.

  “It’s not fine.” Dan glares at Peter. “If you can’t be a decent human being, stay out of it.”

  “I’m your friend, Dan!” Peter jabs a finger at me. “He’s changed you.”

  “Yeah, well, so what?”

  “What is your problem?” Peter snaps. “Is this still about the vandalism thing? I did my time! It’s over! And anyway, if I remember right, you were going to do it, too.”

  I look at Dan, surprised.

  His face turns a guilty red. “But I didn’t.”

  “Yeah, because you conveniently ‘got sick.’” Peter makes air quotes. “You backed out as soon as it got real because you didn’t have the guts to stick around.”

  “It was a stupid idea! If you wanted to get back at Jim for framing you with the bracelet, you should’ve done something half-brained about
him, not Ms. Nolan.”

  “Well, if you had actually been there, maybe you could’ve said that!”

  Other team members are noticing now, and some start to drift our way. Layla jogs over, glancing from me to the others uncertainly. But I don’t understand what’s going on any better than she does. This fight isn’t about me anymore.

  “Then you start hanging around with this guy!” Peter points at me. If he notices the rest of the team, the audience only encourages him. “What would your dad think if he knew you were buds with this Arab?”

  Dan’s voice tightens into a hiss. “I don’t know. If you can find him, you can ask.”

  “Won’t be hard. I’ll just look anywhere you’re not. Like his girlfriend’s house.” Peter shakes his head, but there’s a smirk in the corner of his mouth. “You break your promises, then take off whenever you want. You’re turning into him.”

  Dan shouts a cuss word and jumps forward. Peter dodges. Dan’s fist narrowly misses his jaw. I shove between them. Dan’s second punch lands on my shoulder. I push a hand against his chest to hold him back. Layla grabs Dan’s arm.

  “Cool it!” Benj says from the sidelines.

  “Sock him! Sock him!” some of the others chant.

  “Stop!” I shout in Dan’s face. “You’ll just get yourself in trouble.”

  “Uh-huh, the terrorist will keep you safe!” Peter says from behind me. “Until he blows you up!”

  Dan tries to wrench out of Layla’s hold, and my wrist cracks with keeping him in place. “Say that again!”

  “Shut up, both of you,” Layla snaps.

  “Benj, get Coach!” I call, catching his eye. He nods and runs for the door.

  “Let me go!” Dan tries to pull away again. “He’s asking for it!”

  “You’re my friend!” I yell. “I’m not letting you get into trouble.”

  For the barest second, the length it takes me to suck another breath, the word settles in my bones. Friend, what Dan said so easily the first time we came to the rec center, when we were still strangers. The word I’m thinking in Pashto—wror—is closer to blood brother than classmate. Weeks ago, such a friendship would have frightened me—before, it has always come with loss. But now it warms me and makes me feel strong. “I’m not letting you get hurt!”