He doesn’t mention the court events. I try to write a text to ask, but it sounds awkward and pushy. I hope he knows I’d listen. But if he wants to be distracted, I can help with that, too.
Finally, on Wednesday night he comes back into town, and finally, on Thursday, Dan and I meet at Roxbury Crossing Station instead of going to practice. I’m buzzing with anticipation. I have the textbooks in my backpack, and he has the guitar over his shoulder. I’ll sell them all today. But even better: I’ll finally get to see the rebab again. I can hardly keep from bouncing my feet on the T, I’m so wound up with excitement. When Dan and I get off at Porter Station, I nearly jump with every step. We head down the street toward the shop, Dan talking about a recent soccer tournament.
“You sure you’re okay missing practice?” I ask. Even in my excitement, I can’t help being surprised he was so willing to go with me instead of play a game.
“Yeah, I hear Layla’s still out, anyway,” he says with a shrug. “It’d be way too easy to beat the others without her.”
I’m not sure it would be that easy, but there has definitely been a lack of challenge since Layla came down with a cold on Monday.
My phone dings, and Dan’s plays a clip of rock music at the same time. We both look. Mine has a text from Layla. It’s a picture of a hand-drawn card. I make the image bigger and read:
My parents & I cordially invite you
to celebrate the
FOURTH OF JULY
with us next week
on the FOURTH OF JULY.
There will be fireworks and food and music.
The quintessential American experience!
A second ding and a second text appears: I wanted to make fancy invitations but I didn’t have time to mail them, so here you go. Also I didn’t want you to catch my cold, which is *definitely* going to be over by the 4th. COME SHED PATRIOTIC TEARS WITH US.
“Wicked,” Dan says, glancing up from his screen. “You got the invite from Layla?”
I nod. “Patriotic tears?”
“Yeah, she’s being weird.” Dan types an answer, then sticks his phone in his pocket. “Are you gonna go? You should. It’s awesome. Last year, one of the fireworks was smiley-face shaped.”
“I don’t know. July Fourth is right before my deadline.” Besides, as long as the crescent moon is sighted, Ramadan will end at sunset on the fifth. It feels a bit wrong to be gone for one of the last fast-breakings—when Baba and I are both so close to finishing our fasting, each iftar should be special. Maybe I could convince Baba to go with us … “I don’t have much time before I need to have the rebab for Eid al-Fitr.”
Before Dan can answer, a third text arrives: GUYS GUYS ALSO my dad and I were talking and I THINK HE WANTS TO GET MY MOM A LAPTOP FOR HER BIRTHDAY! I told him we have one and he’d like to look it over!
My pulse quickens. So far, nothing has happened on the eBay listing. This could be the solution.
“Awesome!” Dan grins. “See, now you have to come. It’s the perfect chance to sell the laptop! Then you’ll have completed all the trades before Eid al—al-Fitter.”
“Eid al-Fitr.”
“Right. That. What’s that, again?”
I have to smile. “The celebration after Ramadan ends. It’s not too different from your Christmas—we give gifts and spend time with family and have big celebrations that last days. Or, we did at home, anyway.”
“Got it. And what day is that again?”
“Should be the sixth.”
“Okay, then you have to come to the Fourth of July! It’s not too close. Besides, it’s going to be a blast.”
I wince a little at his choice of words. But he has a point—the event would be a convenient way to trade the laptop. I can’t afford to pass up any opportunity—especially since the eBay sale isn’t looking promising. After all, I took a chance with Mr. Lincoln, and that went well.
And I’m curious. I’ve heard about the celebrations for the Fourth of July and seen them in movies. It would be fun to go.
“I’ll think about it,” I promise. Then I add, “But I’ll probably go.”
“Yessss.” Dan gives me a thumbs-up.
We arrive at the used-book store. Inside, a college student sits behind the counter, studying an open notebook and stack of index cards, but he shoots us a smile. When I set my heavy backpack on his desk, he chuckles. “Here to sell, I take it?”
“Yes, please.” I unzip the top and lift out the bulky books one by one. The student logs in to his computer and scans codes off the back covers.
“Okay, let’s see. Methodological Approaches to Community-Based Research,” the student mutters, typing. Then he pauses to flip through the pages. “Minor markings. We could give you forty dollars for this.”
I nod. Forty dollars for a book seems like a lot to me.
“Pakistan on the Brink. No markings. How about sixty dollars?”
My eyes widen. I nod again.
“Migration Across Boundaries. Minor markings. Let’s go with … seventy-five dollars?”
Dan elbows me excitedly. I can hardly believe this.
“And, last one—The Warmth of Other Suns.” The student opens the front flap of the book and grins excitedly. “Signed! How cool is that?”
“Signed?” I echo, leaning over to look. In loopy writing are the words: To Lincoln, Warmest wishes and God bless your own research! Good luck—and feel free to reach out! I didn’t realize he’d given me something like this—something so personal.
“There’s only light bumps to the spine. Looks like whoever had this took good care of it.” The student types some more. “I could give you thirty dollars. Sound good?”
I just stare, trying to add up the numbers in my head, trying to take in that Mr. Lincoln gave me so much and pretended like I was doing him a favor.
“That’s great!” Dan volunteers for me.
The student does some more typing and then pulls cash out of the register. “Okay. Then that’s two hundred and five dollars altogether. Here you go.”
My fingers close around the wad of cash. I barely manage to croak, “Thank you.”
“Yeah, have a good day!” Dan grabs my empty backpack, turns me toward the door, and pushes me forward, almost like he thinks the student might change his mind. Once we’re in the street, he gasps, “Holy cow.”
I carefully fold the wad and put it in my little plastic-bag wallet. Two hundred and five plus my seventy-five equals two hundred and eighty dollars. The numb surprise is wearing off, and my pulse starts buzzing with excitement. Trade nine: way more successful than I could have imagined.
My head feels light with the rush of good luck—and Mr. Lincoln’s generosity—and I let out a relieved laugh. “Okay. That was—Wow.”
“Come on, we’ve got to hit up the next place while we’re on a streak!” Dan starts off down the street. The music shop is only about three blocks down. The GUITARS WANTED sign still sits in the window. Dan shifts the guitar case while I grab the door and hold it open. The bell chirps as we march in.
The owner sits behind the counter with another car magazine. “Welcome to Creature Guitar,” he says while he finishes reading his sentence. Finally, he glances up. “Come to sell something?”
Dan and I make our way to him. I answer, “Yes, I have a guitar to sell. But I also—We spoke a few weeks ago about my rebab?”
“Oh, right. I remember. You got the money?”
“No, but I will soon—by the fifth.”
Dan slides the guitar off his shoulder and lifts it onto the counter. “Not like you deserve it,” he mutters, so quiet even I barely hear.
I nudge him in warning, raising my voice to say, “I was hoping I could see the rebab, though?”
“Sure, kid. Let’s look at this first.”
The man lifts the guitar out of the case. We wait while he turns the instrument over, examining it from a few angles and occasionally making a small grunt. Rock music plays on the speakers, turned down low enough that only
the high notes sound clear. I shift from foot to foot, trying to hide my nerves.
Finally, the man returns the guitar to its case. “Okay. I can give you seventy dollars.”
“One hundred!” Dan says.
The guy frowns.
I nudge Dan harder. To the guy, I offer, “How about eighty?”
For a long moment, the guy doesn’t budge. Then he huffs, “Fine.”
The man zips the case shut again and moves it behind the counter. I wait while he counts the cash and hands it to me. He also has me write my name and address in a ledger, where other people have noted the instruments they’ve sold to him. I glance at earlier pages but don’t see anything for the sale of the rebab. The thief must have gotten out of writing down his information, somehow.
I add the money to my makeshift ziplock wallet. Three hundred sixty dollars! Over halfway there!
Clearing my throat, I ask, “So, could I see the rebab again, before I go?”
“Sure. It’s in the back room.” He rises with a sigh and goes to a door at the end of the room. When he returns, he has the rebab in his hand.
My heart tightens at the sight. This time when I reach for it, he does not stop me—though he watches with a wary gaze, as if I might run away with it in hand.
The nerves in my stomach melt away. The mulberry wood knows my fingers, and when I gently lift the body into my arms, it seems to warm against my skin. Wholeness shines in the mother-of-pearl designs, bright even in the artificial light of the shop, and sways in the beaded tassel my grandmother made. It makes vivid my mor jani’s flash of a smile and my plar jan’s steady hand on my shoulder. It flows in the blood of my ancestors, the Pashtuns who played this instrument before me.
I run my thumb over the strings, and though they’ve become terribly out of tune, the thrum of them between my palm and the goatskin base makes my whole body relax, almost as if a loved one were squeezing me into a hug.
“Whoa,” Dan says as he leans closer to study the pegs. “So this came all the way from Afghanistan?”
I nod, too full of the feeling of it against my chest and in my arms to speak. If Baba could have this—if he could hold it again—he would be better. His heart would mend. Mine is growing stronger, just for these few seconds.
“That’s so cool. Can you play it?”
“I’d need to tune it first.” I glance at the shop owner.
He shrugs. “Just don’t break the strings.”
Hardly believing my luck, I move to one wall and sit on the floor, my feet tucked under my legs. Dan sits beside me to watch while I adjust the pegs, testing each string with several flicks. My ears remember the purity of the notes, remember the tones I need, without my trying to recall. This is not a foreign language I strive to master.
This is my mother tongue.
When the notes hit the right pitches, I stop tuning. I strum through snatches of songs, searching for one to make my before home more vibrant than the after. I haven’t felt this way in weeks—I’ve been so worried about Baba and negotiating the trades. Now I feel a settling, like dust floating through light. A slow, drifting fall into rest.
Starting in the quiet deep inside me and flowing to my fingers, the song I want, the rhythm, emerges. My hands have lost much of their calluses, and the strings bite into my fingertips as I play the hard, quick notes. But if the rebab were mine now, today, I would play until my fingers bled. Play until I couldn’t play anymore.
The other, better time presses up inside my head, pulling me across oceans and deserts and seasons and years and deaths to the house in Kandahar. To my mor jani’s red-hennaed hands held out to me. To my plar jan’s desk stacked with books and the sound of the lines he would read to us. The music pours out of me, first as pain, then as delight as the notes free my spirit.
The ringing of the door snaps me back to the shop in Cambridge. A new customer has entered, and seeing the unfamiliar face makes my fingers falter. The last note from the rebab fades away.
Dan applauds. “That. Was. Awesome!” he shouts. “Your hands were almost smoking, you were moving so fast. You were like—” He mimics my playing, though it looks more like he’s strumming an invisible electric guitar. “And then you were like—” He scrunches his face and makes his hands shake so quickly they’re a blur. Then he stops, grinning. “That was wicked.”
I can’t help laughing a little. “Thanks?”
I glance toward the shop owner. Maybe seeing me and the rebab—seeing what it does when I hold it—changed his mind. But he’s reading his magazine and only mumbles a greeting to the other customer.
Dan follows my gaze and spots the clock behind the counter. “Oh, jeez, it’s four thirty already,” he says, scrambling up. “We’d better get moving if we’re going to beat the rush-hour crazies.”
I get to my feet. When I put the rebab on the counter, I feel a tearing pain in my gut. How can I leave it? It’s like leaving my heart.
I have to get the money—somehow I will get the money. I have six more days. Only a little less than a week.
“I’ll be back,” I say, partially to the rebab and partially to the owner. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Okay,” the owner states, unaffected. He leans the rebab against the wall.
I swallow and turn away. The walk to the door stretches on and on. Is he taking care of the rebab? Is he protecting it from moisture? Is he keeping it somewhere warm so the goatskin won’t stretch?
I have $360 in my wallet, $340 left to go. The next step is the laptop. Can I make $340 with that trade?
“That was seriously cool.” Dan bounds out of the shop and turns around to face me while he walks backward. “I totally see why you want it back.”
I start walking toward the T stop. Dan has no idea. With the rebab, all things are possible. Without it, I’m not sure anything is. “I have to get it back,” I say, more to myself than to Dan.
But he’s right beside me, so quick I didn’t hear him coming. He throws his arm around my shoulder. “Nope,” he says, his voice full of his boundless energy. “We’ll get it back.”
* * *
TRADE LOG
Days: 6
Have: $360
Need: $340
THINGS TO TRADE:
Laptop—now listed on eBay! (Layla’s dad?)
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
7. Combat boots -> Art supplies
8. Art supplies -> Guitar
9. Textbooks -> $205
10. Guitar -> $80
* * *
23
When we arrive at Roxbury Crossing, Dan takes off for his house while I head the other direction to my apartment. My phone shows two missed calls, but I ignore them for a moment while I text Layla. Thank you for the invitation. I would like to come! I need to check with Baba.
I figure that if it’s upsetting to Baba, I could still possibly excuse myself. Because not only do I want to go, I need to, for the laptop trade.
Right after I send the message, my phone starts to ring. It’s Baba’s number. I move my thumb over the answer button, but the call ends before I click.
Weird. I glance up.
Baba is walking toward me.
A startled guilt heats my face. Why is he here? He normally works until six or later. Why isn’t he at the restaurant? Perhaps he didn’t notice me coming out of the T stop. Perhaps he thinks I’m coming home from the rec center.
But he’s almost to me, and he’s frowning.
“Where were you, Sami?” Baba demands in Pashto. He glances from me to Roxbury Crossing. “I’ve just come from the rec center. They told me you haven’t been there all afternoon.”
I stick my hands in my pockets and try to keep my tone light when I answer, hoping maybe he won’t pro
d too much. “I was hanging out with Dan.”
Baba fixes me in a hard stare. “And do you not have a phone to tell me where you are? I called twice before I saw you! Do you not have the respect to save your grandfather from concern?” His voice rises. “Do you know how I worried—realizing you weren’t at the rec center? How was I meant to know what had happened to you?”
I duck my head. “I’m sorry—I wasn’t thinking.”
“You were thinking,” he snaps. “You just were not thinking of family.”
I want to sink into my shoes. I wish I were one of the squashed pieces of gum on the sidewalk. I wish I were invisible.
Baba rubs his face. “Sami, why are you hiding from me?”
I can’t tell him. If I tell him, everything unravels—it won’t be a surprise or a gift, it will just be a silly-sounding plan. And he’ll try to buy the rebab back himself, when I’m the one who lost the rebab in the first place. As much as I want to tell him, I’m too far into my trades to reveal the truth.
My phone dings before I find an answer. I reach for it out of habit. Baba sighs.
It’s a text from Layla: YES! If you take the T, we can meet you at a station near the river. I’ll ask my parents which. Does your grandpa want to come? It’ll probably be like 6-11 PM or later.
“Who is your text from?” Baba asks.
“Layla.” Before I say more, I hesitate. I need to ask permission, but it’s not a good time. Baba’s already mad at me. So instead of the question I want to ask, I say, “Why are you not at work?”
Baba hesitates, and his eyes shift away. He takes his white taqiyah off his head and pats it with his hand, all while studying the traffic and not looking at me.
Alarm hitches my breath. “Baba?”
“Apparently I am not a good dishwasher,” he says abruptly. “I rest too often. I tell them it is for the dizziness, but they do not care about such things.” He shrugs. “Perhaps I can find another job. One of the employees said they know someone like me who works as a janitor. He used to be the chef to the American ambassador in Kabul, but now he vacuums hotel room floors. I could do such work.”
The Eleventh Trade Page 13