The Eleventh Trade

by Alyssa Hollingsworth

  Baba cracks open the bedroom door. “You’re awake—that’s promising,” he says, leaning on the wall. He points to folded clothes beside my bed. “Get dressed and wash. They’ve officially announced the sixth is Eid, so I thought you could use one of your presents a day early.”

  Baba leaves the room. I prop myself on my elbow. On top of my neatly folded old jeans and socks is a new, secondhand Manchester United T-shirt—a little thin and well worn. The heaviness in my head settles on my shoulders.

  At home in Afghanistan, we used to spend the whole week preparing for Eid. It was the busiest time at the bazaars. Plar would take me to find new clothes to wear for the holiday, and we would pick out a shalwar kameez for him and a collarless one for Baba. The morning of Eid al-Fitr, we’d celebrate with gift giving, music, and a breakfast of roht. My mor could never make it without burning the top. I miss the taste of slightly charred sugar.

  Later in the day, my cousins would come, crowding into our house, excited about gifts of money from the adults. They would sing, “Eidie, eidie!”

  I gather the clothes. Baba must have had to save so much to afford the shirt.

  And I didn’t get him the rebab.

  Just to make myself more miserable, I look at my record one more time. I skip down to the trade list itself, ignoring my other notes.

  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

  Pushing back a sigh, I slip into the bathroom. I wash my face first, trying to wipe away the lingering shame from last night, and then get dressed. My old jeans have shortened, or I’ve grown in the past month, because the hem hits above my ankle. It isn’t hard to guess that I’ll wake up to new trousers tomorrow, which only makes me feel more guilty.

  When I come out, Baba glances up from his work of tidying the living room. “It fits? Good.”

  “Thank you,” I say, unable to look at him directly.

  “You are very welcome. Come, sit and rest.”

  For a while, Baba plies me with questions about the rec center, about the team and my friends. It is more than he has tried to talk in the past month. I’m not sure if it is the spirit of Eid al-Fitr, or if he is trying to distract me from last night. I answer as much as I can, though it feels like talking through a fog. I’m numb and exhausted.

  After an hour or two, I lie down in my room again. My mind keeps drifting to Eid. In Afghanistan, we would go home-to-home feasting. We would eat until we couldn’t stand another swallow—and still we would eat more. It was my mor’s favorite time of year—the only time when we could be fairly certain we would see a full day of peace.

  My phone buzzes every twenty minutes or so, but I ignore it.

  Perhaps the rebab is already placed in the shop window. Perhaps someone has already come to take it.

  Baba looks in to check on me around four fifteen. “How are you, Sami?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, plucking at the carpet on the floor beside my mattress. My phone buzzes twice in a row.

  “Is that one of your friends?” Baba asks.

  I nod.

  “Well, why don’t you answer them?”

  I sigh, but explaining that I can’t find the will to care about anything—not even soccer—sounds like too much work. Sitting up, I look at my notifications. I have a few dozen messages from Dan, but I only look at the last couple.

  You need to come!!!!

  The rec center is open late today!

  We have a surprise for you!!!

  Everyone wants to see you!

  Be here by 5 OR ELSE.

  If you don’t come, I’m going to get you!

  I know where you live!!

  PLEASE COME???

  “It’s Dan,” I tell Baba. “He wants me to come play soccer.”

  “Well, then why are you moping on your bed? Go and play.”

  I look at him, surprised. “But you wanted me to spend time with family.”

  Baba lifts his eyebrows. “And you are spending time with family by languishing in here?”

  “Earlier—you hated when I went with them.”

  “I didn’t hate it; I just wanted you to stop running from me. Friends bring hope, Sami jan. That is all I want for you—hope.” He straightens from leaning on the doorframe and waves me out. “Have fun. I will prepare a big iftar meal for when you come home.”

  I hesitate still, part of me embarrassed to face Layla and Dan after my strangeness at the celebration. But I realize that this, like the shirt, is a gift Baba is giving me—the gift of letting me go.

  So I rise and hug him. Then I pull on my shoes and jog down the hall and stairs to the street. It feels good to move.

  I text Dan: Coming.

  He answers seconds later: YAAAASSSSSS!!!!!

  28

  When I get to the rec center, Dan and Layla are waiting outside. Dan runs over as soon as I come through the gate, grinning so hard I can see almost all his teeth. Layla dashes after him.

  “Finally!” Dan exclaims. “Wait till you see—”

  Layla smacks his arm. “Don’t ruin it!” She grabs the front of my shirt and hauls me toward the building. “Come on!”

  My face heats, but I go with them. I’m not sure I actually have a choice. “What—?”

  Miss Juniper isn’t at the reception desk. Instead, there’s a little sign that says HEAD STRAIGHT BACK FOR THE 5:00 EVENT. Layla releases my shirt and sprints forward, bounding into the gym a few seconds before Dan and me. When the door swings open, my whole team is there with a bunch of other people.

  As soon as I step in, they shout, “Welcome to the auction!”

  I blink at them, stunned and confused. On the far wall, there’s a banner with handwritten letters on it that says LAPTOP AUCTION: BEST LAPTOP EVER. On either side of the words are elaborate geometric patterns. Someone’s strung lights from the basketball net down to a table with a sleek black tablecloth. A box covered in shiny red fabric sits on the table, with the laptop Mr. Ty didn’t buy displayed on the fancy silk. I forgot Dan and Layla had it after I left the fireworks.

  “We decided to host an auction!” Dan tells me, pointing to the laptop. “Layla had the idea last night!”

  “Hamida and I did the banner—she made the designs,” Layla says. “We’ve been working on this all day!”

  Layla turns me toward the gathering of people. They’re all grinning at my surprise. “We invited all the team and their families and Coach invited his friends from Northeastern and Hamida told her uncle and he invited a bunch of people from Islamic Society of Boston.”

  Miss Juniper leans her shoulder against Coach’s arm. I recognize some of the people from the mosque—the woman in a hijab who joked with me about the overpriced shop and others who always speak with Baba. Mr. Farid is there, too, smiling. My brain hasn’t caught up with what’s going on. Mr. Lincoln raises his hand in a wave, and Miss Cheryl, his student assistant, beams beside him.

  “I’m super excited for this, Sami,” Miss Cheryl says. “Even the Geek Squad couldn’t fix my old one.”

  “The Geek…?” The words sound familiar, but I don’t understand.

  “Computer doctors,” Mr. Lincoln explains.

  “Come meet everyone,” Layla says, grabbing my sleeve and pulling me forward.

  Layla and Dan parade me around, introducing me to everyone’s parents. A lot of them have heard of the trades through my teammates and wish me luck for today. Benj takes the hand of the old woman beside him and says, “Este es Sami, mi amigo—el que me ayudó a conseguir el iPod.”

  “Bueno, bueno! Estoy encantada de conocerte, Sami. Gracias por ayudar a mi nieto.”

&nbs
p; “She says hi,” Benj translates, beaming. “And thanks for the iPod. See? My Spanish is better already.”

  Do all these people need a laptop? They’re all talking and laughing and seem so happy to be at an auction. I introduce my friends from the mosque to Dan and Layla. Even though the gymnasium is huge, much bigger than this group of people, it feels full. I know almost every face—the only strangers are my teammates’ family members. They’re not all here to buy a laptop. They’re here because they care about me.

  “All right, everyone!” Coach says in his most coach voice. “Time for the auction! If you’ll please gather by the laptop…”

  Layla and Dan take me to the front and place me by the table. My neck gets hot. I’d rather be under the bleachers than in front of everyone.

  Coach rolls up a Game Informer magazine and hits it on the tabletop like he’s a judge. “Order, order!” he says, smiling. “First up, I’m going to let Dan say a few words about the laptop specs, and then we’ll proceed with the moment you’ve all been waiting for: the auction!”

  The audience cheers. Miss Juniper even cups her mouth and shouts, “Woo-hoo!”

  Coach steps aside for Dan. He runs through the specs of the computer, most of which I don’t understand. He explains the new laptop battery. Miss Cheryl and some others have questions, which he answers with confidence. When everyone seems satisfied, Coach takes his place by the table again.

  My heart pounds. This is the eleventh trade. My laptop for at least $340, I hope.

  Holding the rolled magazine up, Coach calls, “Okay, everyone, who will start us off with one hundred dollars?”

  One of the Islamic Society of Boston members lifts his hand.

  “One hundred dollars! One twenty-five?”

  Miss Cheryl raises her hand.

  “I’ve got one hundred twenty-five! Who will give me one fifty?”

  Mr. Lincoln lifts his hand.

  “Hey,” Miss Cheryl protests, laughing.

  “What?” Mr. Lincoln shrugs. “Just making this interesting.”

  “I see one fifty! How about one seventy-five?”

  Miss Cheryl raises her hand again. “Here!”

  “One hundred seventy-five! Two hundred?”

  My breath sticks in my throat.

  No one raises their hand at first, but then one of the parents waves.

  “Two hundred!” Coach looks at Miss Cheryl. “Two fifty?”

  She bites her lip.

  “Two hundred fifty? Anyone?”

  Mr. Lincoln takes out some cash and passes it to Miss Cheryl, and her hand shoots straight up.

  “Two hundred fifty dollars, going once … twice…” Coach bangs the magazine on the table. “Sold to the lovely lady in the front!”

  “Yes!” Miss Cheryl dashes forward and starts to count out twenties. The others begin to talk among themselves, and Dan, Layla, and Hamida run to join me at the front of the room.

  “So?” Dan seems to be almost bursting out of his skin with excitement. “What’s the total? How much do you have?”

  I don’t have to pull out my phone to know the answer. Two hundred fifty dollars for the laptop is not quite enough.

  “With the laptop sale I have six hundred ten dollars,” I say.

  “Nooooo!!!” Dan groans.

  “Hold on!” Hamida shushes him. “How much do you need?”

  “Seven hundred,” I tell her. “I just need ninety dollars more. Just another trade or two.”

  “Okay, let’s think.” Layla and Dan start talking over each other, throwing out ideas, but Hamida runs off across the gym. I rack my brain. What else do I have? What else can I trade or sell or do? Baba gave me this shirt, which means I could maybe trade an old one. Or my backpack—I won’t need that for another few months now that school is over.

  Hamida comes bouncing back toward us, Mr. Farid at her side. “Well done, Sami,” he says.

  I glance at Dan and Layla. “I didn’t do much.”

  Layla rolls her eyes. Dan shakes his head.

  “I think your friends might disagree.” Mr. Farid smiles and takes an envelope out of his pocket. “I was saving this for Eid, but Hamida says I should give it to you now. Eid Mubarak, Sami.”

  “Eid Mubarak,” I repeat, my hand closing around the envelope.

  Dan taps my arm. “What’s in it?”

  Mr. Farid moves to speak with Coach, and I tear the paper open. When I slip out the card inside, a bunch of cash starts to fall free. Layla gasps, Hamida beams, and Dan catches the bills and starts counting.

  My throat closes and my eyes sting. I have to work to make the words on the paper come into focus.

  Sami,

  So that our T stops may resound with songs of home, please accept this eidie a little early.

  From,

  Farid Wazir and Your Family at the Islamic Cultural Center

  P.S. When your grandfather has the rebab again, have him talk to me—I think I know some permanent gigs he could play!

  “Two hundred dollars!” Dan breathes, holding up the cash.

  I’m paralyzed, caught somewhere between disbelief and joy and uncertainty. I don’t have a right to this generosity—I deserve none of it.

  “You d-didn’t—” I stutter, my voice cracking. I try to clear it, desperate to keep from bursting into tears in front of everyone. My gaze goes from Dan to Layla to Coach, Mr. Farid, Miss Cheryl, and Hamida. “You didn’t have to do any of this.”

  “What are you talking about?” Miss Cheryl answers. “I’m a starving college student and you just helped me replace my broken laptop. Thank you.”

  “We want to bless you,” Mr. Farid says. “Not a single person who gave you any of that would want a cent returned.”

  Coach hands me the cash from the auction. “You earned this.”

  My hands close around the money. My throat keeps squeezing. The pain I felt last night has been traded for the joy in this room today. Loss traded for hope.

  A severed past for a new community, new songs, a new home.

  This is the eleventh trade.

  “Thank you,” I manage to squeak. “I don’t know … I … thank you.”

  “Okay, enough sappiness.” Dan grins. “Are you going to buy it or what? The shop closes in an hour.”

  “Yeah, what are you waiting for?” Layla asks. “Get going!”

  I look at them all, so full of gratitude and happiness and hope I hardly know what to say. But I know what I have to do. Today is the last day the rebab will be held. And I have the money to get it back.

  Coach cups his hands around his mouth. “Go! Go!”

  The others take up the chant, their voices filling the gym and echoing from the walls into a song.

  I take out my plastic-bag wallet and stuff the rest of the cash into it. “Thank you!” I shout, and then to Dan, “Come on!”

  I turn on my heels and run.

  29

  A little less than an hour later, Dan and I exit the T and take off down the street. We skid around the corner, and I burst through the door without stopping for breath. The owner’s in his usual place, car magazine laid in front of him. He doesn’t even glance up until I reach the counter. Then he frowns.

  “I have it,” I pant. “I have the money.”

  The owner shifts in his chair. “Sorry, kid.”

  My heart falters. “What?”

  “You’re too late.”

  A beat passes. I stop breathing, stop existing, for one long moment.

  “W-What?” I repeat.

  “Someone bought it on Friday.”

  “But—but that was last week,” I stutter, trying to make sense of it. “You told me you’d hold it until today.”

  “She paid more. Plus she traded in that beauty.” He nods toward a guitar on the wall. It looks pretty normal to me. “I said from the beginning: I’m not running a charity. She had the better deal.”

  “That’s not fair,” Dan growls beside me. “You made a promise.”

  “Yeah, we
ll.” The man shrugs.

  I open and shut my mouth. My whole body burns, and I can’t find the English words I want to yell at him. But now’s not the time for yelling anyway—I need him to work with me. “Where does the new owner live?”

  “That’s confidential.”

  I breathe in through my nose, forcing myself to count to five. Dan snorts and wanders away, examining some of the instruments on display near the counter. He’s the quick talker—I almost wish he would help me right now, but he also has a temper, so I’m not sorry he’s stepped aside.

  “Listen, you broke your word—the least you could do is give me a hint. I have to have that rebab.”

  “I can’t go giving away personal information. I have the law to uphold.”

  “You have no honor!” I shout, clenching my hands into fists. “You bought a stolen rebab—how is that upholding the law? And then you went back on your promise!”

  “Sure, okay.” He closes his magazine. “Go on, kid. I need to close up shop.”

  My blood sizzles. I want to smash his guitars. I want to throw them through the window.

  But Dan reappears at my side and takes hold of my shoulder. “Yes, sir, we’ll get out of your hair. Come on, Sami.”

  He drags me toward the door. When I look back, the shop owner is locking up his cash register, probably rich off his earnings from selling my rebab.

  “He can’t get away with this,” I say as soon as the door closes behind us. “There has to be some way to get the information—”

  “Already solved it.” Dan shows me his cell phone. On the screen there’s a picture of the shop ledger, focused on a name—Maliha—and an address. “I had an idea: If she traded in a guitar, she would have recorded her address, just like you did. So I stole a peek at the ledger. And I was right!”

  I stare at him. “You are—”

  “Brilliant? Gifted?”

  “Going to get into serious trouble someday.” I grin. “Okay. How do we get to her?”

  It takes a minute for us to find the address on Dan’s map app. Maliha lives near Boston Medical, which means we’re only a thirty-minute bus ride away. We run to catch the next bus. Though it’s after rush hour, we still have to squeeze in and stand the whole time. The ride stretches on and on, my head playing through all the ways this could end. We’re so, so close to the rebab. So close to everything being right for Eid.