by N. H. Senzai
“Oh,” murmured Laila, rubbing her locket.
A stream of kids came bobbing through the main door, and Ariana began to wish she were back at Glenmoor Elementary, with its comforting yellow walls, folksy art hanging from the bulletin boards, the familiar teachers, and the cozy cafeteria that looked out onto the playground. Feeling anxious, she wiggled her toes in her new seamless stockings that her mother had bought from a special store on the Internet. To make the first day of school go by more easily, she’d also dressed in her most comfortable clothes. There was no way that she wanted to be noticed yanking at underwear that bunched up or a shirt seam that dug into her skin. When Ariana was six, Nasreen had taken her to the pediatrician, fed up with tantrums about clothes that didn’t feel right, were too tight, or itched. Ariana had been diagnosed with a mild case of Sensory Processing Disorder; she tended to feel, smell, and hear things at a heightened level. Ariana wasn’t too bothered by it—that was just the way she was. But she knew her mother had been disappointed; Nasreen had loved buying her only daughter fancy outfits, adorned with bows, lace, and ruffles, and dressing her up. After the trip to the doctor, all that had ended.
“And there are so many . . . boys . . . ,” added Laila, her voice subdued.
Ariana blinked in surprise, realizing how weird that must have been for her, coming from an all-girls school. “Don’t worry about them,” she said. “They’re just . . . people. Sometimes kind of loud and gross, like my brothers, but they’re okay.”
Laila nodded, edging closer as a backpack came flying past. Ariana combed through the sea of bodies and spotted a few familiar faces, including Selena Ramirez and George Kakopolis, who shared a friendly wave. It was a relief to see them, but it was still daunting to start out in an unfamiliar building with unknown kids and teachers.
“Hey, Ari!” came Mariam’s melodious voice from across the hall. A good half a head shorter than everyone else, she made her way through the throng of bodies, wearing a bright pink top, white jeans, and a leather headband holding back long hair the color of dark honey. She moved through the hall, as comfortable as could be. For a moment Ariana felt jealous of her best friend’s outgoing, can-do personality. Nothing ever seemed to faze her.
“Hey, Mariam,” said Ariana, breathing a sigh of relief.
“Hey to you, too,” said Mariam. “Salaam, Laila. How are you doing?”
Laila grimaced, her lips compressed.
“Don’t worry,” said Mariam, giving Laila a hug. “I remember coming from Afghanistan and starting school for the first time. It was really scary, but it all turned out okay. We’re here to help you. Right, Ari?”
“Yeah,” mumbled Ariana without much enthusiasm.
“This is a beautiful school—,” said Laila, staring at the freshly painted white walls.
“It’s okay—could be better,” said Ariana, cutting her off. “The gym is kind of small, and the cafeteria doesn’t have windows. I wish we had a bigger library and a pool.”
“Lycée Malalai, my old school, had bullet holes in the walls and half of it was demolished during the bombings,” said Laila.
Bullet holes? Ariana blinked in surprise.
“Wow,” said Mariam. “That’s awful.”
Ariana knew that the Taliban had stopped girls from going to school, but she thought things had gotten better since they’d been forced out. Then she remembered her father and Uncle Shams’s conversation at the store. The Taliban are gaining in strength . . . Maybe having a small gym and library wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
“Come on. We need to get our homeroom assignment,” said Mariam.
They wove their way through the press of bodies to the bulletin board outside the school office. A handful of teachers stood by to help. The girls pored over the first sheet, looking for their names. None were there, so they moved on to the next.
“Here I am,” squealed Mariam, pointing at the list for 6B.
“Let me see,” said Ariana, pushing Laila out of the way. She’d been in the same class with Mariam since the second grade, and they’d been praying that they’d end up in the same homeroom. After seeing Mariam’s name in the first column, she kept reading, but there was no “Ariana Shinwari.” Halfway through the second row her hope started to fade. But there, at the end of the list, she caught the name Shinwari. But it wasn’t her; it was Laila. Disappointment left a bitter taste in her mouth. How can this happen?
“Hey, we’re in the same homeroom,” said Mariam, grabbing a relieved-looking Laila’s hand.
“I’m not here,” said Ariana with a strangled whisper.
“Don’t worry,” said Mariam, looking hopeful. “I’m sure we’ll have other classes together. Homeroom lasts only half an hour anyway.”
“Come along, guys,” said a tall, balding teacher in crisp khakis and a peach button-down shirt. “If you know your homeroom assignment, hurry along. The bell’s going to ring any minute.”
“I guess we have to go,” said Mariam. “We’ll see you later.” She grabbed Laila’s hand, and they disappeared into the crush.
With a frustrated sigh Ariana checked the other lists and found that she was in 6D. Hitching up her backpack, she trudged to her assigned room. She made her way to the third row, in the middle of room, and sat down. It was the perfect spot to hear the teacher, but not so far in front that she’d get called on all the time.
“Hey, Ari,” said Selena, grabbing the desk next to her.
“Hey, how was your summer?” replied Ariana, relieved to see her.
“Pretty good. We went down to Bakersfield to spend a few weeks on my grandparents’ almond farm. Man, it’s so hot down there.”
As Ariana nodded, a tiny woman with bright red hair and glasses bounded inside. With a flourish she wrote her name on the blackboard. “Good morning. I’m Ms. Van Buren, and I’ll be your homeroom teacher this year. I know a lot of you might be nervous, starting at a new school, seeing so many unfamiliar faces, but in homeroom our goal is to get to know one another better and prepare for a fantastic future in middle school. The first thing I’ll do is take roll; so after I call your name, stand up, say something unique about yourself, and I’ll give you your class schedule.”
Groans and eye rolling followed her announcement. No one wanted to stand up in class and actually say something. Ms. Van Buren ignored the lack of enthusiasm and pulled out a manila envelope. “Okay, here I go. Melanie Aleve,” she called out.
Melanie stood up and took a deep breath. She told the class in a rush of words that she loved to ice skate and hoped to be like Kristi Yamaguchi, an Olympic figure skater from Fremont. Ariana gave Melanie props for being first, and waited for her name to be called, racking her brains for something interesting to say. After Roger Chu, Ms. Van Buren called on Gopal Ganguly, who played the tabla, Indian drums. Ariana recognized him from Glenmoor Elementary. After him came Wali Ghilzai, who stood up with lazy confidence. As his chocolate-brown eyes collided with hers, he told the class he’d recently moved to Fremont from Los Angeles and that he liked to skateboard.
How boring is that? thought Ariana, glancing away. When it was her turn, she stood up and told the class about her love of origami and how she was working on a menagerie of zoo animals. As she sat back down, she sensed a pair of eyes staring at her. It was Wali, looking at her with odd intensity. What a weirdo, she thought. She gave him a questioning look and glanced away, her nose in the air.
• • •
Ariana got home from school at 3:14, sweaty, exhausted, and grumpy. She shrugged off her backpack and spotted Zayd in the dining room, doing his homework. Obviously the high school teachers had not been easy on the first day, and he was immersed in a calculus book, a look of intense concentration straining his face. He’d be applying to college next year, along with Fadi, whose sister Noor had set the bar high by getting into UC Berkeley and was applying to medical school. After having
visited the sprawling campus earlier in the summer, Zayd was dead set on getting into UC Berkeley’s school of engineering, and Ariana knew her parents had high expectations of him. They’d been monitoring his grades all during high school so that he didn’t slip up.
In the kitchen, Ariana grabbed a stack of sandwich cookies and a glass of milk, and headed to the garage. The twins would be home any minute, and she wanted to disappear before then. She knew that even after an hour of rigorous soccer practice, they’d come in like a tornado. Her mother swore that if she figured out how to bottle their boisterous energy, the family would be millionaires.
Thankfully, she hadn’t gotten any homework and had somehow managed to navigate the confusing halls of Brookhaven without getting lost more than twice. Both times she’d made it to class just as the bell had rung, though she’d been a little out of breath. After homeroom she, Mariam, and Laila had run into one another on the way to math, which they all had together. When Ariana and Mariam had compared their schedules, it had turned out that they had only one other class together—art, two days a week.
“This stinks,” Ariana had muttered, gripping her schedule in her fist.
“It’s okay,” said Mariam, patting her on the shoulder. “We’ve got the same lunch period, every day.”
Ariana shrugged and shoved the miserable schedule into her backpack, catching a glimpse of Laila, who was standing next to Mariam, hugging her schedule to her chest, as silent as a ghost once again.
“How are your classes?” Ariana asked grudgingly, remembering her mother’s words to be nice.
“Pretty good,” murmured Laila, glancing at Mariam with a smile.
“Yeah,” said Mariam with a grin. “Laila and I actually ended up having language arts, science, and PE together.”
“What?” said Ariana. “Let me see.”
Laila reluctantly handed over her schedule, and Ariana pored over the list. Mariam was wrong. They also had math together, with her. So they practically shared all the same classes. She felt like she’d been hit in the stomach by a ton of bricks.
“But, hey, guess what I found out,” said Mariam, her hazel eyes crinkled with joy.
“What?” grumbled Ariana.
“I ran into the president of the drama club putting up a sign on the bulletin board,” said Mariam. “They’re holding tryouts next week.”
“Really?” said Ariana, perking up a little.
“Yeah, and the play this year is Peter Pan.”
“You’re definitely going to get a lead part,” said Ariana, momentarily forgetting the awful schedule.
“Yeah, and you’re going to design an awesome set,” said Mariam. “You’re so artistic. And maybe Laila can help you.”
Ariana nodded without much enthusiasm, feeling as if some unforeseen force were trying to ruin her life. She sat mute for the rest of the day. Conflicting thoughts raged through her head. Is Laila out to steal my best friend? It didn’t really make sense, Ariana knew, but it sure felt that way. What if Mariam ends up liking the perfect Laila more than she likes me? She’d watched the two of them walk away, heads bowed toward each other, long hair flowing behind them, speaking in Pukhto, laughing over a story of what it was like to go to school in Afghanistan, something Ariana had never done. They seemed like a perfect pair, and she was the imperfect odd man out.
Ariana now flipped on the garage lights that her father had installed, to cast a warm glow over the carpeted interior. Tucked away next to a bookshelf sat her treasured plastic storage box. Her father had gotten it for her to hold her origami “stuff”—the stack of beautiful textured paper of varying materials, thicknesses, and styles; her origami guidebook; two pairs of scissors; tape; glue; a ruler; and calculator. Above the box hung her Peanuts calendar, and she took a red pen and drew a satisfying X on today’s date. One day closer to moving into their new house. And my new room.
She filled her lungs with a deep, calming breath and laid out supplies on her father’s desk. Gently she removed a sheet of nubby gray-and-silver chiyogami, a type of washi paper featuring woodblock-printed designs. Next she cut out a dollar-size portion of paper and set it in front of her. She grabbed her guidebook and opened it to the page on elephants and read through the instructions, munching on a cookie. Slowly the tension eased from her shoulders and she was ready to work.
She adjusted the paper so that the wide side faced her, and she made a horizontal valley fold at the halfway point of the sheet, as well as at the top corners, as if making a paper airplane. Biting the inside of her cheek in concentration, she folded the right edge of the paper back until it was doubled. She was about to make the next fold when she heard footsteps outside the garage door and froze in the middle of making a crease.
“Shams, what did you find out?” came her father’s muffled voice through the garage door.
Ariana hesitated, uncertain what to do. Should she go back into the house? But they’d probably hear the door open. She didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping again. But she wasn’t trying to snoop—she was just sitting there, minding her own business.
Uncle Shams cleared his throat. “A friend told me to go see Ronald Hammersmith. He’s a real estate developer and sits on the city’s zoning board. He’s also running for mayor.”
“Yes, well, what did he say?” pushed Jamil.
“I explained our situation to him,” said Uncle Shams. “He was helpful and very sympathetic; he said it would be tough having a similar business open next to ours. But unfortunately, our lease does not have a non-compete clause—meaning Lucinda can rent to a competing store if she wants to. He said if we’d built in a non-compete, she wouldn’t have been able to lease to a similar store.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” said Jamil, his voice weary. “When we first took out the lease, we had no idea we needed such a clause.”
“That’s not all,” said Uncle Shams. “I was at the mosque for evening prayers earlier today and found out the name of the new store’s owners.”
“Who are they?”
“A guy who just moved into town a few months ago,” said Uncle Shams. “Gulbadin Ghilzai.”
“Why does that name sound familiar?” pondered Jamil, as Uncle Shams continued talking.
But Ariana was no longer listening to either of them. Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered a set of chocolate-brown eyes from homeroom, the ones belonging to Wali Ghilzai.
FROM KABUL CORNER’S FRONT window Ariana had a prime spot for viewing the grand opening festivities over at Pamir Market. Even though their official opening had been the day before, from the looks of things the celebration raged on. Faint hints of music floated in from the troupe of Afghan musicians entertaining the crowd gathered outside Pamir Market. Green and white balloons floated above, their strings intertwined with golden streamers glinting in the sun. Ariana slouched against the glass, watching customers, many she recognized as regulars at their store, weave past the musicians, laden with groceries. She spotted Wali working the crowd, platter in hand, passing out free almond cookies.
At least she no longer had to keep her lips zipped about the new store—the Ghilzais had taken out an ad on the Afghan radio station, announcing their grand opening. Sara Khala had heard the ad and had bustled over, a whirlwind in tangerine stripes, with Uncle Shams in tow, and they had disappeared into the garage with Ariana’s parents. The adults had stayed behind closed doors for a while and had emerged looking tired and more than a little worried. Soon after, gossip had begun bubbling about the new store. People in the Afghan community wondered how the Shinwari brothers were dealing with the competition. Some felt that Kabul Corner had been a monopoly for too long, controlling prices of Afghan groceries.
Ariana leaned back with a sigh. It seemed like Kabul Corner had had only half its usual customers come in that weekend. Her father sat behind the counter, a frown furrowing his brows as he watched the
television hanging from the opposite wall. It was locked on an Afghan channel, broadcasting coverage from across the Atlantic. Usually customers would linger, grab a cup of tea, and chat with her father and uncle about recent happenings. But today the store was pretty quiet. The customers who did come were just there for the bread, which always sold out. Besides Ariana and her father, the only others in the store were Laila, who was sweeping out the back, the baker, the butcher, and a handful of loyal customers who’d sworn they’d never step into the new store.
“So, brother Jamil, it looks like quite a circus over there,” said Mrs. Balkh, her white hair pulled back beneath her turquoise scarf.
“Yes.” Jamil smiled graciously. “It’s understandable. A new store is exciting.”
Mr. Balkh harrumphed, leaning on his cane. “All those musicians and decorations look suspicious to me. It makes me wonder what they’re trying to hide.”
Ariana giggled. Mr. Balkh had been a police chief in Afghanistan, and he viewed everyone with suspicion.
“I agree,” said Soraiya Khanum, coming up the aisle with a basket of groceries. “Tried and true, I say—Kabul Corner is the only store for me.”
“I will only shop in your store,” added Mrs. Balkh. “I was the first person here ten years ago and will be the last!”
As Ariana’s father thanked Mrs. Balkh, she asked for a box of tea, which she’d forgotten.
“Laila,” called out Jamil, “please bring up a box of the superfine green tea.”
“Salaam,” said Laila, running up and handing Mrs. Balkh the box.
“My, what a lovely young girl,” said the elderly woman, adjusting the spectacles on her thin nose.
“This is my niece Laila,” said Jamil. “She just arrived from Afghanistan a month ago.”
