Shooting Kabul

by N. H. Senzai

  Ms. Bethune cleared her throat, urging everyone to settle down. “Ahem,” she repeated. She pressed her lips together and fingered the large manila envelope she clutched in her left hand.

  “This is it,” whispered Anh.

  Fadi nodded like a drunken turkey, taking his seat next to her.

  Anh’s eyes shined with positive energy. “Good luck, Fadi.”

  “You too,” Fadi whispered back. His tongue was dry and stuck to the roof of his mouth, as if he’d licked an entire jar of peanut butter.

  Around the room eager, nervous faces peered toward Ms. Bethune’s desk. Ravi wasn’t there because this type of situation made him so nervous that he usually threw up. During stressful exams he was given a seat in a corner, with a trash can, just in case. Since he couldn’t be there, he’d given Fadi his phone number so someone could tell him what had happened.

  “Now,” said Ms. Bethune, clearing her throat, “before I tell you the results, you must all know that you did a fantastic job, whether you won or not. The competition was stiff, with more than a thousand entries.”

  The huge number elicited gasps from around the room. Fadi gulped. The chances of winning are less than a tenth of a percent.

  “Regardless of the results, we’ll be going as a group to the exhibit being held at the Exploratorium in two weeks, on Saturday, so make sure to bring in your consent forms by the end of the week.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” whispered Anh. She cracked her knuckles as her eyes narrowed. “Let’s get past the pep talk and on with the show.”

  Fadi’s gaze was glued on Ms. Bethune’s hand as she slit open the envelope and pulled out a stack of pages. His heart picked up speed as she flipped past the cover page, skimming the paragraphs.

  “Ahem,” repeated Ms. Bethune. The sound reverberated through the silent room.

  “In third place the winner is Emily Johnston, ninth grade, from Del Campo High School in Sacramento.”

  “Good,” whispered Anh. She gave Fadi a wink. “Who wants to be in third place?”

  Fadi returned a weak smile. Third place isn’t going to get me what I need.

  Ms. Bethune glanced down at the page, and her eyes widened. “In second place is …” Ms. Bethune looked toward Fadi, and his heart nearly stopped. “Anh Hong, sixth grade, from Brookhaven Middle School, Fremont!”

  The room burst into whoops of excitement and applause.

  “Way to go!” said Fadi. He turned to Anh and gave her a hug.

  Anh sat with a bewildered, stunned look on her face. She was frozen, and speechless, for probably the first time in her life.

  “It was that amazing action shot,” said Fadi. He pounded her on the back in congratulation.

  “I can’t believe it,” she finally whispered.

  Once the ruckus died down, Ms. Bethune continued. “Awesome job, Anh. For winning second place you receive a year’s free subscription to the Société Géographique magazine, free film from Kodak, and a family pass at the Exploratorium.”

  “Great,” said Anh. “But no airline tickets,” she said under her breath.

  Fadi stilled. What is the probability of two students from the same school winning? Pretty slim. He gulped.

  Ms. Bethune flipped over the page and continued. “First place goes to Marcus Salle, seventh grade, Kifer Junior High, Belmont. Now for the grand prize …”

  This is it, thought Fadi, saying a little prayer. My chance to go to Peshawar.

  “The grand prize,” repeated Ms. Bethune, “goes to Filbert Dewbury, eleventh grade, Calvert High School, San Jose.”

  What? No! Fadi’s eyes widened as a cold numbness settled over his chest. I’m supposed to win! He gasped—he couldn’t breathe.

  “Fadi, are you okay?” whispered Anh. “You don’t look so good.”

  Bile gurgled up from Fadi’s stomach, making him want to throw up. His eyes closed; he slumped in his chair. He’d lost. And so had Mariam.

  “Fadi … Fadi …” Anh’s concerned voice flowed past him. The sounds were slow and unclear, as if people were speaking through a tunnel.

  “Fadi, honey, are you okay?” Ms. Bethune hurried over.

  “He’s not taking this well,” Fadi heard Anh respond.

  “Fadi, you’ve been awarded an honorable mention,” said Ms. Bethune. “By Clive Murray himself.”

  Fadi’s eyes opened in surprise. “What do I win?” he said in a rush.

  Ms. Bethune frowned. “It’s not about winning things, Fadi.”

  “You don’t understand,” said Fadi, his voice bleak. “It is about winning. Winning those tickets to the photo shoot.”

  Looking confused, Ms. Bethune looked at the bottom of the page. “I’m afraid you don’t win anything, Fadi,” she said.

  Fadi sat back as the cold numbness that had frozen his body turned into hot, boiling anger. How could I not have won? It was so unfair! He pounded the table with his fist and ran out of the room. He heard Ms. Bethune and Anh call after him, but he didn’t care.

  FADI RETREATED to the bathroom and locked himself in a stall for the rest of the afternoon. He pulled his legs up onto the toilet and sat as still as a statue, his mind a kaleidoscope of shock, pain, and disappointment. After an hour or so, his calves became numb and he lowered his feet to the ground. He looked at the grubby floor, strewn with toilet paper and a few pennies, and tried to think of something else—anything else.

  His mind drifted to Claudia and her brother. They too had hidden in the bathroom while hiding out at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. But unlike Claudia, whose story had worked out perfectly in the end, his was a disaster. Claudia had had her fun at the museum, had had her mystery solved by meeting Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, and then had headed home with her brother, safe and sound. For Fadi, things hadn’t quite worked out the way he’d hoped. Neither had they for Mariam. I’ve failed her again.

  A few seconds before the end-of-day bell rang, he snuck outside and wandered toward the elementary school’s playground. He sat on a bench across from the jungle gym, watching a bunch of second graders hang upside down like tree sloths. A bright spot of pink caught his eye—a Hello Kitty lunch box sitting on the sidewalk. Sorrow and anger mingled, forcing him to close his eyes. After fleeing the art studio he’d wanted to take cover. He didn’t want to run into Anh, or anyone else he knew, especially in the cafeteria. Now he didn’t want to go home. He would have to tell Noor he’d lost—and wasted her money.

  Sadness and rage bubbled through his veins, coupled with the unwelcome sense of shame. He winced, thinking back to how he’d acted like a jerk. I can’t believe I ran out of the art studio like a crybaby, and I was rude to Ms. Bethune. But most of all, he still couldn’t believe he’d lost. All that praying and patience of Job for nothing.

  “Hey, Fadi,” called out a familiar voice from across the playground.

  Fadi tensed, looking for a way to avoid whoever was looking for him. He shot up from his seat, ready to duck around the corner and run back into the school, but it was too late. They’d spotted him. He watched the group of boys approach, and he blinked with annoyance.

  “Hey, Fadi,” shouted a nasally voice. It was Jon.

  What does he want?

  As the clump of boys came nearer, Fadi recognized Masood, Zayd, Ravi, and Carlos, from World History and Civilizations class. There were half a dozen other boys he didn’t know.

  “It’s time,” said Masood, his voice tense.

  “Huh?” said Fadi.

  “Ike and Felix are meeting Ravi at Lake Elizabeth in half an hour,” said Masood. “Why?” asked Fadi.

  “I told them I’d pay up this time,” said Ravi. His horn-rimmed glasses sat crooked on his flushed face.

  “Yeah,” said Zayd. He clenched his right fist and punched his left hand. “And we’re all going to be waiting for them.”

  A cooling salve of revenge rose up within Fadi. It was time for his badal. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” he said with growing excitement.

  “I called
you last night, man,” said Ravi. “The line was busy.”

  “Oh,” said Fadi. Noor had been on the phone pretty much all evening.

  “And you weren’t at lunch,” said Masood. “But no matter, we found you now. Let’s go.”

  Fadi grabbed his backpack. “Let’s go, then.”

  Hiding ten boys in the bushes was not easy, but some-how Fadi and the others hunkered down behind the leafy branches while Ravi stood near the designated meeting spot. It was a secluded location, tucked away in a hidden curve of a walking trail. The lake was a few feet away, home to fat frolicking ducks.

  Ravi stood shivering, peering nervously at the bushes. At the crack of a twig he jumped.

  “Hang in there, Ravi,” whispered Fadi. He hadn’t had the heart to tell him that he hadn’t won anything in the Take Your Best Shot contest. Then again, neither had he.

  Ravi pushed up his glasses and nodded. He stared up the path, resigned to the plan. In his hand he held a paper bag that was supposed to hold a month’s worth of lunch money. In reality it was filled with marbles.

  “It’s three fifty-eight,” whispered Masood. This was the fifth time he’d checked his watch.

  “They’re late,” grumbled Carlos.

  “As if they care about keeping Ravi waiting,” said Jon. His meek demeanor had changed. He seemed unusually amped up.

  “Shhh,” said Fadi. He leaned forward to peer through a gap in the leaves.

  Silence filtered over the spot just as Ike and Felix rounded the corner.

  “Yo, Ravi,” shouted Felix. “You got my money?”

  Ravi gulped. “Yeah,” he squeaked. He held out the crumpled bag with a shaking arm.

  Fadi could hear the rattle of marbles. He tensed, going over in his mind their plan of action. As soon as Ike and Felix stood under the tree with Ravi, they were going to pounce.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Hand it over,” said Ike. “I’ve got video games to go buy.”

  Ravi didn’t budge. He was under strict orders to stay under the tree. It was a perfect spot for an ambush.

  “I don’t got all day,” said Felix. He came to a halt next to Ravi and held out his hand.

  Ike stopped next to him and folded his arms over his chest.

  Ravi thrust the bag into Felix’s hand.

  “Now,” spat Fadi.

  Boys jumped out from all directions and surrounded the tree. They stood in a tight circle, faces set with stony expressions.

  “What the … ,” growled Ike. He and Felix backed up against the rough trunk.

  Ravi smiled in relief and dove between Carlos and Jon. “We’ve had enough of you bossing us around,” he shouted, peering over the other boys’ shoulders.

  “No more stealing our money, beating us up, or calling us names,” said Masood, stepping forward.

  “What you gonna do about it?” said Felix, straighten-ing to his full height, which was a good six inches above Fadi.

  “We’re going to teach you a lesson,” said Zayd.

  Fadi stepped forward. “You broke my camera,” he growled. The violence in his own voice startled him. But it felt good. “My father gave me that camera, and you had no right to attack me or mess with my stuff—”

  “And I’m not a turban-head,” interrupted Carlos. “If you’re going to be a bigot, at least get it right. I’m a Mexican, man, and proud of it. But, hey, you’re just a bunch of stupid bullies, so who cares what you say?”

  “Yeah, man,” shouted Jon. There was a hard glint in his eyes. “Who cares what you say? Ike’s nothing but poor trash, pretending to be better than anyone else.”

  Another boy stepped forward, one Fadi didn’t recognize. He looked like one of the new Samoan kids. “You may have rich parents with a fancy education,” he said, pointing to Felix, “but you’re just a loser who can barely read.”

  As the other boys laughed, Fadi joined in, a feeling of elation intoxicating him. It felt good to be the powerful one—the one who called the shots.

  “Don’t you dare call me that!” said Felix. He clenched his fists and stepped forward.

  “Loser!” shouted the Samoan boy.

  “Losers, losers, losers,” chanted the boys.

  Felix’s face turned bright red, and he inched back toward Ike. Fear lined both boys’ faces, and Fadi was thrilled. They’re getting a dose of their own medicine.

  “C’mon. Let’s pound ’em,” said Zayd. He sounded eager, but he looked a bit hesitant.

  Fadi felt it too. It was one thing to threaten and scare the boys; it was another to actually beat them up.

  “Uh, yeah,” said Masood, bouncing from one foot to the other. “Let’s do it.”

  The boys started to crowd in toward the tree.

  “C’mon, you two,” piped in Ravi, “try punching me.” He danced in front of the boys, daring them to hit him.

  As Ravi ducked away, Jon stepped forward. Fadi frowned. Jon was struggling with something behind his back.

  “Jon, no!” Fadi gasped, horrified. It was a huge fallen branch.

  Masood grabbed Jon’s arm as the skinny boy waved the sharp, heavy branch in front of Felix’s frightened face.

  “Hey, I’m just scaring him!” grumbled Jon.

  “No, Jon,” said Masood. He wrested the branch away from the younger boy.

  Fadi’s euphoria fizzled like a coal drenched in cold water. He looked from the gang of boys back to the tree, where Ike and Felix sat huddled in fear. All thoughts of revenge disintegrated. Beating them up won’t solve anything. It won’t bring my camera back. “This is getting out of hand,” he said. All eyes turned toward him.

  Most of the boys nodded, while Jon and Zayd shook their heads.

  “We can’t beat them up. That would make us as bad as they are.”

  “But they’ve been mean to us for years!” complained Zayd.

  “Yeah, this is payback,” grumbled Jon.

  “No.” Masood sighed. “Beating them up won’t solve anything.”

  Fadi looked at each boy in turn, and they nodded their agreement.

  The Samoan boy frowned. “All right,” he said at last.

  Fadi turned toward Ike and Felix. “Remember this. If you try to bully anyone at school again, we’re going to take care of business. I suggest you really think about what you’re doing.”

  Felix and Ike nodded with jerky movements, looking for a way out.

  “Boys,” called Fadi, “why don’t we cool these two off so that they remember our little chat?”

  Masood grinned. He along with the rest of the guys grabbed hold of Ike and Felix and threw them into the lake.

  ON SATURDAY MORNING THE PHOTO CLUB accompanied Ms. Bethune to the BART train station. Everyone was there, except for Ravi, whose mother thought the city was too dangerous. Bundled in a secondhand wool coat and gloves that were too big, Fadi loosened his scratchy scarf. He’d begun to feel like a lobster slowly being steamed. Ms. Bethune had warned them to dress in layers, since the San Francisco Bay Area was a patchwork of microclimates. While Fremont was a balmy sixty-five degrees in December, San Francisco, sitting next to the foggy Pacific Ocean, could be closer to thirty.

  Fadi stood on the platform and peered down at the tracks. A third rail ran along the line, providing nine hundred volts of electricity to the trains. I wouldn’t want to fall on that, he thought with a morbid shiver. He glanced over at Ms. Bethune. Her bright red lips moved as she counted heads, making sure all eleven of them were together. Her eyes landed on him, and she gave him a slow wink. Fadi smiled back, exchanging a look of understanding.

  The day after he and “the brotherhood,” as Fadi called them, had thrown Ike and Felix into the lake, he’d trudged the familiar path to the art studio. With roses in hand, taken from Dada’s garden, he’d stood in front of Ms. Bethune’s desk, his head bowed in shame.

  “Ms. Bethune,” he said, “I’m sorry for the way I acted yesterday.”

  Ms. Bethune took the flowers and pointed for him to sit across the desk
. “Well, I was surprised at your reaction,” she said, giving him a questioning look.

  This is it. I have to tell her, thought Fadi. I owe her the truth. He swallowed. His tongue felt like it was coated in peanut butter. “It’s just that … it was very important that I win the competition.”

  “I see,” said Ms. Bethune. Her bright silver bangles jangled as she folded her hands across the desk.

  Fadi took a deep breath and told her the story of Mariam’s loss. With each passing minute Ms. Bethune’s face sagged and her eyes filled with tears. She kept saying “how awful” in shocked tones. At one point she reached for a sheet of felt and blew her nose.

  “But that’s not all of it,” whispered Fadi, his own eyes bright.

  “What is it, Fadi?” prodded Ms. Bethune.

  A great weight shifted across Fadi’s chest, constricting his lungs. He inhaled. The air caught in his throat. “You see … ,” he began, then paused.

  Ms. Bethune pursed her lips and nodded, urging him to continue.

  Tell her. You’ve got to, thought Fadi.

  Clearing his throat, he continued. “As we were running to catch the truck, Mariam was with me. She was my responsibility. She stopped. She wanted me to put her Barbie in my backpack, but we didn’t have time. Suddenly the Taliban showed up.… We ran, but the crowd … There were just so many people … and … and I let go of her hand.… She fell.”

  Ms. Bethune’s eyes widened.

  “So you see, it’s my fault she was left behind. I’m responsible.”

  Here it is, thought Fadi. He lowered his eyes to Ms. Bethune’s long brown fingers and braced himself. She’s going to blame me.

  “Fadi,” exclaimed Ms. Bethune.

  Fadi looked up in surprise. She sounded sad, not angry.

  Two spots of color burned on her cheeks. “You can’t think that way!”

  Fadi stiffened in surprise. He looked at her, his mouth open.

  “It was not your fault that poor Mariam was lost.”