The Eleventh Trade
Page 12
“Get out of the way, Sami!” Dan snaps.
Coach comes running in, Benj on his heels. “What’s going on?”
Both Peter and Dan step back, suddenly silent and sullen.
“Peter’s being a real jerk!” Layla jumps in. “He called Sami a terrorist.”
Others volunteer bits of the fight as testimony. I stay between Dan and Peter, just in case one of them still tries something. The longer Coach listens, the more he frowns. When they finish, he turns to Peter.
“This is a violation of our honor code, Peter. It’s unacceptable,” he says, flat and direct. “I’m going to ask you to leave. Speak with Juniper on your way out, and she can give you a letter for your mother. We will have to figure out the terms for you to be allowed to come back. Layla, you go with him.”
“But—!” Peter protests.
Coach shakes his head. “I’m not discussing it. Go.”
Peter looks from me to the others. They stare back at him coldly. I have a feeling that it will be easier for him to overcome the rec center’s requirements to get reinstated than to earn the team’s forgiveness. Peter seems to sense this, too. He clenches his jaw and stomps out. Layla follows.
“Dan, you know we don’t allow fights here,” Coach says, turning to him. “But considering it didn’t get physical, I think we’ll let it slide. Just this once.”
Dan lowers his gaze. “Yes, sir.”
Coach nods and motions to the others. “Okay, everyone, let’s warm up!”
I normally jog in the front when we do laps, but now I hang near the middle with Dan. I can’t stop thinking of the things Peter said during the fight. I hadn’t noticed them before, because he hides them really well, but Dan has war scars, too. Scars his dad brought back, whether he wanted to or not. Maybe they’re not as deep or as clear as mine, but they’re there. Even now, as we run side by side around the track, I see them in the way he tilts his head away from me.
For the first loop around the court, we don’t talk.
“Hey, Sami?” Dan says between pants as we start the second loop.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
* * *
Coach pulls Dan aside after practice. I hesitate, waiting to see if Dan needs me, but Coach’s voice is soft and kind. Dan isn’t in trouble, so I go to join Julie. She pulls her bin of art supplies out of her large backpack. “Here, have a look and see what you think.”
Inside the bin are markers and brushes and paints. They look fancier than the supplies at school and seem hardly used, but I don’t actually have any idea what they’re worth. I look up to find Hamida and see that she’s wandered near us curiously, as if the art supplies are calling to her.
“Hamida,” I call, and wave her to join us, “want to check this out?”
Grinning, Hamida drops down beside the bin. “This is awesome!” she exclaims, pushing around the stuff to get a better look at everything. “Julie, these are so cool!”
“Thanks.” Julie shrugs. “I threw in some of the art books from camp, too.”
“Really?” Hamida starts digging.
“So, you want to trade?” I ask Hamida, hopeful.
“Yes! Definitely.” She leans back on her heels to grin at Julie and me. “You know—my brother just got a new guitar and said I can have his old one if I want it. But I’d way rather practice drawing. So how about that for this?”
“Great.” I pull the combat boots from my bag and hold them out to Julie. “Trade?”
“Trade,” she says, taking them.
Hamida puts the lid back on the art supplies and passes them to me. “I’ll bring the guitar on Friday—we can exchange them after prayer, okay?”
“Perfect.”
I pick up the bin. It’s too big for my backpack, but that’s all right—I can carry it in my arms. I’ll tell Baba someone at school loaned me the supplies for a summer project, which is true enough. Layla comes over to chat with Hamida and Julie. I wave to them as I head out.
Dan catches me by the door. “What’d I miss?”
“Hamida’s going to trade a guitar.” Dan and I walk through the lobby. Thinking out loud, I say, “I bet I could sell that at Creature Guitars.”
“Nice!” Dan pulls out his phone. “Let me check how much it might go for.”
“Good idea.” I grin.
“Mmm, looks like—depending on the brand—it should be about ninety dollars. Just don’t let the owner guy talk you lower than seventy-five.”
“Okay. Maybe I can check on the rebab while I’m there,” I add, getting excited. “Hey—if you want to come, I could show it to you.”
“Yes!” Dan’s face brightens, and he looks more like himself—the last of the shadow from the fight vanishing. “Definitely.”
I nod, pleased. After all Dan has done, he deserves to see what the trades are for.
Besides. He’s my friend.
* * *
TRADE LOG
Days: 13
Have: $75
Need: $625
THINGS TO TRADE:
Laptop (waiting on battery)
PLANNED TRADES:
Art supplies for guitar (Hamida)
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
7. Combat boots -> Art supplies
* * *
21
In the mosque’s indoor courtyard, I stand against the parking lot doors, waiting for the Friday prayer to begin. Baba, near me, occasionally murmurs greetings to those who pass us. He always feels it’s important to visit with the members, to start learning more about this place we’ve landed in. But today, like most days now, he is not talkative.
Digging in my pocket, I pull out my phone and check my note app. I like reading through my list even though I have it memorized. Eleven days left. I don’t have to check my calendar to know—it’s stuck in my head like my brain’s a countdown clock. Eleven days to raise $625.
A text pops up on my screen. It’s from Hamida: Got the guitar in my dad’s trunk. Meeting you and Dan at the rec center, right?
I glance around. She’s standing only a few people away. I type: Yes. Dan’s got to take the guitar home with him. And you know you can just talk to me?
But then your grandfather might suspect something! This is a TOP SECRET surprise Eid mission.
Around me, people are heading toward the big room for prayers. I stick my phone in my pocket, and only then do I realize that Baba has been watching me. His expression is sad. But he’s always sad now, a little more every day since I lost the rebab.
I pick up the bin of art supplies from near my feet, and we enter along the left-hand side, past where the women sit. When we pause to slip off our shoes and put them in the cubbies, I stuff the bin beside our sandals. I follow Baba into the center of the main room. The mosque is big, with gleaming white walls, flooded with sunlight, clean and empty. I visited the Hagia Sophia while we lived in Turkey, and though it was much grander than this and covered with gold mosaic, it felt darker, somehow. This mosque is more comfortable and friendly. The green carpet is bristly under my socks, tugging them a little with every step.
There’s a space in the back for two.
The imam begins his lesson. This week, it’s on the subject of prayer. This imam is new to this mosque and considered very modern, and I like the way he uses stories to make his points more real. But sitting still makes my fingers fidget, and my mind won’t concentrate.
My thoughts wander back to the stolen rebab. My fault.
Eleven days and $625 left. My only chance to make it right.
My gaze drifts as I think, and I notice Baba’s hands resting on his knees beside me. They have always been wrinkled across the smooth backs, while his fingertips are
callused from years of playing a stringed instrument. But dark cracks streak painfully over his skin now, like dry desert ground. Some of them look as if they’ve been bleeding.
It’s from the dishes job. He has joked about the soap being cheaper than the stuff the aid agencies gave us in Greece, which hurt him enough. I imagine those cracks on my hands, imagine what it must feel like to get soap and water in them constantly, the way they’d sting and burn.
This is why I have to make the trades work.
The rebab will get him out of this job. But more—it will mend the crack in his spirit.
The imam concludes his talk, and we stand for the namaz. The congregation, led by our imam, recites the prayer in Arabic, beginning with “God is great,” Allahu Akbar.
We stay standing for the first two parts, then bow toward the qibla before we kneel. My voice blends with everyone else’s, the soft rhythm like a lullaby. I press my forehead to the carpet two times and then sit up straight. The familiar movements calm my racing mind, and as we pass the minutes in the routine, a sliver of ease slips past my guilt at losing the rebab and my worries about the $625, and soothes my anxious chest.
To end the prayer, we turn to our right and left to say, “May the peace and mercy of God be upon you.” It’s meant to be a blessing to angels and the others in the room. I wish it for Baba.
After we’re dismissed, I help Baba stand and steady him while he shifts his stiff legs. As we wait in line to get our shoes again, people chatter happily around us. Baba and I don’t talk—I imagine our silence looks like a hole in the loud room.
I busy myself putting on my shoes so we can return to the main lobby.
“I need to wash my hands, Sami,” Baba says, patting my shoulder. “Wait by the shop so I can find you again.”
“All right.” This time, I don’t remind him it’s called “going to the bathroom” here. While he heads in the other direction, I tuck the bin of art supplies under one arm and skirt around the edge of the crowd to the shop near the entrance. I stand with my back to the decorative plates and glance at the electric sign above the door. WELCOME! scrolls across it in brightly colored lights.
Some of the members greet me as they pass. One woman in a hijab laughs when she sees me peering in the store’s direction. “Don’t buy anything in there—it is far overpriced!”
I smile and thank her, but I can’t stop looking at the shop. There’s a poster for Adam Travel beside the door, with a picture of pilgrims on the hajj. Inside, the shop is crowded with veils and vases and shirts.
It makes me think of Kandahar Air Field, the base where my plar did most of his translating. He brought me there to see the boardwalk once. It was a wooden walkway that made a square at the center of the base, with a field hockey pitch in the middle. The boardwalk was lined with American restaurants like TGI Fridays, Pizza Hut, and KFC, but the TGI Fridays was actually owned by an Afghan. Sergeant Pycior always worried about the Tim Horton’s, which rumor said would leave when the Canadians did. I still remember biting into one of those donuts, after what felt like hours waiting in line—the sugary softness of the bread and the frosting flaking off on my fingers.
The boardwalk also had small stalls for Afghan jewelry, purses made from chadari fabric, iPad covers woven by nomads, and other wares. My father used to chuckle over the prices—three or five times more expensive than in the regular markets.
“Assalamu alaikum, Sami!”
I blink away the memory. Mr. Farid is standing in front of me. Behind him, Hamida waves excitedly, points at the bin under my arm, and dashes out. I hope Baba doesn’t take too long—I need to be at the rec center in a few minutes for the trade. “Walaikum assalam. How are you, Mr. Farid?”
“Doing well. How are you and your grandfather?”
I hesitate, thinking of Baba’s hands. “We are … all right.”
Mr. Farid tilts his head. “I’ve missed his music in the station. Do you think he will play there again?”
A lump rises in my throat, and I try to swallow it down. I lower my eyes, but Mr. Farid has already noticed how I’m struggling to reply. I glance at the door and see Baba walking toward us. “Ask Hamida. She can explain.”
Mr. Farid looks confused, but before he can ask more questions, I greet Baba and say, “Mr. Farid and I were just talking about the service.”
I look up at Mr. Farid, hoping he won’t mind the slight exaggeration.
For a moment he hesitates. Then offers, “Your grandson had some rather astute observations.” He gives me a subtle nod before turning his smile to Baba. “I hope you are doing well.”
“Yes, thank you.” Baba’s voice can’t hide the tired note, like a minor key trying to play itself major.
Someone calls to Mr. Farid, and he waves. “I’m afraid I must go, but I hope to see you next Friday. May your Ramadan be blessed—only eleven days till Eid al-Fitr!”
“Pa mukha de gulunah,” Baba says for good-bye.
“Have a good week, Mr. Farid,” I add.
Baba turns to me as Mr. Farid walks away. “He is a kind man.” His eyes brighten, and he lifts his eyebrows. “What did you notice in the service?”
My phone dings, saving me from making up some “astute observations.”
“Oh, sorry.” I pull it out. “Just a moment.”
I turn away from Baba to read the text from Dan that flashes on the screen: At the rec center. Hamida here. WHERE ARE YOU???
Coming, I type. Then I glance at Baba. “I need to leave for practice.”
“You are always hurrying off, Sami jan.”
The gentle admonishment in his words stings, and I shift from one foot to the other. “I’m really sorry. I’ll make the meal for iftar tonight.”
My phone dings with a new message: GOTTA PLAY A GAME BUT COME!!! Then it dings with about twenty random emojis sent one after the other.
“Please, can I go?” I ask Baba while I type an excuse to Dan.
Baba sighs. “Very well. I have to return to the restaurant anyway.”
“Okay, see you later.” I hurry to the door.
I don’t even think about looking back.
* * *
“Sami!” When I come into the rec center gym, Dan breaks away from the game, practically hopping with excitement. “Coach—Coach, can we do a time-out, real quick?”
Coach smiles and blows his whistle. “All right, everyone. Two-minute time-out.”
Dan runs over, followed by Layla and Hamida. Hamida grabs the guitar case by her backpack and shoves it at me.
“Here, here!” she says, snatching the bin from my hands and leaving me with the guitar in my arms. “Trade done! Look at all this loot, Layla!”
I blink and smile, while Layla and Hamida bend over the bin. “That was easy.”
“Yeah, totally—but look!” Dan holds his phone out so close to my face I can’t see anything but a blur. “The laptop battery came this morning!”
I push his arm back so I can actually see. The screen shows a page on eBay, and my laptop is in the picture next to a listing for $220. The Buy It Now option is set to five hundred dollars.
Surprised, I say, “Wow, you already listed it?”
“Yep. Those prices okay? I think it will go for higher than two hundred twenty dollars—people have to bid up from there. I put it up for a five-day run to start, see how that goes.”
My heart hammers with something between nervousness and excitement. I invested so much into that laptop—it has to be worth it.
I put the guitar next to Dan’s backpack. “You still okay to take this home for me? No way Baba wouldn’t notice. Then maybe we could go to Creature Guitar tomorrow?”
“Can’t go tomorrow. Got a court thing.” Dan says without looking up from his phone. Shrugging, he puts it down by his stuff. “But Monday would work.”
“Thirty seconds!” Coach calls. “I need everyone back on the field.”
“Come o—” Layla calls, but the last word is lost in a nasty-sounding cough. She r
uns to her spot anyway.
“Thanks, Sami!” Hamida says, punching my shoulder as she runs to take her place by Layla.
Eight trades done, and I have three leads now—the guitar, textbooks, and laptop. Plus I’ll see the rebab myself in a few short days. For the first time in weeks, I feel like the trades will work—like I’ll actually bring the rebab home—and Baba won’t be sad anymore. Everything will be better.
“Ten seconds!”
“You’re on my team.” Dan shoves me ahead of him. “Offense. Go!”
I stumble into the game, laughing.
* * *
TRADE LOG
Days: 11
Have: $75
Need: $625
THINGS TO TRADE:
Laptop (now listed on eBay!)
PLANNED TRADES:
Textbooks for money
Guitar 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
7. Combat boots -> Art supplies
8. Art supplies -> Guitar
* * *
22
On Monday, I wake up to a text from Dan: Hey! Mom FREAKED after the court thing! She’s dragging me off to New York to see Gran. Sorry!!
My stomach turns with unease at the delay, but I text him back immediately. Thanks for letting me know. Is everything okay?
His reply doesn’t come for a few hours. Yeah. LOOK I FOUND A DEAD LIZARD IN MY GRAN’S GARAGE!
I still don’t understand what happened at court, but I drop it. The next few days, I hang out at the rec center—playing soccer, working on my English reading with a tutor, watching our eBay ad in the computer lab. So far the ad hasn’t received any bids. It isn’t even being watched. Dan sends me a steady stream of texts with different pictures of weird things he’s finding in his grandmother’s house: plastic rabbit statues, moldy comic books, an eight-box collection of Better Homes & Gardens magazines …