“They fired you?” The very thought of someone dismissing my baba—the man crowds would gather to hear, whose hands are too precious to be wasted in bloodying soap—makes my body burn. “Are they allowed to do that?”
He waves me away and begins to walk. He looks smaller. Frailer. Old. “It is their decision. It is their business. They must choose what is right for them. Khuday Pak mehriban dey.”
God is kind.
Though he acts calm, the disappointment lingers in his expression, and I feel like I can see the slow dying of his spirit.
We turn down our street and walk toward the apartment. My phone dings again, twice in a row.
The first is Dan: Sent the laptop specs to Layla! OPERATION LAPTOP TRADE IS A GO.
The second is Layla: Did you ask? Are you coming?
I glance at Baba, but the confidence I felt at the music shop is fading. I have to get the rebab back, and this is my absolute last chance to make the final trade. I have to take it.
I follow Baba into the apartment, and we slip off our shoes by the door. The air is beginning to smell less like the old renters’ cigarette smoke and more like spices and chai. I move a few steps, steel myself, and face Baba.
“I would like to go to the Fourth of July celebration,” I say, all in a rush. “Layla’s family offered to take me, and Dan’s going, too. I think it’s important for me to be there—it’s an American tradition.”
Baba still stands by the door. He says nothing, but his jaw tightens.
I hesitate. “It’s from six to eleven at night. You’re invited, too.”
“No.” Baba flips the lock shut and sets the keys on the kitchen counter. “After today? No. You need to spend more time at home, and the Fourth may well be the day before the end of Ramadan. You should be reflecting on the coming of Eid al-Fitr, not running around all night.”
“But this is important.”
“More important than your faith, your family?” Baba shakes his head. “No. No, I will not have you leave. It isn’t a good idea. This is a time for us to be together. They will be busy with their own celebrations of their own nation.”
“It’s our nation, too, now,” I snap. “I am only trying to get used to it—and you should be as well. Isn’t that what you want? Isn’t that what we’ve wanted all these years—a new home?”
“Not if it means forgetting the old one,” he says heatedly.
I flinch as if he’d struck me. His face softens, and he reaches for me, but I back away.
“Sami, what am I to think?” Baba asks, his voice hopeless. “How am I to know what to do when you will not talk to me? When you turn to strangers for comfort instead of your family? What am I to think when you do not speak of the past anymore?”
I’m always thinking of the past! I want to shout. The guilt in my chest turns to anger. I’m trying to remember! I’m trying to move forward!
But my mouth is dry, and I can no longer feel the rebab’s strings under my fingers. I am alone. Even here, even with Baba.
“Sami, tell me your heart,” Baba says, almost a plea. “We are all we have.”
I’m shaking my head. I’m saying words I don’t mean, and I don’t know why.
“No,” I say, voice choked and hoarse. “No, I am all you have. But I have others now.”
Horrified at my own words, I flee before Baba can say anything, before I can look at him.
I run into the bathroom and slam the door shut, locking it behind me. Then I sit in the tub and tug the curtain closed.
I hug my knees and wait for him to knock or shout or do anything. But he doesn’t. The whole apartment is silent except for the pounding of my pulse.
My phone buzzes. It’s Layla again. Well???
Blinking a haze out of my eyes, I type my response with one finger, one letter at a time.
I will come. Baba can’t.
I tap send. Then I press my face against my knees.
24
It’s the Fourth of July, and I’m doing my best to focus on my goal: trading the laptop.
I’m doing my best not to think about how tonight Baba will be alone in the apartment, waiting for iftar to end today’s fast all by himself.
We have barely exchanged words since our fight. When I stand by the door and break the quiet, it is like taking a hammer to stone. “I’m going,” I say. Not a question.
Baba does not answer. He just sits there on the toshak, his prayer beads in hand. It’s like he’s turning into a shadow.
“Well, bye,” I say, still standing there, waiting for a reaction.
“Be safe,” Baba murmurs, so soft I almost don’t hear it.
I nod and leave. He hadn’t insisted I stay, and his words of parting might even be considered permission. But the whole walk to the T, I feel like I am dragging my feet through deep sand.
I can’t stop thinking about Baba, even when I meet up with Dan and we catch our train.
“Come on—this is our stop,” Dan says, tugging my sleeve when the doors open. He jumps the gap between the train and platform.
I force myself to think about the trade. And I hurry after him.
We have to work hard to stay together in the crowded press of people all going the same way. Dan mutters impatiently, but I find it comforting. It is familiar, if nothing else. I know crowds—crowds of chatter and dust in the markets around Afghanistan and Greece and Turkey. Crowds can be dangerous. They were at home, and even here a crowd is what got the rebab stolen. But crowds make me feel invisible and protected by the bodies around me—even if they’re the bodies of sweaty and loud Americans.
We finally push through the turnstiles, and I see Layla and her family standing just outside the exit. She hops and shouts, “Sami! Sami! Dan! Sami! Dan!”
Dan looks around in the opposite direction, oblivious. I grab his shirt and turn him the right way, and we both head toward them. A tall man has Jared in a sort of baby-carrier backpack, and Mrs. Michele grins while she picks up a huge bag full of food and blankets. Two older boys are bent over a phone together, apparently playing a game.
“Hey, Dan, Sami,” Mrs. Michele says. “Thanks for meeting us here. This is Micah and Alex, Layla’s older brothers. And my husband, Ty.”
“Good to meet you.” Mr. Ty grins. When Mrs. Michele isn’t looking, he nods toward my heavy backpack and gives me a subtle thumbs-up. A knot of nerves settles in my stomach. I want to get the trade over with—prove to myself that I made the right decision in coming. But it’s not time. We need a moment without Mrs. Michele around.
“Hey,” says the oldest son, glancing up for two seconds.
“Hi,” says the other.
Mr. Ty nudges Micah’s shoulder. “Come on. Put that away. Let’s get moving before all the decent places are taken. Stay close!”
Layla sticks beside me and Dan while her parents lead the way, her brothers just behind them. “We aren’t going to the Oval, where the band plays. They have too many restrictions on stuff, plus we would have had to get here at like seven this morning to snag a good spot. We’ll find a place by the sailing pavilion and still be able to hear most of the music over the water and on the speakers.”
“Works for me,” Dan says.
“The concert starts at eight thirty,” she goes on, “and then fireworks at ten thirty. Until then, there’s plenty to do. We brought a beach ball, and my mom brought some hot dogs and burgers. You can do burgers, right, Sami? She made sure they’re halal.”
“Yeah, that’s fine.” I nod. “I just have to wait until sunset.”
“Right. That’s okay—but Jared will have to eat earlier.”
“Oh—you don’t have to wait for me to have dinner.” I edge around a couple too busy taking pictures to notice they are blocking the way. “I don’t mind—I’m used to it.”
“You sure?” she asks. She looks a lot like her mom when she makes that worried expression.
“Definitely.”
“Good, because I’m starving,” Dan cuts in, rubbing his
stomach.
Layla rolls her eyes.
The whole park is covered by people—on blankets, in chairs, or just sitting on the grass. Someone is playing loud music on a speaker. I’ve heard the singer before—he seems to be the same one who’s always singing the type of song with long, low words that slur between notes.
“Is this Garth Brooks?” I ask Layla.
Dan turns to stare at me. “Um. No. It’s Rascal Flatts.”
Layla giggles. “Hey, they’re both country singers. He was close.”
“There’s more than one?” I feel sort of stupid. “I knew there was a woman and a man…”
Dan groans.
“He’s not wrong,” Layla puts in, elbowing Dan. “They all sound the same.”
Dan puts a hand against his forehead. “Never let my mom hear you say that.”
We find an empty stretch of grass along the Charles River, and Mr. Ty lays out a picnic blanket. Mrs. Michele helps smooth it out, and Layla’s brothers run off to some of their friends.
Mrs. Michele sits and opens the cooler. I barely hold in a sigh, taking a seat myself. The trade isn’t going to happen right away, it’s clear. The knot in my stomach just gets tighter and tighter.
“I’ll distract her,” Layla whispers, sitting beside me. She lifts her hand to wave. “Mrs. Johnson is over there, and once they get talking, they’ll never stop.”
Mrs. Johnson—a round-faced woman with curly hair—spots Layla and breaks into a grin. She comes over and calls, “Michele! How are you?”
Mrs. Michele gets to her feet, and the two hug. I glance aside at Mr. Ty, and he nods, reaching for his wallet. While the women talk, I push my backpack closer to Mr. Ty’s bag.
But suddenly a piece of their conversation breaks through my focus.
“Are you all going to do anything? Are there any presents you really want?”
“We’ll probably go out to dinner.” Mrs. Michele offers Mrs. Johnson a Coke. “And … I think what I want most would be for the boys to clean their rooms. Or maybe a new kettle…”
I freeze. Layla casts me an uncertain look.
Mr. Ty turns to the women. “And a laptop, right?”
“Oh!” Mrs. Michele smiles. “I forgot to tell you. I found a laptop today on Craigslist. It was a great deal, so I snatched it up!”
“Happy birthday to you,” Mrs. Johnson says with a laugh.
“What?” Layla exclaims.
Dan just gapes.
“Oh!” Mr. Ty forces a smile. “That’s great!”
My whole chest starts hurting.
“Yep,” Mrs. Michele says. “It’s really nice. I’ll show it to you when we get home.” Turning back to Mrs. Johnson, she asks about something to do with children. The words stop translating in my head.
While she’s distracted, Layla and Mr. Ty lean over to me.
Layla whispers something, but I have to concentrate to understand. “… so sorry.”
“I had no idea she was planning to do this,” Mr. Ty adds. I feel his gaze studying me, but I can’t look at any of them.
“It’s okay.” My voice says the words, but my lungs don’t want to fill with air. I rock to my feet—I have to get away from his concern and Dan’s frustration and Layla’s embarrassment. “It’s fine, really. I’m—ah—just going to walk around a little bit.”
I leave before they can answer. My mind turns circles, unwilling to accept this. I’ve come so far only to make a bad calculation on the trade I needed the most. I feel worse than I did with the first trade for the broken iPod. Not only do I still need $340—I used up $120 to buy the laptop and the battery, and that’s money I can’t get back.
Sneakers smack on the pavement behind me. “Sami—” Layla touches my elbow.
Dan comes to my other side. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I’m desperate to hide my disappointment. It wasn’t Layla’s fault, or Mr. Ty’s—I’m the one who made this mess. I try to breathe deeply. My body feels like it’s sinking into cold water. Instead of looking at them, I search our surroundings. “Hey, what’s that woman giving away?”
“Glow sticks. We should get some.” Layla’s voice sounds about as falsely happy as mine, but as long as we’re both pretending, it doesn’t have to be so bad.
“It’s not the end of the world,” Dan says suddenly. “So Layla’s dad can’t buy the laptop now. We just need to find someone else. I mean, we can list ours on Craigslist.”
“Sometimes listings on there are really funny,” Layla adds. “We could do something to make ours stand out … like, write it from the computer’s perspective!”
“I am computer,” Dan says in a robotic voice. “I need home.”
Layla laughs.
They keep spouting ideas while we get a few glow sticks. Layla shows me how to crack the tube to make it change from a muted color to a bright neon. She only does one, though, because she says the glow might fade out before it’s dark. I nod. Even though we have a new plan, my insides still feel like they’re drowning.
I wave the glow stick and force myself to smile.
“We’re going to sell the laptop, Sami,” Layla says.
“Yeah,” I reply, trying to make it sound like I actually agree. “It’ll all work out.”
But I have no idea how.
25
“Almost time for fireworks!” Layla says, checking her phone and then rubbing her hands together. “Have you ever seen fireworks before, Sami?”
“Some.” In Turkey, they set off small batches around New Year’s, but normally Baba took me out of the city. He didn’t like them. And I’ve seen the ones that spark when they’re thrown on the ground. Sometimes kids use them on the street, and they remind me of gunshots. It always makes my heart pound.
I glance at the barges on the river. I was thinking so much about the laptop trade, I hadn’t really thought about the fireworks.
“Well, these are awesome,” Dan assures me. “Best in the country, I bet.”
Mr. Ty pulls Jared into his lap. “Do you hear that, bud? Almost time for fireworks.”
Mrs. Michele dumps the last of our trash from dinner into a bag, then leans over. “It’s going to be loud, but you have nothing to be afraid of. And they’ll be so bright!”
Jared sucks his fist. He doesn’t seem worried.
I rub the scar on my arm, trying to ignore my churning stomach. How loud do they mean? But I’m too embarrassed to ask. It should be fine. I’m in America. I’m with my friends. I’m safe.
Anyway, there are so many people here to celebrate. They all look happy, with their faces painted blue and red and white and their T-shirts covered in patriotic messages. More people have come since we arrived. Lots more. They are pressing up against the sidewalk and overflowing into the grass behind it. The mass of voices rises, forceful and clamorous, competing to be heard above the music. A policeman wanders down the path, waving to people and smiling at kids. He has a gun in the holster at his hip.
Plenty of Americans have guns, right? How many might be carrying them now?
It’s a warm evening, so most people are wearing clothes that wouldn’t hide a gun. I search the crowd. No one in my view seems to have one.
“My favorite part is in the beginning,” Layla’s telling Dan. “They do a lot of those weeping-willowy ones then.”
“Pfft, boring.” He rocks back. The glow sticks looped around his neck cast his face in a strange green light. “I like the end, where they all come at once!”
A toddler somewhere starts to cry. The loudspeakers announce that it’s almost time. I shift on my legs, trying to get comfortable. The man in front of us is wearing a jacket, and he pushes it out of the way to scratch his ribs. I don’t see a holster on him, either. But maybe the other side?
I try to breathe through my nose. Everything’s fine. I don’t know why I’m even noticing all these things.
“Pay attention, Sami,” Layla says, glancing over her shoulder with a grin. “You have to tell us which are your favo
rites once it’s done.”
I nod, forcing a smile. “Okay.”
The couple to my left bursts into laughter, and I jump. Everyone around me is so happy—even Layla and Dan. It’s like they think no one could ever hurt them.
It makes my eyes sting. I’m not sad, but my eyes are burning, and air hitches in my lungs.
Hot-dog smell mixed with Mrs. Michele’s perfume and the sour hint of beer all turn to gunk in my throat. The music crackling on the speakers gets louder as other people snap off their own radios. I breathe in through my nose and exhale through my mouth.
“Okay, folks,” the announcer says, “count down with me! Five…”
I’m becoming weightless, lifting above my body.
The people join in to shout, “Four…”
It’s like I’m looking down at the crowd, down at myself, sitting with hands clenched on top of my knees.
“Three…!”
Four policemen stand together, staring toward the river.
“Two!”
Mr. Ty covers Jared’s ears. The other toddler still screams.
“ONE!”
The music swells. A rocket booms into the sky, trailed by glimmering sparks, and my spirit falls as it lifts.
The sky explodes. I land in my body.
Every nerve is wrong. Everything is wrong. I flatten to the ground. Hands over my head. The explosion shakes the grass. Body. Bone. I grab for Dan, Layla. Get down, I want to say. Get—
But they’re laughing. Pointing. The light of the fireworks illuminates the faces in the crowd. Bright eyes turned skyward. White teeth gleaming. Smiling. Everyone’s smiling. Their shirts are red. The woman to my left turns, slow, to frown at me. Her silver earrings flash.
The leaves in the tree above us rustle. Blocks away, a dog barks. Once, twice, three times. The air smells like smoke. Sharp smoke. Gunpowder.
Someone touches my shoulder—Mrs. Michele. She’s leaning into my vision. I can’t hear her speak, but I read her lips. “You okay?”
I nod. My limbs are connected wrong. They jerk and shudder when I push myself up. Sweat drips down my neck. Everything’s slow, when I know it can’t really be going at this speed. Dan’s shirt has a tiny hole right above his shoulder. Layla’s beads jingle as she tilts her head back. I am paralyzed.
The Eleventh Trade Page 14
