One Half from the East Read Online Free PDF

paddle. I can feel their eyes on me. I kick at the ground with my feet and wonder what a real boy would do in my place.
    â€œTake it.” The five lumps have been transformed into piping-hot flatbreads, each longer than my arm. I stack them on the tray and hand him the money. I breathe a sigh of relief that my mission was a success.
    My mother is waiting at the door when I come home. She exhales deeply and cups my face in her hands.
    â€œI think you’re ready to go to school,” she declares. It’s not just bread I’ve brought back from the market—it’s a sign that I can play the part of a boy in the real world.

Five
    â€œO bayd! Obayd!”
    My sisters think it’s funny to call me by my boy name. If I answer, they laugh, and if I don’t, they raise their eyebrows and threaten to tell Madar.
    â€œCut it out,” I bite back. My stomach is churning. I’m finally starting school. My sisters started a couple of weeks ago and have had a lot of catching up to do, since the school year begins in spring and we’re starting in the fall. I’ve watched them pack their notebooks and pencils and head out of the house while I’ve been home getting used to being a girl-boy so I won’t be so awkward about it when I join my classmates, who are already thinking about the winter break that starts in a few weeks. This justmeans that everyone in my class will be staring at me even harder since I’m new to this school and starting even later than my sisters.
    â€œAs you wish, Obayd -jan !” Alia says as if she’s curtsying before a king. She’s dramatic. That’s her thing.
    At the end of the main road, Neela stops and gives me a hug. She heads down a smaller road to the left to make her way to the girls’ high school. It’s much narrower than the one in Kabul, but Neela is happy to be out of the house and with girls her age.
    I’m glad and not glad when we reach our school.
    â€œIt looks so different from our school in Kabul, doesn’t it?”
    Sometimes Alia can read my mind.
    â€œIt looks so old!”
    â€œIt’s not that old, but it took a beating during the war. My teacher told me they’ve fixed it up a lot. It was worse before,” Meena says, shaking her head.
    My sisters adjust their head scarves, making sure the knots are perfectly centered under their chins.
    â€œI liked our school in Kabul,” I say. “And I was supposed to move into the third-grade girls’ class there. Now we’re here and I’m going into the boys’ class. I don’t know if I’m going to know what to do.”
    â€œA classroom is a classroom wherever it is—which is why we should go in. The teachers here are just as strictas the Kabul teachers about being on time. We’ll meet here when they let us out. Don’t be late,” Meena warns. Her voice softens when she sees the look on my face. “And Obayd . . . you’ll be fine, okay?”
    I blink quickly so my tears won’t get very far.
    We go into our different classes, since boys and girls are separated. My sisters go to the left and I go to the right, where I find my classroom. There’s a woman standing at the door. She’s tall and thin and watches me closely as I try to slip in unnoticed. I keep my head down and hope she won’t spy my big ears and the body hidden inside these pants.
    She stops me with a hand on my shoulder.
    â€œIt’s your first day, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes, teacher.” I stare at my feet. My face is hot.
    â€œYour name?”
    I take a deep breath.
    â€œObayd.”
    â€œObayd,” she repeats and tilts my head up with a finger under my chin. “You are Obayd?”
    I nod slowly. Other boys file in, walking around me to get to their places on the carpets that are laid out on the ground. It feels like we stand there for about an hour, her staring at my face and me refusing to meet her