One Half from the East Read Online Free PDF Page B

eyes.
    â€œObayd,” she says once more.
    â€œYes.”
    She lets out a breath so big her whole chest moves with it. She knows what I am. She points into the classroom.
    â€œFind a place to sit. You’ve missed too much already. You have lots of catching up to do if you want to get a decent grade this year.”
    There are two windows that look out on the schoolyard. I find a place in the third row of students and sit next to the wall.
    I take out a notebook and pencil and keep my head down as if I’m about to write something. There are boys all around me, but I don’t want to talk to them. I know they’ll see right through me and be even worse than my sisters.
    The hours are long. We study math, religion, and reading. My teacher, Seema -jan , makes us recite verses from our holy book, the Qur’an, which is the toughest subject for me. Reading is a little easier. Most of what we’re doing is stuff I learned last year in my school in Kabul. I fidget a lot. The boy next to me notices. He leans in and whispers: “Stop moving around. You’re going to get in trouble.”
    Sitting still was never this hard.
    I loved school in Kabul. In the summer, the classrooms were so hot I could barely breathe, but I never complained. We had smooth desks and real chairs. There were blackboards as big as the wall. I had friends who looked like meand a teacher who called me by my real name.
    And we knew that we were lucky to be able to go to school at all. Some kids have to work instead. I’ve seen kids collecting scrap metal from dumps or swinging hammers onto red hot pieces of metal in a blacksmith’s shop. Some kids wash cars, shine shoes, or sell pens and sticks of gum. A lot of kids who aren’t in school don’t get to be kids at all. That made us all really eager to go to class, even if our teachers were strict or assigned lots of hard homework.
    We are finally released into the school’s playground, which is really nothing more than a big open space with one soccer ball in desperate need of air and a baseball bat that must have been a gift from an American soldier because we don’t play baseball in Afghanistan.
    Boys play with boys, and girls play with girls. That’s always been fine by me. It’s not so much that girls and boys want to do different things, but more that we do things in different ways. The girls run a bit on the playground, but without shoving one another or poking fun. The boys are louder and run like they’re not afraid of what they might crash into. Their arms swing out and legs stretch forward, crossing as much ground as they can in each bound.
    I stare at the girls out of the corner of my eye. I hear them chanting and hopping to the song about pomegranate seeds, the stones in the river, and taking bread to thebaker. The words echo in my head as I fight back the urge to join my voice with theirs. My sisters are not in the yard. Their classes will be out later, and I know Meena and Alia will be part of the circles of girls, blending in perfectly.
    I watch the boys drift one way and the girls another. I am now in the weird place between both worlds.
    I pick up a stick and start walking, hoping no one notices the boy in blue corduroys—the one who is all alone. Three boys are chasing one another. As the first boy flies past me, his sneakers kick up puffs of dust. I take a quick step back so I won’t be plowed over by the others. They’re on his heels.
    â€œCome, catch him!”
    Without slowing their stride, they call out for me to join them.
    One boy pauses. He turns around and stares at me. My stomach drops. His face is mostly hidden by the rim of a navy blue American-style cap with W - I - Z - A - R - D - S embroidered across the front in red thread. He is looking at me hard, like I’ve taken something of his.
    â€œHey, you! Where are you going?”
    I turn to walk in a different direction but he is approaching. I pick up