One Half from the East (16 page)

“G
et away from me!” I yell and swing my arm in an arc. I wonder where Alia is. The girls have formed a tight circle around me and I feel completely trapped.

“Why are you running? We just want to talk to you.”

I get on my feet and spin around, looking for an opening. The circle takes a collective step outward, widening enough for me to see Alia standing just behind another girl. She looks like she's trying to shoulder her way toward me.

“I'm running because you're chasing me! Why are you chasing me?”

One girl with a red barrette holding her head scarf in place puts both her hands on her hips and lets out a huff.

“We weren't
chasing
you. We wanted to talk to you. You're the one who started running.”

My breathing slows. My eyes focus.

The girls around me are staring at me, but not in a scary way. They almost look like they've stumbled upon something dangerously exciting, like a forbidden movie, and are trying to see how close they can get without risking serious trouble.

“Why do you want to talk to me?”

The girl with the red barrette leans in. She seems to be the spokesperson of the group.

“We know what you were,” she says softly.

I do a quick scan of the circle. All the girls are wide-eyed and motionless, as if someone pressed pause on their video player. I get a strange feeling in my chest and wait for her to go on. I'm still not sure what they want to do to me.

“Tell us.”

“Tell . . . tell you what?” I stutter. Then I put my hands on my hips too, so that I match her pose. I need to not look like an easy target. “I'm not telling you anything!”

“Come on, you have to tell us!” pleads a girl with pistachio-colored eyes.

Alia pops out between two girls and takes a stand in the center of the circle along with me.

“She's got nothing to tell you! Leave my sister alone!”
she shouts, then drops her voice to a gravelly warning. “Or you'll be very, very sorry.”

The circle widens a bit as everyone takes a half step back. They're a little unnerved by Alia's theatrical voice but not completely scared off. I'm glad my sister's here, but I also don't want her to defend me. I can't help but think of Rahima when I'm on this playground. She would never let herself feel cornered by a gang of girls.

“Now get away! All of you!” I yell and wave my arms around to shoo them off.

The circle of heads turn left and right, looking at one another for a cue. They shake their heads and the girl with pistachio eyes looks at me, confused.

“Why do you want to be so terrible to us? If I'd been a
bacha posh
like you, I'd be happy to talk about it. I'd want all the girls to know what it's like. Alia, you were wondering along with us just a few days ago.”

Alia's brows furrow. “Is that what you want with Obayda?”

“Yeah, what was it like?”

“It must be so much better, isn't it?”

“Did you have to do any chores at home?”

“I think I could play soccer better than those boys. One of them always trips over the ball instead of kicking it. He's useless.”

In a flash, I understand why they chased me.

I feel a long breath leave my body and realize I'd been holding it tight in my chest.

They don't want to do anything
to
me. They want to know what it was like to be a
bacha posh
, and I should not be surprised at all. I've seen them standing around while the boys knock knees over a soccer ball or cheer one another on in a game of
ghursai
. They watch out of the corners of their eyes, keeping a safe distance and never daring to play themselves because there are some things that girls just don't do. There are, actually, lots of things that girls don't do, but it's not because they don't want to.

“Being a
bacha posh
was the best thing that could've happened to me,” I begin. Alia's shoulders relax, and she looks relieved that she doesn't have to stand up to the circle around us anymore. What I say next is not planned, but it comes out just right because it's how I honestly feel. “It's like when it's been freezing cold all winter and then—one day—it's suddenly spring and warm enough that you don't need a coat.”

Sixteen pairs of eyes look like they're about to pop out of their heads. Everything they've been suspecting has just been confirmed, and I see the anger rising in them.

“I never had to go home straight after school. I didn't do any of the chores around the house. Everyone expected me to be loud, and it was fine if I went home with dirt on my pants. Nobody in the market cared where I was going,
and I could climb trees without worrying about someone seeing my underpants.”

Some girls are fuming. Others look skeptical. The girl with the red barrette looks like she's got a thousand more questions for me.

“Did you want to stay a
bacha posh
?”

“Of course I did! Why would I want to be a girl? What can you do in these . . . these . . . dresses?” I pull at my skirt and let it fall. Pants are made for legs, and legs are freedom. My father knows that just as well as I do.

“So you climbed trees and no one yelled at you?”

I shake my head.

“I climbed one of the tallest trees in the market. I even went up to the mountains—all by myself. You know, there are lots of snakes and scorpions on the mountains, and I saw some. Even had a scorpion walk across my foot, but it was too scared to sting me. I did lots of stuff that I can't even tell anyone about because it was so dangerous. I could do it because I was a boy.”

The circle around me is buzzing with excitement. I'm trying not to gloat that I've made them all jealous with my experience, but how can I not, when I think about my adventures with Rahima, my games with Abdullah and Ashraf, the way I tricked the warlord's guards, and the crutch I made that got my father out of the house?

The smallest girl in the class steps forward. She's no
more than five inches from my face and much shorter than me.

“So you could do everything a boy could do?” she asks with a hint of mischief.

“Everything,” I reply with confidence. I draw the word out and raise my eyebrows for effect. I wait for this little girl to be cowed by my cockiness, but she isn't—not in the least.

Instead, she tilts her head to the side and asks, in a voice that is sweet and venomous all at once: “If you could do everything a boy could do, could you pee standing up?”

I
t takes a few days, but I settle into life as a girl again. Things are different at home. I'm not the special son of the house anymore, but my father's also not wasting away in his room. He's been walking outside every day, and the color is back in his cheeks. We eat our meals together in the everything room. They're not the meaty dinners we used to have in Kabul, but somehow that doesn't matter when I look around and see the quiet smiles on my sisters' faces.

I'm thinking about this as I wander out of the classroom for recess. Alia's up ahead of me. She doesn't feel the need to stay by my side anymore. Since that day on the playground, my classmates are less intrigued by me. I can't
blame them. All the cool stuff I did as a boy is history. And these girls are too old to even dream of being
bacha posh
es. I suppose sometimes people just have to accept what they are.

That's what I'm trying to do. I don't want to forget my adventures as Obayd, but I am also trying to be okay with being Obayda. I wear my Wizards cap only when I'm sleeping, but I do keep it in my schoolbag and tote it around every day—partly because I want to be able to give it back to Rahima if she ever shows up and partly because I wonder if it can still bring me good luck.

The boys on the other side of the yard are splitting off into two teams. Three boys are laying down rocks on opposite ends of the field. They're getting ready for a game of
ghursai
. Just watching them, my fingers and legs start to tingle. I wouldn't mind jumping in on their game.

“I can't believe you played
ghursai
with them,” Pari says. She's the girl with the pistachio eyes.

“I know. It looks pretty tough. How do they hang on to their feet like that? I'd fall over in a second.” Rabia is the girl with the red barrette. She's bold and would have been perfect as a
bacha posh
, I think. I haven't told her that I think so, but I probably should. I think she'd take it as a compliment.

“It's actually not as hard as it looks,” I admit. “It was
tough at first and I fell down a lot, but after a few games I got the hang of it.”

I turn my head so I'm not staring at the game. I don't want to make eye contact with Abdullah or Ashraf. I haven't spoken to them since I came back to school as Obayda, and I don't really want to. It couldn't be weirder if I'd grown a third arm.

“But you were a boy then. Maybe that's why you could do it,” Pari suggests.

I wince at her comment.

“You know, I bet I could still do it. Actually, I bet you both could do it too.”

Pari and Rabia break into wide grins.

“You think so?” Pari asks gently. “I don't know if that's such a good idea, since the teachers usually watch us from the classroom window and all . . .”

“Pari's probably right,” Rabia says, but I can see a rebellious twinkle in her eyes.

I feel something electric run through me. I know how to make this work.

“That's fine. Maybe I can round up some of the other girls and—”

“No, I'll do it!” blurts Rabia.

“Me too,” shouts Pari with a half-contained smile.

I put both hands on my hips and take a deep breath.

“Okay, so here's how it goes.”

I bring them over to a mulberry tree since we'll need something they can balance on until they get the hang of it. I show them how to grab the toes of the opposite foot with their fingers and how to angle the wrist to get the best grip. Pari and Rabia stand next to the tree and whenever they start to wobble, they put a palm on the thick trunk and steady themselves. Pari manages to stand for a few seconds with one leg and one arm, so I tell her to try a hop or two. She does, and Rabia and I start to hoot and cheer. Pari's eyes get wide as if she can't believe her own feet. She turns to look at us, which throws her balance off completely and she lands on her bottom, the skirt of her dress flared out around her like a colorful mushroom.

“That was so good!” Rabia shouts. “My turn now.”

Rabia manages to make a few hops, but she's teetering so much, any opponent would be able to knock her down.

“Don't look down,” I coach. “Keep your eyes in the direction you want to go and don't stop moving. Your back has to stay straight or you'll have a harder time holding your grip on your feet.”

Pari has gone around the tree and is giving Rabia a one-legged chase.

“I'm going to knock you down!”

Rabia laughs at the thought of Pari toppling her, but it's very possible. Pari's a natural.

And then I notice something. For the second time this
week, I'm in the center of a wide circle of gawking girls. This time, though, I'm sharing the attention with Pari and Rabia. Our classmates have gathered around us with nervous curiosity. Their eyes glisten with the same quiet rebellion, and that's all I need.

Rahima, I wish you could see this.

“You can all try it. It's not as hard as it looks.”

“Oh, yes, it is!” yells Pari as she topples a couple of girls when she overshoots her hop. They laugh and push her back to standing. She beams at them before heading in a different direction. “Thanks!”

It starts with two girls. Then one more. Then three more. Before I can count, our half of the schoolyard is a field of one-legged girls. They are leaping, falling, and cheering each other on. We look like minnows out of water, flopping around ungracefully and totally out of our nature. But I watch them, and after a few moments the hopping takes on a rhythm. There are more girls standing than fallen. They are moving in a direction and squaring off against one another. They are
ghursai
players, ready for a match.

My eyes move from the sight of the girls to the boys, who have stopped their play to watch what they have never seen. Amidst the boys stand Ashraf and Abdullah. They must feel my gaze on them, because they turn in my direction and—before I can hide my face—our eyes meet.
They nod and jut their chins toward me in an expression that says they are impressed. I return their easy smiles. The communication between us is as clear as if I'd been standing at their side.

I can see, because I know them well enough, that they wish Rahima were here to see this too.

A
lia runs up ahead of us. Her sandals kick up high behind her, and the hem of her skirt ruffles with her momentum. If she had pants on, she would be uncatchable—fast as any boy in our village.

“I can't wait to see it!” she calls out. Her voice carries back to us in the breeze. “Are you sure we'll be able to find it?”

“Not with you leading the way,” I tease.

I shake my head. It's starting to get warm enough that running isn't such a great idea. She'll be thirsty for water soon, and we've got a ways to walk still. I should know.

Neela and Meena walk in front of me.

I turn to look back at my mother. She's standing by the metal gate of our home with my baby brother in her
arms. His head rests against the dip between her shoulder and neck, and she's lifted his cotton shirt so his back can absorb some early morning light. My mother says the sunlight is good for him. Even from a few yards away, I can see his tiny eyes squint against the brightness, which will lull him to sleep.

My baby brother's golden-brown hair catches the sun. In the week before he joined us, we debated whether he would look like my mother or my father. No one expected, when he was born, that he would share my caramel-brown eyes, my dimpled chin, and my tapered fingers. When he yawns, his miniature nose wrinkles up just like mine does. Even I am surprised. He is the boy version of me, and because of that I can't help but love him just a little more than I would otherwise.

My mother waves at us once more before we are completely out of sight. She goes back into the house, where she'll spend the rest of the morning preparing a hearty dinner. She knows we'll come back hungry. My father walks next to me. His walking stick is at his side, as it always is. The padding's gotten pretty worn, but I'm proud of that. It's worn through because he's been using it so much. I've got ideas on how to make a better cushion to replace this one soon.

“Remember, watch your step. There are scorpions around—”

“And snakes,” I add.

My father looks at me with eyebrows raised. “The more advice you give us, the more I shake to think of you having done this alone.”

I look at the ground to hide my grin. It is pretty amazing that I've already made this trip once and that I did it on my own.

Neela is carrying a bag with a few snacks. She packed them this morning expecting that Alia and I would be asking for something soon. She's always ready for anything, I think as I watch her back. And she's strong enough that, if she really needs to, she could carry Alia or me. Watching her steady stride, I can't help but think Neela would have been a great
bacha posh
.

This trip was Meena's idea. When she proposed it, my mother shook her head and rejected it immediately. I don't blame her. I'm sure she was thinking of what I looked like when I finally came home after my trek to the mountains. It's hard to forget the scrapes on my hands, the blisters on my feet, and my clothes wet with mountain water. But Meena doesn't let anything go, and once that idea popped into her head it wasn't going anywhere until she saw the waterfall with her own eyes.

Come to think of it, Meena would have been a really good
bacha posh
too.

“Padar?”

“Yes, Obayda?”

“I'm really glad you're bringing us out here.” There's a lot buried in my statement. Here's what I don't say because my throat would close up with emotion if I tried:
I'm proud of how hard you've worked to get stronger. And I'm so glad to have you around as our father again. And I know you don't wish that we were anything but your daughters.
My father blinks twice and his lips tighten, which tells me he understands all that I didn't come right out and say.

“I'm really glad I can do this too. I can't believe I'm bringing my girls to a place I used to go to as a boy. Everything's changed so much for us since we left Kabul.”

I nod in agreement. It seems like a lifetime ago that my father had two legs, when it's only been about a year. Lots has happened in that time. I went from being Obayda to Obayd and back to Obayda. I had no friends, then I had Rahim, and now I have the memories of Rahima and lots of new friends like Pari and Rabia. I'm not the special child in the house anymore, but I'm okay with that. I like being one of the sisters, and I'm pretty sure my little brother is going to be in good hands with all of us looking after him. We've got lots to teach him. And in this year I've realized that I have a thing too—I'm the girl that can do some really surprising stuff.

We are in the open field now, and I can see the mountains ahead. I see the camel with her earthy humps and
head resting on the horizon.

I know I've been told that the myth about passing under a rainbow changing girls to boys is nothing but superstition. Still, a small part of me thinks that ever since I clung to those rocks for dear life and let the waterfall cascade over me, something has changed.

A gentle breeze sweeps down from the east, putting a lift in our step. It rushes ahead of my family and me, as if to lead the way. In the distance, I can almost see the gust race up the mountain, circle around the camel's neck, and drift down to the cluster of tall grasses that I imagine to be the camel's flirtatious eyelashes. Tickled by the wind, the grasses bend and rise, and I can't help but laugh at the mountain camel's wink, as if she and I will always share a secret.