Shooting Kabul (12 page)

“Y
OU DIDN'T SHOW UP
at photo club yesterday,” a familiar voice whispered next to Fadi.

Startled, Fadi looked up to see Anh standing next to his chair. “Uh, no,” he said, minimizing the window on the computer monitor. “I couldn't go.” He sat in the library, surfing the Internet, trying to find more news stories about the girl who'd accidentally gotten on the wrong plane.

“Well, you should have,” she said, her almond-shaped eyes earnest. “Ms. Bethune asked me about you—said she'd seen you at the park with a camera and that you really liked photography.”

“Well, yes,” said Fadi, rifling his brain for a good excuse. “But I have too much homework to do … and I have to help my father after school,” he added lamely.

“That's too bad,” said Anh.

“Well, thanks for telling me,” said Fadi, trying to turn back to the computer.

“If you change your mind, you can still join. The real meetings don't start until next week anyway. Ms. Bethune has a lot of cool stuff planned for this year,” said Anh. “There's a contest we're entering, cosponsored by the Exploratorium museum in San Francisco and the Société Géographique. It's open to students in the San Francisco Bay Area.”

Fadi sighed.
I'd love to, but I don't have the money.

“The first-place winner gets one of those new digital cameras and the opportunity to go on a photo shoot with a Société Géographique team.”

“Wow,” said Fadi, intrigued despite himself.
What an amazing opportunity.

“Yup. You have the choice of going to the Great Wall in China, the Taj Mahal in India or on a safari in Kenya. You and a companion get to travel for free with room and board provided for a week.”

Fadi froze.
A trip to India? India is right next door to Pakistan! I could fly into India and just hop over
to Peshawar.
Hope flared through him. “Really?” he tried to sound casual, but his voice squeaked. “A trip to India?”

“Personally, I'd do the safari, but yeah, you can choose. But you need to come to the next meeting and join the club,” pushed Anh.

Fadi nodded. “I'll try.”

“Okay, then. See you in art class,” said Anh. “I'm checking these out for ideas.” She showed him two glossy books. One was titled
Oceans of the World
, and the other had brightly colored fish on the cover.

“Great idea,” said Fadi, happy to change the topic.
Too bad,
he thought. He knew if he entered the contest he had a good chance of winning.
But there's no way I can get fifty dollars by next week. Or ever.

He turned back to the computer and typed in the URL for Virgin Atlantic. The plan he'd cooked up earlier that morning was going to have to come into play.

Fadi lay in the cramped, dark space trying not to make a sound. It smelled of old feet and moldy onions, so he breathed through his mouth.
Try to think of the wide-open skies. And fresh air,
he thought. He adjusted his
legs so that his backpack lay snug between his knees.
This is it. This is my chance to go and find Mariam, and I'm not going to screw it up.

Once again Fadi was in a car, and like Claudia he was running away, again. But unlike Claudia, who had taken weeks to carefully plan out every aspect of her escape, Fadi was flying by the seat of his pants, coupled with a whole lot of praying. If he succeeded, he would bring Mariam back and reclaim his honor.

Fadi waited with his ear pressed against the floor of the trunk, trying to pick up sounds from outside. Right before he'd snuck out of the apartment, he'd spotted his father performing his evening prayers. After Habib finished, Fadi knew his father would grab his wallet, the car keys, and a warm coat like he usually did. Then he'd head out for a twelve-hour night shift at San Francisco airport. Fadi's mind wandered for a moment, mentally going over the items in his backpack.

The day before, Fadi had waited till his father and Noor were out of the house and at work. Then he'd gone down the hall to his parents' room and gently pushed open the door. He'd inched around the door frame and seen his mother taking her afternoon nap, hidden under a pile of blankets. Getting down on his hands and knees, he'd inched across the matted carpet and found the small black
bag his father kept in the closet.

Holding his breath, he'd gone through folders of important documents and taken his passport and the airline tickets, saved from their trip from Peshawar. He planned to hold the tickets in his hand so that no one would question whether he was a real passenger or not. He was just hoping no one would actually look at the fact that they were used. He'd added a change of clothes, his toothbrush, and twenty-five dollars borrowed from Zalmay, all his cousin had had in the coffee jar hidden under his bed. He'd gotten Zalmay to swear he wouldn't tell anyone where he was until the adults figured out he was missing. The honey tin lay at the bottom of the backpack, a permanent fixture.
By then it'll be too late to stop me,
he thought.

As Fadi nervously ran his fingers along the inside edge of the trunk roof, he heard footsteps approach the car. Fadi held his breath as the echoing sounds stopped a few feet away from his head. A key jangled as it entered the lock. The driver's door opened with a quiet swoosh, then slammed shut. Fadi could feel the vibration of the engine as it rumbled to life. The radio blared, filling the back of the car with the sound of soft jazz. Within minutes the car pulled out of the apartment complex and headed toward the airport for a long night of shuttling
passengers around.

Good!
thought Fadi with relief.
Things are going according to plan.
Earlier that evening he had stuffed pillows into his bedroll and molded it to look like a human body. He wanted his parents to think he'd gone to sleep early. He'd turned off all the lights in the living room and hidden behind the couch. When the coast had been clear, he'd snuck out of the apartment and hidden in the trunk of the taxi, which he'd unlocked earlier.

Now all he had to do was wait for his father to drive to the airport and line his car behind the rest of the taxis waiting to pick up passengers. Then he'd use the safety toggle switch in the trunk to pop the lid. Yesterday, when his father had been taking his afternoon nap, Fadi had double-checked the trunk from the inside, making sure the safety release worked properly.

The tricky part was to make his way through the airport, pretending to be a passenger. He'd checked the Virgin Atlantic flight schedule and knew a plane was leaving for London at midnight. More than enough time to find a family and tag along, like an innocent kid flying alone for the first time. He'd gotten the idea watching the news story about the girl who'd gotten on the wrong plane. If she could get on the wrong flight, he was sure he could get on one going in the direction
he needed. Once inside the airport all he had to do was make his way to the departure gate and sneak on board the plane. His plan wasn't fully fleshed out on what he'd do when he got to London, but he was sure he'd find a flight going to Peshawar from there. Now all he had to do was wait. So he made himself comfortable and tried to roll with the bumps as his father drove over the San Mateo bridge and up Highway 101.

Sweat ran down Fadi's back as he gazed down at Noor's glow-in-the-dark Mickey Mouse watch. He was sure she wouldn't mind that he'd borrowed it—when he called them from Peshawar with news that he'd found Mariam. It was 9:47 p.m. The car had been traveling for more than half an hour, so they would be reaching the airport any minute. He felt the elevation change and the car slow down, indicating that his father had exited the freeway. Fadi's body rattled around the trunk as Habib drove over a series of speed bumps. The brakes squeaked a little and the car came to a halt.

Fadi stretched his cramped muscles and tensed. It was almost time to make his move. He pulled the straps of his backpack over his arms and slid it on. He waited five minutes to see if the car doors opened. But it looked like
his father wasn't getting out.
Good
. He flipped on the flashlight and groped along the side of the car, looking for the toggle switch that released the trunk. The light illuminated the gray interior, revealing a flap of fabric near the left taillight. The toggle switch was concealed beneath.

Fadi held the flashlight steady with his teeth and moved the flap with his left hand. Breathing heavily, he gripped the switch with his thumb and forefinger. With a quick prayer he pulled. His eyes glanced up at the lid of the trunk, waiting for it to pop open so that he could scramble out. But he didn't hear the familiar click of the mechanism releasing. It remained dark and the door stayed shut.
I'm doing it wrong
. Fadi got on his hands and knees and pulled the switch again. Nothing. He tugged it from side to side, then up and down. Nothing.
Calm down, you dork,
he berated himself. He took shallow panicked breaths.
What did I do differently yesterday?
He was trying to replay how he'd opened the trunk the day before, when the taxi bolted forward, tossing him against the back metal edge of the trunk.

“Ouch,” he yelped.
What the …?
Fear raced through him as he scrambled after the flashlight, which had rolled to the inner edge of the trunk. The car slowed again as Fadi aimed the light back at the switch. The
car stopped. Perspiration collected along Fadi's forehead as he yanked on the switch. His fingers fumbled with desperation as he heard the driver's door swing open. Muffled voices discussed the weather, and footsteps approached the back of the car.

Oh, no!
Fadi curled up in a ball and pressed his back against the inner edge of the trunk just as light spilled inside and two faces peered down at him.

F
ADI COULD SEE HIS FATHER'S EYEBROWS
arch in shock as he stared down at him. The passenger he'd just picked up, an elderly Chinese man, looked down in surprise as well.

“Get out,” said Habib under his breath.

Fadi quavered as the confusion on his father's face turned to anger. Fadi crawled out, grabbing his backpack, which had fallen off.

“I'm so sorry, sir,” said Habib, turning to his passenger. “This is my son. If you don't mind, he will be riding in the front with me.”

“No problem,” said the man. “Very unexpected, but
what can we do with youth today?” He shook his head sadly. “All troublemakers.”

The tips of his ears burning with shame, Fadi slunk into the front seat. He looked in the side mirror and watched his father place two heavy suitcases into the trunk. Meanwhile the crotchety old passenger let himself into the backseat and put his walking stick across his legs. Then he leaned back and closed his eyes with a deep sigh of exhaustion.

How am I going to explain this?
Fadi cast a wary glance at his father. His stomach felt like it was on a wild roller coaster ride. Habib climbed into the driver's seat and pulled on his seat belt. He ignored Fadi, turned on his blinker, and merged with traffic exiting the airport.
Boy, am I in big trouble. What am I going to say?
Fadi turned his face toward the side window and stared at the airport disappearing behind them. A line of planes stood at the gates and on the tarmac, one of them painted with the bright red Virgin Atlantic symbol.
I'm such a loser. I couldn't even get out of the trunk, let alone get on a plane. I've failed Mariam. Again
.

The rest of the ride passed in silence as Habib drove north toward downtown San Francisco. Soon the soft sound of snoring filtered in from the back. The passenger had nodded off. For a moment Fadi's fear and
embarrassment melted away as the taxi was shrouded in wisps of fog rolling in from the bay. Habib eased his foot from the gas, driving at a safer speed as light from the headlights bounced against the mist, creating a glow around the car. The fog ebbed away as they climbed a sloping hill. Coming around the peak, the city revealed itself with a burst of radiant light.

Fadi blinked in awe, taking in the sprawling landscape. Tall buildings strung with jewel-toned neon signs pierced the inky sky. Curving streets spread out in a grid, glitter-ing with green, yellow, and red traffic signals. To the right Fadi could see the Bay Bridge stretching out toward Oakland, disappearing into plumes of fog. Pacific Bell Park sprawled below as they took an overpass, the park's bright green diamond empty. Habib drove through the financial district and headed up Divisadero Street toward the marina. It was a Friday night, and the sidewalks were full of people going in and out of restaurants and cafés. Habib exited the main thoroughfare and took a right into a quiet residential neighborhood. He stopped at a small house painted bright yellow.

“Sir, is this it?” asked Habib, a hint of worry in his voice.

“Yes, yes, it is,” said the passenger, snorting as he blinked his eyes.