Shooting Kabul (21 page)

Habib and Fadi couldn't sleep after hearing the amazing news. They sat up, eating cereal, watching old black-and-white movies until Zafoona and Noor woke up. Habib and Fadi couldn't wait to tell them the news.

“
Salaam Alaikum
,” called out Gul Khan as Habib and Fadi entered the Khyber Pass. They were meeting Uncle Amin and Zalmay there for lunch after Friday prayers.

“
Walaikum A'Salaam,
Brother Gul,” said Habib. “Fadi and I had a hankering for your spicy
chapli
kebobs.”

“My kebobs are at your service,” said Gul Khan with a chuckle that shook his belly.

Fadi inhaled the juicy, meaty smells coming from the kitchen, and his stomach growled. His appetite had
improved since he'd learned Mariam had made it to Peshawar. But now, a month and a half later, his family's relief was fading.
Khala
Nargis had men looking all over Peshawar but hadn't been able to find a single trace of her. Ever since the U.S. bombings of Jalalabad, the flood of refugees had increased tenfold, causing more confusion and chaos along the border. Fadi had hoped that by some miracle Mariam would have turned up at their aunt and uncle's clinic, but it hadn't happened. So Fadi had knelt extra long on the prayer mat at the mosque, asking Allah for Mariam's protection and for help in winning the competition.

The imam's
khutba
that week had given him hope. The topic had been the prophet Job and how his patience and devotion to Allah had persevered, no matter what calamity had befallen him—even when his body had been covered with painful sores. In the end, in reward for his patience and devotion, Allah had granted him health, family, and wealth.

According to Ms. Bethune the results of the competition had been mailed out earlier in the week, and Fadi's nervousness was growing, despite his attempt at patience.
Think positive
.
With my camera skills and Anh's help, I've got to win.
He took a seat across from his father, at a table next to the window.

“Well, the talk of the town is Hamid Karzai's election,” said Gul Khan, bringing them hot bread and a bowl of salad.

“It sure is,” said Habib.

“Did you know that Hamid Karzai's brother has an Afghan restaurant in San Francisco?” said Gul Khan. “I bet he's going to get a lot of business after his brother's election,” he added wistfully.

“
Salaam
, Gul Khan,” came Uncle Amin's booming voice as he entered the restaurant.

“
Walaikum A'Salaam
,” responded Gul Khan. “Sit down. The kebobs are nearly done.”

Uncle Amin detoured to the bathroom while Zalmay grabbed a seat next to Fadi.

“There's talk that you're going to take on Ike and Felix,” said Zalmay in a rush just as Habib stepped away to grab an Afghan newspaper.

Fadi frowned.
News sure got around
. “It's not like we want to fight them or anything,” whispered Fadi. “But they keep harassing kids, so we're going to deal with them.”

Zalmay's usually cheerful face was marred with worry. “I don't know, man. You don't want to make enemies out of those guys. I hear Felix's parents are some big-time lawyers with a huge office in the city.”

“Oh,” said Fadi. He hadn't known that.

“Yeah. They do all the legal stuff for the Filipino community.”

“Quiet,” shushed Fadi as Habib sat down with the paper. There was a big picture of a bearded man in a woolen Karakul hat on the cover.

“Can you believe the Afghan opposition groups actually met in Bonn, Germany, and elected a Pukhtun?” said Uncle Amin as he returned.

“Before being a Pukhtun, he's a good man,” said Habib with a smile. “He was chosen by all parties in the
jirga
, including the Northern Alliance.”

“That he was,” said Uncle Amin. “I'm just surprised they chose him, since he supported the Taliban at one point.”

“Times change. Many of us had high hopes for the Taliban,” murmured Habib. “After Karzai helped throw out the Soviets, he worked with the Taliban, until they turned on him. Karzai didn't want to be their ambassador to the United Nations either.”

Uncle Amin laughed. “Well, it's a tough position to fill.”

Habib's smile grew broader. “True,” he said wryly.

“Perhaps now we will have some peace,” said Uncle Amin, his face filled with a mixture of hope and longing. “Karzai is a good man, a fair man.”

“Amen to that, brother,” said Gul Khan. He carried a
steamer platter of kebobs and rice and plopped it down in front of them.

“Amen” is right,
thought Fadi. He looked glumly at the article on Karzai's hopes for the Afghan Transitional Administration. Maybe things in Afghanistan would get better. Maybe if they had stayed there another six months, they wouldn't have had to leave. And then maybe they wouldn't have lost Mariam. Fadi sighed. That was too many maybes.

F
ADI HURRIED THROUGH THE HALLS,
past drooping Thanksgiving decorations, toward the art studio. The bell had just rung for lunch, and the photo club was having an all-hands meeting. Ms. Bethune had called them together after receiving notification from the contest the day before.

This is it. Today's the day
. Fadi skidded around the corner, ripping the head off a paper turkey in his haste. He stopped at the entrance to the studio and paused a moment, running a hand through his rumpled hair. A glimmer of Ms. Bethune's red and silver sneakers appeared next to her desk. He hadn't slept
a wink all night. All he could think about was getting on a plane with his father. In his mind he could see them flying to India, then hopping on a flight to Peshawar.
Mariam is in Peshawar, and I will find her
. Fadi took a deep breath and passed through the doors.

Ms. Bethune cleared her throat, urging everyone to settle down. “Ahem,” she repeated. She pressed her lips together and fingered the large manila envelope she clutched in her left hand.

“This is it,” whispered Anh.

Fadi nodded like a drunken turkey, taking his seat next to her.

Anh's eyes shined with positive energy. “Good luck, Fadi.”

“You too,” Fadi whispered back. His tongue was dry and stuck to the roof of his mouth, as if he'd licked an entire jar of peanut butter.

Around the room eager, nervous faces peered toward Ms. Bethune's desk. Ravi wasn't there because this type of situation made him so nervous that he usually threw up. During stressful exams he was given a seat in a corner, with a trash can, just in case. Since he couldn't be there, he'd given Fadi his phone number so someone could tell him what had happened.

“Now,” said Ms. Bethune, clearing her throat, “before I
tell you the results, you must all know that you did a fantastic job, whether you won or not. The competition was stiff, with more than a thousand entries.”

The huge number elicited gasps from around the room. Fadi gulped.
The chances of winning are less than a tenth of a percent.

“Regardless of the results, we'll be going as a group to the exhibit being held at the Exploratorium in two weeks, on Saturday, so make sure to bring in your consent forms by the end of the week.”

“Yeah, yeah,” whispered Anh. She cracked her knuckles as her eyes narrowed. “Let's get past the pep talk and on with the show.”

Fadi's gaze was glued on Ms. Bethune's hand as she slit open the envelope and pulled out a stack of pages. His heart picked up speed as she flipped past the cover page, skimming the paragraphs.

“Ahem,” repeated Ms. Bethune. The sound reverberated through the silent room.

“In third place the winner is Emily Johnston, ninth grade, from Del Campo High School in Sacramento.”

“Good,” whispered Anh. She gave Fadi a wink. “Who wants to be in third place?”

Fadi returned a weak smile.
Third place isn't going to get me what I need
.

Ms. Bethune glanced down at the page, and her eyes widened. “In second place is …” Ms. Bethune looked toward Fadi, and his heart nearly stopped. “Anh Hong, sixth grade, from Brookhaven Middle School, Fremont!”

The room burst into whoops of excitement and applause.

“Way to go!” said Fadi. He turned to Anh and gave her a hug.

Anh sat with a bewildered, stunned look on her face. She was frozen, and speechless, for probably the first time in her life.

“It was that amazing action shot,” said Fadi. He pounded her on the back in congratulation.

“I can't believe it,” she finally whispered.

Once the ruckus died down, Ms. Bethune continued. “Awesome job, Anh. For winning second place you receive a year's free subscription to the Société Géographique magazine, free film from Kodak, and a family pass at the Exploratorium.”

“Great,” said Anh. “But no airline tickets,” she said under her breath.

Fadi stilled.
What is the probability of two students from the same school winning? Pretty slim
. He gulped.

Ms. Bethune flipped over the page and continued. “First place goes to Marcus Salle, seventh grade, Kifer
Junior High, Belmont. Now for the grand prize …”

This is it
, thought Fadi, saying a little prayer.
My chance to go to Peshawar
.

“The grand prize,” repeated Ms. Bethune, “goes to Filbert Dewbury, eleventh grade, Calvert High School, San Jose.”

What? No!
Fadi's eyes widened as a cold numbness settled over his chest.
I'm supposed to win!
He gasped—he couldn't breathe.

“Fadi, are you okay?” whispered Anh. “You don't look so good.”

Bile gurgled up from Fadi's stomach, making him want to throw up. His eyes closed; he slumped in his chair. He'd lost. And so had Mariam.

“Fadi … Fadi …” Anh's concerned voice flowed past him. The sounds were slow and unclear, as if people were speaking through a tunnel.

“Fadi, honey, are you okay?” Ms. Bethune hurried over.

“He's not taking this well,” Fadi heard Anh respond.

“Fadi, you've been awarded an honorable mention,” said Ms. Bethune. “By Clive Murray himself.”

Fadi's eyes opened in surprise. “What do I win?” he said in a rush.

Ms. Bethune frowned. “It's not about winning things,
Fadi.”

“You don't understand,” said Fadi, his voice bleak. “It is about winning. Winning those tickets to the photo shoot.”

Looking confused, Ms. Bethune looked at the bottom of the page. “I'm afraid you don't win anything, Fadi,” she said.

Fadi sat back as the cold numbness that had frozen his body turned into hot, boiling anger.
How could I not have won?
It was so unfair! He pounded the table with his fist and ran out of the room. He heard Ms. Bethune and Anh call after him, but he didn't care.

F
ADI RETREATED
to the bathroom and locked himself in a stall for the rest of the afternoon. He pulled his legs up onto the toilet and sat as still as a statue, his mind a kaleidoscope of shock, pain, and disappointment. After an hour or so, his calves became numb and he lowered his feet to the ground. He looked at the grubby floor, strewn with toilet paper and a few pennies, and tried to think of something else—anything else.

His mind drifted to Claudia and her brother. They too had hidden in the bathroom while hiding out at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. But unlike Claudia, whose story had worked out perfectly in the end, his was a disaster.
Claudia had had her fun at the museum, had had her mystery solved by meeting Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, and then had headed home with her brother, safe and sound. For Fadi, things hadn't quite worked out the way he'd hoped. Neither had they for Mariam.
I've failed her again.

A few seconds before the end-of-day bell rang, he snuck outside and wandered toward the elementary school's playground. He sat on a bench across from the jungle gym, watching a bunch of second graders hang upside down like tree sloths. A bright spot of pink caught his eye—a Hello Kitty lunch box sitting on the sidewalk. Sorrow and anger mingled, forcing him to close his eyes. After fleeing the art studio he'd wanted to take cover. He didn't want to run into Anh, or anyone else he knew, especially in the cafeteria. Now he didn't want to go home. He would have to tell Noor he'd lost—and wasted her money.