One Half from the East

  Run away, a voice inside my head tells me.

  I want to, I think, but I still don’t know what’s happened to Rahim.

  What was it that my best friend had told me when we first met?

  You stand like you’re not sure you should be here. Are you supposed to be here, Obayd?

  I am. My back straightens.

  I lodge my foot against the bottom of the door to stop Shahla from closing it on me. She looks up with surprise and shakes her head. She leans in and makes her voice a whisper. “Look, I’m only trying to help you. Go home and forget about Rahim.”

  “I can’t forget about him. He’s my best friend!”

  That’s the truth. He’s the one who made everything okay. I would’ve been lost without him, fumbling through school confused about what I was supposed to do or be. Rahim showed me that being a bacha posh is a good thing, maybe even the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.

  “Obayd,” Shahla says with a sigh. “You’re just like him.”

  I like that she thinks so.

  “You better watch out for yourself. Boys like you and Rahima are not boys forever. From what I can see, it’s even worse that way. You can wear pants and act like you’re going to knock this door down, but you’re still a girl. You can’t escape that.”

  “Why do you keep calling him Rahima? He’s Rahim.” I don’t like that Shahla’s talking about me being a girl. I am sure Rahim wouldn’t stand for it. “I’m not leaving until I see Rahim.”

  “You can’t see Rahima.”

  The door is flung wide-open, and Shahla is shoved aside. Suddenly, I’m staring at a beast of a man. His clothes are wrinkled and his small, beady eyes and unshaven face look downright menacing. Abdullah and Ashraf were so right about Rahim’s father.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” he roars.

  I take a deep breath. Shahla is standing behind her father. Her eyes go wide and she points with her eyeballs. Just like the dancing I used to do to Indian music, the message comes through the eyes. She’s telling me to leave.

  If I weren’t afraid it would make my situation worse, I would definitely throw up.

  “Salaam,” I manage to get out. I’m hoping some good manners might soften him up. “Salaam, sir. I am a friend of Rahim, and I just came to visit since he hasn’t been to school in a few days.”

  “Get out of here. Rahima’s not going back to school, and she’s not coming out to play. Time for you to find some new friends, little boy.” His eyes are bloodshot and his words sound a little garbled. He’s standing with his feet wide apart, like he might lose his balance if he’s not careful.

  He’s a drug addict, Ashraf had said about Rahim’s father. He talks to himself. He stumbles around and he can’t even answer a How are you? most days.

  I’ve never seen anyone act like this, and it makes me extra nervous. I try to peek around him, still hoping to catch a glimpse of Rahim, but the man in front of me is big enough that I can only see half of Shahla.

  “Rahima’s engaged to be married, and she needs to act like a respectable girl. Enough of this nonsense. This house has been out of control for too long. Now get out of here and don’t come back!”

  Married? My stomach drops. I must have heard him wrong. Rahim is barely thirteen years old. He can’t be getting married!

  “You don’t hear me, eh?” He takes a step toward me. “What’s your father’s name? Who’s raised such a disobedient mule of a child? Let me tell your father that his son’s been chasing after the warlord’s bride. I doubt you’ll be allowed out of the house when he hears that!”

  I can hear Ashraf’s voice in my head again.

  Rahim’s father still goes off and fights sometimes with the warlord.

  I don’t want Rahim’s father to know my father’s name. Our village is small enough that if he asks a couple of people, he’ll be led straight to our door, which would take very little effort to knock down. I’m sure now that I’m in over my head.

  “I’m . . . I’m really sorry, sir. I should just . . . I didn’t mean any disrespect,” I stutter.

  “What’s your father’s name?” he thunders again.

  Shahla does a quick wave with her hand. Just leave, she’s telling me.

  In a flash, I am gone. My feet pound against the street. I half expect Rahim’s father to come chasing after me, but he doesn’t. I run as fast as I can for as long as I can. I pass people walking through the streets. I nearly knock down an old man walking with his grandson. I stop only when my chest burns too much to go on.

  I walk the rest of the way home while my head spins with thoughts. It’s just past sunset. Rahim is Rahima now. My friend is getting married. Everything’s gone so wrong. We didn’t make it to the waterfall in time. He didn’t get to walk under a rainbow, and look what happened.

  Outside my own front door, I hesitate. What’s going to happen to me? Rahim said he would never be changed back to a girl, and I believed him. My chest feels heavy. I miss my friend.

  Meena opens the door. She grabs me by the hand and pulls me toward her.

  “There you are! Come inside and wash up. We’re putting dinner out now.”

  I stumble behind her. In the everything room, my mother is spooning rice and spiced lentils onto plates. She looks up quickly.

  “Obayd!” She shakes her head. “Where have you been? Honestly, if the sun didn’t go down, I doubt you would ever come home. That’s the problem with boys.”

  I stare at her.

  “What’s wrong with you, Obayd? Get on in and wash your hands and face. You need to eat something before you go to bed.”

  I can’t bring myself to move. I want to share what I’ve just learned, but I can’t bring myself to talk about Rahim as a bride. It’s just too shocking. My mother notices.

  “Obayd,” she says slowly. “Is something wrong? Did something happen?”

  “Rahim.”

  “Rahim. The boy who helped you with the walking stick? Has something happened to him?”

  “He’s . . . he’s not coming to school anymore.”

  “Why?” My sisters are listening carefully.

  “His father. Rahim is going to be a . . . a girl now.” My own words sound insane to me.

  “Oh, I see.” My mother nods. Her voice is gentle and soothing now. She thinks she understands what I’m so upset about. “Obayd, it’s natural. Your friend is old enough that it’s time for her to be a young woman. That’s her family’s decision.”

  “But he’s only thirteen! And they’re making him—”

  “Obayd, let it be. You know perfectly well these are temporary arrangements. When the time is up, it’s up. I explained that to you from the beginning. I’m sure they’re doing what’s best for her.”

  What’s best for her? Getting married at the age of thirteen can’t possibly be what’s best for her!

  I’m about to argue back when I stop myself. My mother is looking at me strangely. I can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking. Does she think I’m “old enough” too?

  It’s coming, I realize. What’s happened to Rahim is going to happen to me, too.

  Twenty-One

  “Neela, I need to talk to you.”

  My eldest sister is hunched over a schoolbook. There’s a single dim lamp in the room. To see anything well we have to get close enough that we can feel the heat coming off the bulb.

  “I’m studying. Can we talk later?”

  “Please, Neela. I need to talk now.”

  It’s been three days since I dropped by Rahim’s home. It’s been three days since I heard the crazy news that my best friend is going to get married. Nothing’s making any more sense now that three days have gone by. It’s still insane. Neela can sense the urgency in my voice. She looks up.

  “What is it, Obayd?”

  Where do I begin?

  “You know Rahim.”

  “Your friend? Sure. What about him?”

  “His family is changing him back to a girl. I mean . . .
I think they did already.”

  Neela looks at me.

  “I heard. Have you seen Rahim since they changed her back?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s probably not all bad,” Neela says. “Maybe she’s happier being a girl. I’m sure her family told her it would only be for a while anyway. It would be really strange if she got to my age and was still a boy.”

  “But, Neela, it’s worse than that. They’re not just changing her back.” The rest of what I’ve got to get out is really hard to say. I cringe to think about it. Neela waits for me to speak. “She’s getting married.”

  Neela squints, like she doesn’t trust what she’s heard or seen.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, she’s getting married!” I whisper. I don’t want my parents to hear me. Neela’s the only person I can turn to now.

  “Married? Like husband-and-wife married?”

  I nod.

  “But she’s only—”

  “Thirteen,” I say, finishing her sentence for her. “Can her parents really do that?”

  “Wow. I’ve heard of young girls getting married off, but I’ve never actually seen it happen—to someone I know, I mean. And not at thirteen years old. That’s crazy!”

  I’m glad to hear she agrees. In our world, families routinely get together and decide which girls and boys should be married. But that’s usually something that happens later. Not while they’re still in school.

  “Thirteen years old. I guess it really does happen,” she whispers. “I would just die. I can’t even imagine what that would be like. Why would they do that to her?”

  I can see Neela is just as shocked as I am. And that she’s got more questions than answers.

  “How did you find out?”

  “I went to Rahim’s house. I talked to her sister and then . . . then her father came out. He’s awful, Neela. He scared me pretty bad.”

  “You shouldn’t have gone there. You know what people have been saying about him.” She closes her book. Our conversation has shut down her studying for the evening.

  “Did Mother say something about changing you back?”

  “No, but she looked at me like she was thinking about it. I wish I hadn’t told her about Rahim. I think I gave her the idea! I don’t want to be a girl, Neela. I just can’t be a girl again.”

  “Obayd, you’re going to be a girl at some point. You can’t go on like this forever.”

  “Why not? What’s the big deal about changing back? We don’t need any more girls in the village or in this house.”

  “Obayd, they’re going to change you back. I even heard them talking about it,” she admits reluctantly.

  “Who was talking about it?” I explode. “When?”

  Neela shushes me and looks over my shoulder to see if anyone’s coming into our room. It seems my Let me tell you what you need to do aunt, Khala Aziza, dropped by for another visit last week. Neela heard her telling my mother it was time for me to go back to being a girl. I hate that she thinks everything’s up to her. She’s not my mother and shouldn’t act like she is.

  I’m more convinced now that I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to find a way to save Rahim and myself. The only problem is that the one person who could actually help me do something as important as this is not allowed out of her house. I don’t even know how much longer she’ll be living with her parents. I get a run of chills down my spine at the thought of Rahim being sent away from her family home.

  I can’t sleep all night. I strain my ears thinking I might overhear my parents talking about me. I hear nothing but the sound of my father snoring. It’s the most reassuring noise I could ever hope for.

  Before the sun is fully up, I creep out of bed. I’m careful not to wake my sisters. The sky is a thousand colors all at once, and the street in front of my house is as quiet as it gets.

  I walk into the back courtyard. My stomach growls. Being up all night has made me hungrier than usual.

  I walk in circles, my lips tight with frustration. I stand with my back to a wall. I reach around behind my back with my right hand and grab the front of my left shoe. With a deep breath, I begin. One hop, then two. The courtyard dust is like talcum powder, and my fingers slip from the rubber. My left foot slaps against the ground. I grunt and try again.

  I’m glad Rahim’s not here to see me stumble like I did when I first met him.

  I hop three steps and try to bat at an imaginary opponent on my right. The movement throws me off balance, and I come apart. Legs and arms go every which way and I’m on my backside. My ankle stings.

  “Argh!” What’s happened to me? I see a flutter in the window of my parents’ room. The white curtain sways just slightly. I can make out my father’s shape but not his face.

  My face grows hot. I cannot imagine what my one-legged father must be thinking to see his daughter-son try to hop about with half her body tied up behind her back.

  Twenty-Two

  Husband. Such an ugly word, worse than a curse. I can’t believe that word has anything to do with my friend. It’s hard to get over this.

  I spend my time thinking about what it’s like for her. I know my friend, and I know she would hate to be a girl. But to be a wife? I make sure no one sees me when I think about it because it makes me so angry that I either cry or punch something. Every time.

  After a week, it hits me.

  Abdul Khaliq. The warlord. I’d been so upset thinking about her as a girl and a wife that I hadn’t thought about the man she’s engaged to.

  Abdul Khaliq.

  I first heard the warlord’s name when we had just moved to this village. My aunt mentioned his name with widened eyes. I think about the black jeeps I saw in the market and the baker’s warning to stop gawking. My uncle talked to my father about a cousin who had disappeared days after getting into an argument with a member of Abdul Khaliq’s family. I’ve heard other people talk about Abdul Khaliq too, but only after they look over their shoulders to make sure no one else is listening in. People don’t have many nice things to say about the warlord.

  I don’t really know what warlords do, but I know this man controls our village. He and his men get driven around in jeeps with tinted windows. The men carry guns over their shoulders and look meaner than the strictest teacher or father. We don’t see them too often, and that’s fine with me. I don’t like the way the streets and people get quiet when they’re around.

  Around them, everyone acts like a scared little girl.

  There goes my stomach again, thinking of what Rahima must be feeling.

  I’m out the door and into the street.

  “Obayd! Where are you going? I need you to . . .”

  My mother’s voice trails off as I run down the street. I’ll get in trouble for leaving like this, but I’ve got to do something. I race into the village, past the patch of tulips that have bloomed and the canary singing in a cage hanging outside a shop window. There are lots of people around. It’s Friday morning, which is the day the men go into town to pray together at the mosque.

  All the men.

  “Watch where you’re going, boy!”

  I nearly plow down a man on a bicycle. I don’t even stop to apologize.

  I stop only when I reach the baker. I’m panting.

  “Oh, you?” he says when he looks up and sees me empty-handed. He’s pulling long, oval breads out of the clay oven. He taps his wooden paddle and the bread falls onto a metal tray. “Come back when you’ve got the dough. I don’t make bread out of air.”

  “Mister, I have a question.”

  “What is it?”

  He plops another flatbread onto the tray. A woman, covered head to toe in a brilliant blue shroud, walks toward us. When she nods at him, he picks up a ball of dough and starts to stretch it out.

  “Abdul Khaliq. Where is his home?”

  The baker freezes. He stares at me.

  “What do you care?”

  “I want to know where his home
is.”

  “Why? You looking for a job?” he says with a laugh. But not because my question is funny.

  “I need to know.”

  “It’s not hard to find him, son. You can find him just as easily as he can find you.” He shakes his head and lowers the dough into the oven. “Does your father know that you’re looking for Abdul Khaliq?”

  “Have you ever seen my father?” I ask the baker boldly. “Has he ever been here to buy the family bread?”

  The baker says nothing, but I see respect in his eyes.

  “He’s not a person a child should seek out.”

  “It’s important,” I say quietly but firmly.

  He nods. The woman stands next to me. She holds out a few bills and the baker hands her a tray of warm flatbreads. The warm smell of fresh bread fills the tent. She thanks him through the small grid window of her head covering. When she’s out of earshot, the baker turns back to me.

  “There’s a road east of the mosque. Behind the small park. You’ve seen it?”

  I know that road. It’s where I climbed the tree to get the branch for my father’s walking stick. That road must lead to the compound.

  “I don’t know what you’re doing, but it’s a bad idea! Don’t go . . .”

  I take off, leaving while his voice trails off behind me.

  I pass the patch of trees and see the one I climbed. I remember what it felt like to look down from that height.

  But I survived.

  The road heads in the opposite direction from the mountains and away from my home. There is nothing else on this road, nothing but Abdul Khaliq. I break into a jog, knowing the morning prayers will end soon and Abdul Khaliq will be on his way back to the compound. After ten minutes, I see clay walls rise in the distance. There’s a tower inside the compound that rises above, like a periscope coming out of the water. It’s taller than anything in town and tells me I’ve found Abdul Khaliq’s home.