One Half from the East Read Online Free Page B

and—”
    She shakes her head.
    â€œObayd, just leave them alone and go play in the courtyard.”
    I shrug my shoulders. It’s odd for my mother not to want my help with the housework, but I let it go and head into the courtyard. Alia has left two of her old rag dolls by my father’s chili pepper plants—the plants my mother now has to care for. Alia doesn’t play with the dolls, but she also can’t bear to give them away. I haven’t played with dolls in years either. They’re also off-limits now that I’m a boy, and that shouldn’t bother me, but it does. The dolls are the size of my hand, with dresses as worn as Alia’s. Their faces have been painted on with black ink, and I feel like their wide eyes are staring at me. I turn my back to them.
    It’s my second day as a bacha posh , and it’s setting out to be a lonely one. My sisters have all gone to school and my mother won’t let me help her with the housework. My father wants to be alone, since that’s his thing now. I’m left to figure out how to be a boy.
    Music starts to stream over the courtyard wall. Our neighbor is playing the radio loudly. The sounds of the drumbeats, the keyboard, and the strumming of a rubab carry into our yard. I tap my foot to the rhythm and think about what else I might be able to do.
    Boys my age, when not in school, would be out in the street. I’ve seen them play pickup games of soccer or catch. What would I say? Would they spot me as the girl from down the road? I don’t think I can walk out there and join them. I stand up. Maybe being on my feet will help me think.
    I could ask for a bicycle. Girls aren’t really supposed to ride bicycles, but a boy could. And I’m a boy. I wonder if I could keep it upright like the boys do or if I would topple over.
    â€œObayd!” my mother yells.
    I’m brought back by her sharp tone. I spin around to face her; a basket of dry clothes rests on her hip.
    â€œYes, Mother?” The look on her face tells me I’ve done something. “What is it?”
    â€œWhat is it? I haven’t asked much of you, Obayd. I amonly asking you not to do things that a boy shouldn’t be doing. Do you know any boy who would dance around like that?”
    I hadn’t even realized. I look at my feet and it occurs to me that I was swinging my hips to the tempo of the song as I crossed the courtyard. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I was bopping my shoulders too. The music just takes me sometimes.
    My mother makes a pot of stew with steaming white rice. We sit around the tablecloth spread on the living room floor. Neela asks my father to join us. We all hear him say what he says every day.
    â€œMaybe tomorrow, sweet girl.”
    My mother piles hot mounds of rice on plates for each of us. Then she stirs the pot of stew with a metal ladle. She pours the saucy mix of chicken and vegetables onto my plate first and then onto my sisters’ plates.
    â€œMother!” Neela cries out in protest when she looks at her dish. “I just have potatoes and onions. I thought you said you made chicken for dinner tonight?”
    This is a big deal because it’s not too often that we get to eat chicken. My uncle sent some over because of the three-day Eid holiday that marks Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son for God. I’ve heard the story before and was really glad to hear God didn’t actually take hisson. Now it’s just a holiday where we pray, visit family, and get to eat really well. We’ve been looking forward to this meal all day.
    â€œNeela,” my mother explains in a low voice. “There wasn’t much meat to cook. Your father is still healing and needs the nutrition more than any of us.”
    My sisters all stare at the plate in front of me. Their eyes narrow in accusation.
    â€œBut Obayda—I mean, Obayd’s got two big pieces of chicken right there. Even a