The Turtle of Oman Read Online Free Page A

and that sound would be theirs, not his.
    They would listen to the cool hush of the air conditioner through his vent. They would use his drawers. This really upset him. What if they broke the blue porcelain knobs off? He couldn’t remember how careful they were.
    Aref knew for sure he could not leave his official rock collection, now missing two favorites, given to him for his birthday by his parents years ago, in his drawer. He ran to the kitchen. “Mom, I need tissue. Bubble wrap. Something for packing, hurry.” He needed to wrap the rock collection in a special box, tape it shut and hide it under his bed, or on a high shelf in the hall closet where no one would ever look. Chips and chunks of serpentine and diorite, greenstone, basalt, each with its own shape and its story. . . .
    â€œIt feels lonesome without your father here already,” said his mom, handing him a roll of paper towels and some tissues. “Oh well, we’ll see him in a week! What are you doing? Are you packing? Would you like to come peel some carrots and help me? I need a helper right now—set the table, pour the water. . . .”
    â€œI will,” said Aref. He was feeling anxious. He dropped the tissues and paper towels onto a chair, picked up the little peeler and a scrubbed carrot from the cutting board, and stared at it.
    â€œMom, could Hani and Shadi just sleep in the living room?” he asked.
    â€œFor three years?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou are so silly! You don’t mind sharing.”
    â€œWell, I really do. I just pretended I liked it, for school. We had to.”
    Miss Nuha, Aref’s teacher, whom everyone loved so much, said the word “sharing” was the most important word in the world. She said if people thought first about sharing, they would always get along and the world could be more balanced—those who had too much could share more with those who didn’t have enough. Was this true?
    Aref and his classmates made posters to illustrate sharing—painting, drawing or collaging images that popped into their minds. Aref painted green and brown speckled turtles on his poster, sharing a wide, dreamy beach. Turtles shared plankton and water and waves and sand. He had fun painting their shells. Sulima painted a much better picture than his—long lines of friends who looked like people in their real class with their arms around one another. Diram painted bright cars in a parking lot, sharing space.
    Aref didn’t mind sharing sunflower seeds. He didn’t mind sharing a crunchy shrimp or two from his Fisherman’s Basket at Zad restaurant or the huge pieces of flat bread at the Turkish House. He didn’t mind sharing soccer balls or his mini-car collection, which he kept in a tall metal canister—but his friends had to put them back before they left—or pages from a giant tablet of drawing paper.
    It was easy to share when you still had what you needed. When you had enough for yourself. Or when you could get whatever you had shared right back again—like his cars.
    â€œSweet boy, the kids of Ann Arbor, Michigan, will be sharing their town with you too,” said Aref’s mom.
    â€œI hate sharing,” he said.
    â€œNo, you don’t.” Aref’s mom put her hands on his shoulders and stared into his face. “A month from now, all your worries will be gone. You will see how silly this was. You will feel excited every morning, just the way you always do.”
    Aref buried his face in her side. He wasn’t crying. “I don’t think so,” he said.

Memorize

    T hey ate green beans with chunks of lamb and rice for dinner. Aref pushed his water glass to the right-hand corner of his place mat. He liked a square glass, so it lined up properly. No one noticed that he always did this. He liked his fork and spoon lined up exactly straight with the place mat too. He liked finishing one food—all the green beans, for