Playing Atari with Saddam Hussein by Jennifer Roy

Author:Jennifer Roy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

Seventeen

I AM GASPING AND SPITTING WHEN I HEAR A GIRL’S VOICE.

“Are you sick? Do you need help? My name is Shirah.”

I turn around, and wipe my mouth on my sleeve.

She is about Shireen’s age, but with blond hair tied in a ponytail. She is barefoot.

“I’m all right,” I tell her.

“Shirah! You know what Mama says! Don’t talk to strangers!” an older girl yells, running up to us.

“His tummy is upset,” the little girl says. “Are we supposed to just let him throw up on our street?”

She is feisty, like Shireen.

“I—” I say. “I used a can. N-not the street.”

I stutter. Because I am talking to a girl.

In my country, girls are a foreign species.

“Can you tell me how to get to the new high school?” I ask, glancing at the older girl. She has long blond hair like her sister, but she wears it loose down her back.

“There’s no school anymore,” the little girl, Shirah, says. “It was supposed to be my week to be teacher’s helper. I waited forever to be a helper.”

“I know,” I tell her. “I live near there. I’m trying to get home.”

“It’s not hard,” says the older girl. She points and then gives me directions.

“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for your kindness.”

“What’s that in your hand?” asks Shirah.

“What?” I look down. I didn’t realize. I’m still clutching the piece of steel.

“It’s a treasure,” I tell the little girl. “Here, you can have it.”

“It’s pretty!” Shirah says, taking it from my hand. “Look, Aisha, it’s a bed for my doll!”

“You don’t have to . . .” Aisha frowns a little, then relents. “All right, Shirah. But where are your manners? Tell the boy thank you.”

“Thank you, boy,” says Shirah, and she skips off.

“It’s Ali,” I say, more to Aisha than to Shirah, who is already too far away to hear.

Then I turn and run. And run, following Aisha’s directions, until I make it to my neighborhood.

Pitfall Harry survives!

“I’m going to kill you!” My brother Shirzad’s voice carries down our street. “Where were you? You were supposed to walk straight home.”

I don’t say a word. I am too out of breath.

“Ali! You stupid . . . I covered for you with Mama. I told everyone you were with Mustafa.”

“Sorry,” I pant. “I need water.”

I head through the entry gate, Shirzad right behind me.

“That’s it?” my brother demands. “Do you have any idea what it would have been like if anyone knew you went missing out there? Doesn’t Mama have enough to worry about?”

A rush of memories flood my brain. The professor, the boys coming after me, the policeman and the eight men . . .

“I said I’m sorry!” I yell. “Now lay off! I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Okay?”

Shirzad is quiet.

“Okay?” I repeat.

“Baba and his unit are missing,” Shirzad says softly.

“What?” I say.

“Not officially,” Shirzad amends.

“Mama’s cousin Gilad is here. I overheard them talking in the kitchen when I was looking for you. Gilad is wounded and he just came back from the oil fields. He saw Baba’s medical unit on his way in.

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