The Eleventh Trade by Alyssa Hollingsworth

Author:Alyssa Hollingsworth
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Roaring Brook Press

* * *

TRADE LOG

Days: 17

Have: $25

Need: $675

THINGS TO TRADE:

Laptop (waiting on battery)

PLANNED TRADES:

Combat boots for art supplies (Julie)

COMPLETED TRADES:

1. Manchester United key chain -> iPod

2. Coins -> Game Informer magazines

3. iPod -> Figurines

4. Figurines -> $145

5. Magazines -> Combat boots

* * *

17

“Everything’s okay,” Mrs. Michele keeps saying to me, a hand on my shoulder as she walks us into the backyard. “He just got dizzy. The fall doesn’t seem to have hurt him.”

Baba is sitting in the grass with Jared in his lap. Mrs. Michele goes to kneel in front of him, talking, but I can’t make out her words anymore. Baba’s face is pale, and his hands shake when he pats Jared’s head.

Old, goes through my mind. Not the honored, dignified, elderly sort—but old in the Western way. Fragile. Small.

He didn’t look like this before we lost the rebab. Before I allowed our past memories and future hopes to be snatched away. I should have held on to them more tightly. Because of my carelessness, Baba is in pain and vulnerable. I put the crack in his spirit, and the gap is spreading from his heart to his health.

I did this.

He sees me. “Ah, Sami jan, it seems I cannot keep up with the kids,” he says in Pashto, patting Jared’s head again.

I have to wet my lips with my dry tongue before I can speak. In English, I ask, “What happened?”

Baba shrugs. “I had a moment of weakness, but it has passed. I am fine.”

“I think he’s dehydrated,” Mrs. Michele puts in. “But he won’t drink. I thought maybe you could help me convince him.”

“It’s Ramadan.” I don’t look away from him, not even when I’m answering her. “We’re not supposed to eat or drink during the daytime.”

“Exactly.” Baba’s beard brushes Jared’s head, and Jared makes a swipe at it.

“But if you’re ill—” I try to add.

“I am not ill.”

“The ill are exempt.”

“I am not ill.” Baba shakes his head but closes his eyes, as if that alone has made him dizzy again. “I just needed a rest.”

But it’s not just this, I want to shout at him. This is not dizziness from playing with a child. It is the rebab being gone; it is our music being gone; it is you being at a job you hate, after three years of clawing for safety. I do not know how to heal him. I don’t think a doctor would, either. How can you keep someone safe when their heart is breaking? When you broke it?

“If you drink, you will feel better,” Mrs. Michele says. “Layla, go ask for a glass of water.”

Baba frowns like he will argue more, and I don’t know what to do but get him to drink. At least water should give him relief from his symptoms, even if it won’t solve the problem.

“If you fall again, or something more serious happens, we will have to go to the hospital,” I tell him in Pashto. “Drink and be better. God will be understanding.”

Baba opens his mouth, but I cut him off.

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