One Half from the East: Chapters 1–8

It wasn't until we were at the hospital that I realized the men had used their jackets to wrap up the wound where half my father's leg had been blown off. Their brown jackets turned dark and wet in a way that made my stomach lurch.

The earth floor is hidden by a few burgundy carpets woven with intricate geometric patterns.

There's also a small room that opens to the back of the house, and that's where my mother does the cooking, letting the smell of sautéed onions escape into the open air.

My mother wields a pair of scissors, blades that usually nip pieces of string or folds of paper or stems of mint—nothing as important as this.

I love when the song starts slow and then moves into tabla-drum rumbles, fingers beating against an animal skin stretched taut, and the song goes wild.

With the ends of the scarf in my outstretched fingertips, I would pivot on one foot, my right shoulder dipping in and flaring back, in and back, in and back.

"Don't forget your eyes!" my sisters would chide.

I would keep mine wide, my eyeballs rolling from corner to corner and my lips curled in a coy smile.

I missed making my skirt billow out as I twirled, looking like a spinning top.

Alia’s steps were delicate and graceful like the song of a flute; mine were heavy and bold like fists thumping on a drum.

My mother is stroking it, trying to even it out, bracing herself as she prepares to make the first cut.

I like my long hair. I like having my mother brush it out and braid it—one thick, brave plait.

"Are your feet stuck? Bring the dough over to me!"
I move because he's loud and abrupt.

I turn to the side so they can see only a sliver of me.

"You'll regret it. Those are Abdul Khaliq's cars, and you don't want to be caught gawking at them."

My stomach is churning. I'm finally starting school.

The boys are louder and run like they're not afraid of what they might crash into. Their arms swing out and legs stretch forward, crossing as much ground as they can in each bound.

His face is mostly hidden by the rim of a navy blue American-style cap with W-I-Z-A-R-D-S embroidered across the front in red thread.

That's how we address our teachers, by calling them esteemed teacher, since it's not proper to use their real names.

I bounce in the direction of my teammates, unsettled by his glare.

The W-I-Z-A-R-D-S boy, who knocked me over, has ripped through my classmates like a vengeful tornado.

I may not blink my eyes, but I'm pretty sure I have some other tic that will give me away.

Are they imagining me with girl hair and realizing I'm a fraud?

The boy next to me looks at me, baffled. It's unheard-of to disobey a teacher.

Hands clap over mouths to dampen the laughter.

From this close, I can see the red threads of the letters. They're wildly frayed and remind me of Meena's unruly hair.

Instinctively, I hunch my shoulders forward and start to cave in on myself.

He is strong and confident and the opposite of me. I hate myself for being so meek.

"That movie was ridiculous," she says. She shoots me a skeptical look. "It made absolutely no sense. What man would ever dress up as a woman?"

Alia is giggling at the thought of it. Meena tugs at Alia’s braid as if to rein her in.

Meena is testy, like she's mad about something but won't say what it is so it comes out in different shapes and colors.

"Stay out of it. We sisters are talking. Go and do your...your...your boy stuff!" Meena's seething as if this was something I chose.

I wish I could find a way to knock that smug look off his face.

He's gloating over me, looking at me like I'm an algebra equation and he's already figured out the value of x.

"I'm not the one who has a problem with you," he says snidely.