One Half from the East: Chapters 27–36

My mother lays out squares of warm bread topped with smears of butter and coarse sugar sprinkled on top.

Your father’s starting to get some pension payments because of his injury on the job. We're going to have a bit of income.

"I'm going to go to hang out with the boys, Madar-jan," I say as casually as I can.

There are trees and yellow-green grasses on the peak, which look almost like wispy hairs.

His beaded tail is curled up behind him, poised and ready to turn me into a crying mess. I've never been bitten by a scorpion, but we're raised to fear them.

"Get out of my way!" I scream and pelt three more rocks in his direction.

Rainbows. There are a few of them, floating over the cascade of water.

I test each rock to make sure I won't lose my footing. It's a steep drop-off.

It is not the voice of a girl dressed as a boy. It is even stronger. Invincible.

My sisters are sullen but for different reasons.

Alia is on the brink of tears because she can't stand to see me in trouble or to see Mother so enraged.

"Why would you want me to be a boy only for now? If being a boy now is good, isn't being a boy forever even better?"
She says nothing, but her lips pull together and nearly disappear, so I know I've said something touchy.

"Obayd, this has to end," my mother says grimly. "This has gone too far."

The dress is a gloomy dark blue with spots where the detergent's done more than it should and leached the pigment out.

I feel my face flush, realizing that I haven't been thinking of my sisters' feelings.

"Everyone said she was a boy," Alia retorts.

Meena and Neela have to stifle their laughter.

"Is that what you're worried about? A piece of chicken?"
"The drumstick is the best piece," Alia says in her most wistful voice.

She sifts through the rice with her fingertips, looking for the teeniest rocks that get missed when they bag the rice grains.

"Each one of you girls kicked just like that before you were born. At least that strong, if not stronger. You should know better than anyone not to assume a girl couldn't do that."

My father and I look at each other and share a conspiratorial smile.

Outside of the house and standing upright, I can see just how thin he is. His face is gaunt beneath the
 scruff he's grown.

We walk beyond the four pomegranate trees with sad, barren branches and stop at the well.

The metal of the pump is bright and looks out of place in our village. The neck sprouts a long lever on one end and a short, fat spigot on the other.

With a grunt, he pushes the lever down. It's an undertaking made by his entire body.

I'm cheering him on as if gold has spewed from the spigot instead of water. But it's not just water. It's much more than that, as proven by looking at the broad smile on my father's ruddy face.

"Yes, but I told her I hadn't touched it. She might've believed me if you hadn't blubbered out an apology."

"My fatal flaw," he admits with a sheepish smile.

"I can't believe I'm in a dress. This is such a horrible day."
"A horrible day?" Alia scoffs. "And you all say I'm the dramatic one!"

I squeeze my sister's arm so hard she grimaces.

The circle of heads turn left and right, looking at one another for a cue.

Alia’s brows furrow. "Is that what you want with Obayda?"

My mother says the sunlight is good for him: Even from a few yards away, I can see his tiny eyes squint against the brightness, which will lull him to sleep.

No one expected, when he was born, that he would share my caramel-brown eyes, my dimpled chin, and my tapered fingers.

She goes back into the house, where she'll spend the rest of the morning preparing a hearty dinner.