Read Online One Half from the East by Nadia Hashimi - Free Book Online

out of the corner of my eye, I can see what the look really is. Rahim looks like he can do anything.

Ten
    I ’ve been a bacha posh for four weeks and five days, and I’ve finally settled into my class. Sometimes a game of ghursai starts up at recess. Rahim and I play on the same field but never on the same team because pairing up might call attention to what we have in common. I’m a little better than I was during that first game, which is good because being friends with Rahim doesn’t mean anything once the attack command rings out. I can get almost halfway to the other team’s side, but I’m still one of the first to be knocked out. Every single time.
    I’ve gone from thinking Rahim was out to get me to being best friends with him. He even introduced me to his friends, Ashraf and Abdullah, and they like me, eventhough I’m younger than them.
    Rahim and I meet after school a few days a week. My sisters shoot me looks over their shoulders as they trudge home. I’m allowed to stay out for a while. Now that I have Rahim to talk to, I like having this extra time, and I use it. The distance between us and my sisters widens. Once they’re too far to hear, we can talk about the things that are about us and only us.
    â€œOne little letter fell off the back end of my name and my world changed. It’s the smallest little letter, barely even a sound. Rahim . . . Rahima. See? If you say it fast enough, you could miss it. Who ever thought such a tiny little letter could make such a big difference?”
    Rahim has a lot he wants to teach me, things he couldn’t tell anyone who isn’t just like him. I’m ready to listen because no one else will tell me things—not even my mother.
    â€œHow long have you been a boy?” I have so many questions to ask Rahim. Sometimes I forget the questions I thought up overnight, but it works out fine because there’s always something else to ask.
    â€œI’ve been a boy since I was nine years old. Not that different from you, actually.”
    â€œYou don’t have any brothers?”
    â€œIf I did, I wouldn’t be what I am,” he says simply. When it’s just the two of us, his voice is much softer thanit is around the boys. “I’m the middle sister in my family. I’ve got two sisters older than me and two younger than me. Sometimes my father would pull us out of school. He didn’t like that boys were following us home or teasing us. He thought people would start talking.”
    I know what he means by that. Getting attention is not a good thing for girls in our village. Things were the same in Kabul, too. Even just a little attention from a stranger could get a girl dragged into the house so fast her feet might get left outside. It’s almost as if all girls are born knowing what could happen, so we try to move around outside like ghosts—keeping our voices low, our footsteps light, and our eyes to the ground.
    â€œSo my aunt came up with this idea to make me a bacha posh . Now I come to school and no one bothers me. No one follows me. I even work after school.”
    His chest puffs out as he shares that last bit with me.
    â€œThis was my aunt’s idea too,” I admit. “What work do you do?”
    â€œDo you know the electronics shop on the same block as the baker? I help out there. I’m learning a lot.”
    That seems awfully grown-up to me. I wonder if the job is harder than he’s making it sound. I know some kids who work in shops have it really rough, especially the ones who don’t go to school at all. I’m glad we’re not so poor that I have to carry bricks or sacks of rice. Fixing radiosmight be interesting, but I doubt I’d be lucky enough to find something so professional-sounding.
    â€œDo you know any other boys like us?” That’s what I call bacha posh es now— boys like us .
    â€œLots,” he says, his eyes wide for