Read Online The Milk of Birds by Sylvia Whitman - Free Book Online Page A

Halima’sarea. Adeeba calls it Halima’s court. They say her husband had been head of his village. People still flatter her. Perhaps they believe that one day she will win them favors again. Yet I pity her. Walida told me, “When they chop down the tree, the fall is harder for the monkey than the ant.”
    Halima is jealous that the khawaja have given Adeeba a job and that Saida Julie has chosen ruined girls like me to receive gifts from American sisters.
    When I return, I notice four eyes in the shadows. A little boy and a girl. She is small but old in her eyes. Older than Meriem but younger than Saha.
    â€œWhat are your names?” I ask.
    They do not answer but melt away in the dark.

    Dear Nawra,
    I was done in by Umar. Mom says there’s probably more sadness around you than we can even imagine.
    â€œNawra’s a survivor,” Mom says. “Somehow she’s hanging on to what makes life worth living.”
    You’re always asking if I’m strong, Nawra, but really it’s you. Even if I’m watching a movie and the bad guys start messing with kids, I turn it off. I don’t really like any movie with a lot of guns and guys getting their brains blown out, but I tell myself they’re just actors and the blood’s ketchup. Put a kid in there, though, and I freak. In real life I can barely handle rug burn.
    Last fall when I was taking Wally to the park—Walter Clay, the little boy I babysit for all the time—he started running toward the swings and tripped. It happened fast, but later I relived it again and again in slow motion, the rubber tip of Wally’s sneaker snagging bumpy pavement, his body going forward, then down hard, left knee first, then both hands, right shoulder, cheek, head. He was silent, and my heart stopped. Turns out he just had the breath knocked out of him. Everything I practiced in Red Cross babysitter class kicked in, though. I pulled out Mrs. Clay’s cell phone and tied Wally’s sweatshirt around his bloody left knee and hugged him while he bawled. He got eight stitches. LaterMrs. Clay said I handled it really well, but I was shaky all week and had to force myself to look when she changed the bandage. Wally wanted to show off where the doctor had sewn him up.
    He still likes me to run my finger over the scar. I tell him that superheroes have scars all over. That’s why they wear those funny suits, so no one can see all their old wounds.
    If he died and I had to wrap up his little body in his Thomas the Tank Engine sleeping bag . . . How can you stand it?
    Maybe I shouldn’t ask. Tell me to shut up; I won’t be offended. But sometimes it helps to talk about stuff. When Dad moved out, my mom used to tuck us in and then call her old college roommates. I wish she’d call me sometimes instead.
    I may sound like a wimp, but my friends say I’m a good listener. Last summer a counselor at science camp was flirting with Emily, but in a sleazy way. She tried to tell an older counselor, but you know what this girl said? “You’re lucky boys look at you that way!”
    â€œJust because you’re a geek doesn’t mean you have to settle for a creep!” I told Emily. She knows “geek” is teasing. We finally figured out that she should tell the director, and he must have handled it, because the guy didn’t bother Emily again.
    In lit class we were just talking about a character who shared a confidence , which is an old-fashioned word, but I like it. It means that someone trusts you enough to let you near their hurt or fear or whatever is deep inside. They confide in you, and they’re confident you won’t go blabbing and stomping on what feels so fragile to them. I’m Emily’s confidante. Will you let me be yours? Your sadness isn’t a burden for me. I feel kind of honored when you tell me stuff.
    More later.

Nawra
    J UNE 2008
    I search for the brother and sister. So