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brown hair and round eyes. He was pretty enough to make me wonder if he was like me, a girl underneath those pants.
    “My name is Rahim.”
    “Yeah, his name is Rahim. He’s my cousin,” Muneer added. The teacher’s warnings had shaken him up but now that we were outside, he was breathing easier.
    “Abdullah, have you ever seen Rahim before?”
    Abdullah shook his head. He was dark haired, slim and calmer than his neighbor.
    “No. Are you any good at soccer, Rahim?”
    I stole a sidelong glance and shrugged my shoulders.
    “Oh, he’s really good at soccer,” Muneer said emphatically. His reply caught me off guard. “I bet he could beat you.”
    I looked at Muneer, wondering if he was trying to set me up.
    “Oh, yeah?” Abdullah grinned. “Well, he doesn’t have to beat me but it would help if he could beat Said Jawad and his friends. They’re probably over in the street playing if you want to join them.”
    “Yeah, let’s do it!” Muneer picked up his pace and headed down the side street that led to the makeshift field and away from our house. The field was actually an unused side street, too narrow for a car. The boys were accustomed to meeting there for pickup games.
    “Muneer, don’t you think we should—”
    “C’mon, Rahim. Just for a little while! It’ll be fun,” Abdullah said, giving my shoulder a light shove.
    I suppose I could have been worse. The only thing I knew how to do was to run. Luckily, I did that well enough that the boys didn’t notice that my foot never made contact with the ball or that I never shouted for the ball to be passed to me. I ran up and down the street, my shoulders scraping the clay wall of the alley. I kept expecting my mother or father to appear and drag me back home angrily.
    I liked feeling the breeze on my face. I liked feeling my legs stretch, trying to catch the others, trying to race ahead of them. My arms swung by my sides, free.
    “Over here! Pass it over here!”
    “Don’t let him get by! Catch him!”
    I neared the ball. There were six feet kicking at it, trying to knock it back in their direction. I stuck my foot into the melee. I felt the leather against my sole. I kicked at it, sending it flying in Abdullah’s direction. He stopped the ball with his heel and nudged it toward the opposite goal. He was running.
    I felt a thrill as I chased after him. I liked being part of the team. I liked the dust kicking up under my feet.
    I liked being a boy.

CHAPTER 8

    Q uickly, most of the household work was turned over to Shekiba. Her uncles’ wives found that, once she’d recovered, she was quite capable and could manage even the chores that required the combined strength of two women. She could balance three pails of water, instead of just two. She could lift the wood into the stove. They whispered happily to each other when Bobo Shahgul was not listening, not wanting to appear lazy to the matriarch.
    She has the strength of a man, but she does the chores of a woman. Could there be any better help for the house? Now we know what it must feel like to live like Bobo Shahgul!
    Shekiba heard their comments but it was in her nature to work. She found that sunset came faster if she busied herself, no matter how laborious the task. Her back ached at the end of the day, but she did not let her face show it. She did not want to give them the satisfaction of exhausting her. Nor did she want to risk a beating for not being able to keep up with her work. In this home, there were many ready sticks to teach her that indolence would not be tolerated.
    Khala Zarmina, Kaka Freidun’s wife, was the worst. Her thick hands came down with a surprising strength even though she claimed to be too old and tired to do any of the more cumbersome tasks in the house. Her temper was short and she seemed to be poised to take Bobo Shahgul’s place when Allah finally decided to reclaim the bitter old woman. Bobo Shahgul realized as much and could see through her false flattery but she