Shooting Kabul (11 page)

Fadi sighed, wishing his father were with him, but these days Habib was too busy, or too tired, to waste time clicking away with a camera. His headache gone, Fadi went back to brainstorming about how to get enough money to fly back to Pakistan.
I got into this mess. I need to figure out how to get out of it.

I
T WAS THURSDAY,
third period, and for the first time in a long while Fadi felt a sense of eager anticipation buzz through his body. As soon as the bell rang, he left Mr. Torres's World History and Civilizations class and wove his way through the crowds to reach the large studio at the back of the school. He paused at the doorway—the smell of paint, plaster, and glue permeated the air. Bright paintings and drawings decorated the walls, and clay sculptures stood along the back of the room. Art supplies sat in organized piles on tall shelves—paint, colored pencils, construction paper, glue, and a myriad of other things he didn't recognize
but couldn't wait to inspect. Taking a deep sniff, Fadi entered, strolling past the tables placed in a circle in the center of the room. His fingers trailed along the paint-spattered surface as he looked for a spot that suited him.

As he chose a seat facing the front, he noticed a familiar face at the door. The girl tossed her black hair over her shoulder and gave him a wave. It was Anh from the cafeteria. Fadi responded with a tentative nod and looked away.
She's just being nice because I returned her wallet
. He sat down and turned his attention to a collection of black-and-white photographs tacked onto a corkboard.
Cool
.

A tall black woman in a shimmering silver top stepped out from one of the supply closets. “Attention, class,” she called out. She strode to the middle of the room and motioned for everyone to take a seat. Her bracelets jingled as the kids stopped chitchatting and took their seats.

She looks familiar,
thought Fadi. The memory of where he'd seen her was there, on the tip of his mind, but someone sat down next to him and interrupted his train of thought.

It was Anh. She pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil. “Hey, Fadi, how are you doing?”

Fadi blinked in surprise. “Uh, good.”

“Do you like art?”

Before Fadi could answer, she continued, “This is a really fun class. I always choose it as my elective.”

“Quiet down, class,” ordered the teacher. “Most of you have taken art with me for the last few years, but for new students, my name is Ms. Bethune. Welcome, all of you. I hope you had a great summer. This year we're going to focus on color and contrast, and our first project is going to be done in a group. So I need you all to get into groups of threes.”

Fadi's stomach sank as kids called out to their friends, breaking out into groups. He was going to be left out. He didn't know anyone.

“So, do you want to be in my group?” asked Anh.

Fadi blinked. “Really? You want me?”

“Yeah,” said Anh. “I always like working with different people. It makes things more interesting.”

As the groups finished assembling, one last boy stood standing. Fadi recognized him from math class and felt sorry for him; his light brown hair stood in a halo on top of his head while large glasses magnified his watery blue eyes, making him look like a confused owl chick.

“Let's ask him,” said Fadi.

“Sure,” said Anh, waving at the boy to join them.

The boy pointed at himself and mouthed, “Who? Me?”

Fadi nodded.

With a wide, relieved smile the boy hurried over to their table and introduced himself as Jonathan Greenly, Jon for short.

The three of them huddled together as Ms. Bethune gave instructions on what to do, then left them alone to brainstorm.

“Look, I don't know much about art,” said Jon. He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Everything I draw looks like a stick figure.”

“Well, we need to come up with a theme,” said Anh. She pulled a large yellow notepad from her bag.

Fadi and Jon nodded in agreement.

“How about the forest?” said Anh.

“Ooh,” said Jon, scratching a red rash on his arm. “I got poison ivy while camping last week.”

“That looks painful,” said Fadi. “Does it hurt?”

“Nah, it just itches,” said Jon, giving his arm another good scratch.

Anh frowned as another thought distilled in her mind. “How about the sky?”

Jon looked unconvinced.

“How about something from the movies? Or books?” she said, hoping inspiration would strike.

Jon perked up. “Movies, huh?”

“Well yeah,” said Anh. “Classics like
Gone with the
Wind
or
Casablanca
.”

Jon wrinkled his nose. “Aren't those in black and white? I don't watch those.”

Fadi hadn't heard of either one, but kept his mouth shut.

“What do you watch?” asked Anh.

“Well, I like scary movies, like
Friday the 13
th
, or anything with Arnold Schwarzenegger in it, like
The
Terminator
or
Predator
.”

Anh rolled her eyes and wrote “scary movies” on her pad of paper.

“The sea,” said Fadi under his breath.

“The what?” said Jon.

“The sea. Like in the book
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea
.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Jon. “I've seen that movie.”

“It's also a book,” said Anh with a grin. “And that's a totally cool idea! We could do the colors of the ocean and all the different creatures that live there!”

Fadi smiled as Anh's pen flew across the lined page.

As the class wrapped up, Ms. Bethune held up her hand for people to quiet down. “Class, just one announcement before the bell. The photo club will be holding its first official meeting next week on Tuesday, here in the art studio. You need to have access to a 35 millimeter SLR
film camera. If you're interested, the sign-up sheet is on my desk. I'm holding an informal meeting to discuss plans for this year's club after school today.”

Fadi's heart raced.
A photo club!
But Ms. Bethune's next sentence hit him like a bucket of cold water.

“The fee for supplies and use of the darkroom is fifty dollars, which can be paid in cash or your parents can write me a check.”

There was no way he could come up with that much money.

“Are you going to join?” asked Anh.

Jon shook his head while Fadi shrugged without commitment.

“You should. I was in it last year, and it's a lot of fun. We have a few great photographers come in for special lessons, and we go all over the city for photo shoots,” said Anh.

At the end of class Fadi passed by Ms. Bethune's desk. “Great theme, Fadi,” she said. “The sea is going to give a lot of scope to be very creative.”

“Thanks,” said Fadi, eyeing the photo club sign-up sheet.

“Do you want to join?”

Fadi paused, conflicting desires racing through him.

“You seem to know what to do with a camera,” she
said, causing Fadi to look at her in surprise.

“It was you at Lake Elizabeth, right?” asked Ms. Bethune, giving him a closer look.

Then Fadi remembered the woman in cool red tennis shoes. It had been Ms. Bethune.

“I like taking pictures,” he said lamely.

“Well, sign up, then,” she urged with a smile.

Fadi grabbed the pen and wrote down his name. With a heavy heart he exited the studio.

Walking home from school, Fadi passed the McDonald's where Noor worked. He'd never had the nerve to go see her, but today, for some reason, maybe because he didn't want to go back to an empty apartment, he went inside. The pungent scent of hot oil hit him as he stopped near the counter. She wasn't at the register. He peered behind the milk shake machine, down the narrow galley. She wasn't at her post at the french-fryer either.
She probably left.
He exited the store and circled around back, taking a shortcut to get back to the apartment complex.

As he rounded the corner, the sound of muffled laughter filtered out from near the Dumpsters. Standing in the shadows were two McDonald's employees. Fadi froze in surprise. Through the gloom he could see that
one of them was Noor. She leaned next to a tall, gangly boy with tattoos, drinking a soda while he showed her something in a magazine.

“See, told you I was right,” he said with a wink.

“Man, I can't believe I lost our bet,” grumbled Noor with a giggle.

The boy raised his hand, and Noor's palm smacked against his in a high five. The sharp sound rang through the back alley, and Fadi inched back. Noor grabbed the magazine and turned. Her eyes widened as she caught Fadi standing at the corner, and she started to cough.

“What's wrong?” asked the boy, pounding her back.

Fadi hitched up his backpack and ran. The honey tin thudded against his back, but he didn't stop till he opened the door to his apartment. He staggered inside and collapsed on the fraying couch.
Noor's going to think I'm spying on her. She's going to pound me for sure.

That night Fadi and Noor avoided making eye contact as the family sat down for dinner.

“Here, Fadi, take the yogurt,” said his mother, passing him the bowl.

“Thanks,” murmured Fadi. Zafoona's eyes were dull, and deep shadows lay along her cheekbones. He knew
she wasn't sleeping well ever since they'd heard from Professor Sahib, but at least she was coughing less. The doctors had diagnosed her with a serious chest infection, but the good news had been that it could be cleared up with a series of powerful medications. Unfortunately, the pills left her sleepy and groggy most of the time. Fadi took a spoonful of tangy homemade yogurt and plopped it onto his plate, next to a pile of stewed cauliflower. He hated cauliflower. But he knew they'd be eating a lot of it this week; it had been on sale at Save Mart, and his father had bought three heads.

“So, Fadi,” asked Habib, “anything interesting happen at school today?”

Fadi shook his head. An image flickered in his brain, like a hazy still from a reel of film. It was Noor laughing intimately with the tattooed boy in the narrow alley behind the McDonald's.

“Come on,” wheedled his father with a smile, “there must be something.”

“Well,” said Fadi, trying to erase the image and come up with something interesting to report. “There is a photo club starting next week,” he mumbled in a rush.

“A photo club! That sounds wonderful,” said Habib with a twinkle in his eye.

That's a good one,
he thought with relief.

“Boy, we used to have fun with that old camera in Kabul,” added Habib.

Fadi nodded. “The fee is fifty dollars to join.”

Habib's smile faltered.

“Fifty dollars?” interrupted Zafoona with a frown. “That's too much.”

“Well, maybe—,” said Habib, but Fadi interrupted him.

“No, no, it's okay,” said Fadi in a rush, wishing he'd never brought the subject up. “I'm really not that interested. It's just that … well, there's just a club for photography, that's all.”

Zafoona's mouth tightened and she glanced at Noor. “Why did you waste money getting another pair of earrings?”

Fadi glanced at his sister's earlobes. She was wearing shiny new hoop earrings.

“They weren't very expensive,” said Noor, her voice low. She brushed her hair forward, hiding her ears. Her fingernails were painted black.

“
Jaan
,” said Habib, “Noor works very hard. What's a little jewelry for our pretty daughter?”

Zafoona's lips quivered and she remained silent.

Fadi looked around the table at his family, and guilt spread like acid through his gut. They all blamed
themselves for Mariam's loss. They would hate him if they learned the truth.

Later that night, as the rest of the family retreated to their rooms, Fadi sat in the darkened living room staring at the square of light glowing from the tiny television. His father had bought it at a garage sale, and the remote control was missing, so he had to lean over to change the channel. None of the shows looked interest-ing, and he was about to switch it off when a story on the ten o'clock news caught his eye. A little girl traveling to New York from Chicago had gotten on the wrong flight and had ended up in Miami. As Fadi watched her happy reunion back with her parents in Chicago, he wished Mariam were on a plane coming home right then.