“By the time we’re old enough, things will be different,” he says.
“They already are.”
“Not really, Pirooz, not like our teacher promises.”
“Well, what do you mean?” I wonder if he’s thinking about his parents, whatever his life was like before.
“I mean, there could be people celebrating and people forgetting to be afraid,” he says. “Like all the infighting just disappearing so the rest of us can live our lives. There could even be soccer teams, coaches.”
“Sounds good to me,” I say. Hadir tosses the ball straight into the air a few times, catching it just above his nose. The wind blows and sweat cools on my skin.
“I came here once before the war,” he finally says. “The Taliban were rounding people up. I got swept into the crowd. A man picked me up and carried me into the stadium. There were other kids in there too, waving their hands. We filled all the rows in that first section.” He sweeps his arms in a circle around the stadium, indicating several thousand close-range seats.
“Hadir?” I say.
“They tortured women on the soccer field for adultery that day.”
“Hadir, I don’t want to know.”
“But there’s no way to tell if the women really did anything wrong.”
“I remember,” I say. I hated the trials the Taliban used to hold. They made it a game with rules that changed for convenience.
“I can still see them sometimes,” he says, and the way he carries on, I can see them, too. Half a dozen mothers buried up to their waists in the penalty box, helpless against the stoning, their blood-stained burqas flapping in the wind like wings that could never quite lift them to safety.
We walk home slowly that night, passing the ball in short punts across the narrow streets. Hadir likes to aim for the base of streetlights, aligning the ball so it will bounce my direction and set me up for the next, easy pass. A few stray dogs linger behind, limping and skinny. They’d probably eat Hadir’s soccer ball if we left it. Nights like this, I can almost forget our dim-lit city was the center of a warzone. The fighting moved north, so everyone calls this the good time. Some men linger outside their homes. Beggars sleep restlessly in old cars, under shop awnings. Mostly, though, people rest at this hour.
During recess the next day, Hadir and I show the other students our grass-stained feet. They cluster around, marveling at the color, bright green streaks against dusty, brown toes. One boy, Waafiq, doesn’t believe our adventures.
“That’s not from grass.” He points. “You found your mother’s makeup.”
But as soon as he says it the other boys laugh and point at him. “How would you know?” they jeer.
Waafiq shushes and sulks unsteadily toward the schoolhouse.
“Wait. Come back this way.”
“If you’re going to poke, I’m not coming,” Waafiq says. He’s younger, maybe nine. He limps when he walks, because there’s a piece of shrapnel in his calf the size of a cashew. Everybody knows.
“I won’t poke. I have an idea,” I tell him. “We need you.”
Hadir shoulders into the center of the circle, catching on. “That’s right,” he says. “We need everybody to play.”
For the next two weeks we train double-time, and it feels even more difficult to study. Our teacher paces the aisles during arithmetic. She paces during religious studies. She seems only to stand still for geography quizzes, using a long stick to point at countries with tricky names. Each time she turns her back, we raise our leopard fists—all of us now—saluting Nikpai who came from nothing and turned it into pure bronze around his neck. Recess, Hadir teaches the other boys—young or spoiled, smart or slow—about defense and offense, hand-balls and throw-ins. He shares his soccer ball and has more friends than ever. “We’re practicing for the Great Game,” he tells them, and we scheme and plan, deciding on a date. By nighttime, we two hustle to Kabul Stadium, the city blocks our warm-up drill. The second our heels sink into that soft, radiant field, we’re hearts-pounding, muscles-working ready to play. We walk home so tired, even the strays trot past, tails between their mangy legs. Hadir and I are always equals until we get to my block. Then I disappear into my family’s apartment, and he turns down the alley, shadow moving like a ghost along the sidewalls. He says he lives close, but that’s all. I never ask further.
The afternoon before the Great Game, our geography lesson is interrupted by an air raid. Sirens wail across the city like crying mothers. There’s no basement, no bunker. Our teacher lines us against the wall. “Sit,” she says. “Stay quiet.” I stare at the maps and imagine myself further and further away: Tajikstan, Uzbekistan, Turkemenistan. Between sirens, I brace for a bone-shattering blast that never comes. Azerbaijan, Armenia, Georgia. More sirens, my muscles woven as tightly as a rug. Turkey, Romania, Austria. I go so far I can’t even see war—Germany, Scotland—all the way to the North Atlantic Ocean. Then silence. Next, two footsteps. Three. Four. We are twenty-two boys in a room, forty-four feet that can run, one gigantic breath being held. I study our teacher’s face, but she seems lost, prayers spilling from her mouth like broken teeth.
The schoolmaster appears, face dotted with sweat. “There’s one hour before the next raid,” he says. “We move now, or we’re stranded overnight.” Our teacher nods, and we follow her quickly through the hallways. She helps the smallest children first, lifting them into the schoolmaster’s truck parked alongside our schoolhouse. “You and Hadir are oldest,” she says to me. “Take the rest to their houses. Don’t stop along the way.” She slides into the passenger seat and they disappear down the dusty road.
Hadir carries Waafiq on his back, taking alley shortcuts to our neighborhood. I shove and shuffle the others behind him. A few start to cry. “Where do you live?” I demand. I have to slap some to help them speak. Most are siblings and live together. When I get to my own home, I pound and pound until my mother unhooks the latch. Already, she’s gathered my sisters, a satchel of food, and two jugs of water, sheltering them in our back room with a pile of mattresses. Together, we wait for sundown, knowing things could very suddenly grow worse.
No school for three days. Everything quiets. My city must look like a sleeping giant, all its window-eyes sealed shut. Families on my block know exactly what to do, sharing supplies and whispering favorite Afghan folktales to soothe the children at night. They tell the story of Buzaak Chinie, the Porcelain Goat. Or my old favorite, The Silver on the Hearth, where the poor farmer is rewarded with snakes that turn into coins. But I’m older this time and see the adults gossip. Something happened in Pakistan, they say, and now angry defectors from the Afghan National Army want to organize in Kabul. Or five Marines were shot south of the city and we hide in fear of retaliation. But another man says it wasn’t Marines, it was an Afghan family, a mistake—a Red Cross station blown into a crater three meters deep. “But no bombs were dropped,” I hear his brother argue. “It’s all pretend to distract from the truth up north,” another says. The radio confirms nothing, only repeats its static messages about precautionary measures. There are no errands. No boys playing santoors in the alley. No street vendors. No hot chai or kites. And of course, no Great Game.
When school reopens, this time everyone returns, no missing students. But our teacher wears her burqa again, a stone-blue curtain of fabric separating her from us. It’s only her hands we can see now, and they appear more delicate than before.
“Hadir,” I whisper. “What does it mean? Why does she hide?”
“Didn’t