One Half from the East (4 page)

B
y the following day, I am all nerves. I've been a boy for less than three weeks and still haven't fully gotten used to it.

“Obayd. O-BAYD!”

I haven't heard the teacher. My eyes have been on the window, staring at the playground, where I know we'll be heading in just a few moments. I don't know exactly what's going to happen today, but I am certain that boy will be looking for me. Thankfully, he's not in my class.

“Yes,
Moallim-sahib
,” I say, startled. That's how we address our teachers, by calling them
esteemed teacher
, since it's not proper to use their real names.

“If you're not going to pay attention, do you see any
purpose in sitting in my classroom?” I hang my head, knowing a classroom full of eyeballs are on me.

“Forgive me,
Moallim-sahib
.”

“Can you give the answer to the problem?”

I cannot. She has both hands on her hips, her mouth turned in a deep frown.

“You will have an additional homework assignment today, and tomorrow you will stand before the class and answer the questions I ask of you. I'm sure you'll have an easier time hearing me when you stand up here.”

“Yes, teacher,” I mumble.

When it's time for recess my stomach churns.

In a burst, we're outside and the boys line up for a game of
ghursai
.
Ghursai
is a tricky game that girls don't ever play but boys love. I've watched the boys in my neighborhood play lots of times and know the rules. The game involves two teams. Each team has a leader, a king who needs to be protected from opponents. The goal is to get the king from one side of the field to the target on the other side. Along the way, everyone is trying to knock over their challengers. Anyone who falls is instantly out of the game.

If that were it, the game wouldn't be so bad. But here's the catch: In
ghursai
, players have to reach their right hands behind their backs and grab their left feet in a tight grip. That makes for a field of hopping, one-armed bandits
trying to keep their balance, defend their king from attackers, and get to the other side. And if an opponent unlocks a player's finger-foot grasp, that unlucky player is out of the game.

“What's wrong with you? Come and play.”

The boy from yesterday watches to see what I will do. He is wearing pantaloons with a khaki tunic and the same cap he had on yesterday. I know I will attract more attention if I try to hide behind the boys playing marbles, so I nod, as cool as I can, and wander over to join the second huddle, the one with fewer people. The boy is on the other team. He gives a half smirk.

“Hey, giiiiiirls,” the tallest boy on my team calls out. I look over in a panic only to realize he is talking to our challengers. “Hey, girls, have you chosen your king yet? The sooner we start, the sooner we can knock you over, so hurry up!”

There are chuckles.

“Are you any good?” asks the boy standing next to me.

I start to shrug my shoulders, but it turns into shaking my head.
Ghursai
is one of those boy things that I know about, but if I try to do it . . . well, I remember what it feels like to have a warm puddle of urine in my shoe.

“I don't know,” I mumble. We stand together to listen for Basir's orders. Since he's the tallest boy in the older class, he's the captain. I stare down at our sandals, a
collage of leather, rubber, and plastic. None look new, so mine, hand-me-downs from my cousin, blend right in.

“Reeeeeaddy?” the boys call out to us. They're in a loose cluster on the other end of the schoolyard. My heart pounds.

“Boys, grab your feet,” Basir commands. “Here we go!”

I lock fingers with toes, my shoulder tight as I reach behind me. I wobble and look around to see if anyone notices. They all look steady on their feet, as if there are magic rods running down their spines that keep their bodies upright.

“Attaaaack!” The battle cry rings out, carrying across the yard and overpowering the sounds of the girls.

“Get him!”

“Watch out—on your left!”

I hop to my right, my left arm flailing, and wishing for a solid chunk of air to steady myself. Basir is just a few feet away.

How are they doing this?

If I can keep a good distance from Basir, I may be able to stay out of the action. That's the strategy I'm going with. I tighten my grip and dig my fingers into the front of my sandal.

I take a few hops forward, a zigzag from where I started. They are on us now. Ten boys taking small hops toward us, shoulders and elbows jutting out as they near
my team. The clash begins and boys start bouncing off one another.

“Get him!”

I watch Basir take a few steps forward. Two boys from the other side have been knocked out, falling onto their backsides. I watch them rise and walk over to the sidelines, faces sour.

I direct my attention forward again, reminding myself not to pivot. That's when the boy with the
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hat catches my eye. He's staring directly at me, as if there's no one else in the yard.

I bounce in the direction of my teammates, unsettled by his glare.

But he comes straight at me, ignoring the tangle of boys. He rounds his way to me just as I try to bury myself amid my team. I'm not quick enough.

“Look out!”

He's a few inches taller than me, and his eyes are narrowed. His hair is shaggy and uneven. He drives his shoulder into my side, charging at me with a loud grunt. I gasp, my hand slipping from my foot before he even makes contact with my body. I fall to the ground, hands outstretched.

“Got you!” he calls out triumphantly.

“You dog!” I scream. I am angry and frustrated and my hands burn from hitting the earth.

He laughs then turns his attention to the rest of my team, who have, by now, made it halfway across the yard and are completely unaware that I've been knocked out. His friends cheer him on as he knocks out two more boys. I am too frustrated to move. Why has my mother sent me out into the world like this? I don't have what it takes. How could she not see that?

It is easy to dance like a boy. Boys sway side to side and raise their arms like they're hoisting a trophy. That's all they have to do. But everything else about being a boy is hard because it's so different from being a girl. Trying to act like a boy is like learning a whole new language, and I am really struggling to find the words. If I start to cry, there will be absolutely no hope for me.

I'm brought out of my self-pity abruptly. The boys are shouting. My team has been toppled, every last one of them, even Basir. The
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boy, who knocked me over, has ripped through my classmates like a vengeful tornado. He will look my way. I should stand.

I can't get to my feet fast enough. I am a tangle of clumsy joints and wimpy muscles. Why did I ever think I could do this? I watch the boy. He is grinning triumphantly. His friend throws an arm around his neck in a playful headlock.

The boy in the gray pantaloons takes off his
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cap. He steals a look over his shoulder
and stares directly at me. His eyes are sharp, and his hair catches the sun's light. His lips tighten at the disappointing sight of me.

I am still on the ground.

I
carefully tear the last page from my composition notebook and write the letters out.

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.

I try to say the word.
Why-zar-dis
. What could it possibly mean? I take the slip of paper and bring it to my sister Neela. She is sweeping the living room.

“Neela, can you read this word?”

She looks grateful for an excuse to prop the broom against the wall.

“Which word?” She takes the paper from my hand and stares at it long and hard. I think her eyes might scorch a hole through the letters. “Where did you see it?”

Neela knows a bit more English than I do because she's
gone to school longer and has had more English classes. She's almost finished with high school. I can tell from the look on her face that she's not all that sure what the word means.

“If you don't know, don't make something up,” I warn.

“I wasn't going to,” she says, but her eyelids are blinking up a storm, so I know she's not being completely honest. “I can't remember what it means. I can ask my English teacher. Where did you see it?”

“Nowhere,” I say, turning my face. I may not blink my eyes, but I'm pretty sure I have some other tic that will give me away. “I mean, I can't remember where I saw it. I was just wondering.”

“You're acting weird,” my sister tells me.

“Not as weird as you,” I shoot back. Neela huffs and turns her back to me. I walk away quickly, trying to get away from the words she's just said. I am acting strangely, but I don't want to tell my sister that I'm scared of a boy at school. I don't want her to know that after years of shooting my mouth off at home and playing the part of the heroic film star, I am uncomfortable with my new life in pants and I'm afraid that a boy at school is out to get me. I don't want to sound that pathetic, so I keep it to myself.

I force myself to concentrate in class. My teacher has her eye on me. With my behavior, I've been marked as the one to watch.

“Obayd!” she calls out.

I sit up straight. “Yes?”

“Come and solve the problem on the board.” She holds out a stick of chalk. I rise from my spot on the floor and slide behind my classmates. I stare at the blackboard as I approach it.

She has written the number fifteen on the board.

“There are five people in your home, let's just say. And there are eighteen apples in a box.” I nod, wanting her to know I am paying attention. My neck feels hot as I stand with my back to the rest of the students.

“You must divide the apples up so everyone has an equal share. How many will each person get and how many apples will be left over once you've divided them up?” She rubs her fingers together to get the chalk dust off.

“Speak as you solve the problem. Tell the class what you're doing.”

The answer is simple. She's not really testing my math skills, I realize. She's testing
me
.

I bite my lip and think for a second. There is snickering behind me.

“If there are five people in the home . . . then . . . then . . .”

I press the stick of chalk to the board. My hand is shaking as I try to draw a line below the number she's written. Under the pressure the chalk lets out a hair-raising screech.
Hands fly up and cover ears. I cringe too.

“Class, that's enough!”

I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. Are they staring at my legs? Are they imagining me with girl hair and realizing I'm a fraud?

“Obayd, we are waiting. Explain to the class how you would solve the problem.”

I remind myself to breathe. All I can think is that there is a classroom full of eyes staring at me. I wonder how many of them know what I really am. I don't care about the apples. They can divide themselves.

“Forgive me, teacher.”

“For what?”

I look her directly in the eye and place the piece of chalk in her hand. I hear whispers. She sees tears in my eyes and says nothing. She watches me return to my spot on the floor. The boy next to me looks at me, baffled. It's unheard-of to disobey a teacher. I brace myself.

“Class, what has happened here?” Her arms are folded across her chest.

Responses come flying in. I feel like I'm back on the field, getting knocked around by one-legged opponents.

“Obayd's not very good at math.”

“He's scared of chalk.”

“Maybe he's never had an apple.”

Hands clap over mouths to dampen the laughter.

I want to shrink into my clothes like a turtle.

Our teacher takes control of the conversation. She slaps a ruler against the wall three times and clears her throat.

“Knowing something is useless if you cannot share what you know. It's almost like not knowing it at all. Obayd may very well be able solve the problem or even more complicated ones, but if he cannot tell us what he knows, we are left to think the worst.”

There is quiet in the room. I am filled with hatred for this teacher, knowing she set me up to fail.

Recess comes and I am, for the first time, relieved to get out of my classroom. At least outside, I can move away from the gawkers. But I am barely outside the double doors when I feel something slam against me from behind. I stumble and can't catch myself. I'm on the ground.

I look back and see
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The other students are running past us. We are in an uneven face-off that no one else seems to notice.

“Get up,” he says flatly. I can't see his eyes. They're hidden by the rim of his cap. From this close, I can see the red threads of the letters. They're wildly frayed and remind me of Meena's unruly hair.

“What do you want from me?” I blurt out angrily.

“Now, there's something,” he says, his lips curled in a sly smile. He keeps his eyes on me as I get to my feet slowly.

“What's your problem? Just leave me alone.” I brush my hands against the seat of my pants.

“What's your name?” He is unfazed by my attitude.

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because I bothered to ask. Has anyone else done that?”

No one else has.

“You're not having an easy time with it. That's pretty clear.”

“With what?”

There it is again—that awkward feeling of being naked right here in the schoolyard. Instinctively, I hunch my shoulders forward and start to cave in on myself. My eyes focus on a pebble and my lips tighten into a knot.

“There it is. That's how I knew.”

“Knew what?”

He leans in. His face is so close that I can see the spidery blood vessels in the whites of his eyes. He's about three years older than me and very intimidating. I pull back and turn my shoulder to him. If I can see that much of him, he can see even more of me. He smirks, hands on his hips. He is standing with his feet apart and his back straight. He is strong and confident and the opposite of me. I hate myself for being so meek.

“You're one.”

I hold my breath. If he knows, I wish he would just say it. Maybe he's not sure and he wants me to admit it. I'm
not going to give him the satisfaction. But I can't tell what he knows, and I'm not sure what to do.

“Get out of my face,” I hiss and start to walk away. That seems to be all I know how to do today.

“I know what you are,” he calls out behind me. The simple words make the short hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.