Saving Kabul Corner Page 4

  Soraiya Khanum and Mrs. Balkh spoke to Laila in Farsi, marveling at her gracious manners.

  “Laila is very talented,” said Jamil. “You should hear her recite poetry—”

  “Recite one for us, my dear,” interrupted Mr. Balkh, his craggy features softening.

  Laila cleared her throat, looking a bit uncomfortable. But she launched into a melodious recitation of a fairly long poem in Farsi.

  Ariana stood by, not understanding a word of it.

  “Oh my, how clever,” gushed Soraiya Khanum. She looked over and spotted Ariana. “Don’t you think so, my dear?”

  “Oh, Ariana doesn’t speak Farsi,” said Jamil.

  Ariana’s ears burned as Laila looked away.

  “Oh,” said Soraiya Khanum, looking disappointed.

  “Well, I’m sure there must be an English translation of the Rumi poem,” said Mrs. Balkh. “It’s about shadow and light. It’s just beautiful.”

  Ariana nodded, feeling invisible and inconsequential. She went back to stacking the chips as the trio purchased their groceries and left.

  • • •

  “The others will be back,” Jamil told Ariana, catching her looking out the window later that day. “Pamir Market is new and exciting, but we have excellent products and unparalleled customer service. Plus, they don’t have a bakery, and our bread is the best in town—soft on the inside, crisp on the outside, and hot right out of the oven.”

  Ariana nodded, returning to her chores. She picked up a stack of cardboard boxes and headed to the back, passing the small bakery. Haroon, their baker, was pulling out the last load of bread for the day. Most of the thin loaves, nearly three feet in length, had been sold as soon as they’d come out of the oven that morning. Afghans were very particular about their doday, or “bread.” The word “doday” itself meant not only “bread” but “food,” since meals were so hard to come by in poverty-stricken, war-torn Afghanistan. Many families subsisted on bread and salt, and were happy enough to have even that.

  Inhaling the warm, inviting yeasty smell, Ariana felt proud that they had the best bread in Fremont. The old customers that had shown up that day had grabbed a stack of fresh bread, and then had scurried over to check out the new store. Her father was right; Pamir Market was just new and shiny and would be old news soon enough. And all their customers would be back, since they still came in for their bread anyway. She skirted past the bakery, careful not to disturb Haroon, as he was notoriously temperamental. She still winced from the yelling fit he’d given the kids for getting in his way. Actually, he didn’t much like anyone, but he got along with Musa, the butcher, but that was only because they had made a deal to stay out of each other’s way. With a sigh Ariana passed Laila and pretended she didn’t see her.

  • • •

  It was noisy as usual at Uncle Shams’s house as Ariana laid a steaming platter of rice on the dastarkhan, a long table cloth laid out on the ground, where everyone sat to eat their meals. Laila placed a bowl of stew next to the pile of bread in the middle, from Kabul Corner, of course. She stopped to playfully ruffle Hasan’s hair as he stole a piece of bread and the family crowded together, grabbing their customary spots. Laila now sat in Ariana’s favorite position, next to Hava Bibi, while Ariana had been shunted over to sit with Uncle Shams’s younger boys, Marjan and Taroon, who at eight and six thought it was hilarious to stick carrot sticks into their ears. Gritting her teeth, Ariana elbowed her way between them and plopped down. Her uncle, usually full of news from around the neighborhood, was uncharacteristically quiet as he settled down next to his wife with a long, breathy sigh.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Hava Bibi, passing Uncle Shams the salad bowl.

  “Nothing to worry about, Mom,” said Jamil, giving his brother a look that said, Don’t worry her. “There were some missing deliveries at the store. That’s all.”

  Ariana leaned closer, trying to hear what the grown-ups were saying, over the boys’ snorts about some dumb joke.

  “Yeah,” mumbled Uncle Shams. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “Is it about this new store?” asked Hava Bibi, her eyes narrowed. “I do know things, even though I don’t leave the house much.”

  Ariana smiled. Her grandmother did seem to know everything. She had her ways—dozens of other grandmothers and aunties who got on the phone and passed along the news, local and international.

  “No, no,” said Uncle Shams, vigorously shaking his head, digging into the salad with unusual enthusiasm.

  “Now, Shams,” said Hava Bibi. “I’ve known you all your life, and I know when something is worrying you.”

  Uncle Shams stabbed a piece of lettuce, and his resolve to stay quiet dissolved at Hava Bibi’s persistence. “Yes, Mother,” he burst out. “It’s that darn new store that’s bothering me. It’s ruining our business!”

  “Shams,” exclaimed his wife, Sara Khala. “Watch your language—the kids!”

  Uncle Shams’s cheeks reddened, and the boys snickered till Sara Khala turned and gave them the look. Sara Khala, with a love of bright colors and loud prints, was plump like her husband and usually had a sweet disposition. But when she got mad, the kids got in line.

  “It’s ruining your business?” said Hava Bibi, blinking in surprise. “What do you mean, ruin? What are they doing?”

  “Now, hold on,” said Jamil, shooting his brother an annoyed look. “Don’t blow things out of proportion and worry everyone.” Uncle Shams averted his gaze and shoveled cherry tomatoes into his mouth as Jamil continued. “The new store may give us some competition, but they’re not really doing anything to us.”

  Uncle Shams muttered, “As if choosing a location right across from us on Wong Plaza isn’t doing anything.”

  “Look,” Jamil said, sighing, “it’s not an ideal situation, but there’s enough business for both of us.”

  Ariana saw that her grandmother could sense an argument brewing between her sons. Time to change the subject. “If you work hard, Allah provides,” she said soothingly as she lifted the large tray of rice.

  “Yes, insha’Allah, it will be all right,” said Jamil.

  But Uncle Shams couldn’t help but have the last word. “It’ll be all right as long as those Ghilzais don’t do anything tricky.”

  “What did you say?” asked Hava Bibi, her cheeks turning pale.

  “About what?” said Uncle Shams.

  “What name did you say?” repeated Hava Bibi, confusion clouding her eyes.

  Uncle Shams frowned. “The new owner is named Ghilzai—Gulbadin Ghilzai. Oh, there’s an old uncle, too. Tofan.”

  Hava Bibi’s hand shook, and as if in slow motion, the tray slipped, sending white grains flying. All conversation stopped. Even the boys paused midchew.

  “Bibi, are you all right?” asked Ariana’s mom, getting up to help the older woman.

  “Oh my goodness,” whispered Hava Bibi, slumping against the cushions.

  “What is it, Mom?” asked Jamil.

  “Remember the old story?” said Hava Bibi, looking agitated.

  Ariana had leaned so far over the dastarkhan that her elbow was practically in the meatball stew. She had never seen Hava Bibi look flustered, not even when a car had hit Omar in front of the house. Her grandmother had flown into action and stopped the bleeding on his head while waiting for the ambulance to arrive. That was the incident that had left him with the scar that cut across his eyebrow.

  “Which story?” asked Sara Khala.

  “The one about the goat!” cried Hava Bibi.

  “I have a vague recollection of some such story,” Jamil said, picking up the rice that had flown into his lap.

  “The old family feud, the one that started when our ornery old goat wandered onto our neighbor’s land—the neighbor was Bawer Ghilzai!”

  “Do you think it’s those Ghilzais?” said Uncle
Shams, coughing as he swallowed a mouthful of lettuce.

  Hava Bibi sat back, her face drawn. “Tofan ­Ghilzai was my friend, Dilshad’s, brother. The feud that started over the goat ended with my father, Zia, shooting him!”

  The entire story came flooding through Ariana’s brain, and she rocked back on her heels.

  “The shooting happened before you were born,” said Hava Bibi, twisting her hands into her scarf. “After that our families settled into an uncomfortable truce, but eventually war with the Soviets began and our village was bombed by Russian jets. All the families fled, and we ended up here.”

  “So why are they here, opening a store in the same shopping complex as us?” said Uncle Shams, suspicion contorting his features.

  “It’s probably just a coincidence,” said Jamil.

  “Coincidence?” said Uncle Shams, suddenly alert. “Somehow I don’t think so.”

  “Now, Shams,” said Hava Bibi, regaining her composure. “Jamil is probably right. Tofan and his nephew probably don’t even know who we are. Shinwari is a common clan name.”

  Uncle Shams sat back, hands folded across his ample belly, unconvinced. “This can’t possibly be a coincidence.”

  “Shams, you’re getting worked up again,” warned Jamil.

  “No, really,” said Shams. “Why else would they open a store at the opposite end of Wong Plaza from us? I bet they’re continuing the feud and want badal, for Grandfather Zia shooting Tofan. They want to drive us out of business!”

  “Shams,” said Hava Bibi, her voice tense. “I want no talk of the feud and badal. As far as I’m concerned, the feud ended when we all left Afghanistan. You and Jamil should go over and introduce yourselves, show there are no hard feelings.”

  “But, Mom—,” muttered Shams.

  “Shush!” said Hava Bibi. “It was a silly goat, and the feud is over. Swear to me you will not even think such nonsense!”

  “All right,” grumbled Shams.

  “Mom is right,” said Jamil, though there was a hint of doubt in his eyes. “Maybe we’ll go around tomorrow and welcome them to the plaza.”

  “If you say so,” said Shams, pushing aside the salad on his plate and piling on chicken kebob.

  “Look, we just have to work harder to get customers excited and back at the store,” said Jamil. “Maybe a new advertisement or a raffle or something.”

  As Ariana listened to her father about the cost of radio ads and flyers, something dense settled at the bottom of her stomach; apprehension combined with growing anger. The news keeps getting worse.

  ARIANA’S MIND WANDERED DURING Mr. Lambert’s discussion on the importance of habitat conservation, and she rubbed the back of her neck where her mother had removed the chenille shirt’s tag. The rough line of the label scratched her skin, driving her to distraction. She gritted her teeth, trying to focus on the picture of a squat, ugly European green crab Mr. Lambert held up. He was explaining how the crustaceans had found their way into the San ­Francisco Bay by stowing away in the ballast water of visiting cargo ships. The voracious invader species had killed off ninety percent of the native shore crabs and threatened them with extinction. It reminded her of Uncle Shams’s dire warning that the opening of a new store would drive the Shinwaris out of business. Kabul Corner was an endangered species, and Pamir Market was their chief predator. Even though Hava Bibi and Ariana’s father had calmed everyone down and convinced them that the Ghilzais were not out to drive the store out of business, anxiety hung over the Shinwari home. Everyone felt it.

  Two weeks had passed since Pamir Market’s grand opening, but the buzz surrounding the store hadn’t died down, and the number of customers shopping at Kabul Corner had been cut by more than half. Well, except for their bread. Everyone still came to get bread from them, but then disappeared across the plaza to buy the rest of their groceries at Pamir Market. Mr. Balkh had gone in as a spy and reported back that the Ghilzais had marked down all their groceries by ten cents in comparison to Kabul Corner. If you added that up, people shopping at Pamir Market were saving at least five to fifteen dollars a visit. With savings like that, why would they ever come back?

  Pressure built within Ariana’s chest, like a volcano building up magma. Why did the Ghilzais have to open a store so close to Kabul Corner? Why couldn’t they have gone somewhere else? Her father had run into Gulbadin in the parking lot earlier that week and introduced himself. Later that afternoon, over lunch, he’d told Hava Bibi that he’d done his duty to be hospitable and welcomed the Ghilzais to the plaza, but since ­Gulbadin had been in a hurry, they hadn’t talked much. In the back of her mind, even though her grandmother insisted that the feud had ended back in Afghanistan, Ariana couldn’t help but wonder if the Ghilzais had really gotten over the old feud.

  The bell rang, interrupting Ariana’s worried thoughts. She tugged on her shirt and trudged out, relieved that lunch was next. Caught up in the rush of students, Ariana navigated toward her slightly dented locker. After tossing her books inside, she grabbed her lunch box and slammed the door shut. The loud clang made her feel slightly better, so she gave her locker a whack for good measure. Down the hall she spotted Mariam’s tawny head, close to Laila’s, bobbing through the crowd. Ariana knew they’d just had social studies and were working on their ancient Egypt project together. The pressure in her mid­section pushed against her heart. It’s so not fair. Perfect Laila gets to work with Mariam, and I’m stuck with knuckleheaded Josh.

  Since Ariana hadn’t known anyone well enough in her social studies class, the teacher had randomly put together the remaining kids who hadn’t found partners. In her case it had been a slouchy towheaded boy named Josh Scrimption; he’d looked as thrilled to be with her as she had been to be paired up with him. So far Josh had vetoed everything she’d suggested. He even hated her idea of making a model of Pharaoh Cheops’s royal barge. It should have been me working with Mariam to mummify beetles, not Laila. Ariana’s fingers tightened around the metal handle of her lunch box. It seemed like she hadn’t seen Mariam in more than a week—not after school, or during it either. Laila, on the other hand, was attached to her best friend’s hip with superglue.

  “Hey, Ari,” called out Mariam. “Ready for lunch?”

  Ariana nodded, releasing her death grip on her lunch box.

  “How was Mr. Lambert’s class?” asked Mariam. A thick sheen of pink lip gloss stained her lips.

  “Eh,” mumbled Ariana. “It was okay.”

  “You okay? You look kind of tense,” said Mariam with a frown.

  “I’m fine,” muttered Ariana.

  “What’s going on over there?” interrupted Laila, pointing to a gaggle of kids surrounding a table at the end of the hall.

  “Oooh, let’s see,” said Mariam. “Maybe it’s a bake sale.”

  The thought of freshly baked cookies perked Ariana up. Maybe they’d have her favorite—­snickerdoodles, covered in a thick coating of cinnamon sugar.

  The trio edged closer, and from where she stood Ariana spotted a familiar girl sitting at the edge of the table—Patty Marsh, one of the popular girls from ­Ariana’s old elementary school. Patty was also the current editor of the Brookhaven newspaper, The Owl. Next to her sat her second in command, ­Yoojin, a large box in front of her. Ariana’s enthusiasm deflated. No baked goods. The crush of bodies propelled them toward a gap at the front of the table. Up close Ariana saw that the box was plastered with pictures of kids—poor, sad-looking kids. The label across the top read Brookhaven Kids Helping Kids in Need. But it was the person sitting next to Yoojin who gripped Ariana’s attention. It was Wali, wearing a bright yellow-and-purple Los Angeles Lakers T-shirt, smiling, and handing out flyers.

  “How’s it going, Patty, Wali?” came a familiar adult voice from behind them.

  “Great, Principal Chiu,” bubbled Patty, popping up like a yo-yo. “Thanks for introducing me to Wali. He’s fun
d-raised for orphans before, and he totally knows what he’s doing.”

  “Wonderful,” said Principal Chiu, pausing at the table. “I knew you’d make a great team. Helping those in need is an important mission for the school this year.”

  Ariana recalled Principal Chiu’s welcoming address on the first day of school. She’d announced that one of the school’s initiatives this year was to raise money for the Kids in Need Program, which helped educate children from disadvantaged backgrounds. It was no surprise that a busybody like Patty had pushed her way into a leadership role, but seeing Wali next to her, as if he belonged, made Ariana feel like her head was going to explode.

  “Are you really okay?” whispered Mariam. “You’re kind of turning purple.”

  “I’m fine,” growled Ariana, not recognizing her own voice.

  “Hey, Wali,” shouted a lanky boy as he entered the cafeteria. “See you at the court after school.”

  “Later,” Wali answered with a wave.

  “Wow. He seems to know everyone,” whispered Laila.

  Ariana glowered. “Just like his family, pushing their way in where they’re not wanted.”

  “It doesn’t look like he’s not wanted,” said Laila under her breath.

  Ariana shot Laila a look that would have sizzled a steak. “Whose side are you on?”

  “Don’t be silly, Ari,” said Mariam as Principal Chiu left. “Laila’s your cousin; of course she’s on your side.”

  Laila shot Mariam a grateful smile. Ariana stared at them, a sharp prick of hurt nicking her heart.

  “Do you guys want one?” asked a hesitant voice.

  Ariana tensed. She jerked her head back toward Wali, who’d extended a flyer toward her. Without thinking, she grabbed it, and then tore it up, the smooth lavender paper crumpling between her fingers. That feels good.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Patty said with a gasp as she and Yoojin looked on with horror.

  “I don’t want anything from you,” growled ­Ariana. All of a sudden the image of a squat, beady-eyed European green crab flashed before her, threatening the local species.