Read One Half from the East for Free Online

my pace and move closer to the school building.
    â€œStop!”
    I make a quick left and dart into the building, dashinginto the hallway and ducking behind a column wide enough to hide me. I’m panting, and my breaths are loud in the quiet of the empty school. I wait to hear the sound of the door opening, to hear the boy’s footsteps in the hallway and for him to find me.
    Today he doesn’t, but tomorrow—a nervous girl’s voice in my head warns me—he will.

Six
    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.
    â€œObayd. 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.
    â€œYes, 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.
    â€œIf you’re not going to pay attention, do you see anypurpose in sitting in my classroom?” I hang my head, knowing a classroom full of eyeballs are on me.
    â€œForgive me, Moallim-sahib .”
    â€œCan you give the answer to the problem?”
    I cannot. She has both hands on her hips, her mouth turned in a deep frown.
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œYes, 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 banditstrying 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.
    â€œWhat’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.
    â€œHey, 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.
    â€œAre 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.
    â€œI 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, acollage of