Read One Half from the East for Free Online Page B

still on the ground.

Seven
    I carefully tear the last page from my composition notebook and write the letters out.
    W - I - Z - A - R - D - S .
    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.
    â€œNeela, can you read this word?”
    She looks grateful for an excuse to prop the broom against the wall.
    â€œWhich 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’sgone 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.
    â€œIf you don’t know, don’t make something up,” I warn.
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œNowhere,” 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.”
    â€œYou’re acting weird,” my sister tells me.
    â€œNot 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.
    â€œObayd!” she calls out.
    I sit up straight. “Yes?”
    â€œCome 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.
    â€œThere 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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œSpeak 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.
    â€œIf 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.
    â€œClass, 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?
    â€œObayd, 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.
    â€œForgive me,