Read When Skateboards Will Be Free for Free Online Page B

lawn tothe next, discovering new things as we went, until the entire campus had been traversed. Everything was silent and still. No adult was ever sighted. We frolicked unobserved. “Let’s go climb the tree behind the library,” Frankie might suggest, and off we would go. If the sun grew too hot, we took sanctuary inside the dormitories and ran wild through the empty lobbies and lounges. Occasionally we broke things, like a vending machine, and would slink away, covering our tracks as best we could. We were always the first in line for lunch, crowding impatiently at the entrance to the cafeteria as the comrades began trickling back from their morning sessions. When we were finally allowed in, we rushed rudely ahead of everyone to load our trays with goodies, going back for seconds and thirds, becoming so stuffed that we had no choice but to leave behind entire plates of uneaten spaghetti and pie.
    When lunch was over, the comrades congregated on the lawn to play a few minutes of volleyball before the afternoon meetings began.
    “Hey, kids, let’s sing a song,” said a comrade with a guitar.
    And we gathered around on the grass as the man sang, “I’m tired of the boss exploiting me. I’m tired of being oppressed.” His voice deep and loud, his fingers moving up and down the guitar.
    “I’m tired of the boss exploiting me,” we sang along. “I’m tired of being oppressed.”
    Then the comrade asked us to suggest someone else whoexploited and oppressed us, and as he strummed the notes we all thought long and hard but couldn’t come up with anyone.
    “Come on, guys, I know you can think of someone.”
    “Teacher,” a girl finally offered, and we all agreed, but the comrade said that was wrong, that the teacher was a worker too and just as exploited as anybody. So no one knew what to say. It was apparent that the comrade was growing frustrated, and finally he said, “Landlord.” And so we all sang, “I’m tired of the landlord exploiting me. I’m tired of being oppressed.”
    One evening, toward the end of the week, my sister came and found me, and together we walked hand in hand to the cafeteria on the other side of campus, where my father ate his meals. Our pace was rapid and focused, and I rushed to tell her about my many adventures from the week.
    “Hey, Jamileh,” a comrade called out, “is that your little brother? I didn’t know you had a little brother.”
    Along the way we passed a small table covered with pamphlets and surrounded by sad men who had been expelled from the party years ago. “Those are not comrades,” my mother had once scolded me when I had gone over to their table to say hi. “They’re here to cause problems.”
    “The revolution needs a revolutionary party,” the men said to my sister imploringly, coming toward her with their pamphlets outstretched. “The revolution needs …”
    But my sister ignored them and put her arm around my shoulder and steered me away.
    At dinner I was exceedingly polite. I sat bolt upright in my chair, ate in moderation, and tried not to spill anything. I also made sure to say please and thank you.
    “Hey, old man,” my brother shouted to my father with a joking familiarity that frightened me, “can you hand over the salt and pepper shakers?”
    “Yass, yass,” my father said, his long arm reaching from far away.
    “Yass, yass,” my brother said, imitating his accent.
    “Yass, yass,” my sister said.
    As the meal progressed, the table grew wild with a carnival of voices that contended for my father’s attention. There was something kingly about the way he sat there, a friendly king, his hands laying flat on the table as he listened respectfully to the Iranian comrades who had pulled up a chair to discuss the Shah. They spoke in Persian first, and then in English, so that American comrades could also offer their views. And then my brother and sister, who had now affected a cultured, sophisticated air, took out their notebooks and