Taxis honked. One slid past me, skimming my side as I tried to dodge traffic in a busy intersection. I cursed myself for choosing to cross here, in front of so many cars. I felt a million eyes on me, eyes that might notice something was not right about this adolescent boy. Didn’t I look frightened—like I was running away from something? Did they see that my chest seemed to swell where a girl’s might?
I had done my best to tie down my breasts with a head scarf but it was harder now than it had been a few years ago. Having Jahangir had thickened me with curves that were more difficult to disguise.
“Hey, bacha! Watch where you’re going!” a man yelled through the driver’s-side window of the taxi, a cigarette between his fingers as he waved at me angrily.
Without a pause in my step, I raised an apologetic hand, silently thankful to know my disguise was working. Funny how easily I slipped back into this person, how comfortable I felt even though my nerves were on fire.
My sandals slapped against the dusty road, my legs free in the pants, a loose tunic covering my curved rear.
It had been nearly eleven o’clock when I left the hotel. That felt like a year ago, though it couldn’t have been more than twenty or thirty minutes. A bus came up ahead, slowing near a crowd of people and honking an awkward tune. Maybe that was the one. I looked for signs, turning my head and suddenly feeling my legs weaken.
A black SUV slowed as it approached, only half a block away.
I felt exposed even in the crowded street, wondering if I’d been spotted. If I hadn’t been, running now might draw attention.
The driver slowly rolled down the tinted window and I let out a soft moan of panic.
But it was a face I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t Abdul Khaliq’s car.
Regrouping quickly, I pushed my way through and reached the crowd of people clamoring to board the white and blue bus.
“Is this the bus to Wazir Akbar Khan?”
No one turned around.
“Agha, is this the bus to Wazir Akbar Khan?” I asked again, louder. I tried to deepen my voice, to hide my feminine tone.
A man turned around, annoyed. He wore a button-down shirt over slacks and held a briefcase in his hand.
“Yes, it is! Hurry up and get on if you’re coming,” he said. He and another man tried to squeeze through the bus door at the same time, each hoping to get a square of standing space.
With my head down, I managed to slip onto the bus behind two men. I waited for the bus driver to notice and shout, but he didn’t. I wiggled my way to the back of the bus, as far from the driver as possible. Looking around, there was not a single woman on the bus. I felt my face flush at being surrounded, so closely, by so many men. I kept my elbows close to my chest and cringed when the bus’s movements pushed a body against mine. I craned my neck to see between the chests and arms. I hoped I would recognize my stop.
The bus will stop on a road lined with shops. Look for a beauty shop between an electronics store and a food vendor. Usually there’s a man with a long beard and half an arm standing around there begging for money.
It was a long ride to Wazir Akbar Khan. Beads of sweat slid down my neck. My nerves were just starting to settle as the bus put distance between me and the hotel—between me and Abdul Khaliq’s guards.
I was supposed to be there at twelve. I had meant to leave the hotel earlier but Badriya had taken her time that morning, putting the whole plan in jeopardy.
Wazir Akbar Khan was a neighborhood to the north of the city, a suburb that was home to many embassies and foreign workers. The streets were wider than they were in the part of Kabul I had seen. Two-story buildings lined the road. I tried not to look as nervous and lost as I felt.
The bus slowed. Pharmacy of Wazir Akbar Khan, read the sign on a building.
This is it, I thought, and snaked through the crowd to get off before the bus resumed its course.
I recognized no one and didn’t notice any suspicious stares. I turned my attention to the shops, looking for the landmarks I’d been given. One storefront had crates outside, boxes of detergent, household supplies. There was a butcher shop. There was everything except what I was looking for.
I turned down another street but saw only houses. Beautiful houses that put Abdul Khaliq’s estate to shame. They were new buildings with modern façades that I didn’t have time to take in. Minutes were ticking by and I might miss this opportunity.
I worked up the nerve to ask someone, steeling my voice an octave below in disguise.
“Agha-sahib? Agha—”
“For God’s sake, boy, I don’t have any money to give!” the man said, and kept on moving.
I looked for someone else to ask.
A woman walked by. I wanted to approach her but my tongue froze when I saw the little boy, probably three or four years old, holding her hand tightly. He pointed at a car in the street and looked up to see if his mother noticed. She nodded and said something that made him giggle with delight.
Jahangir, I thought, my chest tight.
The woman was gone before I recovered. I walked further down the street, blinking away tears. I stood in front of a shop window, a clock catching my eye and sending me into a panic.
One o’clock. My pulse quickened. If I was too late, this could all fall apart. I would have risked everything for nothing. What would become of me?
My eyes moved from the clock to a flyer hung on the storefront.
Visit Shekiba’s Beauty Shop, Sarai Shahzada. Weddings and all occasions.
That must be it! I thought. Shekiba.
I closed my eyes, reenergized by the shop’s name. It was as if a hand was holding mine, guiding me. I read the flyer again.
Sarai Shahzada. I was sure I’d seen a sign with that street name and traced my steps back. Two lefts and I was there again, concrete sidewalks and trees giving it a clean, welcoming appeal. Within minutes, I had found the beauty shop, sandwiched between an electronics shop and a store with crates of fruits and vegetables outside.
Shekiba’s Beauty Shop.
As I had been instructed, I looked directly across from it and spotted a teahouse.
I hope I’m not too late.
I dodged oncoming cars again and crossed the street, trying to see through the shop’s glass front. The door handle rattled in my hand. I took a deep breath and hoped I didn’t look too crazed to the people inside.
I spotted her immediately, her soft bangs peeking out from beneath her gray and plum head scarf. Her eyes were on the door and looking just as nervous as mine. When she recognized me, her hand flew to cover her open mouth. She stood up.
I wove through the tables, the Afghans speaking English, the foreigners drinking cardamom-infused green tea.
“You made it!” she whispered when I approached her table.
“Yes, Ms. Franklin,” I said, and collapsed into the chair.