It’s the Fourth of July, and I’m doing my best to focus on my goal: trading the laptop.
I’m doing my best not to think about how tonight Baba will be alone in the apartment, waiting for iftar to end today’s fast all by himself.
We have barely exchanged words since our fight. When I stand by the door and break the quiet, it is like taking a hammer to stone. “I’m going,” I say. Not a question.
Baba does not answer. He just sits there on the toshak, his prayer beads in hand. It’s like he’s turning into a shadow.
“Well, bye,” I say, still standing there, waiting for a reaction.
“Be safe,” Baba murmurs, so soft I almost don’t hear it.
I nod and leave. He hadn’t insisted I stay, and his words of parting might even be considered permission. But the whole walk to the T, I feel like I am dragging my feet through deep sand.
I can’t stop thinking about Baba, even when I meet up with Dan and we catch our train.
“Come on—this is our stop,” Dan says, tugging my sleeve when the doors open. He jumps the gap between the train and platform.
I force myself to think about the trade. And I hurry after him.
We have to work hard to stay together in the crowded press of people all going the same way. Dan mutters impatiently, but I find it comforting. It is familiar, if nothing else. I know crowds—crowds of chatter and dust in the markets around Afghanistan and Greece and Turkey. Crowds can be dangerous. They were at home, and even here a crowd is what got the rebab stolen. But crowds make me feel invisible and protected by the bodies around me—even if they’re the bodies of sweaty and loud Americans.
We finally push through the turnstiles, and I see Layla and her family standing just outside the exit. She hops and shouts, “Sami! Sami! Dan! Sami! Dan!”
Dan looks around in the opposite direction, oblivious. I grab his shirt and turn him the right way, and we both head toward them. A tall man has Jared in a sort of baby-carrier backpack, and Mrs. Michele grins while she picks up a huge bag full of food and blankets. Two older boys are bent over a phone together, apparently playing a game.
“Hey, Dan, Sami,” Mrs. Michele says. “Thanks for meeting us here. This is Micah and Alex, Layla’s older brothers. And my husband, Ty.”
“Good to meet you.” Mr. Ty grins. When Mrs. Michele isn’t looking, he nods toward my heavy backpack and gives me a subtle thumbs-up. A knot of nerves settles in my stomach. I want to get the trade over with—prove to myself that I made the right decision in coming. But it’s not time. We need a moment without Mrs. Michele around.
“Hey,” says the oldest son, glancing up for two seconds.
“Hi,” says the other.
Mr. Ty nudges Micah’s shoulder. “Come on. Put that away. Let’s get moving before all the decent places are taken. Stay close!”
Layla sticks beside me and Dan while her parents lead the way, her brothers just behind them. “We aren’t going to the Oval, where the band plays. They have too many restrictions on stuff, plus we would have had to get here at like seven this morning to snag a good spot. We’ll find a place by the sailing pavilion and still be able to hear most of the music over the water and on the speakers.”
“Works for me,” Dan says.
“The concert starts at eight thirty,” she goes on, “and then fireworks at ten thirty. Until then, there’s plenty to do. We brought a beach ball, and my mom brought some hot dogs and burgers. You can do burgers, right, Sami? She made sure they’re halal.”
“Yeah, that’s fine.” I nod. “I just have to wait until sunset.”
“Right. That’s okay—but Jared will have to eat earlier.”
“Oh—you don’t have to wait for me to have dinner.” I edge around a couple too busy taking pictures to notice they are blocking the way. “I don’t mind—I’m used to it.”
“You sure?” she asks. She looks a lot like her mom when she makes that worried expression.
“Definitely.”
“Good, because I’m starving,” Dan cuts in, rubbing his stomach.
Layla rolls her eyes.
The whole park is covered by people—on blankets, in chairs, or just sitting on the grass. Someone is playing loud music on a speaker. I’ve heard the singer before—he seems to be the same one who’s always singing the type of song with long, low words that slur between notes.
“Is this Garth Brooks?” I ask Layla.
Dan turns to stare at me. “Um. No. It’s Rascal Flatts.”
Layla giggles. “Hey, they’re both country singers. He was close.”
“There’s more than one?” I feel sort of stupid. “I knew there was a woman and a man…”
Dan groans.
“He’s not wrong,” Layla puts in, elbowing Dan. “They all sound the same.”
Dan puts a hand against his forehead. “Never let my mom hear you say that.”
We find an empty stretch of grass along the Charles River, and Mr. Ty lays out a picnic blanket. Mrs. Michele helps smooth it out, and Layla’s brothers run off to some of their friends.
Mrs. Michele sits and opens the cooler. I barely hold in a sigh, taking a seat myself. The trade isn’t going to happen right away, it’s clear. The knot in my stomach just gets tighter and tighter.
“I’ll distract her,” Layla whispers, sitting beside me. She lifts her hand to wave. “Mrs. Johnson is over there, and once they get talking, they’ll never stop.”
Mrs. Johnson—a round-faced woman with curly hair—spots Layla and breaks into a grin. She comes over and calls, “Michele! How are you?”
Mrs. Michele gets to her feet, and the two hug. I glance aside at Mr. Ty, and he nods, reaching for his wallet. While the women talk, I push my backpack closer to Mr. Ty’s bag.
But suddenly a piece of their conversation breaks through my focus.
“Are you all going to do anything? Are there any presents you really want?”
“We’ll probably go out to dinner.” Mrs. Michele offers Mrs. Johnson a Coke. “And … I think what I want most would be for the boys to clean their rooms. Or maybe a new kettle…”
I freeze. Layla casts me an uncertain look.
Mr. Ty turns to the women. “And a laptop, right?”
“Oh!” Mrs. Michele smiles. “I forgot to tell you. I found a laptop today on Craigslist. It was a great deal, so I snatched it up!”
“Happy birthday to you,” Mrs. Johnson says with a laugh.
“What?” Layla exclaims.
Dan just gapes.
“Oh!” Mr. Ty forces a smile. “That’s great!”
My whole chest starts hurting.
“Yep,” Mrs. Michele says. “It’s really nice. I’ll show it to you when we get home.” Turning back to Mrs. Johnson, she asks about something to do with children. The words stop translating in my head.
While she’s distracted, Layla and Mr. Ty lean over to me.
Layla whispers something, but I have to concentrate to understand. “… so sorry.”
“I had no idea she was planning to do this,” Mr. Ty adds. I feel his gaze studying me, but I can’t look at any of them.
“It’s okay.” My voice says the words, but my lungs don’t want to fill with air. I rock to my feet—I have to get away from his concern and Dan’s frustration and Layla’s embarrassment. “It’s fine, really. I’m—ah—just going to walk around a little bit.”
I leave before they can answer. My mind turns circles, unwilling to accept this. I’ve come so far only to make a bad calculation on the trade I needed the most. I feel worse than I did with the first trade for the broken iPod. Not only do I still need $340—I used up $120 to buy the laptop and the battery, and that’s money I can’t get back.
Sneakers smack on the pavement behind me. “Sami—” Layla touches my elbow.
Dan comes to my other side. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I’m desperate to hide my disappointment. It wasn’t Layla’s fault, or Mr. Ty’s—I’m the one who made this mess. I try to breathe deeply. My body feels like it’s sinking into cold water. Instead of looking at them, I search our surroundings. “Hey, what’s that woman giving away?”
“Glow sticks. We should get some.” Layla’s voice sounds about as falsely happy as mine, but as long as we’re both pretending, it doesn’t have to be so bad.
“It’s not the end of the world,” Dan says suddenly. “So Layla’s dad can’t buy the laptop now. We just need to find someone else. I mean, we can list ours on Craigslist.”
“Sometimes listings on there are really funny,” Layla adds. “We could do something to make ours stand out … like, write it from the computer’s perspective!”
“I am computer,” Dan says in a robotic voice. “I need home.”
Layla laughs.
They keep spouting ideas while we get a few glow sticks. Layla shows me how to crack the tube to make it change from a muted color to a bright neon. She only does one, though, because she says the glow might fade out before it’s dark. I nod. Even though we have a new plan, my insides still feel like they’re drowning.
I wave the glow stick and force myself to smile.
“We’re going to sell the laptop, Sami,” Layla says.
“Yeah,” I reply, trying to make it sound like I actually agree. “It’ll all work out.”
But I have no idea how.