One Half from the East by Nadia Hashimi Page A

you?”
    â€œOf course not . . . You know that. But is it just a story or is true? Do you know anyone who’s been changed by going under a rainbow?”
    Rahim shakes his head.
    â€œNo. But I think it’s true. Everyone knows the story. My mom and aunt heard it from their grandparents. Imagine how long ago their grandparents must have first learned about it—at least a hundred years ago. If it weren’t true, people wouldn’t still be talking about it. There are probably people we know who have done it but aren’t saying a thing about it. It’s not like you can tell by looking at a person.”
    â€œI don’t know. What made you come up with this idea?”
    Rahim looks at the ground.
    â€œI have this feeling . . . like something’s going to happen. My mother saw me playing in the street yesterday with the guys. We were just messing around, doing some karate moves, play wrestling. It wasn’t a big deal, just normal stuff. But my mother had this look on her face like I was running through the streets naked or something. She wouldn’t even talk to me when I went home.”
    â€œYou think she’s going to change you back.” I understand now why Rahim is digging up legends and looking for ways to save himself from being undone. My friend might talk tough, but at the end of the day, we both knowwe’re not in charge once we walk through our front doors and back into our homes. Everything changes then. We go from being kings of our own fates to children ruled by parents. And parents have good days and bad days, or moments when they’re not sure if they’re doing the right thing. Those doorways, they’re the opposite of a rainbow. They’re thick black nets across a blue sky.
    Rahim feels it now. His mother is looking at him differently. He needs to act before she does.
    I hear the slow roll of thunder in the distance. The sky has darkened without my noticing. Rahim takes a deep breath. Each drop of moisture catches a speck of dust, making the air just a little bit softer going through our lungs.
    The raindrops are fatter, heavy enough that I feel each drop as it hits my head, a tiny, cold tickle on my scalp before it slides down the back of my neck. Across the yard, I spy one girl as she peeks out from under the awning. She reaches her right hand out, palm up. She takes a step away from the shelter and into the yard, both palms to the sky. She turns her face upward and lets the rain fall on her cheeks, her eyelids, her lips. She sticks out the very tip of her tongue and her nose crinkles playfully. She looks incredibly happy, as if a few silly drops of rain might be the very best thing that’s ever happened to her.
    In that moment, I’m convinced. It’s time for us to chase down a rainbow.

Seventeen
    I can tell my sisters are awake when I hear them moving, coughing, or talking. With my father, it’s the opposite. He rarely makes a sound when he’s awake, but that’s not true when he’s sleeping. When his eyes are closed, his breathing turns into a rough, raspy snore. I bet our neighbor can count his breaths, since the courtyards outside our homes are separated only by the thin clay wall. She probably does, too. She’s really nosy. That’s her thing.
    I stand in the hallway knowing my father must be awake because all is quiet—I don’t even hear the sound of normal breathing. I picture him on his mattress, staring at the ceiling or at the family picture hung up on the wall. I inch closer to the doorway and peek in. My father is lyingon his side. His eyes are closed, but there’s no snoring.
    â€œPadar?” I whisper. I tread carefully, afraid of another outburst.
    His eyelids open as if he’d been waiting for me to speak.
    â€œYes, my son.”
    I can tell he’s not upset with me today. Relieved, I step into the room and sit in a wooden chair with a fabric seat. My mother sits in this