asked.
Parvana picked up the small book with the paper cover. “It’s in English,” she said, pointing at the letters.
“You know some English,” Leila urged. “Tell us what it says.”
Parvana’s English was not very good, and she had to concentrate, which was hard. Her brain had that sluggish feeling it always got when she was hungry. She sounded out the words the way her father had taught her, then translated them.
“To Kill a Mockingbird,” she said slowly.
“What’s a mockingbird?” Asif asked.
Parvana didn’t know. “It’s like a...a chicken,” she said. “This book is about killing chickens.”
“That’s dumb,” Asif said. “Why would anyone write a whole book about killing chickens?”
“There are lots of ways to kill a pigeon,” Leila said. “Maybe there are lots of ways to kill a chicken. Maybe it’s a book that tells us the best way to kill a chicken. Or maybe it’s about what to do with a chicken once it’s been killed. You know, different ways to cook it.”
“I like it cooked over the fire the best,” Asif said. “Remember the chicken we stole?” he asked Parvana. “That was delicious.”
Parvana agreed. That had been a particularly good meal.
“My mother used to make a stew with chicken,” she said. “She made it for my birthday once, back when we lived in a whole house with lots of rooms. We had a party. Even Nooria was nice that day.” More out of habit than hope, Parvana quickly looked around in case her mother was coming.
“Do you suppose the book tastes like chicken?” Leila asked.
“No, I wouldn’t think so,” Parvana said.
“It probably does,” Asif said. “She’s probably keeping it all for herself. She’s mean like that.”
“Parvana’s not mean,” Leila insisted, which was the first nice thing she had said about Parvana since the bombing. “If that book was good to eat, she’d share it with us.”
“She’s meaner than an old goat,” Asif insisted.
“Oh, here, see for yourselves!” Parvana tore some pages out of the mockingbird book and handed them out.
“What about you?” Leila asked. “You must be hungry, too.”
Parvana tore a page out for herself and one for Hassan, but Hassan was getting that floppy-baby look again and wasn’t interested.
“What are we waiting for?” Parvana asked. She bit into the page, tearing a chunk off with her teeth. The others did the same.
The book didn’t taste like chicken. It didn’t taste like anything, but it was something to chew on, and each child ate another page after they finished the first.
“Where do we go from here?” Asif asked.
“Someone else decide,” Parvana said, stretching out on the ground. “I’m tired of being the leader.”
“If it doesn’t matter where we go, why don’t we follow the stream?” Leila suggested. “At least we’ll have something to drink that way.”
Parvana sat up and looked at the girl with admiration. “At least one of us is thinking,” she said.
“I was just going to suggest that,” Asif insisted.
The children looked up and down the stream. “There are some trees up this way,” Asif said. “Maybe we’ll find something to eat.”
It was good to have a plan, even a small one, so the children headed off again.
SEVENTEEN
The bombing continued night after night. Sometimes it was far away, sometimes a little closer, but always, when darkness fell, thunder sounds rolled across the sky.
“Who is under the bombs?” Leila asked one night. All four children were huddled together under the one blanket. The two youngest ones were in the middle where it was warmer. Parvana had the old rocks-in-the-back problem, but moving herself would have meant moving all four of them. Asif and Hassan were sleeping.
“Parvana, who’s under the bombs?” Leila asked again.
“I don’t know,” Parvana whispered back. “People like us, I guess.”
“Why do the bombs want to kill them?”
“Bombs are just machines,” Parvana said. “They
Parvana picked up the small book with the paper cover. “It’s in English,” she said, pointing at the letters.
“You know some English,” Leila urged. “Tell us what it says.”
Parvana’s English was not very good, and she had to concentrate, which was hard. Her brain had that sluggish feeling it always got when she was hungry. She sounded out the words the way her father had taught her, then translated them.
“To Kill a Mockingbird,” she said slowly.
“What’s a mockingbird?” Asif asked.
Parvana didn’t know. “It’s like a...a chicken,” she said. “This book is about killing chickens.”
“That’s dumb,” Asif said. “Why would anyone write a whole book about killing chickens?”
“There are lots of ways to kill a pigeon,” Leila said. “Maybe there are lots of ways to kill a chicken. Maybe it’s a book that tells us the best way to kill a chicken. Or maybe it’s about what to do with a chicken once it’s been killed. You know, different ways to cook it.”
“I like it cooked over the fire the best,” Asif said. “Remember the chicken we stole?” he asked Parvana. “That was delicious.”
Parvana agreed. That had been a particularly good meal.
“My mother used to make a stew with chicken,” she said. “She made it for my birthday once, back when we lived in a whole house with lots of rooms. We had a party. Even Nooria was nice that day.” More out of habit than hope, Parvana quickly looked around in case her mother was coming.
“Do you suppose the book tastes like chicken?” Leila asked.
“No, I wouldn’t think so,” Parvana said.
“It probably does,” Asif said. “She’s probably keeping it all for herself. She’s mean like that.”
“Parvana’s not mean,” Leila insisted, which was the first nice thing she had said about Parvana since the bombing. “If that book was good to eat, she’d share it with us.”
“She’s meaner than an old goat,” Asif insisted.
“Oh, here, see for yourselves!” Parvana tore some pages out of the mockingbird book and handed them out.
“What about you?” Leila asked. “You must be hungry, too.”
Parvana tore a page out for herself and one for Hassan, but Hassan was getting that floppy-baby look again and wasn’t interested.
“What are we waiting for?” Parvana asked. She bit into the page, tearing a chunk off with her teeth. The others did the same.
The book didn’t taste like chicken. It didn’t taste like anything, but it was something to chew on, and each child ate another page after they finished the first.
“Where do we go from here?” Asif asked.
“Someone else decide,” Parvana said, stretching out on the ground. “I’m tired of being the leader.”
“If it doesn’t matter where we go, why don’t we follow the stream?” Leila suggested. “At least we’ll have something to drink that way.”
Parvana sat up and looked at the girl with admiration. “At least one of us is thinking,” she said.
“I was just going to suggest that,” Asif insisted.
The children looked up and down the stream. “There are some trees up this way,” Asif said. “Maybe we’ll find something to eat.”
It was good to have a plan, even a small one, so the children headed off again.
SEVENTEEN
The bombing continued night after night. Sometimes it was far away, sometimes a little closer, but always, when darkness fell, thunder sounds rolled across the sky.
“Who is under the bombs?” Leila asked one night. All four children were huddled together under the one blanket. The two youngest ones were in the middle where it was warmer. Parvana had the old rocks-in-the-back problem, but moving herself would have meant moving all four of them. Asif and Hassan were sleeping.
“Parvana, who’s under the bombs?” Leila asked again.
“I don’t know,” Parvana whispered back. “People like us, I guess.”
“Why do the bombs want to kill them?”
“Bombs are just machines,” Parvana said. “They
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