The White Zone by Carolyn Marsden Page A

Nothing.
    The whole block had been knocked down. Burned. Even his two-story tan building with the blue trim and narrow gate. Even the persimmon tree outside the kitchen window. And Mama’s jasmine bush. Masses of wilted bougainvillea lay over the fallen walls. The row of palm trees stood, but with blackened fronds.
    A group of American soldiers tramped through the rubble, talking quietly among themselves, their guns at their sides.
    Talib looked behind him. This couldn’t be his street! Baba must have taken a wrong turn.
    But Baba was crying out. He held both hands to his head and cried out.
    A cold hand gripped Talib’s heart. This
was
the right place. This
had
been his home.
    He would never live here again.
    â€œI’m going to find Nouri!” Talib shouted, turning away.
    â€œTalib! Stop!” Baba gripped his arm. “Nouri is in school.”
    â€œI’ll find him there!”
    â€œTalib!
Nouri
didn’t do this. . . .This wasn’t his fault.”
    â€œBut . . . but he . . .” Talib’s mind filled with a red fog.
    Baba held Talib tight until his hot sobs died away.
    Walking back to the bus, they came across a lump of burned cloth. Poking at it with his foot, Talib discovered the stars and stripes of an American flag.
    . . .
    Back on Mutanabbi Street, Talib—hands clenched— went again in search of Jabir. Jabir’s idea was wild. But it was the only idea left.
    At the sight of Talib, the older man shook his head at him. “He’s still not back.”
    â€œThank you, A’mmo,” Talib said, then turned away. Really, he didn’t need Jabir, after all. He already knew what to do.
    . . .
    When al-Shatri wasn’t looking, Talib grabbed one of the empty bottles from the collection. He smudged out the clean circle it left on the dusty floor and moved a bag of onions to cover the empty spot.
    He tucked the bottle into a spot between his mattress and the wall.
    . . .
    And yet, Talib still waited for Jabir. He didn’t want to get this wrong.
    He visualized making the bus ride all by himself. But he wondered if his arm was strong enough to throw the bottle far enough. And he worried that he might be seen.
    When he really thought about it, Talib was horrified by the idea of hurting or killing anyone. But sometimes he didn’t think about what would happen when the flaming bomb hit its target. He thought only of his joy in finally doing something, of the moment he would let the bomb fly.
    At last, on a day of cold wind and a bitingly blue sky, he caught sight of Jabir standing guard under the awning of the magazine stall. He wore a scarf wound up around his ears and he hunched against the chill. As Talib drew close, Jabir busied himself with rearranging the magazines.
    Talib flexed his fingers in his mittens. “I need help,” he said.
    â€œYou haven’t
done
anything yet?” Jabir asked, straightening a stack. “What are you, a little coward?”
    With the toe of his shoe, Talib shoved a pebble back and forth. “I just wanted to be sure of exactly what the . . . what it . . . you know, looks like.”
    Opening a magazine, Jabir took out a pen. He looked around. Then, over an advertisement for a sleek car with fins on the back, he sketched a bottle, drew wavy lines inside it, and then added the rag stopper. Finally, laughing, he drew a picture of a lighted match. Moving the magazine close to Talib, he said, “Throw it quickly so you don’t become a martyr.”
    â€œSome people choose to become martyrs,” said Talib.
    Jabir stared at him. “Are you ready for that?”
    â€œNot . . . no . . .” But Talib thought of how the martyr at Buratha had been a young boy like himself. Was he prepared for such a fate?
    â€œI have no money for the bus.”
    Jabir sighed, searched his pocket, and finally handed over some coins. Then he ripped out the magazine ad, crumpled the page, and tossed it away into the