palms of his hands still hurt. Stavros touched a fresh bruise on his collarbone—Petros thought he had a similar bruise. No one apologized, but all agreed they didn’t like catching the sand ball when they’d thrown it so hard.
The boys walked without speaking. Petros thought through the short list of things they’d do when they reached the farm. Everything paled beside the game of sand ball.
“If only we had a kite,” Stavros said.
“If only,” Elia said. “But with what paper?”
Bumps rose on Petros’s arms.
Since the iceman had gone, there was no ice to be had. Mamas wrapped their cheese and meat in newspaper and hung the food in burlap sacks inside the well.
Petros had excellent paper, of course.
“We could steal the paper from the cheese,” Stavros said, “if there were cheese.” Stavros didn’t have a goat. This was the case before the war—Auntie didn’t like goats. But her family had always had cheese. Petros felt the shock of this news, but only for a moment.
Whether they seized on this idea—a kite needed a bigpiece of paper, the paper needed a frame, the frame needed a tail—or the idea seized them, it made the blood rush, it made them giddy with planning.
“Brown paper. There’s still brown paper,” Elia said, as if that settled the matter. It didn’t, for brown paper was among the many items people had begun to hoard.
Stavros said, “What good is a kite without a tail?”
“Money,” Elia said. “It’s worthless now.” He was right. The tail could be made from some of the useless drachmas Papa kept in boxes under his dresser. It pleased Petros to think of making a kite’s tail with the colorful paper money.
“String is hard to find,” Stavros said thoughtfully. “If we had a piece of rope …”
“That’s too heavy for a kite,” Petros said. The string had to be thin and light, and yet it must be strong.
“We might unravel the strands,” Elia said.
“Not strong enough then,” Petros said.
“A thinner rope, then,” Stavros said more insistently.
“So even if we have the tail,” Elia said, “we don’t have string.”
Stavros agreed. “A kite must have string. But it needs paper first.”
“If we had a genie’s lamp, we would have a kite with only one wish,” Elia said.
As they turned into the yard, Petros suddenly knew the perfect material for kite string. If only he could get at it. “I think you should stay for dinner,” he said to take Stavros’smind off the kite. “We’re having beans. If you stay, I won’t have to eat my full share.”
The boys pulled their slingshots out of their pockets and shot at cans. This was something to do until Mama called out to them, “Don’t shoot at my tomatoes.”
No one had injured a tomato, but Petros didn’t doubt it would happen now that Mama had shouted the likelihood into God’s ear. They put their slingshots back in their pockets and settled at the base of the well. They were friends again, and Petros could see that both Elia and Stavros were feeling better for it.
He thought he must be the only one with all they needed, and remained unwilling to tell them so. He hardly understood himself. Never had he kept a secret from Elia, and only rarely would he think of keeping one from Stavros.
He didn’t know if he’d keep quiet long or if this secret was going to want telling before the week was out.
chapter 27
That night, when the lights had been turned out all through the house, Zola sat on the edge of his bed so he wouldn’t fall asleep. Petros could see the shape of him in the moonlight.
This was the usual way he began a night of writing notes.
Petros pushed up on his elbow and said, “Are you going to be up all night?”
“Shah!”
“We have to stop—”
Zola swooped down on him. “Don’t talk about it,” he said. He put a hand on Petros’s chest that wasn’t gentle. “Now go to sleep.”
“All right,” Petros said.
Zola backed off to sit on the edge of his own bed
The boys walked without speaking. Petros thought through the short list of things they’d do when they reached the farm. Everything paled beside the game of sand ball.
“If only we had a kite,” Stavros said.
“If only,” Elia said. “But with what paper?”
Bumps rose on Petros’s arms.
Since the iceman had gone, there was no ice to be had. Mamas wrapped their cheese and meat in newspaper and hung the food in burlap sacks inside the well.
Petros had excellent paper, of course.
“We could steal the paper from the cheese,” Stavros said, “if there were cheese.” Stavros didn’t have a goat. This was the case before the war—Auntie didn’t like goats. But her family had always had cheese. Petros felt the shock of this news, but only for a moment.
Whether they seized on this idea—a kite needed a bigpiece of paper, the paper needed a frame, the frame needed a tail—or the idea seized them, it made the blood rush, it made them giddy with planning.
“Brown paper. There’s still brown paper,” Elia said, as if that settled the matter. It didn’t, for brown paper was among the many items people had begun to hoard.
Stavros said, “What good is a kite without a tail?”
“Money,” Elia said. “It’s worthless now.” He was right. The tail could be made from some of the useless drachmas Papa kept in boxes under his dresser. It pleased Petros to think of making a kite’s tail with the colorful paper money.
“String is hard to find,” Stavros said thoughtfully. “If we had a piece of rope …”
“That’s too heavy for a kite,” Petros said. The string had to be thin and light, and yet it must be strong.
“We might unravel the strands,” Elia said.
“Not strong enough then,” Petros said.
“A thinner rope, then,” Stavros said more insistently.
“So even if we have the tail,” Elia said, “we don’t have string.”
Stavros agreed. “A kite must have string. But it needs paper first.”
“If we had a genie’s lamp, we would have a kite with only one wish,” Elia said.
As they turned into the yard, Petros suddenly knew the perfect material for kite string. If only he could get at it. “I think you should stay for dinner,” he said to take Stavros’smind off the kite. “We’re having beans. If you stay, I won’t have to eat my full share.”
The boys pulled their slingshots out of their pockets and shot at cans. This was something to do until Mama called out to them, “Don’t shoot at my tomatoes.”
No one had injured a tomato, but Petros didn’t doubt it would happen now that Mama had shouted the likelihood into God’s ear. They put their slingshots back in their pockets and settled at the base of the well. They were friends again, and Petros could see that both Elia and Stavros were feeling better for it.
He thought he must be the only one with all they needed, and remained unwilling to tell them so. He hardly understood himself. Never had he kept a secret from Elia, and only rarely would he think of keeping one from Stavros.
He didn’t know if he’d keep quiet long or if this secret was going to want telling before the week was out.
chapter 27
That night, when the lights had been turned out all through the house, Zola sat on the edge of his bed so he wouldn’t fall asleep. Petros could see the shape of him in the moonlight.
This was the usual way he began a night of writing notes.
Petros pushed up on his elbow and said, “Are you going to be up all night?”
“Shah!”
“We have to stop—”
Zola swooped down on him. “Don’t talk about it,” he said. He put a hand on Petros’s chest that wasn’t gentle. “Now go to sleep.”
“All right,” Petros said.
Zola backed off to sit on the edge of his own bed
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