Free The Turtle of Oman by Naomi Shihab Nye Page B

yours.” He patted Sidi’s quilt.
    Sidi sat down on his bed, smiling.
    Aref opened a drawer in the small wooden table between the beds and pulled out a flashlight, clicking it on and off. A kerosene lantern on the table flickered softly. Their huge shadows danced on the tent walls.
    â€œI like a bed inside a tent,” said Aref. “It seems better than a bed in a house. Why don’t we live in tents all the time?”
    â€œGood idea,” Sidi said. “When you come back from the United States, we’ll both turn into Bedouins.”
    â€œWe’ll change our names.”
    â€œWe’ll change everything.”
    â€œWe’ll cook soup in a big pot over a fire.”
    â€œWe’ll learn how to play the guitar.”
    â€œWhen I get old enough to drive the jeep, we’ll travel back here and ride camels instead. You can sit on the suitcase.”
    They climbed into their beds. Aref blew out the lamp.
    Sidi snored.

Sidi the Sphinx

    I n the morning, very loud desert birds were chattering wildly in the skinny tree branches right outside the tent. Birds did not talk that loudly in Muscat.
    Aref wanted to take a shower in the bathroom without a roof. The water was so cold, he screamed like a hyena. His shower was extremely short. He ran back to the tent wrapped in a towel to get dressed.
    â€œWhy were those birds so noisy?” he asked Sidi as he shivered inside the towel.
    â€œThey were cheering for morning.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œThey like it.”
    Aref pulled on his sweatshirt from school—thank goodness he had brought it. They stepped out of the tent onto the small platform, then the sand. The desert air was surprisingly cold. “Give me your hand!” Sidi said. “My legs are so stiff! I am becoming a Pyramid. No, more like a Sphinx. Or let me lean on your shoulder—here—ow—I think I got a leg cramp from standing up crookedly this morning.”
    It was harder to walk on drifty sand than on pavement, if you weren’t used to it. Desert sand wasn’t packed hard, like sand at the beach.
    â€œWhat are we going to do now?” Aref asked. He felt like running or doing a cartwheel.
    Sidi raised both his arms high in the air. “Here, please join me in exercise,” he said. “I am doing my morning stretches. They are keeping me flexible and young.”
    Aref copied him. Sidi began moving his arms in high circles like a windmill and Aref did the same. They tipped their heads from side to side, stretching their necks. “Ahh, doesn’t that feel better?” Sidi asked.
    They walked back over to the green metal tables and chairs in the camp’s dining area and Naveed greeted them. “Uncle! Good morning! Would you prefer coffee or tea?”
    Aref thought it was funny how he called Sidi “uncle.”
    â€œCan I run for a minute?” he asked.
    â€œYou can run for ten!” So Aref took off, making a big looping circle out into the pliant sand and looking back on the camp. He saw Sidi pointing to another line of camels crossing the top of a distant brown sand dune. Aref counted them—seven. The camels looked straight ahead when they walked. This group had only one shepherd, not two. Where were they going? They weren’t headed to Muscat, that was for sure. They were headed in the other direction. To Yemen, maybe.
    They sat back down at the same round metal table and ate the scrambled eggs, which tasted delicious even to Aref, and flat bread and watermelon chunks that Naveed served them.
    â€œYou are a magician, brother!” Sidi said to Naveed.
    â€œI like eggs now,” said Aref.
    They pitched little breadcrumbs to a hopping bird with black-and-white polka-dotted wings. Naveed was making coffee for Sidi in an old-fashioned fancy metal pot over the fire. The English people had disappeared.
    â€œThey went looking for birds very early,” Naveed said. “I sent them to the stone ridge