Free The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini Page B

idea what was milling around
     in his head? I was the one who went to school, the one who could read, write. I was the smart one. Hassan couldn’t read a
     first-grade textbook but he’d read me plenty. That was a little unsettling, but also sort of comfortable to have someone who
     always knew what you needed.
    “No monster,” I said, feeling a little better, to my own surprise.
    He smiled. “No monster.”
    “Are you sure?”
    He closed his eyes. Nodded.
    I looked to the kids scampering down the street, flinging snowballs. “It is a beautiful day, isn’t it?”
    “Let’s fly,” he said.
    It occurred to me then that maybe Hassan had made up his dream. Was that possible? I decided it wasn’t. Hassan wasn’t that
     smart. I wasn’t that smart. But made up or not, the silly dream had lifted some of my anxiety. Maybe I should take off my shirt, take a swim in the lake.
    Why not?
    “Let’s do it,” I said.
    Hassan’s face brightened. “Good,” he said. He lifted our kite, red with yellow borders, and, just beneath where the central
     and cross spars met, marked with Saifo’s unmistakable signature. He licked his finger and held it up, tested the wind, then
     ran in its direction—on those rare occasions we flew kites in the summer, he’d kick up dust to see which way the wind blew
     it. The spool rolled in my hands until Hassan stopped, about fifty feet away. He held the kite high over his head, like an
     Olympic athlete showing his gold medal. I jerked the string twice, our usual signal, and Hassan tossed the kite.
    Caught between Baba and the mullahs at school, I still hadn’t made up my mind about God. But when a Koran ayat I had learned in my diniyat class rose to my lips, I muttered it. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and pulled on the string. Within a minute, my kite was
     rocketing to the sky. It made a sound like a paper bird flapping its wings. Hassan clapped his hands, whistled, and ran back
     to me. I handed him the spool, holding on to the string, and he spun it quickly to roll the loose string back on.
    At least two dozen kites already hung in the sky, like paper sharks roaming for prey. Within an hour, the number doubled,
     and red, blue, and yellow kites glided and spun in the sky. A cold breeze wafted through my hair. The wind was perfect for
     kite flying, blowing just hard enough to give some lift, make the sweeps easier. Next to me, Hassan held the spool, his hands
     already bloodied by the string.
    Soon, the cutting started and the first of the defeated kites whirled out of control. They fell from the sky like shooting
     stars with brilliant, rippling tails, showering the neighborhoods below with prizes for the kite runners. I could hear the
     runners now, hollering as they ran the streets. Someone shouted reports of a fight breaking out two streets down.
    I kept stealing glances at Baba sitting with Rahim Khan on the roof, wondered what he was thinking. Was he cheering for me?
     Or did a part of him enjoy watching me fail? That was the thing about kite flying: Your mind drifted with the kite.
    They were coming down all over the place now, the kites, and I was still flying. I was still flying. My eyes kept wandering
     over to Baba, bundled up in his wool sweater. Was he surprised I had lasted as long as I had? You don’t keep your eyes to the sky, you won’t last much longer. I snapped my gaze back to the sky. A red kite was closing in on me—I’d caught it just in time. I tangled a bit with it, ended
     up besting him when he became impatient and tried to cut me from below.
    Up and down the streets, kite runners were returning triumphantly, their captured kites held high. They showed them off to
     their parents, their friends. But they all knew the best was yet to come. The biggest prize of all was still flying. I sliced
     a bright yellow kite with a coiled white tail. It cost me another gash on the index finger and blood trickled down into my
     palm. I had Hassan hold the string and