Free Where the Streets Had a Name by Randa Abdel-Fattah Page A

refugee they took pity. I’m going to be trained. Proper training! With proper soccer boots and T-shirts and knee pads!’
    â€˜Knee pads?’ Samy’s eyes are as big as the saucers Mama uses to serve
mansaf
when we have guests over. ‘Huh! Liar.’
    â€˜I swear to God,
ya zalami
. And the trainer is from England with a proper accent and everything!’
    â€˜
Englizee?
’
    â€˜
Ya zalami
, he drinks more tea than we do!’
    â€˜Stop lying!’
    â€˜I promise on my mother’s grave. The foreigners came to Aida camp with an idea to help the kids and they saw we love to play soccer and decided to sponsor a team. It was just a tiny bit of their budget. And
wallah
, I swear by God, I would rather soccer than food. So do you want to play? Practise with me? We could do it every week. Every day, even!’
    Wasim’s been promoted to hero status. The two of them are boring me with their inane sports talk. I huff and puff, not caring in the least about soccer moves and famous players, but they’re oblivious.
    â€˜Where will you play?’ I ask, eventually conceding defeat and deciding to join their conversation.
    Wasim jumps up and punches the air. ‘In Italy!’
    Samy is clearly distressed. He stops, shuffles along and then stops again, grabbing Wasim’s arm. ‘Well, can’t you . . . ask them to let me play, too? I’m excellent! Hayaat, tell him how excellent I am. Tell him. Go on. Tell him!’
    â€˜He’s terrible,’ I say. In a split second I realise that if I don’t correct myself Samy will die. He’s losing his colouring and the oxygen doesn’t seem to be reaching his lungs.
    â€˜I’m only joking!’ I holler. Samy goes from an off-shade of vanilla to pinky-white again.
    â€˜I’ll see what can be managed,’ Wasim says in an important voice, straightening his back with pride. ‘Maybe you should practise with me for a while.’
    â€˜What about the coach?’
    â€˜We can play and then I’ll approach him about you.’
    â€˜What’s he like?’
    â€˜I’m his favourite. So I’m sure he’ll take my opinion. I’m the goalkeeper and I’m
momtaz
! The coach says so himself.’
    â€˜I thought you said he was
Englizee
?’ Samy says. ‘How is he calling you
momtaz
when he is a tea-drinking
Englizee
?’ Samy crosses his arms over his chest and frowns suspiciously at Wasim.
    Wasim is unperturbed. ‘They learn these words quickly,
ya zalami
. Ali, he is another member of the team, has taught the coach the word
homar
.’
    â€˜Why would you have a donkey on a team that is going to Italy?’ I ask, crossing my arms over my chest too.
    Wasim hits his forehead impatiently. ‘Oof! You’re both sending me to an early grave with your questions. We can’t all be
momtaz
all the time. Naturally there will be donkey moves now and then. The point is, I will have some influence with the coach to persuade him to let Samy join.’
    Samy uncrosses his arms and jumps in the air. ‘I’m going to Italy!’
    â€˜Influence because I am
momtaz
,’ Wasim adds as an afterthought.
    â€˜But you’re so short,’ I say.
    â€˜I may look small but I’m fast. That’s right,
ya zalami
, I’m fast.’
    â€˜I’m not a
zalami
.’
    â€˜
Ya sitti
.’
    â€˜I’m not a grandmother.’
    â€˜
Ya oghti
.’
    â€˜I’m not your sister.’
    â€˜You’re my sister in spirit and I will develop a kidney stone if you don’t let me finish!’
    â€˜Finish then,
ya zalami
.’
    He pauses and looks me in the eye, trying to decide what to make of my comment. Then he grins. ‘These legs are light and can run circles around the goal! I hear you. You think I’m too tiny to stop the ball. You think I’m exaggerating,’ I nod and he waves me silent, ‘but trust me,