Free The Milk of Birds by Sylvia Whitman

her hair.
    I reach past my mother for the brush I bought with K. C.’s gift. Zeinab’s hair has matted like roots of grass below the ground. In Umm Jamila I never saw such a mess—even on an animal. Once someone said that my father’s sheep always looked dressed for a wedding, and I was pleased at the notice. The herd complained less than Meriem, who used to carry on at the slightest pull.
    Zeinab does not flinch.
    â€œSomeone needs to do this every day,” I say. Already I am thinking that when K. C.’s next gift comes, inshallah , I will buy this child a brush.
    â€œMy uncle does not know how to brush hair,” Zeinab whispers.
    Adeeba says to Hassan, “I am making the second kind of dictionary. I take a word in English and search for its Arabic sister.”
    â€œI will make the first kind then,” Hassan says, “where the word reveals its character.”
    Adeeba looks up. “Can you write?” she asks.
    â€œNo,” Hassan says.
    Adeeba snorts.
    â€œYou can teach me,” Hassan says to Adeeba. “Tata Nawra said you are a teacher.”
    Adeeba turns to me, and her eyes carry spears.

    Dear Nawra,
    Here it’s June, and I’m still reading your April letter. I wish I could fill up your jugs with clean water from our faucet. God knows we waste so much water—so much everything—here. My brother, Todd, takes these hour-long showers that steam up the whole upstairs. Mom calls him the Human Humidifier.
    I know that sometimes you can’t do anything but be with someone. My friend Chloe has an older brother who cuts himself. ON PURPOSE. It is so weird. He always wears long basketball shorts and pants, so nobody noticed for the longest time. Then one day Chloe spotted blood on the toilet seat, and she and her mom traced it to Nathan. He was carving a maze on his thigh. I think maybe he wanted somebody to see it, so that’s a good sign, right? Of course his parents flipped, and now the whole family goes to a counselor. I’m the only one in my class who knows about Nathan, and I haven’t told anyone, except my mom, which Chloe said was okay. Keeping this from Emily is hard, though.
    I wish Emily and Chloe liked each other more. Emily thinks Chloe’s a snob, but if she knew the whole story, she might change her mind. Chloe’s family is really rich—they’ve got a ski house AND a beach house AND a housekeeper, so even thoughher mom works, there aren’t piles of laundry all over the living room. People are always telling her, “Ooh, I wish I could have a balcony off my bedroom.” They don’t realize that Chloe’s dad has locked all the doors and windows on the second and third floors, ’cause he’s scared Nathan might jump.
    When I think of you and Nathan, I’d rather be you.
    Easy for me to say, right? Actually, at the moment I’d rather be me. Tomorrow is the last day of school! Good-bye, earth science and writing samples and the locker I have to thump shut with my fist! Adios, Hardston Middle! Hello, Washington-Jefferson-Lincoln-Lee High!
    That’s right—the principal just called Mom, and we have to go in for a meeting. I failed the writing part of the SOLs, and math of course, and we don’t know history and social studies or science yet, but Mom promised I’d retake them after I go to summer school.
    Again.
    Mrs. Clay is as disappointed as I am because she’s having a baby in August, and she was counting on me as a full-time mother’s helper, and now I can work only afternoons.
    â€œAs long as it doesn’t interfere with your homework,” Mom says.
    Summer and homework—it’s like ice cream with lima beans on top. Dad thinks Mom’s a homework Nazi, especially when I could be making money. I get very little sympathy from Emily, who’s all excited because she’s going to live in a college dorm for three weeks as part of this special summer camp