Free The Milk of Birds by Sylvia Whitman Page A

where they make shampoo from scratch and reinvent the United Nations and whatever else you do when you’re gifted and talented instead of brainless and clueless.
    Meanwhile I have two weeks when I don’t have to worry about equations or run-on sentences or anything except which kind of jam to spread on my toast. Tomorrow Dad is driving me and Emily to the really good mall, and we’re going to look for more cool stationery!
    Plus, I’m going to spend a lot of time with Wally, probably most of it in his neighborhood pool. All the pregnant women come out of hiding in the summer. I try not to stare at them in their bathing suits, but their bodies are so cool. Mrs. Clay lets me feel her stomach. The first time I was shocked: I was expecting squishy, like fat, but it was hard as a bowling ball! Sometimes when the baby’s kicking, you can see her tiny feet under the skin. Unless the sonogram missed something, Wally’s going to have a little sister. I call her Abby Whompback because at this rate she’s going to be a great soccer player.
    I can’t wait to have kids. Of course when I say that, my mom always says, “You can wait—you better wait!”
    She doesn’t have to worry. I don’t even have a boyfriend. Do you—did you, before? Is it okay to talk about all this, Nawra? I don’t want to burden you with my happiness.
    Love, K. C.

Nawra
    J ULY 2008
    Tonight Hassan brings a square of paper.
    â€œWhere did you get that?” Adeeba asks.
    â€œFrom the clinic,” he says.
    Adeeba takes the paper and turns it over. It is white, with only a little printing on the top on one side. “Did you steal this?” she asks.
    â€œStealing is haram ,” Hassan says. “One with plastic fingers gave it to me.”
    â€œWhat were you doing with the nurse?” Adeeba demands. “If you are sick, you must stay away from Tata Nawra.”
    Adeeba guards me as I once did my goats.
    Hassan says, “The khawaja said any child who does not have a card must go to the clinic. A van came from many miles with a special medicine to keep away the disease of the dots.”
    â€œMeasles,” Adeeba says.
    â€œThe khawaja said if we did not take the medicine, we would burn with fever and our eyes would scream in the light,” Hassan says. “I told my uncle.”
    â€œWhat did he say?”
    â€œHe does not like the khawaja because they interfere in the market. But I am a believer,” Hassan says, “and the believer is trustful of others.”
    â€œWho told you that?” Adeeba asks.
    â€œMy father,” Hassan says.
    Zeinab shivers by my side.
    Adeeba studies him. “Did the shot hurt?” she asks.
    â€œYes,” Hassan says, “but I did not cry. Zeinab did, a little. All the babies were crying. Many cried as they got near the table, but I was glad.”
    â€œWhy?” Adeeba asks.
    â€œThe needle was fast and interesting, so I preferred it to the line, which was slow and boring. Do you know they carry the medicine in blue chests, to keep it cold?”
    â€œWho told you?” Adeeba asks.
    â€œI asked,” Hassan says. “When the khawaja opened a chest, they moved very fast.”
    â€œA woman fell to the ground,” Zeinab whispers.
    â€œShe was not dead,” Hassan says. “Just too hot.”
    â€œThey should have put her in a chest,” I say.
    â€œThe medicine was more important,” Hassan says.
    â€œYou are a good reporter,” Adeeba says. “Maybe when you grow up, you will write for a newspaper.” She holds her words. “But it is safer to be a farmer.”
    I say, “There you are mistaken, my friend.”
    I look to my mother, but she is not with us. In body, yes, but memories plug her ears.
    â€œYou must go,” Adeeba says to the children.
    â€œHow can I be a reporter if I cannot write words?” Hassan asks.
    â€œEven a reporter cannot write in the