Free Saving Kabul Corner by N. H. Senzai

Ariana. One crying person was hard to handle. Two would be way too much.
    â€œYeah, I’m okay,” said Mariam, squeezing Laila’s hand. “Like Nasreen Khala said, your dad will be back on his feet in no time.”
    â€œI want to go home,” Laila said in a strangled whisper.
    Ariana leaned forward in surprise. “You want to go back to Afghanistan? But it’s so dangerous—you couldn’t even go to school.”
    â€œOur house is there,” whispered Laila. “I miss my room; our garden; my best friend, Saima; and the ice cream vendor who always saved me my favorite ­flavor—mango.”
    Ariana was speechless. Laila didn’t want to leave Afghanistan . She’d assumed that her cousin had wanted to move to America, since Uncle Hamza had such a dangerous job that put his life in danger. Translators like him, and their families, were allowed to immigrate to the United States, so that’s how Laila and her mother had come. Uncle Hamza was supposed to follow in December. As Ariana remembered the times she’d wished that her cousins hadn’t come, an uncomfortable sensation of guilt lodged near her heart.
    Laila fumbled to open the gold filigreed pendant that hung from her neck, and held it out. Tucked on one side was a tiny picture of Laila and her father, sitting in the garden of their old house in Kabul. The other side held a picture of a boy, a little younger than Zayd, a mischievous smile on his lips, and deep, sea-green eyes.
    â€œWho’s that?” asked Mariam, pointing to the boy.
    â€œLawang,” whispered Laila. “He was my brother.”
    â€œWas?” said Ariana, her eyes wide.
    â€œHe died two years ago,” said Laila, blinking back a fresh round of tears.
    â€œHow?” Mariam gasped.
    â€œHe came back from school one day with a fever. But it kept getting worse,” explained Laila. “He lost his appetite and had severe headaches, so my father took him to the hospital. Within a week he was gone.”
    Ariana gripped the side of the table as she remembered a conversation between Hava Bibi and her mother last year. They had been speaking mainly in Pukhto, and Ariana had strained to hear the hushed, worried conversation. All she’d picked up was that someone’s son had died in Kabul. At the time she’d felt sympathy for the boy’s death, but since she didn’t know who it was, she had soon forgotten about it.
    â€œWhat was wrong with him?” asked Mariam.
    â€œThey never found out,” said Laila, her face stiff.
    â€œWhy not?” whispered Ariana, her throat tight, not understanding how one minute you could have a fever and then the next minute be dead.
    Laila looked at Ariana with eyes that seemed far older than her thirteen years. “That’s how it is in Afghanistan, Ariana jaan . The hospitals are not equipped to deal with serious illness. People die all the time, especially kids.”
    As Ariana stared at Lawang’s portrait, she remembered Laila hugging and kissing Omar and Hasan. They probably reminded her of Lawang. It dawned on Ariana that she’d been so lost in the resentment of having a perfect cousin invade her life that she knew practically nothing about Laila.
    Suddenly Laila reached over and grabbed Ariana’s arm, staring at her intently. “I’m so sorry, Ariana, but I was so jealous of you,” she whispered.
    â€œWhat?” mumbled Ariana, further taken aback.
    Laila twisted her kameez in her hands and shifted her gaze. “When I arrived, all I could think of was how lucky you were,” she whispered. “You had a wonderful home, a loving family, and a best friend who would do anything for you.”
    Ariana sat, speechless, as shame settled over her like a thick layer of jam—sticky and uncomfortable. ­Ariana had been so busy envying the attention Laila was getting that she hadn’t once thought about how Laila