Flashes of War. Katey Schultz

think she’s foolish,” Hadir says. “She shouldn’t even be teaching. She should be at home. There’s a reason women are safest at home.”

      “But aren’t you grateful?” I ask. “At least we have someone to teach us.”

      Hadir glares at me. “Grateful? Easy for you to say.” He dashes across the school grounds to teach the others more of his soccer smarts. I watch for a few moments as they dart back and forth, the smallest boys tripping over the ball, tumbling in the dust. I should help, but something in me turns sour and I tell the schoolmaster I’m ill, air settling in my throat like paste. He lets me go indoors to rest out of the sun.

      Without any students inside, the classroom feels suspicious, as though this is how it will look if a giant bomb ever takes our city. The teacher sits at her desk, shoulders curled inward, hands trembling like they’re holding a secret. I can hear the way she breathes, as quick and shallow as a shrew. Maybe Hadir was right. Why do we bother with her arithmetic? Her silly lists of famous men? At the end of the day, the smartest boy in school can’t undo his bloodlines, and no matter who our teacher is, Hadir will always be an orphan.

      Our teacher shifts in her seat then lifts her head as if to look at me, eyes barely visible through the thick fabric. For a moment, I see how I easily could hurt her, how I could tear the burqa from her face as though every person in every country on that map could see her lies, those lips that promised us so much. But she is merely a grain of sand. She can never give her best like Nikpai. Not here, not now. My country won’t let her.

      Hadir doesn’t come for me that night, so I find my way to Kabul Stadium without him. It’s a full moon and the grass looks a pulsing, bright gray, as though the entire city has turned two colors—the color of night, and the color of moonlight reflecting off whatever it touches. I see Hadir sprinting downfield, cutting through the lighted grass and hear the gentle thwap of his bare foot against real leather. When he turns to run back downfield, he notices me and stops near the side goal posts, leaning forward to rest his hands on his knees and catch his breath.

      After a minute, he shouts my direction: “We can’t play on the same team.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Everyone from school got scared to play in the Great Game. You have to be the captain of one side and I’ll be the captain of the other. That’s all we’ve got. One-on-one.”

      “Okay,” I say. “But no keeping score.”

      Hadir walks a few paces until he’s standing in the exact center of the goal. He squats slowly, gaze upturned, then leaps to catch the cross post with both hands. He dangles easily, feet swaying, one side of his body outlined by the angling moonlight.

      “This is what they looked like,” he says and drops one hand so that his body hangs crooked, the other hand still wrapped around the post. “Except no body. Just an arm. Hanging there like it was a flag or something. And they never hung just one thing. There were always more…” He studies his own arm as though apart from himself.

      “Hadir?” I say and walk toward him. “I’m sorry about today at school.”

      He returns his other hand to the post and swings his body until he gains enough momentum to swivel up top. “It’s okay,” he says finally. “You should really see it from up here. It makes the field look like it stretches forever.”

      I shimmy up the side of the goal post, teetering at the top. Hadir scoots my direction and offers his shoulder for balance. Once situated, we slide sideways toward the center of the goal, legs dangling beneath us.

      “Wow,” I say and look out at the field. “You’re right.” It extends perfectly straight, yard after endless yard, cleaner and brighter than anything in all of Kabul.

      “How many people do you think will come to celebrate Nikpai?” Hadir asks.

      “Our teacher said four thousand can fit,” I say. “But I think even more will come.”

      “I think so, too.”

      We sit silently for some time, as the moon appears to move further away in the sky.

      “You know what’s funny?” I ask.

      “What?”

      “I think this is the most peaceful spot in Afghanistan.”

      Hadir laughs. “Yeah, maybe.”

      Just then, an odd hissing sound erupts around us, quiet at first but louder with each second. My breath catches, heart pounding in my throat. Hadir and I glance at each other, then look down the ever-reaching field to see a symmetrical array of sprinklers raised in the moonlight, reflective umbrellas of water spraying from each head.

      “One,” I say.

      “Two,” he says.

      “Three!” we shout together and leap from the goal post to land triumphantly next to the soccer ball. Just like that, Hadir runs and dribbles. I sprint down the opposite sideline, leaping over sprinkler heads, laughing at the mess of it all. He kicks a long pass and I push harder, feet pumping against the saturated soil, trying to beat the ball to the sideline. The leather slaps the inside of my foot. Trap. Go. Hadir darts downfield, shouting “Here, Pirooz! Here!” His feet slice through shimmering grass, and he’s almost to the penalty box, when I think of Nikpai, the way nobody thought an Afghan could win an Olympic medal. I make the final pass and fall onto my back, sprinklers showering me with water. When I hear Hadir grunt to take his shot on goal, I don’t have to look to see if he’s made it. I raise my leopard fist and shout at the sky. Somewhere in the distance, Hadir hollers back, the ghosts of Kabul Stadium hollering right along with him.

      Just the Dog and Me

      I’m outside in the middle of the night again, just the dog and me. The whole neighborhood’s asleep. Cooper’s sniffing every blade of grass, checking the perimeter of the yard. Just the kind of thing that drives Marcia nuts. But I can be patient. I can be patient with his mini mission to protect and defend, because the longer I watch him the more I understand his logic.

      He’s all tail and nose, tugging the leash this way and that, sending muted snorts into the night—a canine Morse code. Any minute now, the neighbor’s Beagle will probably hear us. Set the whole block singing. Cooper freezes for a moment, the leash tight between us, then before I know it he’s sending up more dirt than a landmine, and I just drop the leash and let him dig.

      It’s a beautiful thing, going after what you want like that.