Page 101 - The Kite Runner

90 Khaled Hosseini

years. And you think I’m just going to throw him out?” He turned
to me now, his face as red as a tulip. “I’ve never laid a hand on you,
Amir, but you ever say that again . . .” He looked away, shaking his
head. “You bring me shame. And Hassan . . . Hassan’s not going
anywhere, do you understand?”
I looked down and picked up a fistful of cool soil. Let it pour
between my fingers.
“I said, Do you understand?” Baba roared.
I flinched. “Yes, Baba.”
“Hassan’s not going anywhere,” Baba snapped. He dug a new
hole with the trowel, striking the dirt harder than he had to. “He’s
staying right here with us, where he belongs. This is his home and
we’re his family. Don’t you ever ask me that question again!”
“I won’t, Baba. I’m sorry.”
We planted the rest of the tulips in silence.
I was relieved when school started that next week. Students
with new notebooks and sharpened pencils in hand ambled about
the courtyard, kicking up dust, chatting in groups, waiting for the
class captains’ whistles. Baba drove down the dirt lane that led to
the entrance. The school was an old two-story building with bro-
ken windows and dim, cobblestone hallways, patches of its origi-
nal dull yellow paint still showing between sloughing chunks of
plaster. Most of the boys walked to school, and Baba’s black Mus-
tang drew more than one envious look. I should have been beam-
ing with pride when he dropped me off—the old me would
have—but all I could muster was a mild form of embarrassment.
That and emptiness. Baba drove away without saying good-bye.
I bypassed the customary comparing of kite-fighting scars and
stood in line. The bell rang and we marched to our assigned class,
filed in in pairs. I sat in the back row. As the Farsi teacher handed
out our textbooks, I prayed for a heavy load of homework.