Page 112 - The Kite Runner

NINE

Sitting in the middle of my room the next morning, I ripped open
box after box of presents. I don’t know why I even bothered, since
I just gave them a joyless glance and pitched them to the corner of
the room. The pile was growing there: a Polaroid camera, a tran-
sistor radio, an elaborate electric train set—and several sealed
envelopes containing cash. I knew I’d never spend the money or
listen to the radio, and the electric train would never trundle
down its tracks in my room. I didn’t want any of it—it was all
blood money; Baba would have never thrown me a party like that
if I hadn’t won the tournament.
Baba gave me two presents. One was sure to become the envy
of every kid in the neighborhood: a brand new Schwinn Stingray,
the king of all bicycles. Only a handful of kids in all of Kabul
owned a new Stingray and now I was one of them. It had high-rise
handlebars with black rubber grips and its famous banana seat.
The spokes were gold colored and the steel-frame body red, like a