Page 145 - The Kite Runner

134 Khaled Hosseini

A pair of steel hands closed around my windpipe at the sound
of Hassan’s name. I rolled down the window. Waited for the steel
hands to loosen their grip.

I would enroll in junior college classes in the fall, I told
Baba the day after graduation. He was drinking cold black tea and
chewing cardamom seeds, his personal trusted antidote for hang-
over headaches.
“I think I’ll major in English,” I said. I winced inside, waiting
for his reply.
“English?”
“Creative writing.”
He considered this. Sipped his tea. “Stories, you mean. You’ll
make up stories.” I looked down at my feet.
“They pay for that, making up stories?”
“If you’re good,” I said. “And if you get discovered.”
“How likely is that, getting discovered?”
“It happens,” I said.
He nodded. “And what will you do while you wait to get good
and get discovered? How will you earn money? If you marry, how
will you support your khanum?”
I couldn’t lift my eyes to meet his. “I’ll . . . find a job.”
“Oh,” he said. “Wah wah! So, if I understand, you’ll study sev-
eral years to earn a degree, then you’ll get a chatti job like mine,
one you could just as easily land today, on the small chance that
your degree might someday help you get . . . discovered.” He took a
deep breath and sipped his tea. Grunted something about medical
school, law school, and “real work.”
My cheeks burned and guilt coursed through me, the guilt of