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ow； 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 broken windows and dim； cobblestone hallways； patches of its original dull yellow paint still showing between sloughing chunks of plaster。 Most of the boys walked to school； and Baba s black Mustang drew more than one envious look。 I should have been beaming 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 paring 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。
School gave me an excuse to stay in my room for long hours。 And； for a while； it took my mind off what had happened that winter； what I had let happen。 For a few weeks； I preoccupied myself with gravity and momentum； atoms and cells； the Anglo…Afghan wars； instead of thinking about Hassan and what had happened to him。 But； always； my mind returned to the alley。 To Hassan s brown corduroy pants lying on the bricks。 To the droplets of blood staining the snow dark red； almost black。
One sluggish； hazy afternoon early that summer； I asked Hassan to go up the hill with me。 Told him I wanted to read him a new story I d written。 He was hanging clothes to dry in the yard and I saw his eagerness in the harried way he finished the job。
We climbed the hill； making small talk。 He asked about school； what I was learning； and I talked about my teachers； especially the mean math teacher who punished talkative students by sticking a metal rod between their fingers and then squeezing them together。 Hassan winced at that； said he hoped I d never have to experience it。 I said I d been lucky so far； knowing that luck had nothing to do with it。 I had done my share of talking in class too。 But my father was rich and everyone knew him； so I was spared the metal rod treatment。
We sat against the low cemetery wall under the shade thrown by the pomegranate tree。 In another month or two； crops of scorched