ge people money for swimming in it。
So what does it mean？ I said。
He coated my _naan_ with marmalade； placed it on a plate。 I don t know。 I was hoping you could tell me。
Well； it s a dumb dream。 Nothing happens in it。
Father says dreams always mean something。
I sipped some tea。 Why don t you ask him； then？ He s so smart； I said； more curtly than I had intended。 I hadn t slept all night。 My neck and back were like coiled springs； and my eyes stung。 Still； I had been mean to Hassan。 I almost apologized； then didn t。 Hassan understood I was just nervous。 Hassan always understood about me。
Upstairs； I could hear the water running in Baba s bathroom。
THE STREETS GLISTENED with fresh snow and the sky was a blameless blue。 Snow blanketed every rooftop and weighed on the branches of the stunted mulberry trees that lined our street。 Overnight； snow had nudged its way into every crack and gutter。 I squinted against the blinding white when Hassan and I stepped through the wrought…iron gates。 Ali shut the gates behind us。 I heard him mutter a prayer under his breath……he always said a prayer when his son left the house。
I had never seen so many people on our street。 Kids were flinging snowballs； squabbling； chasing one another； giggling。 Kite fighters were huddling with their spool holders； making lastminute preparations。 From adjacent streets； I could hear laughter and chatter。 Already； rooftops were jammed with spectators reclining in lawn chairs； hot tea steaming from thermoses； and the music of Ahmad Zahir blaring from cassette players。 The immensely popular Ahmad Zahir had revolutionized Afghan music and outraged the purists by adding electric guitars； drums； and horns to the traditional tabla and harmonium； on stage or at parties； he shirked the austere and nearly morose stance of older singers and actually smiled when he sang……sometimes even at women。 I turned my gaze to our rooftop； found Baba and Rahim Khan sitting on a bench； both dressed in wool sweaters； sipping tea。 Baba waved。 I couldn t tell if he was waving at me or Hassan。
We should get started； Hassan said。 He wore black rubber snow boots and a bright green chapan over a thick sweater and faded corduroy pants。 Sunlight washed over his face； and； in it； I saw how well the pink scar above his lip had healed。
Suddenly I wanted to withdraw。 Pack it all in； go back home。 What was I thinking？ Why was I putting myself through this； when I already knew the oute？ Baba was on the roof； watching me。 I felt his glare on me like the heat of a blistering sun。 This would be failure on a grand scale； even for me。
I m not sure I want to fly a kite today； I said。
It s a beautiful day； Hassan said。
I shifted on my feet。 Tried to peel my gaze away from our rooftop。 I don t know。 Maybe we should go home。
Then he stepped toward me and； in a low voice； said something that scared me a little。 Remember； Amir agha。 There s no monster； just a beautiful day。 How could I be such an open book to him when； half the time； I had no idea what was milling around in his head？ I was the one who went to school； the one who could read； write。 I was the smart one。 Hassan couldn t read a firstgrade textbook but he d read me plenty。 That was a little unsettling； but also sort of fortable to have someone who always knew what you needed。
No monster； I said； feeling a little better； to my own surprise。
He smiled。 No monster。
Are you sure？
He closed his eyes。 Nodded。
I looked to the kids scampering down the street； flinging snowballs。 It is a beautiful day； isn t it？
Let s fly； he said。
It occurred to me then that maybe Hassan had made up his dream。 Was that possible？ I decided it wasn t。 Hassan wasn t that smart。 I wasn t that smart。 But made up or not； the silly dream had lifted some of my anxiety。 Maybe I should take off my shirt； take a swim in the lake。 Why not？
Let s do it； I said。
Hassan s face brightened。 Good； he said。 He lifted our kite； red with yellow borders； and； just beneath where the central and cross spars met； marked with Saifo s unmistakable signature。 He licked his finger and held it up； tested the wind； then ran in its direction…on those rare occasions we flew kites in the summer； he d kick up dust to see which way the wind blew it。 The spool rolled in my hands until Hassan stopped； about fifty feet away。 He held the kite high over his head； like an Olympic athlete showing his gold medal。 I jerked the string twice； our usual signal； and Hassan tossed the kite。
Caught between Baba and the mullahs at school； I still hadn t made up my mind about God。 But when a Koran ayat I had learned in my diniyat class rose to my lips； I muttered it。 I took a deep breath； exhaled； and pulled on the string。 Within a minute； my kite was rocketing to the sky。 It made a sound like a paper bird flapping its wings。 Hassan clapped his hands； whistled； and ran back to me。 I handed him the spool； holding on to the string； and he spun it quickly to roll the loose string back on。
At least two dozen kites already hung in the sky； like paper sharks roaming for prey。 Within an hour； the number doubled； and red； blue； and yellow kites glided and spun in the sky。 A cold breeze wafted through my hair。 The wind was perfect for kite flying； blowing just hard enough to give some lift； make the sweeps easier。 Next to me； Hassan held the spool； his hands already bloodied by the string。
Soon； the cutting started and the first of the defeated kites whirled out of control。 They fell from the sky like shooting stars with brilliant； rippling tails； showering the neighborhoods below with prizes for the kite runners。 I could hear