“On the other hand,” she says, “it’s kind of ridiculous. My brother and sister are both gone away to college so we don’t need five bedrooms or a basement filled with empty rooms.”
“Our apartment is pretty huge, too,” I say. “Only two bedrooms but we have space we’ll never fill.”
Saying these words in front of Mr. Elhadad makes me want to cringe, especially after having been to his apartment, where the small rooms were crowded with furniture. Aya’s bedroom could have fit inside mine. Mr. Elhadad doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to us, though. He hums along with the radio until we arrive at the meeting site—a café in Giza not far from the pyramids.
Ethan comes over as we get out of the car. If he’s bothered that I invited Vivian, he has enough manners to greet both of us. “I’m glad you came.”
Before I can answer, Mr. Elhadad reminds me to text him when we’re on our way back to Giza tonight. “I will be waiting for you when you arrive.”
“I will. Thanks.”
Ethan gestures toward a line of dusty white Land Cruisers to carry all the students out into the desert. The SUVs have basketlike luggage racks on the roof filled with sandboards and coolers. “I’ve already staked out—”
“Have you brought enough sunscreen and water?” Mr. Elhadad interrupts. It’s a dad-like question that makes Ethan snicker, but I’m touched by the concern. I know exactly where Adam gets his thoughtfulness.
“Yes, I have both. Thank you for bringing us out here.”
“You know, my dad could probably recommend a better driver than the one you’re using,” Ethan says as we walk toward the Land Cruisers.
Vivian rolls her eyes at him. “Not everyone needs an armored embassy car with tinted windows and a gun-wielding American security guard behind the wheel. Some expats actually live here.”
All our homes are bigger than the average Cairo apartment. We have drivers who take us anywhere we want to go. We can afford to eat in five-star restaurants (well, maybe Vivian and Ethan can) and take sandboarding trips into the desert. We exist in a well-protected bubble inside the city limits, but none of us actually knows what it’s like to live in Cairo.
“I’m just saying that most drivers are paid to stay in the background.” Ethan rakes his hand through his hair. “And his car is kind of . . . old.”
“Who cares about the age of his car as long as it runs?” I glance back to make sure Mr. Elhadad hasn’t overheard any of this conversation, but he’s long gone. “Besides, I like that he doesn’t stay in the background. He’s nice.”
I end up sandwiched between Vivian and Ethan in the back of the first SUV, with Ethan’s friend Will sharing the front seat with our guide, Zayed. Vivian brought along a set of Trivial Pursuit cards and the four of us spend most of the drive challenging each other with the questions.
Although American culture has managed to span the distance to Egypt—even Zayed gets some of the answers right—it’s still easier to talk to other Americans. We get our jokes, we understand our idioms, and no one needs to translate. I loved the challenge that came with talking to Adam, but this is effortless.
CHAPTER 27
Pavement gives way to bumpy sand tracks, and the desert stretches to the horizon in every direction. Heat shimmers in the distance, but we never catch up to it. Finally we reach the dunes. When Vivian opens the car door, a smothering heat barrels in and there is no way my sunscreen is going to stand up to the blistering rays. At my closet this morning, I waffled between short-and long-sleeved T-shirts, but now I’m glad I went with long.
There is a breeze, but the air is too hot for the breeze to be cooling, and with it comes grains of sand that catch on our eyelashes and stick to our lips. Sunglasses protect our eyes, but I can taste the salty grit as it crunches between my teeth. Zayed laughs when Vivian brings the neck of her T-shirt up over her nose.
“By the time you are done sandboarding,” he says, unloading four boards from the roof of the SUV, “there will be no part of your body that hasn’t been touched by sand.”
She groans. “Remind me why I said yes to this.”
“It’s going to be fun,” I say, scooping up one of the boards.
The sand on our bare feet is like stepping onto the beach on the hottest day of summer. We run up the dune as fast as we can, but the sand has no purchase and we slide backward several times on the way. By the time we reach the top, my shirt is soaked through with sweat and I’m surprised I don’t have first-degree burn blisters on the soles of my feet.
Zayed explains that we can go down the dunes standing up—like snowboarding—or sitting down on the board, toboggan-style.
“I’ll demonstrate,” he says, slipping his bare feet under the straps on the sandboard. “Then you follow.”
He crouches down and tips himself forward. Zayed carves along the face of the dune on his way to the bottom, kicking up a wake of sand behind him. This is not a mountain, so the trip doesn’t take long, and when he glides to a stop, he turns. “Yalla!” he shouts up to us, his hands cupped around his mouth.
Ethan—holding a GoPro on a stick—shoots forward first, mimicking Zayed as he zigzags his way down, trailing his fingertips in the sand like a surfer as he skims to the bottom of the dune. He throws up victory arms when he doesn’t fall. Will, on the other hand, does a crash-and-burn about midway down and rolls the rest of the way, his board sliding behind him. Vivian and I take a selfie together at the top with my phone, then go down the dune at the same time.
I stretch out my arms, trying to maintain my balance, as wind rushes past my ears. Sand peppers my face. And I fall on my butt almost immediately. Vivian makes it a few more feet before she wipes out too.
“Almost everyone falls,” Zayed assures us as we gather at the bottom, regrouping before we run back up. “Sand is less predictable than snow.”
We stay on the dune for a couple of hours, sliding, climbing, falling, and doing a whole lot of laughing. On our last run, Vivian and I borrow Ethan’s GoPro to make a video of ourselves as we toboggan down together on her sandboard.
As we pile back into the Land Cruiser, my legs are rubber, the tops of my knees are pink with an oncoming sunburn, and my face aches from smiling. Out here in the desert, where there is no haze of pollution, the sky is so clear and bright it almost hurts to look. The contrast of blue against gold, where the sky touches land, makes me feel as if I am looking at a painting. My breath catches in my chest and I wish . . . I wish I could stop wishing that Adam was here for this.
“Doing okay?” Ethan asks, dropping an arm around my shoulders.
“Oh, um—yeah. It’s just really beautiful.”
“I guess not everything about Egypt sucks.” He smiles. It would be a lot easier on my heart if I could like someone like Ethan Caldwell—someone American—but there’s not much point in that if your heart isn’t making the rules.
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