The Magic Carpet

If you're hungry and haven't much money, buy a bag of rice. You can live on it for quite a while. Potatoes are good, too. A sack of potatoes and a dozen eggs—that can last an entire week.

My grandparents on my dad's side are American Indian. That's why we keep guns in the house. It's also why my dad's so crazy. They moved here from Oklahoma during the dustbowl and brought with them some great starvation recipes. One of my all-time favorites is the fried potato sandwich. All you need is bread, mayonnaise, and a potato.

Dad says he wants me to do well in school—become a cheerleader and get good grades. But the people here think we're weird. We have a carved African statue on our front porch that looks like the devil, and our house is full of Persian tribal rugs. We also have no food.

My only friend at school is part American Indian, just like me. Her mom is crazy too, just like my dad. All her brothers and sisters are from different fathers, just like all my brothers and sisters are from different mothers. The other day she brought a bag of uncooked rice to school and gave it to me. She knows what it's like to go hungry. She's a little better off than me, though. At least at her house they have rice.

We pick up trash together on our lunch break. Our school gives students a dime for each piece they hand in. Once we've gathered up enough, we buy a sandwich from the cafeteria and share it. We like to sit together watching the other kids run around and yell and have a good time. They all look so happy and healthy. Their clothes are brightly colored and new. They go home and do their homework. They are good kids.

Sometimes when I'm home alone, I sit on my dad's favorite carpet. It's an old camel-colored Gabbeh that's soft as a blanket. I make sure to place myself directly on the large orange diamond woven in its center. Then I close my eyes and imagine I'm flying through the sky. I look down and everything below me becomes small—my house, my school—it all disappears behind me. I like to imagine that I'm flying somewhere far away and never coming back. Ever.

Mira Martin-Parker is currently pursuing an MFA in creative writing at San Francisco State University. Her work has appeared in Diverse Voices Quarterly, Literary Bohemian, The Minetta Review, The Monarch Review, Mythium, Ragazine, Tattoo Highway, Yellow Medicine Review, and Zyzzyva.