Excerpt from The Map of Salt and Stars by Zeyn Joukhadar, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"What do you mean, nothing's selling?" I ask. Huda's rose-print hijab blocks the sun. "We buy pistachios and ice cream all the time."

Huda laughs. I've always liked her laugh. It's not like Zahra's, all nose and squeak. Huda's got a nice laugh, pink purple and flicked up at the end. She says, "Ice cream always sells."

The sidewalk stones steam like bread out of the oven, and they scorch the bottoms of my feet through my plastic sandals. I hop from foot to foot, trying not to let Zahra see.

We turn out onto the main street. A few cars and blue buses circle the square, twisting across the lanes. It's Ramadan, and people seem to drive slower, walk slower. After iftar tonight, gray-haired men with full bellies will stroll the streets of the Old City with their hands clasped behind their backs, and the tables outside the cafés will be full of people drinking coffee with cardamom and passing the hoses of narghiles. But for now, the sidewalks are almost empty, even in our mostly Christian neighborhood. Mama always says Christians and Muslims have been living side by side in this city for centuries, that they'll go on borrowing each others' flour and sewing needles for years to come.

Zahra's gold bracelet bounces, throwing ovals of light. She eyes Huda's scarf. "Are you hot?"

Huda side-eyes Zahra. "It doesn't bother me," she says, which is what she's been saying ever since she started wearing her scarf last year, when Baba first got sick. "Aren't you?"

"Maybe I'll wear one when I'm older." I reach up and skim my fingers along the cotton hem. "This one's my favorite, because of the roses."

Huda laughs. "You're too young to worry about that."

"You don't even have your period yet," Zahra says.

"Bleeding isn't what makes you grown-up," I say.

Zahra inspects her fingernails. "Clearly you don't know what it means to be grown-up."

We turn at a brick building. Heat shimmers off the pavement and Zahra's black hair. Down the street, a man sells tea from a silver jug on his back, but he doesn't have any customers. He eases himself down on the steps of an apartment building, swiping sweat from under his hat.

Huda says, "I wear the scarf to remember I belong to God."

I think about our bookshelf in the city, the Qur'an and the Bible next to each other, Mama and Baba swapping notes. Mama used to take us to Mass some Sundays and, on special Fridays, Baba used to take us to jum'ah.

I ask, "But how did you decide?"

"You'll understand one day."

I cross my arms. "When I'm older, right?"

"Not necessarily." Huda takes my hand again, teasing my arms apart. "Just when it's time."

I frown and wonder what that means. I ask, "How old is Abu Sayeed?"

"Why?"

"Isn't tonight his birthday dinner?"

Zahra laughs. "Do you ever pay attention, stupid?"

"It's not her fault," Huda says. "I never told her." She holds her hand against her thigh, her fingers stiff. There's something she doesn't want to stroll the streets of the Old City with their hands clasped behind their backs, and the tables outside the cafés will be full of people drinking coffee with cardamom and passing the hoses of narghiles. But for now, the sidewalks are almost empty, even in our mostly Christian neighborhood. Mama always says Christians and Muslims have been living side by side in this city for centuries, that they'll go on borrowing each others' flour and sewing needles for years to come.

Zahra's gold bracelet bounces, throwing ovals of light. She eyes Huda's scarf. "Are you hot?"

Huda side-eyes Zahra. "It doesn't bother me," she says, which is what she's been saying ever since she started wearing her scarf last year, when Baba first got sick. "Aren't you?"

Excerpted from The Map of Salt and Stars by Jennifer Zeynab Joukhadar. Copyright © 2018 by Jennifer Zeynab Joukhadar. Excerpted by permission of Touchstone. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.