I pointed out the washrooms she would use as we walked back to Mr. Letner’s room. “Everyone here is really nice. You’ll like it here.”
“How long have you been here? In Canada?” she asked.
“About three years — almost four. We were in the U.K. for a while before we got here.”
“Is your English good?”
It was now. “My dad spoke it at home sometimes in Syria to get us ready, but mostly I just learned by living here.”
“You knew you were leaving.”
“Sort of. We knew we were going somewhere.”
“Some of our family is in Germany, but they’d closed the borders by the time we left. This was the only country that would take us.”
“My family is in England. Aunts, cousins, my sitta. We all left before things got bad.”
She snorted. “You don’t know bad.”
I gave her a sideways look and wondered what she meant. What had she seen in Syria or the camps they’d lived in? For someone who was the same age as me, she seemed so much older. I could only imagine that what she’d lived through had aged her. I felt a flash of gratitude that I wasn’t like her. Making the co-ed team was my biggest worry. “This is our class.” I pointed to Mr. Letner’s nameplate above the door and the room number, 9B. “I’ll quickly introduce you and you can sit down. Don’t worry if you can’t understand anything.”
I hadn’t known what was going on for the first few weeks, either. I’d just followed the other kids, watching what they were doing, too scared to ask any questions. At recess, things felt more normal. I learned the kids’ names on the soccer field, and when we played games in class, I could figure out the rules and participate. But as soon as the teacher started talking, or we had to get a book to read, I drifted off and missed my school in Syria where everything made sense and where asking a simple question like “Can I go to the washroom?” wasn’t a stressful situation. I’d been a good student in Syria, but in Canada the language barrier had made it hard to prove. Dad had warned us it would be like trying to ride a bicycle with your feet tied together: you knew how, but couldn’t make it happen. And it was very frustrating.
“Okay, ready?” I asked her, but I’d already opened the door to the class. Mr. Letner turned to me.
“Is this our new student?”
I nodded. “Her name is Amira. She doesn’t speak English,” I blurted out for her.
“Thanks, Sadia,” Mr. Letner said. “Amira, you can sit there.” He spoke slowly and pointed to a chair he’d already moved to my table. There wasn’t really space for her, so Carmina and Mariam squished together. I led the way and tried to give her an encouraging smile, even though inside, I groaned. I’d have to spend the morning translating instead of doing my own work, which would mean more homework tonight.
Amira sat down at the desk and stared at her hands. I dug through my backpack for a pen and took a piece of loose-leaf out of my binder and put it in front of her. I had no idea what she would write on it.
“Where’s she from?” Mariam scribbled on my page.
“Syria,” I wrote back.
She leaned forward and tried to catch Amira’s eye. “Hi!” she whispered. Either Amira didn’t hear, or she ignored her, but either way, Mariam shrugged and sat back in her chair, as if she’d done all she could.
When the bell rang for second period, I jumped up and packed my binder into my backpack. “What about the new girl?” Carmina reminded me as we filed out with the rest of the class. I looked back. Amira was standing beside the desk, looking lost.
“Right,” I mumbled under my breath. I forgot I was babysitting today. And then I felt bad for thinking like that. I’d had to rely on the kindness of others when we’d first moved here, just like Amira was relying on me now.
“It’s gym,” I told her in Arabic. She looked at me with panicked eyes. “Don’t worry, you can probably just sit and watch the class on your first day.”
“Boys and girls have gym together?” she asked in a rushed whisper.
“Yes.” I’d forgotten how different things would be for her here. I’d been eleven when we’d moved, still a kid compared to Amira. Things like co-ed gym classes hadn’t been any different from home.
I explained to Mr. McMurchy, the gym teacher, that Amira was new and didn’t speak much English. “I think she just wants to sit out and watch,” I told him.
“Okay, but only for today, since it’s her first day.” I translated for Amira, and the briefest of relieved smiles crossed her face. I didn’t translate the second half of his answer: “Next time, she joins in.”
Grateful to have a break from being her translator and tour guide, I went to change into my gym clothes. When I came out, Josh had already started running laps so I joined him, our steps in rhythm as we talked about which kids had the best shot of making the team. I had to run faster than usual to keep up with him and could feel my heart pumping. As a few more of his friends started running, we got separated and I ran at the front of a clump of girls. I almost stumbled over my shoes when I looked at the change room doors and saw Mariam in shorts and a gym shirt. She must have borrowed them from Carmina. She stood there self-consciously, starting an awkward run-walk on the periphery of the track.
I slowed my pace to join her, gaping at her bare legs. “Mariam!” I hissed. “What are you doing?”
“It’s just gym clothes. We used to change all the time.” When we were kids! I thought. Her parents would be furious if they saw her. I didn’t know what to say to her, so I sprinted ahead, my hijab flapping behind me.
Chapter 5
“You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?” Mariam asked in Arabic as we walked back to class after gym.
“No,” I answered, kind of mad that she even had to ask. “But you know it’s wrong,” I whispered.
Mariam gave me a pleading look. “Please don’t say anything.”
“I won’t,” I promised. I wasn’t her parent. It wasn’t up to me to force modesty on her, but I couldn’t help feeling that her decisions were putting more and more distance between us. I liked that we both wore hijab; it was our thing — it separated us from all the other girls in our class. If she kept changing (and I didn’t just mean her clothes), what would happen to us?
And if I did tell on her, it would be a betrayal of our friendship, which would only drive her further away. She’d pushed me into an impossible corner.
“Promise?” she asked again. I gave her a solemn nod. As soon as she was satisfied that I’d keep her secret, she drifted away from me and found Carmina. The two of them walked to their next class together. From the excited chatter, I guessed that Mariam was telling Carmina how good it had felt to wear shorts again. I watched them jealously for a minute and pulled my eyes away. It used to be Mariam and me who were close.
Amira followed me like a shadow to my locker as I grabbed a snack, stuffed my gym bag in, and got my books for the rest of the morning.
“Your friend Mariam,” Amira asked quietly. “Is she Muslim?”
“Yeah. She’s from Egypt.”
“But she doesn’t wear hijab.”
“Usually she does.” I wished I could have explained more, but Mariam’s behaviour was becoming a mystery to me.
“Okay, everyone. Sit down. Break’s over.” Mr. Letner stood at the front of the room with the suitcase of digital cameras. “I’ve heard back from almost everyone’s parents, giving permission to let you