He listens with his head bent, one leg swings back and forth and he nods every now and then. When I’m finished, he asks, “But why did you steal the tags?”
I tell him about the store promotion.
His face grows still. “But Zainab, don’t you know that promotion is over? It was over a couple of months ago. Twenty-two Lucky tags won’t get you anything.”
It’s over? My chance is gone? I stole those stupid tags for nothing? The recess bell rings shrill and mocking as I stand there wishing the linoleum would open up and swallow me. I’ve never felt so foolish in all my life, and what makes things worse is that Mr. Weiss knows exactly how stupid I am.
He doesn’t ask why I didn’t just beg my parents for them. I guess he doesn’t need to. He’s saying something.
“But why would you want to be like everyone else anyway? You’re fine just the way you are.”
“Are you kidding? I might as well be a leper, the way everyone avoids me.”
He laughs. “You’ve been reading too many gothic romances, Zainab.”
“Lepers aren’t in gothic romances. And I don’t read romances. Well, not only romances.”
“Of course. Too many historical novels, then. You know what I mean. You’re hardly a leper.”
Tears well up in my eyes. “You don’t know what it’s like not to have any friends in the whole school.”
Mr. Weiss looks thoughtful. “What is it you really want, Zainab?”
Huh? What do I want? Nobody ever asked me that before. It had never mattered. What do I want? I wipe my face. “I want to be treated equally and fairly. I’m just as good as Kevin, or Cheryl or anyone else in this class and I want them to know it.”
“Isn’t it enough that you know it?”
“No.”
Mr. Weiss opens his mouth to say something, looks puzzled, then closes it again. He picks up a pen, turns it over in his hands and then puts it down.
“Don’t I treat you equally?”
“It’s not you.”
“Well, I know you’re just as good as anyone in this class.” He pauses, a twinkle in his eye. “Or just as bad. But it’s another thing proving it to others. You’re better off just ignoring them. You were fine last year.”
“You sound like my parents. They told me to ignore them too. It doesn’t work.”
Mr. Weiss looks at the clock. “The other kids will be in soon. I don’t have much time, but I’ve just had a thought. How do you like plays?”
“Well, I like Shakespeare, even though the language is difficult, and I tried Chekhov, but he’s dull. All the characters ever do is sit around a table talking. My favorite is Tennessee Williams.”
“Let me rephrase that. How good are you at writing plays?”
“You mean something like The Glass Menagerie? There’s no way!”
“Oh, nothing that fancy!” Mr. Weiss claps his hands, lacing his fingers together. “How would you like to be in charge of the Mackenzie King play? It could be any story you want and you could choose whomever you want to play the lead. Though I do think you should stay away from classical literature,” he says with a wry grin.
Deanford is divided by classes into four house leagues called Mackenzie King, Laurier, Pearson and MacDonald. Our class is in Mackenzie King.
“I don’t know. Do you think I can do it?”
He fixes me with a measuring look, then nods. “I wouldn’t be giving you this responsibility if I didn’t. But the main thing is you’d be in charge. The other kids will have to come to you. It’s a chance to make friends and to prove yourself.”
“Or make a fool of myself.”
“I’ll be here if you need any help.”
“But what if we lose? All the kids will blame me.”
He shrugs. “That’s a chance you’ll have to take. It’s either this or ignore them for the rest of the year. This is your last year here anyway, then you’re off to high school. You might not see any of them again. They might go to a different school, but then again they might not. It’s up to you. You can ignore the problem or meet it head on.”
The classroom door opens and the others come marching in. Mr. Weiss gets up from the desk saying, “Let me know tomorrow.”
I stop him. I feel like I’m plunging off the edge of a great cliff. “I don’t need to think about it. I’ll do it.”
He pats me on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit.”
Chapter 3
All the way home, I think about the play and the more I think about it, the more I like the idea. I’ve never been in charge of a play before. When we performed the Christmas pageant, I was never anything more than a tree, dressed in a brown suit, holding a bunch of green branches. And when I asked why I couldn’t be Mary or a shepherd, the teacher told me not to be silly, I was the perfect shade for tree bark.
Kevin and all the other popular kids will have to deal with me in order to be in the play. If we work together, maybe they’ll see I’m not so bad.
I turn onto our street and make a dua, a little prayer, asking God to make Layla late. Have her miss her bus, anything, so I don’t have to face her right away even though I know it’s hopeless. Layla is never late. She wakes up five minutes before the alarm every morning. Don’t know why she even bothers setting it.
I slip into the front hallway. The door creaks loudly. Pause. Wait. No out cry. So far so good. I tiptoe down the stairs and sit on the sofa in the T.V. room. Five minutes later my legs are just starting to relax from the long walk home when Layla barges in, her hands on her hips, her black eyes flashing. “Did you pray yet?”
She’s referring to Zuhr prayer. As Muslims, we have to pray five times a day, and Zuhr is the one after lunch. We’re the only Muslims in school. Our father doesn’t want us to make any waves. He says we can pray it when we get home, even though it’s late.
Layla looks down at me through long thick eyelashes. Only two of us kids were born with those eyelashes. Her and Waleed, my brother. It’s a pity. Eyelashes like that are wasted on a boy!
“What are you sitting in the dark for? Hiding?”
I don’t say anything.
“Well? Aren’t you supposed to say something when you get home?”
I remain silent.
She says, “The Prophet, peace be upon him, said the one who enters must greet the ones who are already there.”
“He also said the one who is standing should greet the one who is sitting, so you were supposed to say it when you entered the room.”
“But you were supposed to say it when you entered the home, so it’s your responsibility first.”
I don’t feel like arguing any more. “Assalaamu alaikum.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Assalaamu alaikum,” I say more loudly.
“Wa alaikum assalam,” she replies with a smile. She tricked me. By replying to my greeting she doesn’t have to greet me anymore. I know it’s silly but it bugs me. Makes me burn inside.
“Did you pray yet?”
“I just got home.”
She