“Oh, nothing.” I pick up my text and start reading. During the whole lesson I can hardly concentrate. Finally, the recess bell rings and everyone starts filing out the door. Mr. Weiss calls me to stay behind.
After the last kid is gone, he says, “What did you want to say to me?” His eyes are a nice soft brown. “Go on, you can say anything.”
Up close, you can see the puffy bags under his eyes, and the wrinkles at the corners of his mouth. He looks tired. As if he has a pile of his own problems. I can’t back out now. I just can’t, not when he has such faith in me.
“I just don’t know what play we should do.”
His eyes light up. “Well, you know, I was thinking. This is a wonderful opportunity to expand our horizons. Why don’t you take a story from your culture and make a play from that?”
“Wouldn’t that just give them more stuff to make fun of me with?”
“It’s really up to you. You can do a regular story if you wish. It was just a suggestion. Is that any help?”
It isn’t, but I smile anyway and when he asks if I have any more questions I shake my head. Jenny is waiting outside. “So, are you going to do it? Are you? And can I be your assistant? Please?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
She’s skipping along beside me. I feel like slapping her. She says, “So what play are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I was talking to Weiss about. He thinks I should do something about my culture.”
Jenny grabs my arm. “That’s a great idea. It would be so fresh and different. You must have tons of stories to tell.”
Who’d ever want to hear what a Paki has to say, and a girl Paki at that?
We round the corner of the school, straight into a stiff wind. It pelts us with grains of sand and blows in our ears. We find a sheltered cranny where it can’t reach us so well. A girl struts by wearing Lucky jeans with the tag intact. It gives me the beginnings of an idea. “Maybe we could do a play about how useless fashion is. I mean it really is stupid. One year short skirts are in, the next year they’re not. I mean, who decides when they look good and when they don’t? People should wear what they want to.”
Jenny nods thoughtfully. “What about the story about the king who was tricked by those tailors into paying for imaginary clothes?”
“I know the one. I can’t remember the title, though.”
She says, “You know, the tailors kept saying how beautiful the material was and everyone, even the king was too embarrassed to say he couldn’t see it because the tailors said that only people who were terrible at their job couldn’t see it.”
I nod. “And when the king went parading through the streets in his new clothes, no one told him he was in his underwear, until a kid said, ‘Look, the –‘ Now I remember! It wasn’t a king at all, it was an emperor. It was called The Emperor’s New Clothes.”
Jenny laughs. “That’s it. It would be great.”
“Nah. I’d never get anyone to parade around in the nude.”
Jenny looks serious. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe not nude, but in their underwear. Besides, well, what I mean is, not everyone is against being naked.” She glances at me and frowns. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not talking about me. I’m just saying some people like the feeling of wearing no clothes. You know, they don’t think it’s any big deal. And in the art galleries, there’s lots of pictures . . . what I mean is that the human body is beautiful. Some people don’t mind showing it off.”
“What are you talking about, Jenny? Do you . . .”
Jenny blushes deep red. “Of course not! Don’t be silly. But my mom belongs to a club and they . . .”
The only image of a mother I can think of is my own. And the idea of a bunch of chubby, saggy naked women on lounge chairs almost makes me gag.
“Why would she do that?”
Jenny looks grim. “Even if you don’t agree with it, you don’t have to act like that!”
I stop snickering. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
Jenny has her arms crossed beneath her huge breasts as she stares out over the field in the direction of Kevin. I am respectfully silent, and soon the lines of her shoulders ease and her expression softens.
I wouldn’t have dared bring up the subject again, though I’m dying to know more.
Surprisingly, Jenny continues. “My mother thinks that she’ll find a nice man at this club.”
I don’t say anything. Not one word. My gut tells me it’s the right thing to do.
Chapter 5
The sky is the color of steel wool, and the wind, which had been almost playful this morning, is driving needles of rain against every soaked inch of me.
Jenny is with Kevin. I have nothing but the play to think of on the long cold wet walk home.
It’s a relief to peel wet polyester off my clammy legs. I put on some warm clothes and go to pray. I need all the help I can get.
Afterwards, I plop down on the sofa and a few moments later, Layla barges in, as usual. “Have you prayed yet? Prayer time is going.”
“Yes.”
She stops and really looks at me. “What?”
“Yes, I prayed, now leave me alone.”
She narrows her eyes. “You’re being disrespectful. I am your elder and you’re supposed to respect anyone older than you.”
“You’re only a year older.”
“For your information, I’m nineteen months older. Besides, it makes no difference. Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, said you have to respect your elders. He didn’t say you only had to respect them if they were a lot older.”
All this twisted logic makes my brain hurt. I don’t have the energy to argue. I rub my head and say more respectfully, “Would you please not bother me then? I had a rough day.”
Instead of leaving she comes and sits down right in front of me. “Was it the play? You’re not doing the story of Prophet Joseph, are you?”
“Yes and no.”
“What is it? Yes or no?”
I sigh and put my arm down so I can look at her. “Yes, it was the play and no, I’m not doing the story of Joseph.”
“That’s prophet Joseph, peace be upon him.”
“Prophet Joseph.”
“Peace be upon him.”
I take a deep breath and say, “Prophet Joseph, peace be upon him.”
She tilts her head, letting her hair fall to one side, and looks at me speculatively. “Then which story are you doing?”
My head is throbbing and she’s cornered me. I don’t want to tell her. She’ll just laugh at me. I’m so tired! Darn! Why does she always have to boss me around?
In a calm, even voice, with no hint of attitude, I say, “With all due respect, I’d rather not say.”
Her mouth hangs open for just a moment, then she narrows her eyes and shrugs. “Fine. Don’t tell me. I was just trying to help but it’s obvious you don’t want any help. I just thought that since I starred in my grade eight play, and our house league won, you might want some help. But no, you think you know it all. So fine. I just didn’t want you to make a fool of yourself. But if that’s what