a Camera.” The marking guide was below. It was worth 40 percent of our final grade! I raised my eyebrows at him and pointed it out to Mariam.
“Can’t we just use our phones?” Carmina asked. She was addicted to Instagram and Snapchat.
“No.” Mr. Letner shook his head. “And try not to let this become a selfie bonanza. There is more to photograph in the world than just your faces.” He sort of grimaced when he said the last part. “I want all the photos saved on the memory card inside the camera.” He pulled a square piece of plastic out of one of the cameras and held it up.
Mr. Letner changed the screen from the home page of If You Give a Kid a Camera to show us the young photographers and the pictures they’d taken. We all sat silently as he clicked through. Based on what we’d discussed in Global Issues about poverty in developing countries, I expected to see kids in shacks or playing in a garbage pile or standing by a well with a leaky tap.
But the photos that flashed on the screen showed kids playing soccer and splashing in puddles. There were some pictures of kids with invented toys and playing in a band of instruments created out of garbage. In most of the pictures, the kids were laughing. Despite the living conditions, the photographers focused on the joy in their lives, not the hardship.
Mr. Letner brought the screen back to the home page. “The kids who got the cameras showed us what life was like from their perspective. They used it as a communication tool, and as we know, a lot of global issues can be solved through understanding.”
“I can’t believe you’re trusting us with cameras,” Zander said.
“Funny you should say that, because I’m not. A form was emailed home today letting your parents know about our project. The cameras cost two hundred dollars, so if they’re lost or damaged, you’re on the hook for the cost. We’ll post some of the photos on the blog, so make sure they are appropriate.” He gave Allan a pointed look. All the grade nine homerooms had a blog for students to keep track of assignments.
As part of our class mark, we also had to sign up to write a post each term. I’d written one in first term about Ramadan, the holiest month of the Islamic calendar. Kids at school couldn’t believe I fasted every day for a month. As weird as it sounded to them, I liked fasting. A little discomfort at school meant a big payoff at home. Mom spent the day in the kitchen, cooking food for when we broke the fast each night at sundown. Last year, to mark the end of the fasting period, Mariam’s family had joined us for Eid al-Fitr, and we all ate together. It had been my favourite Eid since we’d moved to Canada.
“Do we get the cameras today?”
“Your parents have to email the form back to me and then you can take them home.”
Despite the complaints from other kids, a lot of ideas about what I could photograph ran through my head. Basketball, to start with, my runners, some of Mom’s rizz bi halib, the best creamy sweet toast ever!
“This is stupid,” Mariam mumbled beside me. I thought she’d be excited about the project.
“I think it sounds fun,” Carmina said.
“Me, too.”
“There’s nothing cool in my life,” Mariam replied. “It’ll just be a bunch of boring pictures of me at home. My parents don’t let me do anything,” she whined.
“You like to sew. Maybe you could take pictures of some of the stuff you’ve been making?” Mariam shot me a look like I didn’t know what I was talking about. I tried not to let it bother me, but between the de-jabbing and the attitude, I didn’t need a new perspective to see that Mariam was pushing me away. What I didn’t know was why.
Chapter 2
I ate my lunch so quickly I was finished before most kids had unpacked their sandwich. “What’s the rush?” Mariam asked. She lazily opened a container of leftovers: rice and lentils in curry that she’d heated in the microwave. The smell wafted over and I took a second to enjoy it. Mariam’s mom was a really good cook. Going to her house for dinner was like eating at a gourmet Egyptian restaurant.
“Basketball tryouts,” I told her, sucking the last drops out of my juice box. The carton crumpled in my hands.
Mariam looked at Carmina and grimaced. She’d played basketball last year when we were in middle school, but not with much enthusiasm. I think she gave up before the season finished.
“Why would you want to play basketball, anyway?” Mariam asked. She looked at Carmina, who was staring across the cafeteria at her grade ten crush.
“Why wouldn’t you?” I shot back.
“Boys don’t like girls who play sports.”
I held my tongue, sure that if I said anything, I’d regret it. Then I stuffed my lunch containers back in my bag and stood up. “Whatever. I’m going. See you.” I didn’t look back, but I’m pretty sure I heard her and Carmina giggling as I walked away.
When I got to the gym, it was almost all boys. “You’re here early,” Josh said as I went past him to the girls’ change room. He was sitting on a bench, tying his shoes. New white-and -silver Air Jordans.
“So are you.”
“Got to get a jump on the competition,” he said with a sly grin.
Josh stood up and jogged over to a wire basket of balls Mr. Letner had put out for us. He picked one and dribbled it, then ran past me and did a layup. I laughed to myself. If Mariam really liked Josh, she’d know this was where she needed to be.
I walked into the change room. The other girls were getting changed into shorts and T-shirts. I went into a stall and took off my regular outfit — long pants and long-sleeved shirt — to put on my sweats and a different long-sleeved shirt. The head scarf had to stay on, and when I came out of the stall, I took a quick look in the mirror and then found a spot on a bench to put on my basketball shoes. Being in there gave me a minute to get focused and concentrate on what I had to do to make the tournament team.
More girls came in and I did a quick head count. There were eight of us trying out and there would probably be about twenty boys. Mr. Letner said he’d take a team of twelve to the tournament, but the rules were that at least a quarter of the team had to be girls. That meant at least three girls would make it. I said a quick prayer that one of the three would be me.
Most of the boys were already bouncing balls and taking shots on net when I got to the gym. My stomach did a flip and my fingers tingled. I couldn’t wait to feel the bumpy rubber of the ball and the slap as it hit the floor and bounced back into my hands. Mr. Letner blew his whistle. The thumping of balls stopped and we hustled toward him. I grabbed a ball and held it against my waist.
“Okay, everyone,” Mr. Letner said. “We’ll start with some shooting drills. Girls on one side and boys on the other. Then we’ll do some one on one. Ready?” He blew his whistle again and I ran to the hoop and took my first shot. It went in with a swish, which I thought was a good sign.
“Nice one,” a voice piped up behind me. Jillian Triggs sent her shot sailing through the air and it went in, too.
We took our spot in line and waited for another turn. “Which guys do you think will make it?” Jillian asked. She wasn’t in Mr. Letner’s
