asked when I came back to class. I’d been sitting in the office, waiting for the bleeding to stop. She had probably heard from other kids, but it was nice to see her concerned.
“I got hit in the face. I’m okay.” Every time I scrunched up my face, it felt hot and tingly.
“It looks kind of swollen.”
I gingerly touched the skin on either side of my nose. “Yeah. I hope it’s not broken.”
“And that is why I don’t play sports.”
I wanted to roll my eyes at her so badly, but I restrained myself. I didn’t know why she was acting like this. Did she really think sports were dumb?
I’d always been the sporty one, even though Mariam had three brothers and I only had one. She’d never understood why I’d rather play soccer at recess than sit on a bench and talk, but we had so many other things in common, that it didn’t used to matter.
Used to.
Mariam had arrived a year before me. Even if we hadn’t both been Muslim and attended the same mosque, we would have been friends. We used to stay up late watching movies and talking. She was so easy to be around and always had some new idea to try, like ambushing Aazim with water guns when he came home from school or baking cookies for the school bake sale. I missed that Mariam.
And it wasn’t like her friendship with Carmina was new, either. Carmina had always been our third — like, if we had to do a project with three people, she was the one we asked. We all ate lunch together and hung out after school, but lately, I’d noticed I was becoming the third. The two of them were doing things together while I was on the periphery.
“How’s the nose?” Josh asked as we packed up our books at the end of the day.
“I’ll live,” I said and tried to wiggle it to prove it to him.
“So, you and Josh were on the same team?” Mariam asked after he’d walked away. She pulled out the head scarf and tunic she’d stuffed into her locker. I walked with her to the washroom so she could change and we could catch the bus home. I nodded. “Did he ask you to be on his team or, like, what happened?”
“Mr. Letner chose the teams. It was a close game, too. We could have won if I hadn’t gotten hurt.”
Mariam pushed open the door to the girls’ washroom. We were the only ones in there, and in a few minutes, she’d slipped her tunic over her T-shirt and had her hair tucked under the stretchy bonnet cap. Her scarf was fuchsia pink and it made her skin glow. The ends were embroidered with white thread. “That’s really pretty,” I said, admiring it.
Mariam sighed and tossed an end over her shoulder. “If I have to wear it, it can at least be stylish.” She gave my hastily chosen hijab, as boring-beige as it could get, a pitiful look. I shrugged it off. Fashion had never been my thing. “Come on, we’re going to miss our bus,” she added.
Because I was waiting for you were the words I wanted to say, but I bit my tongue. Again.
Chapter 3
“Did you reply to Mr. Letner’s email about taking a camera home?” I asked my mom at dinner. She’d made one of Dad’s favourite meals, a spicy chicken dish, and our lips and fingers shone with grease.
“Yes,” she replied. “He’s an interesting teacher. Always with a new idea. You like his class?”
I nodded. “He wants us to take photos,” I explained to Dad. “About how we see the world.”
Aazim grinned at me. “The only thing you see is the basketball court.”
Since he’d started university, Aazim hadn’t been around as much as he used to be. He said he preferred to study at school, where it was quiet, as if the three of us were loud, rambunctious five-year -olds. “Not the only thing,” I said defensively.
He scoffed, wiping his fingers on a paper towel and leaving greasy smudges behind. “Your days of playing basketball are numbered, little sister.”
“No!”
“You’ll have to stop being a tomboy and become a dutiful Muslim woman, right?” He was teasing — we both knew our parents were fine with me playing sports. I kicked his shin under the table and he winced.
“Stop it, you two,” Dad said, raising an eyebrow and throwing Aazim and me a warning look that we knew better than to test. Dad’s skin was darker than mine or Mom’s, and when he did yardwork in the summer, it tanned a deep brown. His thick, curly black hair was unruly and always looked like it needed a cut.
“The email from Mr. Letner said you are supposed to take photos of things that matter to you. There’s more than just basketball. You should show your classmates what your life is like. It might be interesting for them.” I knew what Mom meant by life. She meant being Muslim. From the kitchen, I could see the small prayer mat in front of the window in the dining room. Mom used it five times a day for her prayers. Now that I was older, I’d started using it for my prayers, too. The mat had come with us from Syria and was soft from use. Dad had one in the bedroom, where he preferred to pray. He had one at his office, too.
I doubted kids at school would be interested in that, but instead of disagreeing with her, I gave a noncommittal shrug.
“Did you get your sociology exam back?” Dad asked Aazim.
Aazim shook his head. He attended the same university where Dad taught, but they rarely bumped into each other. Dad was an economics professor and spent his time in the Arts building, while Aazim was pre-med, according to my parents, or first year science, according to him. The one arts course Aazim had to take was Sociology, but he’d scheduled it to avoid bumping into Dad. “I saw you going into the Isbister Building today. I didn’t think you had any courses there.”
And that was the reason Aazim had carefully planned the location of his classes. Dad’s interest in his life was well meaning, but I knew it wore on Aazim.
“I don’t,” Aazim said with a frown. “Why were you there?” he added.
“I had a department meeting. We use the boardroom in that building.” I still wasn’t totally clear on what economics was. Dad said he sat around all day in his office, writing research papers. Sometimes, he’d teach a course if they let him. He was joking. I’d seen the letters and emails from students thanking him for being a great teacher. Dad loved to tell stories, and I had no doubt that he was able to entertain his students the same way he entertained Aazim and me. When we were kids, he didn’t read us bedtime stories, he told us tales that he’d been told by his father. A great actor, he had a different voice for each character and would play out the most exciting scenes, leaping from the bed to the floor until he had Aazim and me gripping the covers and barely breathing.
“I was just meeting some friends,” Aazim said, wiping his fingers again and leaving more greasy streaks behind. “Did you do anything today?” he asked Mom.
“Went to the grocery store, cooked, cleaned. The usual.” Mom sighed. “Although, I did see something interesting in the newspaper. The Millennium Library downtown is starting an Arabic section. There are a lot more Arabic speakers in the city now.”
“Maybe they’ll
