you get any marks back?” Dad asked turning to me. Most of our dinner conversation centred around school: upcoming tests, studying for tests, and marks from tests. “No, but the tryouts for the tournament team started today.”
“Back to basketball,” Aazim mumbled.
“How did they go?” Mom asked. I saw tension flash on her face. Playing on a co-ed team was a bit of a tricky thing for us now that I was older. I knew they’d feel better once I was playing for an all-girls team, but making the tournament team was a big deal and I’d been excited when they’d agreed to let me try out.
“Fine, until I was hit in the face.” Everyone looked at me. I’d actually forgotten about it by the time I came home from school. The pain was gone, but my nose still felt swollen when I scrunched it up.
“What happened?” Mom peered at me. She wore wire-rimmed glasses that made her look even more like a librarian. Thin and tall, she had light brown eyes and wore a serious expression, like she was always thinking about something.
“A girl elbowed me in the nose. It was an accident. We were both going for the ball. It was bleeding, though, and I had to sit in the office for a while until it stopped.”
“Hmm. Maybe the game is too rough.”
I shook my head quickly. “It was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention. My scarf got in my face.”
My parents glanced at each other across the table. I held my breath. The last thing I needed was for them to decide basketball was too dangerous and tell me I couldn’t try out.
“Her nose wasn’t that great, anyway,” Aazim said. I gave him another kick to the shins as Mom and Dad laughed. Thanks to Aazim’s hilarious sense of humour, the matter of basketball being too dangerous was dropped.
Chapter 4
I had just sat down in homeroom when I heard my name over the school PA system.
“Sadia Ahmadi, please come to the office. Sadia Ahmadi.” The secretary’s voice cut through the morning chatter in the classroom. Mr. Letner nodded for me to go. “O Canada” hadn’t been played yet and, once again, Mariam was with Carmina switching outfits in the washroom.
“Are you Sadia?” Mrs. Mooney, the secretary, asked as she looked up from her computer. I nodded. “Have a seat.” I sat down in a chair opposite her desk. “Mrs. Marino will be with you in a minute.”
The door to the vice-principal’s office opened and I could hear her speaking slowly and clearly, annunciating every word. A girl in a hijab, head down, emerged first, followed by her parents. They were smiling and nodding vigorously, nudging their daughter to show more enthusiasm for what Mrs. Marino was saying. The girl looked at me, and for a second, a wave of relief washed over her, but then she turned away and took a step closer to her parents.
Mrs. Marino had voluminous, curly hair. It looked like it weighed the same as she did and I wondered how she didn’t topple over from it. “Sadia, this is Amira Nasser. A new student. She’s starting today.” I smiled at Amira when she glanced up, but she didn’t return it. I took in her clothes and what her parents were wearing. On my first day of school, Mom had made me wear my best outfit: a dress and party shoes. I’d felt ridiculous when everyone else was in jeans or leggings. The next day, I’d worn jeans and runners, like I would have at home. Amira’s clothes weren’t fancy. I turned my gaze to her parents. Her mom kept nodding, even though no one was saying anything, and she gave me an enthusiastic smile, which didn’t match the dark circles under her eyes. It was like she was trying so hard to be happy, it was exhausting her.
“The Nassers are from Syria,” Mrs. Marino said. A brief, knowing glance passed between her and Mrs. Mooney. I caught the look of pity on their faces, but wasn’t sure if the Nassers saw it, too.
Mom and Dad hadn’t shielded me from the news. I knew what was happening in Syria. I’d seen the footage of buildings being blown up and refugees walking across Europe, hoping to find a safe place for their family. There was a war in my home country. Mom and Dad had been glued to the internet since the first reports started to surface a few years ago. They muttered and shook their heads as places they knew, places we’d visited, were reduced to rubble. And then the reports started showing refugees leaving. Desperate to escape the country, they’d cross the Mediterranean Sea in rowboats or inflatable dinghies.
The footage on the screen wasn’t the Syria I remembered. It looked like another planet. The eyes of the children were haunted, their clothes and bodies dirty and unwashed because there was no water. Some towns were cut off from food supplies, and the children were starving. Then, one day, I’d turned away from the news, not wanting to have my happy memories of Syria replaced with these ugly ones. I’d grabbed my jacket to go outside and play basketball, comforted by the rhythmic bounce of the ball on concrete. But Mom had forced me to sit it out. “Watch,” she’d said, “and be thankful. That could be you.”
Before we left Damascus, I’d seen people beaten on the street, twice. The first time, I was in our house and heard an uproar outside. I went to the balcony overlooking the street and saw our neighbour, Mr. Habib, being yelled at by two officers with machine guns slung over their shoulders. He held up his hands, shrinking away from them, but they pulled out batons and began hitting him. Even when he was on the ground, they kept kicking him, and then they dragged him into a van. Mom pulled me away from our balcony, scolding me for risking my safety. “Don’t draw attention to yourself!” she’d hissed at me. All my life, she’d told me to stick up for myself, not to let anyone put me down, and now she was saying I should hide? I stared at her in confusion.
The second time, I was returning from a shopping trip with Teta, my grandmother. A ruckus broke out on the street. I moved through the crowd to see what was happening. A group of men were shouting at a man and his teenage son, accusing them of being traitors. The onlookers jeered, tossing rocks at them. One hit the boy and made him bleed. He clung to his father, crying with fear. Sitta dragged me away, shouting at me the whole way home that I had to be more careful. When we got home and Sitta told my parents what had happened, Dad said he’d had it. I didn’t know what he meant, but he stayed up late for weeks, talking on the phone and making arrangements. His friends thought he was crazy for leaving; he had arguments with them and sometimes they’d storm out of our house, furious. But Mom and Dad thought it was going to get worse before it got better. Luckily for us, we already had family in the U.K., so it made leaving easier. I wondered sometimes about the people who thought Dad was crazy. Were they still there? Had they left, too? Or were some of them the haunted faces we saw on the news?
Amira’s parents pushed her toward me, smiling encouragement. “Hi,” I said in English.
She stared at me.
“Marhaba,” I tried again in Arabic. She nodded, her hands fidgeting at her sides. She’d brought no backpack or binders.
“Can you show Amira around, Sadia? She’ll have the same timetable as you, except she’s taking art instead of band. Mr. Letner will be her homeroom teacher as well,” Mrs. Marino said. It was horrible but my first thought was no. I didn’t want this sad, haunted girl with me. She’d follow me around like a lost puppy. I hated myself for thinking that way and pushed those thoughts away.
“Sure,” I answered. Mrs. Marino held out her hand to shake Amira’s parents’ hands. I opened my mouth to warn her, but what could I say? Only Mrs. Nasser took her outstretched hand. Mr. Nasser smiled and bowed his head, avoiding Mrs. Marino’s eyes. Mrs. Marino realized, too late, her error and let her hand
