And then I felt bad for thinking like that. I’d had to rely on the kindness of others when we’d first moved here, just like Amira was relying on me now.
“It’s gym,” I told her in Arabic. She looked at me with panicked eyes. “Don’t worry, you can probably just sit and watch the class on your first day.”
“Boys and girls have gym together?” she asked in a rushed whisper.
“Yes.” I’d forgotten how different things would be for her here. I’d been eleven when we’d moved, still a kid compared to Amira. Things like co-ed gym classes hadn’t been any different from home.
I explained to Mr. McMurchy, the gym teacher, that Amira was new and didn’t speak much English. “I think she just wants to sit out and watch,” I told him.
“Okay, but only for today, since it’s her first day.” I translated for Amira, and the briefest of relieved smiles crossed her face. I didn’t translate the second half of his answer: “Next time, she joins in.”
Grateful to have a break from being her translator and tour guide, I went to change into my gym clothes. When I came out, Josh had already started running laps so I joined him, our steps in rhythm as we talked about which kids had the best shot of making the team. I had to run faster than usual to keep up with him and could feel my heart pumping. As a few more of his friends started running, we got separated and I ran at the front of a clump of girls. I almost stumbled over my shoes when I looked at the change room doors and saw Mariam in shorts and a gym shirt. She must have borrowed them from Carmina. She stood there self-consciously, starting an awkward run-walk on the periphery of the track.
I slowed my pace to join her, gaping at her bare legs. “Mariam!” I hissed. “What are you doing?”
“It’s just gym clothes. We used to change all the time.” When we were kids! I thought. Her parents would be furious if they saw her. I didn’t know what to say to her, so I sprinted ahead, my hijab flapping behind me.
Chapter 5
“You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?” Mariam asked in Arabic as we walked back to class after gym.
“No,” I answered, kind of mad that she even had to ask. “But you know it’s wrong,” I whispered.
Mariam gave me a pleading look. “Please don’t say anything.”
“I won’t,” I promised. I wasn’t her parent. It wasn’t up to me to force modesty on her, but I couldn’t help feeling that her decisions were putting more and more distance between us. I liked that we both wore hijab; it was our thing — it separated us from all the other girls in our class. If she kept changing (and I didn’t just mean her clothes), what would happen to us?
And if I did tell on her, it would be a betrayal of our friendship, which would only drive her further away. She’d pushed me into an impossible corner.
“Promise?” she asked again. I gave her a solemn nod. As soon as she was satisfied that I’d keep her secret, she drifted away from me and found Carmina. The two of them walked to their next class together. From the excited chatter, I guessed that Mariam was telling Carmina how good it had felt to wear shorts again. I watched them jealously for a minute and pulled my eyes away. It used to be Mariam and me who were close.
Amira followed me like a shadow to my locker as I grabbed a snack, stuffed my gym bag in, and got my books for the rest of the morning.
“Your friend Mariam,” Amira asked quietly. “Is she Muslim?”
“Yeah. She’s from Egypt.”
“But she doesn’t wear hijab.”
“Usually she does.” I wished I could have explained more, but Mariam’s behaviour was becoming a mystery to me.
“Okay, everyone. Sit down. Break’s over.” Mr. Letner stood at the front of the room with the suitcase of digital cameras. “I’ve heard back from almost everyone’s parents, giving permission to let you take the cameras home. Those of you whose parents haven’t emailed the form back can take pictures today, you just can’t take the cameras home.” He held up his hands, as if quieting an unruly crowd. “I know, I know. You’re thinking, ‘Mr. Letner, I already know how to use a camera. I’ve been taking pictures on my iPad since I was little.’ But just snapping a photo and taking a picture of something that captures the imagination of the viewer are two different things.” He slowed his voice down, so we’d all pay attention. “For example, as a famous Russian writer once said, ‘Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.’”
I looked over at Amira. The blank look on her face told me she had no idea what he was talking about.
Mr. Letner turned off the front row of lights, and immediately a bunch of kids put their heads on their desks, ready to zone out. An image appeared on the Smartboard. “Even ordinary things can become powerful images. Look at this one.” A fingerprint: the black ink on the stark white page filled up the screen. Mr. Letner scanned the room. “What do you think about it? What’s your reaction?”
“It’s a fingerprint,” Avery said, unimpressed. “We all have them.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah, I mean they’re not all the same, but —” And then she caught herself. “Oh, I get it. The photo is showing how we’re all different.”
Mr. Letner touched his nose and pointed at Avery. “There you go! One image, but lots of meanings. Here, look at this one.” Another photo appeared, and at first, I didn’t know what it was. A round ball with bubbles suspended in its centre. The glass glowed like something from another world, the swirl inside of it like a tornado. It was a marble sitting on concrete. The pebbled surface was rough and pitted against the smoothness of the glass. “Pretty cool, eh?” I leaned forward in my seat, waiting for the next image.
“Do you know what this is?” It was a photo of a snowbank half-melted into the shape of an elephant. We all laughed. Well, not Amira. She was probably like me before my first Canadian winter, when I’d never touched snow.
“The next photo I’m going to show you is shocking,” he warned us. The image of a starving African child crouched on the ground appeared on the screen. She was skin and bones, every rib visible. In the background, a vulture waited. “Is that for real?” Zander asked.
Mr. Letner nodded. “This photo was taken during the Sudanese famine. It made international news and won the Pulitzer Prize.”
“I hope whoever took the photo helped her, gave her food or something,” Carmina muttered, and looked away.
“This photo showed the world what was going on in the Sudan. Up until then, no one had paid much attention to the famine. I want you to really think about what you photograph. Use your photos to show people how you see the world, or to help change it. It might mean looking at the world differently or seeing details in things you wouldn’t normally notice, like a marble, or a snowbank. Or making a social commentary on a problem that bothers you.”
I was relieved when the photo of the starving child disappeared. “Do you expect our photos to look like those ones?” Larissa asked. “They’re, like, professional.”
“It’s the idea behind
