I followed her finger to where it pointed at the blackboard.
“Anahita,” Mrs. Darvish said, “tell Nioucha about alef.”
“Alef is the first letter of the alphabet,” she answered.
“Very good,” Mrs. Darvish said. Then to me, “So why aren’t you working?”
“Because I’m not Iranian,” I said. “I am French.”
“You are both,” Mrs. Darvish said. “And you are speaking Persian even though you’re pretending not to understand me.”
I sat staring straight ahead, thinking she’d eventually grow tired and walk back to her desk.
“Do you behave this way with Madame Martine in the afternoons too?” Mrs. Darvish continued.
“No,” Anahita said. “Nioucha is a good student in Madame Martine’s class.”
Mrs. Darvish didn’t like hearing this. Her eyebrows furrowed even more.
She leaned down, and through clenched teeth said, “Nioucha, if you don’t start writing this minute, I’ll break your hand.”
Anahita gasped. I knew from how quiet the classroom grew that all the kids were staring at the teacher and me. My heart beat very fast and my cheeks felt warm. Before Mrs. Darvish could see my eyes getting teary, I looked down and slowly unzipped my schoolbag. I found my notebook and opened it to the first page. I reached in again, took out my pencil box, and chose the one with the pointiest tip.
Satisfied, Mrs. Darvish clapped her hands a few times and said, “All right, class. Keep practicing!”
She returned to her desk in the front of the room, where she stood and rifled through some papers. Anahita slipped her hand under her desk and reached for mine, giving it a firm squeeze.
I looked at her and she smiled.
Anahita was about to whisper something, but we heard Mrs. Darvish scraping her chair and sitting down. We let go of each other’s hands. Mrs. Darvish looked around the classroom to make sure all students were working. I grabbed my pencil and pretended to be writing just as diligently as everyone else.
Finally, the bell rang for recess. I ran out as fast as I could. Baba was sitting on the low concrete wall that separated the courtyard from the soccer field. Bees flew around the yellow-and-purple pansies in the divider. When Baba noticed how flushed I was, he asked me what was wrong. I told him what had happened in class.
“I don’t belong here, Baba,” I said. The tears I’d been holding back through the class finally poured down my cheeks. “I don’t want to go back ever again. The teacher said she’d break my hand!”
“Calm down, Nioucha,” Baba said.
“But Mrs. Darvish is so mean to me,” I said.
“Hold on, did you just say she threatened to break your hand?” Baba asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“That’s it. We’re going to the principal’s office right now.”
“Can I come with you?” It was Anahita. She stood a few feet away from where we sat on the wall, but she must have heard our conversation.
I jumped up and took her hand. “Baba, this is Anahita. We sit next to each other in class. Her mother is French too. Can she come with us?”
“Hello, Anahita,” Baba said. “Sure she can.”
“I’ll just walk with you a little ways,” Anahita said.
We walked, still holding hands. Baba led the way to the high school part of Razi to reach the principal’s office.
“You looked so sad in class,” Anahita continued. “I wanted to see if you were okay.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m okay now.”
I realized I wasn’t crying anymore. Having Anahita there made me forget how miserable Mrs. Darvish had made me.
“Nioucha, why do you act like you don’t know Persian?” Anahita said.
“I think…” I started. I dropped my voice, worried Baba might hear, even though he was walking pretty far ahead of us. “I think that if I am a bad student, Maman and Baba will take me back home to Pittsburgh.”
She didn’t say anything. So I asked, “Do you think they would?”
“I don’t know. Maybe,” Anahita said. “How did you learn Persian anyway?”
“Playing and watching TV with my cousins. We’ve been living at my aunt’s house, and I am always hanging out with them.”
“Okay,” Anahita said. After a slight pause, she asked, “Do you have a Barbie?”
“I have two. Why?”
“I thought we could bring them to school and play during recess together. There’s a clearing in the woods behind our building where we can play without anyone noticing. What do you think?”
“I think I’m bringing my Barbies to school tomorrow!” I said.
“Great! I’m going to go now, but I’ll see you later.”
“Okay, see you.”
She ran back in the direction we’d come from. I turned around and stared at the yard ahead of me. It had a shallow pool decorated with turquoise tiles, and water flowed down to the next pool below, and the next and the next. It looked like a waterfall.
I caught up with Baba where he was waiting for me by a large limestone building. When we reached the principal’s office, I remembered why we’d come, and my stomach squeezed. Baba asked the assistant for an immediate meeting. She nodded and, after a brief phone call, led Baba to a door and told me I had to wait outside. She gently put her hand behind my back and pointed to one of the chairs in the reception area.
A minute later, the principal burst out of his office and said to his assistant, “Ask Mrs. Darvish to come here straightaway. I need to speak with her.” Then he turned to me and said, “Nioucha, come with me.”
I followed him into his office. He was short and portly, with snow-white hair and a matching mustache. His office smelled of a pipe, the exact scent of the one Baba occasionally smoked.
We didn’t have to wait long before Mrs. Darvish walked in. She adjusted her glasses and after nodding hello to Baba, took a seat next to him, across the desk from the principal. I sat behind Baba at a children’s table strewn with books, coloring pages, and crayons. I absentmindedly picked up a green crayon to color in a frog sitting on a lotus leaf.
The principal relayed what he’d heard from Baba. He sounded angry and slammed his hand once on his desk.
“Mrs. Darvish, you know that this is not how we handle matters at Razi,” he said. “I will not tolerate threats of violence toward a child. What came
