Sadia

by Colleen Nelson

  “It’s hard to hear what’s happening in Syria and not worry about friends and neighbours. People we knew,” Mom said.

  “Kids I went to school with, teachers,” I said.

  “Colleagues,” Dad added.

  I thought about the stuffie Amira had given away and her medals, maybe lost in rubble somewhere. We were both Syrian and both in Canada, but she’d had to endure so many bad things to get here. If Mariam and I weren’t in a fight, these were the things I would have talked to her about, because she understood what it was like to leave people behind. For a while, things had gotten bad in Egypt, too. She’d been confused by tense phone calls between her parents and family who still lived there. But I couldn’t talk to her. Not right now, anyway.

  Mom reached across the table and held my hand. “This is not for you to feel guilty about.”

  I nodded again, but as long as I was friends with Amira, the reality of what she’d lived through would be there. In her haunted eyes and distant smile.

  Chapter 12

  I saw Mariam at her locker when I arrived at school and felt a knot tighten in my stomach. As I got closer, I kept an eye out for Carmina. I was still bothered about our argument and wanted to clear the air.

  Mariam didn’t even glance at me when I got to my locker, a few down from hers. I took a deep, determined breath. The bright pink tunic she was wearing made her skin glow. It was laced with gold thread and looked too fancy for a regular school day. Why did she bother dressing up if she was just going to change?

  “I love your shirt,” I said.

  She gave me a cool look. “Thanks. I sewed it myself.” Her words came through tight lips, but I could hear the pride in her voice.

  “You did? It’s really nice.” I hated the gushy tone of my voice, but I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t know how else to make amends.

  She pursed her lips. “I’m sick of all the boring clothes I have to wear. At least this way …” She let the conversation drift off. For as long as I’d known her, Mariam had been into clothes, but her sewing skills were obviously improving. I looked down at my outfit. An old T-shirt of Aazim’s over a long-sleeved shirt and soccer pants wasn’t exactly fashion forward.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday.”

  She sighed. “Yeah, me, too.”

  It felt a little like it used to between us, like I had a one-inch opening. If I could just squeeze the rest of me through, maybe she’d see I wasn’t the enemy. I was still her best friend. “Maybe we could hang out this weekend?”

  “Hey, Sadia! Team practice at lunch today!” Josh called out as he walked past. I closed my eyes, wondering if Josh’s timing could be any worse.

  The corners of Mariam’s mouth turned down in a frown. “Actually, there’s a party I’m going to. With Carmina.”

  I stared at her, letting her words sink in. A party? “Really?”

  She took my reply as a challenge. “Yeah,” she said.

  “Does it last all weekend?” I asked, more snarky than I intended. Even if she was going to the party, it didn’t mean her whole weekend was booked.

  Mariam narrowed her eyes. “Yeah. It does,” she said sarcastically and turned on her heels.

  I wanted to ask her how she was going to ask for permission, because we both knew her parents would never let her go. There had been plenty of things they’d said no to before. I doubted they would say yes to a party — especially if it was at someone’s house they didn’t know.

  Unless she wasn’t going to ask for permission.

  I kept thinking her rebellion was just a phase and she’d snap out of it, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe Mariam wanted to be the type of girl who de-jabbed and snuck out to go to parties. Her parents’ plan to protect her with strict rules was going to backfire.

  Amira found her way to class and sat down beside me. A few minutes later, Miss McKay, the resource teacher, came to get her for some intensive English lessons. She gave Amira a bright smile. “Should we go?” she asked.

  Amira nodded, probably grateful to be in a room without twenty-eight kids speaking in rapid-fire English.

  Once Amira left, our desk felt unbalanced. The dynamics had shifted between Carmina, Mariam, and me, and now I was the third wheel, the odd man out. I shifted my books to the edge of the desk and sat as far from Mariam as I could. On the board, Mr. Letner had written a new phrase: Rule of Thirds.

  “Anyone want to take a guess at what this means?” he asked.

  I glanced around. No one’s hand went up. “It’s a photography term,” Mr. Letner said. He pulled up an image of a kid biking down a gravel road. “Do you see how the subject of the picture is in the bottom right-hand corner of the photograph? Most of the picture is taken up by the trees.” He went to his computer and pressed a key. A grid of nine squares appeared on top of the photograph. “What do you notice if the photo is divided up like this?”

  From behind me, someone mumbled, “I thought this was Global Issues, not a photography class!”

  Franca’s hand went up. “The boy only takes up one third of the photo.”

  Mr. Letner nodded. “Right. So for your next photos, think about perspective and —” He turned to the board and wrote Composition. “Think about the rule of thirds. Play around with how you put the picture together.” He showed us a few examples of other photos that had used the rule of thirds. Once I knew to look for it, the rule was obvious. Rather than putting the main subject of the photo in the middle, dividing the picture up into thirds made it more interesting. Instead of just seeing a boy biking, I was wondering where he was going on the road. “Following the rule of thirds is going to make your photos really stand out at the art show.”

  “Did you say art show?” Avery asked.

  “Oh, did I?” Mr. Letner put on a fake surprised look, like he’d said too much.

  “What art show?” Carmina was suddenly alert. She’d been chipping away at her nail polish as Mr. Letner had been talking about the rule of thirds.

  “The photos we looked at yesterday proved to me that some of you really thought about what you were going to take pictures of. They weren’t random, they mattered to you. Like the kids who took pictures in the If You Give a Kid a Camera project, you showed us your perspective of the world. So, I asked Ms. Richards if we could join her art students in the divisional art show. This year, it’s at a gallery downtown.”

  There was an excited murmur, but also a few groans. Someone at the back, probably Zak, asked, “Do we have to?”

  “No,” Mr. Letner said. “But I want you to think about Allan’s photograph. How many of you had seen that side of him?”

  I twisted in my seat toward the back of the room. Instead of making a sarcastic comment, Allan was silently watching Mr. Letner. The only hand that went up to answer the question was Josh’s.

  “How many of you thought his photograph was powerful?” This time, every hand went up, even Zak’s. “These photographs are your perspective, your voice.”

  “What if we don’t have anything to say?” Mariam mumbled. I looked at her, wondering if she realized how ironic her question was. Of everyone in the class, she was the one saying something — every time she took off her hijab. It was like a shout right in my face.

  I tried not to think about Mariam for the rest of the morning. I avoided her at lunch and sat with the girls who’d made the basketball team. It wasn’t until she showed up in the gym at basketball practice that I was forced to face her.

  At first, I thought she was there to smooth things over with me, but as she marched past me and went straight to Mr. Letner, I realized I was wrong.

  “Hey, everyone!” Mr. Letner called. “Bring it in for a second.” We all stopped what we were doing to make a semicircle in front of him. “Mariam has offered to help manage the team.”

  I gritted my teeth at Mariam’s sudden interest in basketball. I wondered if s
he was only offering so she could keep an eye on Josh. What did she know about managing a team? “She’ll be checking attendance at practices, organizing the schedule, and looking after the uniforms. There’s also the permission forms for the tournament. They need to be returned to her by next week so I can submit the official roster.”

  My spirits sank as a satisfied smile spread across Mariam’s face. I knew she had no interest in basketball; she’d said so herself. She was offering to help for the wrong reasons. If our argument kept going, it would make things awkward on the bench. I didn’t want to be distracted when I needed to focus on playing.

  I don’t know if it was having Mariam in the gym, the way that she was smiling at Josh, or that my hijab kept coming loose, but I had a terrible practice. None of my balls went in the net. Anytime a pass came my way, I found a way to flub it up, dropping the ball, bumping into a teammate. I fouled out twice when we were scrimmaging. But I couldn’t take a breather because it meant sitting on the bench with Mariam.

  “Everything okay, Sadia?” Mr. Letner asked me on a water break. “Your timing’s off today.”

  “I know,” I groaned.

  He looked like he wanted to say something else. “Can I talk to you over here?” He gestured for me to follow him into the gym teacher’s office. It’s about Mariam, I thought. He can tell there’s something going on between us. Maybe he’d go back on his decision to let her be team manager if he knew it didn’t sit well with me.

  “This is a sensitive topic,” he began, “and I don’t want you to be offended. Your head scarf, it might be a problem during the tournament. The rules are pretty clear that players aren’t allowed to wear head coverings. I’ve emailed the organizers to see if they’ll allow an exception.”

  I stared at him. “I can’t take it off.”

  “I know. And hopefully, this will all get cleared up.” Mr. Letner wrinkled his forehead. “I didn’t want to upset you, but I thought you should know, just in case. We’ll wait and see what they say, okay? The tournament is still a few weeks away.”

  “If they don’t let me play, it’s discrimination,” I said. “Wearing hijab is part of my religion. This is Canada! Everyone in Canada is equal. I should get to play like the other kids, no matter what I’m wearing.” My cheeks flushed with indignation.

  “I know,” Mr. Letner nodded. “The rule book states that it’s a safety issue.”

  Even as I stood in the office fuming, I thought of when Abby had hit me on the nose. If I hadn’t been wearing my hijab, I would have seen her elbow coming. But kids got hurt accidentally all the time; it wasn’t a reason to make me go against my religious beliefs.

  The bell rang for afternoon classes. Mr. Letner peeked into the gym. Kids tossed their balls into the bin and ran to get changed. “As soon as I find out their decision, I’ll let you know.”

  I stormed out of the gym and barrelled into Mariam as she made her way, slowly, to class. “Ow! Watch it!” She rubbed her shoulder where we’d collided. Then she took a look at my face. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “You wouldn’t care if I told you.”

  She pursed her lips.

  But it all came spilling out, anyway. Because of all people, Mariam would understand. “Mr. Letner said I might not be able to play in the tournament unless I take off my hijab. They have rules about head coverings.”

  Mariam’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s not fair. It’s not for fashion, we’re Muslim.”

  “What if I can’t play?” I wailed. After all my hard work to make the team, I couldn’t stand the thought of being kicked off for a stupid rule.

  Mariam put a consoling hand on my arm. “They’ve probably never had a girl in hijab play before. They’ll realize what they’re doing is unfair.” It felt good to have her on my side, like a crack in the wall between us was opening. “You know, you could take it off.”

  I shirked away from her. “No, I couldn’t.”

  She rolled her eyes. “It’s probably just for one game. An hour of your life.”

  “That’s not even the point.” The hall emptied as kids around us made their way to class. “What happens next year when I want to play again? I’ll have to keep taking it off. And it might not be for just one hour. We could make it to the quarter-finals and the semis. Maybe even further. What about other girls who want to play? Are we all supposed to take off our hijab for their rules?”

  “Okay, don’t get so worked up. I’m on your side, remember?”

  I frowned at her. Was she? Maybe she was enjoying this. Without me on the team, she would have Josh all to herself, which was what she’d wanted all along.

  “Girls! Get to class, please.” Mrs. Marino speed-walked down the hall, not stopping as she breezed past us. For a little lady, she could motor when she had to. Her hair bounced behind her. Mariam and I went to our lockers to get books for our afternoon classes. When I sat down for English, Amira smiled at me, but I didn’t have it in me to return the greeting.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. When I explained about the tournament rules, she frowned.

  “You can’t take off your hijab,” she said, shaking her head.

  “I also can’t not play in the tournament.”

  Amira shot me a look and I knew the choice wouldn’t be so hard for her. Was it because I’d lived in Canada longer that I was conflicted? I knew my parents would agree with Amira. If I took it off for the basketball games, what would stop me from being like Mariam and removing it at school, or whenever it was inconvenient? There were lots of times when it would be easier to blend in with everyone else. I thought of the lady on the bus. She wouldn’t have given me a second glance if I hadn’t been wearing my hijab.

  But then I wouldn’t be me. And my religion was a big part of who I was. I spent the rest of the afternoon torn between my options. I’d been judging Mariam for taking off her hijab to fit in, but now I was considering doing the same so I could play basketball. Picking and choosing when I wore it would make me a huge hypocrite.

  Maybe I was stressing for nothing. Maybe the tournament organizers would realize their rule was dis­crimin­atory and change it. I mean, this was Canada! Rules like this were against human rights, weren’t they?

  Chapter 13

  The door to the washroom opened and then closed with a muffled thud. We’d started the day with our first early morning practice. Mr. Letner had worked us hard and we still had a scrimmage scheduled at lunch. I was sweating in places I didn’t know could sweat.

  After washing my face in the washroom sink and tidying myself up as best I could before class started, I went into a stall. I wasn’t expecting anyone to come in to the washroom. The bell for morning classes hadn’t rung yet.

  Then from under the stall door, I saw Mariam’s shoes and heard her school bag hit the countertop. Ugh. Of course, she’d need to come in here to de-jab herself. Should I make a noise so she’d know she wasn’t alone? I’d taken a stall a few from the end, and when I peeked through the crack between the stall door and the frame, I had a view of Mariam and her reflection in the mirror.

  She was giving herself a long, hard look, like she was trying to remember the details of her face. She screwed up her mouth, her brow wrinkling with frustration, and pulled back her hijab. I watched as she shook her head and let the scarf fall to the counter. I’d thought she’d be gleeful removing it, but what I saw confused me. She looked as upset about it as I would have been. She took off her tunic next — not the one I’d complimented her on before, but another one that she may have sewn herself. It had an asymmetrical hem and matched the bright turquoise of her head scarf. Underneath, she wore a T-shirt, a name-brand logo emblazoned on the front. She brushed out her hair, letting it fall in waves over her shoulders and back.

  It was too late now to emerge from the stall. There’d be too much awkwardness. I’d have to wait here until she left. Someone else entered a
nd I heard a hey, from Carmina. She said it in her usual singsong way, drawing it out. Instantly, Mariam’s stance changed. Any conflict she felt about taking off her hijab was hidden the moment Carmina came into the washroom.

  “Hey,” she responded. The two of them stood side by side as Carmina pulled out her makeup bag. I was stuck in the stall listening to them rifle through brushes and plastic cases as they painted their faces. Mariam had moved beyond just lip gloss. Eye shadow, mascara, and eyeliner all went on, then blush and lipstick. She looked like a painted doll when she was done.

  “Are you excited for the party?” Carmina asked. I listened intently, curious to know more.

  There was hesitation in Mariam’s voice. Carmina might not have been able to hear it, but I’d known Mariam as a best friend for years. “I might not be able to go,” she said.

  “What? Why?”

  “My parents are lame. They don’t know your parents, so they probably won’t let me sleep over.”

  “No,” Carmina whined. “You have to come! It’s going to be so fun! Everyone’s going, Josh, Allan, Avery, tons of people from our homeroom. Daniel will be there, too!”

  “I know,” Mariam answered in the same whiney tone.

  “Say you’re going to someone else’s house then,” Carmina suggested.

  My breath caught in my throat. She’d ask me. I was the logical choice. She’d slept over at my house lots of times, and her parents wouldn’t suspect anything out of the or­­dinary. “I could say I’m going to Sadia’s,” Mariam said.

  “Yeah,” Carmina said, excited. “She could come, too —”

  “No. Her parents would never allow it.” My heart shrivelled at the deception. My parents would never allow it? I wanted to scream at her. How would she know? It took every bit of self-control not to burst out of the washroom stall and confront her. But if I did, it would only make me look bad because I’d been snooping on her.