The Boy at the Back of the Class

by Onjali Q. Raúf

  We visited every stall in the market, from the beginning of the street right to the end, but even though we looked as carefully as we could, we couldn’t find a single pomegranate anywhere. Mum had told me to look for a pinkish ball that looked like a very hard apple and that had a small crown on the top. But I couldn’t see anything that looked even a little bit royal.

  “Try the store up by the station,” suggested one of the stall owners when Mum asked her for help. “They have everything under the sun in there. They should have some.”

  “Thank you,” said Mum. She grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze because she could tell I was starting to give up hope. “Nearly there,” she whispered. “I can feel it.”

  We walked for five minutes down the road and up to the station and found the shop the woman in the market had told us about. It was much smaller than the big grocery store with Frank the horrible Floor Manager in it, but it was bright with lots of colored lights and bowls and bowls of fruit and vegetables outside. It had everything you could think of—peaches and plums, mangoes and bananas, kiwis and pears, yellow apples and red apples and pink apples and even a spiky pink and green fruit that I had never seen before. But we couldn’t see any pomegranates, so we went inside and Mum asked the man standing behind the counter.

  “Ah!” The man nodded, scratching the tip of his nose. “Pomegranate! I see for you.” And talking out loud to himself, he hurried to a corner of the shop and quickly looked through some boxes.

  “Much, much regret!” he called out, holding up an empty box. “No more. But we have delivery on Tuesday!”

  The man came back and looked at us and we looked at him. He had a large white beard and a mustache that was curly at the ends, and he was wearing a bright red turban. I liked him because his eyebrows were like hairy caterpillars and they jumped up and down a lot when he spoke.

  “Oh well,” said Mum. “We tried at least.”

  The man looked at me. I think he must have noticed that I was looking sad, because he said, “It is for little one?”

  I looked up and nodded. “And for my friend,” I said. “He’s new in my class and misses home and that’s what he used to have.”

  “I see,” he said, looking at me with a smile. Then he frowned as if he had just thought of something, and suddenly pointing his finger at the ceiling and crying out, “AHA!” he ran to a small door at the back of the shop and disappeared.

  Mum and I looked at each other in surprise.

  “He’s funny,” I said. “I like him.”

  “He seems lovely,” agreed Mum.

  After a few seconds, the man came back, but instead of returning to the counter, he came and stood in front of us.

  “They are not perfect but will be okay,” he said. And whipping his hands out from behind his back, he held up two little pink balls that each had a crown on top.

  “Oh!” cried out Mum, clapping her hands. “You have some!”

  “They are a little old—my wife, she says they are not perfect one hundred percent, so we don’t sell, you see?” said the man, his eyebrows jumping up and down even more. “My wife—she knows everything about fruit, so I listen to her most!”

  “They’re perfect enough for us!” laughed Mum. “Aren’t they, darling?”

  I nodded as the man gently handed them to me.

  “You and friend enjoy, please,” he whispered, and tapped me on the nose with a finger that had a golden ring with a large red stone on it.

  I looked down at the pomegranates. They were the size of grapefruits and had a hard peachy-pink and brown skin that was as smooth and as shiny as polished glass. And both of them had a tiny flower on the top made up of exactly seven stiff brown petals. They were the best, most interesting things I had ever seen.

  Mum took out her purse because that’s where I had put my allowance, but the man shook his head and waved his hand.

  “No, no. You must not! It is gift for little one!”

  “Oh! No—you must let me—”

  But the man held up his hands, which made Mum go quiet, and then he put a hand on his chest. “It is gift. They are not excellent. Not new. So very poor gift.”

  “They’re the BEST gifts,” said Mum. “Aren’t they, darling?”

  I nodded, feeling so happy that I wanted to hug the man and Mum and jump up and down all at once.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, giving the man an enormous smile.

  “Welcome, welcome,” he said. And, smiling back, he patted the top of my head and waved at us as we left the store.

  “What a wonderful man,” said Mum as she helped me put the pomegranates in my backpack.

  “He looked like a king,” I said, thinking of the ring with the stone in it and his red turban.

  Mum laughed. “He certainly has the heart of one! Maybe he is one! You never can tell with people! Now. Seeing as our Unexpected Adventure is at an end, let’s hurry home before it starts to pour!”

  I looked up. Everything had suddenly turned dark and the sky was filled with large gray clouds that were so low you could hear them rumbling. But I didn’t care, because I had two of the best presents I could ever have in my bag, given to me by a man with the heart of a king.

  The next morning, I told Josie, Michael, and Tom about the Unexpected Adventure my mum had taken me on, and they all said they wanted to come with me next time and meet the man in the red turban with the king’s heart too. None of them had ever seen the inside of a pomegranate before, so I tried to describe the color and shapes of the seeds to them on the bus to school. But they still looked confused, so I drew them this picture on the back of my exercise book instead:

  I think pomegranates are now my most favorite fruit in the whole wide world. Not just because of the way they taste, but because of how they look. On the outside they look like extra-shiny balls that have been dipped into a bucket of sunset colors, like peach and pink and gold. But the inside is even cooler, because when you pull one open, it’s like finding a million sparkling red rubies all squashed together inside a round suitcase and bursting to get out.

  “You have to push each one out gently,” Mum had said when she cut mine open and showed me how to pop the seeds out. “See? As if you’re plucking out jewels from the roof of a cave!” She showed me how to peel off the skin lying between the seeds too—but I didn’t like that part so much because the peelings looked like bits of old snakeskin that I’d seen in a zoo once.

  I meant to give the pomegranate to the new boy at the end of the school day, but I was so excited that I couldn’t wait until then. So as soon as the bell for recess began to ring, I hid the pomegranate under my school sweater and hurried out onto the playground with it. We’re not allowed to take food onto the playground because we’re only supposed to eat snacks in the cafeteria. But I wasn’t going to eat it or make anyone else eat it, so I didn’t think it counted.

  The new boy followed us out because he knew we were his friends now. He had stopped disappearing every recess and only went to have his Seclusion during lunchtimes. Even Ms. Hemsi had stopped coming out during recess and went to the staff room, which I think meant she knew we were the new boy’s friends too.

  “Here!” I said as soon as we got into our corner of the playground. And pulling the pomegranate out from under my sweater, I held it out to him. “It’s for you!”

  Josie and Michael looked at each other and Tom looked at me, as we all waited for the new boy to say something. But he just stared and stared—first at us and then at the pomegranate—and didn’t say or do anything.

  “Knew you should have put a sticker on it!” whispered Tom, shaking his head.

  Then, slowly, the new boy reached out and took the pomegranate in his hands.

  “Home,” he said quietly, his lion eyes getting very big. “I…have…home…”

  “Yes!” I said. “Your
home in Syria! I’ve seen it. On a map. You know, MAP?”

  The new boy fell quiet. And then, for the first time since we had met him, he smiled. Not a small smile, or a side-smile, or even a half-smile, but a real, proper smile that went from one cheek to the other and that made his eyes smile too. He opened his mouth to say something when, suddenly, Brendan the Bully pushed past us.

  “Gimme that!” he said, and he snatched the pomegranate from Ahmet’s hands.

  “Give that BACK!” I shouted, feeling scared and angry all at once.

  “Make me!” Brendan the Bully sneered as he turned around to face me.

  I don’t know why, but sometimes, when someone you don’t like looks at you right in the eyes, they suddenly seem to grow taller and you suddenly seem to grow shorter—even when, really, you’re both the same size. Usually it’s only for a few seconds and then you grow back to your normal height again. But sometimes it goes on for so long that you wonder if you’ll ever get back to the height you used to be.

  This was one of those times. When Brendan the Bully turned to look at me, he stared into my eyes so hard and for so long that he seemed to grow by at least two more inches. But I was feeling so hot and angry that I could feel my ears going red and I didn’t care. I took a step forward and tried to grab the pomegranate back.

  “Go on! Try again!” laughed Brendan the Bully as he whipped it away and held it high above his head. I could feel my face getting redder and redder and my legs getting shorter and shorter as I tried to jump and snatch it back from him. Then suddenly, he threw the pomegranate to Chris, who was standing behind me. Chris caught it and tossed it up and down in one hand, waiting for one of us to try to do something. Josie and Tom and Michael all lunged forward but Chris was too quick and threw the pomegranate to Liam, who quickly threw it back to Brendan the Bully.

  This might have carried on all recess, because Brendan the Bully likes playing this game and no one has ever beaten him at it. But then what happened next was so unexpected, so shocking, and so fantastic that even Brendan the Bully didn’t know what to do.

  Because suddenly, with a huge roar, Ahmet ran straight at Brendan the Bully, and like an angry lion, crashed into him with his head! Brendan the Bully fell backward and onto the ground, his legs swinging up into the air. We all gasped, but Ahmet didn’t stop there.

  He jumped on top, with his face red and patchy, and punched Brendan the Bully as many times as he could, shouting something that none of us could understand. Someone behind us cried out “FIIIIIIGHT!” and everyone on the playground ran over to watch. But—and this was the most shocking thing of all—it wasn’t really a fight. You need two people—at least—to be fighting for it to be a fight. And Brendan the Bully wasn’t fighting back! Not at all! Not even for a second! Instead he was holding his arms over his face as Ahmet continued punching and roaring and shouting at him with all his might.

  “BREAK IT UP NOW!” shouted a voice as the crowd parted, and Mr. Irons and Mrs. Sanders came running through.

  But Ahmet wouldn’t stop. He was like a machine that didn’t have an off button and he continued to punch and punch and punch just as hard and as fast as he could.

  “ENOUGH, YOUNG MAN!” cried Mr. Irons. And, grabbing him by the back of his sweater, Mr. Irons lifted Ahmet up off Brendan the Bully, while Mrs. Sanders pulled Brendan the Bully back onto his feet.

  Everyone fell quiet, but I don’t know if that was because we were all wondering what was going to happen next or because none of us could believe that Brendan the Bully had actually been hurt. His face was bright red and his eyes looked watery, and there were tiny stones from the playground stuck to the sides of his cheeks.

  With a horrible glint in his eye, Mr. Irons stared down at Ahmet and shouted, “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING, BOY? EH? EH?”

  Ahmet stared angrily at the ground and didn’t say anything.

  “WHO STARTED THIS?” shouted Mrs. Sanders, who was so angry that she had forgotten to look over her glasses and was looking at everyone straight through them instead.

  I immediately pointed to Brendan the Bully and so did Tom and Josie and Michael.

  “RIGHT! ALL OF YOU! WITH ME! NOW!” ordered Mrs. Sanders, dragging Brendan the Bully by the arm across the playground and into the school.

  Mr. Irons flicked his hand and pointed to the doors, his nose whistling louder than it had ever whistled before. I followed Tom and Josie and Michael as we all hung our heads and made our way through the crowds. Everyone stared at us, and then stared at Ahmet. His face was even redder than mine and his lion eyes were so big and wet it looked as if they were drowning. He wiped away an angry tear and looked back over his shoulder. I looked back, too, and saw lots of bright pink spots all over the ground.

  The pomegranate had smashed open, and all its ruby-red seeds had been crushed beneath everyone’s feet.

  After we told Mrs. Sanders all about what had happened, she gave me fifty lines to do for taking the pomegranate onto the playground and said that Ahmet and Brendan the Bully had to write lines every night for the rest of the week with Mr. Irons. We tried to tell her and Mrs. Khan that the fight wasn’t Ahmet’s fault. Sometimes, hitting someone when they’re being horrible and taking something that’s yours away from you can make you feel a hundred times better than just telling a teacher ever would. Even a million times better! But they just shook their heads and said that Ahmet should never have hit Brendan the Bully. We didn’t say anything after that because sometimes you can tell when grown-ups won’t listen to you anymore. Usually they say, “That’s the end of it,” or “I’ve said my peas,” or “That’s that.” But teachers always say, “That’s all. You can leave now.”

  As we left, I told Ahmet that I was sorry for getting him into trouble and that I would try to find another pomegranate for him. All he did was give me a nod and a thumbs-up. I think it was his way of telling me not to worry and that being able to roar like a lion on top of a bully was worth doing lines for. Even if it was hundreds of them, in a language he didn’t know how to speak yet.

  As we all went home that afternoon, we talked about the Big Fight, and how Ahmet was going to be famous because he was the first boy ever to beat up Brendan the Bully.

  “You wait and see,” said Tom. “Everyone’s going to want to be his friend now! Even the cool kids!”

  I guessed Tom was right, but it made me feel sad. If Ahmet made friends with the cool kids, that meant he wouldn’t talk to us or play soccer with us anymore. There’s a law that says cool kids can only ever hang out with other cool kids and that they mustn’t ever talk to us—except for when they’re put in a group with us by a teacher. I don’t know who wrote the law, but Michael knows all about it. I guess his mum must have told him.

  But it turned out Michael was wrong about the law. Because Ahmet never stopped being our friend. Not even after he became the most popular boy in school for beating up Brendan the Bully.

  And not even when all the newspapers in the world made him the Most Famous Refugee Boy on the planet.

  The day after the Big Fight, just as Tom had guessed, Ahmet became famous. On the playground, wherever he went, people pointed and gasped and called him the Boy Who Beat Brendan the Bully, and they asked him lots of questions like “Is it true you can do a hundred punches in under a minute?” and “What were you REALLY fighting over—was it your parents’ ransom money?” and “When are you gonna fight again? Can we come and watch?”

  After a while, Ms. Hemsi began to tell everyone to leave Ahmet alone, so everyone started asking Michael and Josie and Tom and me their questions instead. I didn’t say much and neither did Michael. But Josie and Tom got so excited that they started to add new bits to the story, so that by the end of the week, most of the school believed Ahmet hadn’t just beaten up Brendan the Bully, but had fought Chris and Liam, too, over a suitcase full of red diamonds—and a pink basket
ball.

  All of this made Brendan the Bully scowl more than ever. But even though he stared at us all the time and Chris and Liam showed us their fists whenever they saw us, they didn’t chase us around the playground, or steal Josie’s soccer ball, or smash into us when we were carrying our lunch trays like we thought they would.

  “I bet he’s scared of us now that we’ve got Ahmet.” Tom grinned.

  “Yeah!” said Josie. “He’s a real scaredy-cat now!”

  But Michael said he didn’t like it one little bit and that he bet Brendan the Bully was up to something. At first, I didn’t believe him, but then lots of strange things began to happen to Ahmet.

  The first thing happened just two days after the Big Fight. We had all been decorating a new pot for our photosynthesis plants, and Mrs. Khan had given Ahmet a golden star because his plant had grown faster than anyone else’s. I think that was because every morning, before Mrs. Khan took attendance, he would water it and talk to it for one whole minute. I didn’t know that plants could speak different languages, but when I asked Mrs. Khan about it, she said plants could speak every language under the sun and that the more languages they heard, the faster they grew.

  Ahmet was really proud of his golden star, and he got a silver one, too, for decorating his pot with pictures of seashells and whales and fish. But when we got back from recess that afternoon, his pot was lying broken on the floor and his plant had been stomped on. Someone must have smashed it on purpose because nobody else’s plant pots were hurt at all. Mrs. Khan said that if the person who did it didn’t put their hand up right away, they would be in Big Trouble. But nobody put their hand up, so the Mystery of the Murdered Plant Pot stayed a mystery.