The Boy at the Back of the Class

by Onjali Q. Raúf

  Then, almost exactly a week after the Mystery of the Murdered Plant Pot came the Day of the Deathly Worm Tray. After assembly one morning, Mrs. Khan told us all to get our textbooks from our class cubbies. But when Ahmet pulled his open, he found it bursting with a whole pile of large, fat, wriggling worms! He cried out and dropped the tray on the floor so that all the worms went flying across the room. That made Dean—who sits at the table behind me—throw up all over his table. Dean is scared of anything that doesn’t have any legs on it—even snails. But he hates worms the worst.

  Mr. Whittaker, the school janitor, had to come and clean it all up, and Mrs. Khan and Ms. Hemsi were very angry and checked all our cubbies. But no one else had a single worm—not even Tony the Nose Picker, who likes to collect all kinds of strange things in his cubby. Mrs. Khan told the person who had done it to put their hand up again—and this time she looked at Brendan the Bully as if she wasn’t really speaking to any of us and only to him. But again, nobody put their hand up. So, Mrs. Khan shook her head and said she was going to make sure that whoever it was would be caught soon and punished not just by her, but by Mrs. Sanders too.

  And then, after that, came the worst trick of all—the one that everyone in school later called the Great Baked Beans Bag Trap.

  Every morning, right before Mrs. Khan takes attendance, everyone has to put their school bag on their own special hook at the back of the class, and we’re only allowed to take our PE uniform or homework or lunch boxes out when we’re told to. Everyone knows whose bag is where, because everyone’s hook has their name on top. Just days after the Day of the Deathly Worm Tray, Mrs. Khan told us to get up and collect our PE uniforms from our bags, just like she always did on Wednesdays. But when Ahmet went to get his uniform and unzipped his backpack, a lumpy river of baked beans burst out and splodged and splashed all over him! Everyone cried out “Eeeeeeewwwwwww!” and then instantly fell silent. Mrs. Khan was so angry when no one put their hand up again that she canceled PE, and Mrs. Sanders came and lectured the whole class. It was horrible—especially because Ahmet started to cry when he saw what had happened to his PE uniform and his bag.

  I think everyone knew it was Brendan the Bully who had done all these things, but no one could prove it. Not even Mrs. Khan. After that day, the door to the classroom was locked every recess and lunchtime, which stopped anything else from happening to Ahmet’s things. But I wanted more than anything for Brendan the Bully to be caught and prove he was a Criminal, so Michael brought his granddad’s magnifying glass in and we all searched for clues. But we couldn’t find anything. Not even in the school trash cans.

  Ahmet was more upset about the Great Baked Beans Bag Trap than any of the other things that had happened. And even though Ms. Hemsi washed his backpack with lots of soap, it looked even worse than before and smelled strange too. But Ahmet still brought it into school every day. I wanted to know why he didn’t get a new one, or why Ms. Hemsi kept saying that it looked fine when it didn’t. And then, just two days after the Great Baked Beans Bag Trap, I found out.

  We had all put away our books and were getting ready for group story time just like we always did on Fridays, when Mrs. Khan made a surprise announcement.

  “Now, everyone!” she said. “This is our last afternoon before we all leave for fall break, and I thought we could do with a treat! Instead of us all reading a story together, we’re going to listen to one instead. And it’s a very important story, because it’s going to be told to us by someone very special in our class.” Looking over at Ahmet and Ms. Hemsi, she waved them over to where she was standing. I didn’t know it just then, but I was about to have nearly ALL of my original eleven questions answered at once!

  We all turned around to watch as Ms. Hemsi picked up a large pile of papers from the table and followed Ahmet to the front of the class.

  “I want everyone to listen extra carefully, and I don’t want anyone asking any questions until after Ahmet has finished telling his story. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Khaaaaaan,” shouted the class.

  “Good!” And leaning against her desk, Mrs. Khan smiled and said, “Ahmet?”

  Everyone shuffled in their chairs and sat up straight, waiting for Ahmet to speak. I wondered if he would tell the story in English or in Kurdish, but I was so excited I didn’t really care.

  “Hello. My name is Ahmet. I am nine…years old. And I am refugee. I come from Syria.”

  As he said this, he pointed to Ms. Hemsi, who held up a drawing showing a house and a tree and a car in front of some mountains. And in the front of the car were four people, labeled “Me,” “Mum,” “Dad,” and “Sister”—and a cat.

  I was surprised because I had never thought about Ahmet having a brother or a sister. I thought he was like me and didn’t have any. His sister wasn’t at our school. In the picture, she looked smaller than him, so maybe she was in day care.

  “But in Syria, there is big war,” said Ahmet, and he pointed to Ms. Hemsi again, who held up another picture. This one showed buildings on fire and bombs dropping from a plane and lots of people lying on the ground and other people holding guns.

  Josie stopped chewing her hair and looked at me and then looked back at the drawing again. And from behind, I heard someone whisper, “Whoa! He’s seen a real bomb AND a real gun!”

  “Because of war, my family…run away,” said Ahmet, as his lion eyes became big and round and watery. “We went…on mountain and rivers…and carry bags and cat.”

  This time, Ms. Hemsi held up a picture showing a family crossing mountains and rivers, and in the sky, birds that were crying. In the picture, Ahmet had drawn himself carrying a red backpack with a black stripe on it, just like the one he had now. That was when I knew why he loved it so much and why he cried when it had been filled with Brendan the Bully’s horrible baked beans. He had carried it all the way from his house and over a mountain, which meant it was lots more important and lots more special than any of our bags.

  “Then nowhere safe, so we get on boat on big sea.”

  This time, Ms. Hemsi held up a drawing of a boat. But the boat wasn’t like a normal boat with sails and pointy ends and wooden sides. This one was flat and round and was orange on the sides—just like the ones I had seen on the news that didn’t have any bathrooms on them. And inside the boat were lots of people, all wearing vests that made them look like puffin birds. But there was someone in the water, too, and he had a bubble coming out of his mouth saying, “HELP ME.”

  Everyone leaned forward in their chairs and tried to read the labels Ahmet had put over some of the people’s heads. I saw “Me” and “Mum” and “Dad,” but there wasn’t one for “Sister” or “Cat.” I know cats don’t like water because Josie has a cat and she says it screams whenever it rains and always wants to stay inside. So maybe Ahmet’s cat didn’t want to get into the boat. And maybe his sister didn’t want to leave it behind, so she stayed behind to look after it. This was the boat picture:

  “Then we are in another country, called Greece,” said Ahmet. “We live in tent with lots of people who run away like me. They come from lots of country like Afghanistan and Pakistan and Eritrea.”

  The next picture showed a flag with blue and white stripes and a white cross in a blue corner, and next to it were lots of tents and people everywhere sitting next to fires and sleeping on the floor. In this picture, only the words “Me” and “Dad” could be seen. Ahmet’s mum must be sleeping inside one of the tents.

  “Then we walk long time…in lots of country. It was cold, and we sleep on floor. And then we stay in France.”

  This time, Ahmet pointed to the next picture with his finger and showed us the railroad tracks he had drawn. On it were people carrying suitcases and children, and all of them were walking to a wall with barbed wire on the top. Everyone looked sad. And in the corner, there were army tanks and soldiers holding guns, and
all the guns were pointing at the people with the suitcases and children.

  Ms. Hemsi held this drawing up for longer than any of the others, because Ahmet was looking at it and didn’t seem to want to stop staring at it.

  “Then I come here…and come to school. I like here…no bombs. It safe and I like new friends and teacher and play soccer.”

  Ahmet stood and stared at everyone, and everyone stared back. Mrs. Khan blew her nose loudly, and Ms. Hemsi put the drawings down and gave Ahmet a hug.

  “Thank you, Ahmet,” said Mrs. Khan, standing up and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Everyone, let’s give Ahmet a huge round of applause for being so brave and for sharing his story with us.”

  We all clapped, but we didn’t clap as loud as we usually do for stories, because I think we were feeling strange. I don’t think any of us had ever heard a story like it before. And as sad and as scary as it was, it was even sadder and scarier because it wasn’t just a made-up story from one of our reading books. It was all real. Ahmet had survived everything his pictures had shown us and was here. With us. Knowing that made me feel sorry and proud and scared for him all at once, but most of all, it made me want to tell him he was definitely the bravest person I knew.

  “Now, as you have seen, Ahmet’s story is very special, and I’m sure you have lots of questions you want to ask him,” said Mrs. Khan. Everyone’s hands immediately shot up into the air—but I think mine was first.

  “That’s wonderful!” Mrs. Khan smiled as she signaled at us to put our hands back down. “But as Ahmet is still learning his English words, we’re only going to ask him three questions. I want you all to write down just one question for him on a piece of paper.” Mrs. Khan walked around and gave us each a thin slip of blank paper. “And when you’re done, Ms. Hemsi is going to pick out three questions we can ask him. You have a few minutes to think of your question and write it out in your very best handwriting. Try to spell your words correctly, and remember, just one question each.”

  The entire class fell quiet as everyone grabbed their pencils, put their heads down, and wrote out their questions. I had lots of questions that I wanted to ask, but I picked the one that was most new and wrote that one out. After a few minutes, Mrs. Khan said our time was up, and Ms. Hemsi collected all the bits of paper.

  Everyone began to whisper to one another as Mrs. Khan and Ms. Hemsi looked through our questions and either shook their heads or nodded.

  “What did you ask?” whispered Tom, turning around.

  “I asked why he didn’t stay in Greece, because the weather’s warmer there and they have more beaches,” whispered Josie.

  “Oh. I asked how fast he had to run to get away from the bombs,” whispered Tom.

  “Michael, what did you ask?” whispered Josie, leaning forward and poking Michael on the shoulder.

  “I asked if it was scary to be in the boat and if he was on it at nighttime,” said Michael.

  “That’s two questions!” whispered Josie, shaking her head. Then she looked at me. “What did you ask?”

  “I asked what happened to his cat and what his sister’s name is,” I answered.

  “Oh!” said Tom. “But that’s two questions as well!”

  “Right, everyone!” said Mrs. Khan, clapping her hands so that we all stopped whispering and looked to the front of the class. “We have some excellent questions here, but we’ve chosen three. I’m going to say them in English, and then Ms. Hemsi is going to translate both the question and answer for us. Right…the first question is, What did your mum and dad do in Syria?”

  Ms. Hemsi spoke to Ahmet in Kurdish and he said something back. Ms. Hemsi nodded and then, looking at us, said, “Ahmet’s father was a teacher. And his mother wrote for a newspaper.”

  Everyone in class nodded and we waited for Mrs. Khan to read out the next question. I crossed my fingers extra tight in the hopes that it would be mine.

  “The next question is: What did you like doing most before the war happened?”

  We waited for Ms. Hemsi to tell Ahmet what the question was and then reply. “He liked to play soccer with his friends,” answered Ms. Hemsi. “And going to the park with his grandfather and eating kibbeh.” She smiled at Ahmet, and before any of us could ask what a “kibbeh” was, she explained, “A kibbeh is a very special snack that is filled with minced meat in the middle and is covered with lots of delicious spices. It’s very famous in Syria and it looks like this.”

  Ms. Hemsi went over to the blackboard and quickly drew a shape. It looked like a small American football.

  “Is that the right shape, Ahmet?” she asked.

  Ahmet nodded. We all looked at each other and tried to imagine what an American football with minced meat in the middle might taste like.

  As Mrs. Khan held up the last slip of paper, I decided to cross both my toes and fingers. But it didn’t work, because then she said, “And the last question is, Do you still sleep in a tent or do you sleep in a house now?”

  When Ahmet heard this question from Ms. Hemsi, he shook his head and said something.

  “No, he sleeps in a house now,” said Ms. Hemsi. “And he is happy because there is a bathroom in it and hot water and food.”

  As we all nodded to each other, Mrs. Khan put her arm around Ahmet and said, “Let’s give Ahmet another round of applause, shall we?”

  This time, nearly everyone clapped much louder than before and Michael even cried out, “Woooooohooooo!” as Ahmet and Ms. Hemsi went and sat back down. But I could see Brendan the Bully mouthing “Booooo!” and making a face as if something smelled, and Liam giving a double thumbs-down. I looked back at Mrs. Khan and Ms. Hemsi hoping they had seen, too, but they were busy looking at Ahmet.

  “Right! Now, everyone, before we leave today, I want you all to listen to me very carefully.” Mrs. Khan clapped her hands once and waited for everyone to settle back down. “As I said, you all had some fantastic questions for Ahmet, and I’m very proud of you for thinking up such interesting and thoughtful ones too. But…” And here she looked at us with her eyebrows raised, which meant she was being extra serious and would be extra angry if we didn’t listen to her. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that running away from a war and leaving your home is a very hard thing to do. And it’s especially hard when you have to try to put all the missing pieces of your life back together again, in a place that’s new and strange to you.”

  Then Mrs. Khan quickly glanced at me and Josie and Michael and Tom and said, “I know that some of you miss Ahmet when he’s not allowed to go out and play. And I know you all have lots of questions for him. But it’s very important that he talks to people who know what he’s been through and who can help him feel better. And it’s even more important that they can ask him the kinds of questions you all want to ask him, in a safe and secluded space first, before he’s ready to speak to other people more. Okay?”

  Josie looked over at me and I looked over at her and Tom and Michael looked over their shoulders at us. So that was what the Seclusion was for. It was so that Ahmet could talk to people!

  “So,” continued Mrs. Khan, “I want you all to promise me that you won’t ask Ahmet any more questions about the war—or about his family—without asking me or Ms. Hemsi first. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Khaaaaaan,” said the class as the final bell began to ring.

  “Good! Now, row one, put away your things and off you go. Make sure you all have everything you need for your homework assignments over the break, and I’ll see you in a week’s time!”

  As we waited for our row to be called, I looked over my shoulder at Ahmet and wondered what pieces he was still missing before he could put his life back together again. It was like a jigsaw, I thought. I hate doing jigsaws, even the easy ones, because I always get bored halfway through, and I couldn’t imagine trying to do one that had pieces
missing.

  I sure hoped that when he was running away from all the bullies and the bombs, Ahmet hadn’t lost any of the important pieces on the way. And that, if he had, someone was helping him find new ones that were exactly the right shape and colors that he needed.

  After hearing Ahmet’s story and seeing his pictures, I was bursting with lots of new questions. So were Tom and Josie and Michael, but we knew we couldn’t ask Ahmet anything.

  “We should write them down,” suggested Josie. “Then maybe after the holidays Ahmet will have put some more pieces back together, and Mrs. Khan will think it’s okay for us to ask him?”

  We all agreed, so when I got home that night, I took out my old list of questions and, after crossing out the ones I had the answers to, wrote the new questions out in my very best handwriting—just to make sure we wouldn’t forget any of them.

  MY 11 QUESTIONS

  1. Where did you have to run away from?

  2. What language do you speak?

  3. Who’s the woman in the red scarf?

  4. Do you have any brothers or sisters?

  5. What did the bullies do to make you run away?

  6. Did you have to get on a boat like the people on the news?

  7. What sports do you like best?

  8. What’s your favorite fruit?

  9. How far did you have to walk to get away from the bullies?

  10. Do you like it here or do you miss your old house more?

  11. Do you have a best friend?