The Boy at the Back of the Class

by Onjali Q. Raúf

  “Don’t worry. We won’t take you to the hospital unless we need to, darling. But I do need to check you’re okay and that you don’t have a concussion,” said the paramedic calmly. She had long black hair that was tied into a ponytail and large brown eyes and an upside-down watch on her chest.

  “Just lie here quietly for me for a few minutes, and we’ll have you up and about in no time,” she added, giving me a wink. The wink and her nice voice made me feel a little better, so I did what she said.

  After she pushed me onto the ambulance, the paramedic told me her name was Davinder and asked me all sorts of things. Like how I was feeling and if I had a Head Ache and who Ahmet was and about my mum and dad. I told her about my dad and she said she was sorry. She held my wrist and checked my pulse and put a thermometer in my mouth, and then said, “I just need to check your heartbeat.” But when she pulled up my school sweater, she stopped.

  “Nice top,” she said, her mouth suddenly looking as if it was tickling her.

  I looked down at myself and suddenly remembered that we had put on our best outfits for the Queen. “It’s my best top,” I said, touching the shirt dotted with sparkling silver stars and golden planets. “For when we saw the Queen,” I explained.

  “Ah!” Paramedic Davinder grinned as she opened the top three buttons and put a cold silver disc on my chest. “Now take a deep breath in…and out…” After listening for a moment, she nodded and said, “You look and sound absolutely fine to me. Ready to go?”

  I nodded, so she helped me down from the bed and held my hand as I got off the ambulance. In the distance, I could hear people cheering, but I didn’t know why.

  “Now, I think it’s time for you two to get on home. Officer Martina is going to take you both in that special car over there,” said Paramedic Davinder. She pointed to the London police officer who was standing next to Tom and the two Special Guards. Behind her was a police car with flashing blue lights on top of it.

  “Really?” asked Tom, his eyes lighting up.

  I was excited too—but then I remembered the note.

  “But…what about the Queen—and the note?” I cried, looking up at everyone. “If we don’t give it to the Queen, then she won’t know that we came and she won’t know about Ahmet.”

  Officer Martina smiled. “Oh, I think she’ll know you came, all right!” she said.

  The Special Guard wearing the most medals walked over to me and bent down so that his face was at the same level as mine. He had bright blue eyes and a large dimple in his cheek just like Dad used to have—only Dad had them in both cheeks, not just one.

  “Her Majesty isn’t here today,” he said. “She’s actually in her other castle in Windsor.”

  “The Queen’s got another castle?” asked Tom, looking horrified.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she knows you were both here and that she gets this.” The Special Guard held up the note. “All right?”

  “Promise?” I asked, suddenly feeling happy again. “Like, really, really promise?”

  “You have my word!” He nodded. “And a Coldstream Guard never breaks their word.”

  “What’s a Cold Stream Guard?” I asked, immediately imagining lots of them diving into freezing cold streams with their hats on.

  “A Coldstream Guard is what we are,” he replied, standing back up straight. “I’m Lieutenant Chris Taylor, and standing next to your friend Tom there is Second Lieutenant Walter Kungu.” I looked over at the other guard, who was now giving us a salute. “We’re part of a very special force that protects both the Queen’s houses and the country.”

  “Can you give her our presents, too, then?” asked Tom.

  “Presents?” asked Officer Martina.

  “Yeah, we got them for the Queen,” explained Tom, pulling out the half-eaten packet of cookies, the ruler, the packet of soccer stickers, and the squashed box of fudge from my backpack.

  “I’m afraid we can’t take those,” Lieutenant Kungu said with a grin. “But we’ll let her know about them when we give Her Majesty your note.”

  “Oh…okay.” Tom shrugged, stuffing everything back into my bag.

  “Now, kids. Time to get you home,” said Officer Martina. “We’ve spoken to your school and your parents and have told them what happened.”

  “Oh noooo,” said Tom, twisting his hands. “We’re gonna be in so much trouble!”

  I nodded miserably.

  “Don’t worry,” said Paramedic Davinder. “I’m sure they’ll be happy just to have you back home and safe. And I think,” she added, looking up at the helicopters flying overhead, “you might even be a little bit famous!”

  Tom frowned at me and I frowned back, because we were both wondering what could have made us famous.

  “You two have a safe journey, now,” said Lieutenant Taylor.

  “And the next time you want to send the Queen a message, don’t go running after any of us soldiers,” said Lieutenant Kungu. “A letter is more than enough!”

  And, giving Tom and me a nod and a salute, the Queen’s Special Cold Stream Guards who were now Extra-Extra Special to both Tom and me, marched off back toward the palace, carrying the Queen’s note.

  “Right, young troopers! In you go,” said Officer Martina as a silver car with bright yellow and blue squares on its doors and a huge siren on the top stopped in front of us.

  Passing me a piece of folded paper, Paramedic Davinder said, “That’s a special note for your mum—to let her know you’re completely fine. So make sure you give it to her, okay?”

  I nodded.

  “Bye, then.” Paramedic Davinder smiled as she began to wave. “You both take care of yourselves now.”

  Getting into the backseat of the police car, we waved back. Lots of people also began cheering and waving at us from all along the palace walls, so we waved back at them, too, even though we didn’t really know why.

  Tom got out a cookie and started eating it. I took one, too, but even though I was hungry I couldn’t eat it. My stomach felt all jumpy and twisty inside. And the closer we got to home, the more jumpy and twisty it became.

  There are some journeys you can’t ever enjoy no matter how exciting they are—not even when you’re in a real police car. Because at the end of it, you know you’ll be getting at least a hundred detentions and probably won’t be allowed any allowance or chocolate for ten years.

  But it was okay. Because even not being able to have any chocolate ever again would be worth it if the Queen could help Ahmet find his mum and dad. That was all that really mattered.

  Sometimes grown-ups can be so confusing that they make you scratch your head.

  When Officer Martina took me home, Mum was the angriest I had ever seen her before. At first it was scary, because she kept shouting things like “I can’t BELIEVE you did this!” and “WHAT IF SOMETHING HAD HAPPENED TO YOU!” But then she would hug me and hold me so tight that I thought my bones were going to be crushed. I wasn’t quite sure if I was in trouble or not.

  When she had calmed down, Mum made me hot soup and told me to tell her everything. So, I told her about Ahmet’s pictures and about what the man and woman on the bus had said about the gates, and the Greatest Idea in the World and the Emergency Plan and everything that had happened in front of the Queen’s Palace. Mum was quiet while I talked, and then, after I had finished telling her everything, she sat still for a long time and didn’t say anything at all. I was too scared to say anything else, so I sat on my hands and stared at the table.

  Finally, Mum opened her mouth to say something—but then the doorbell rang.

  “Who’s that, I wonder?” Mum said. When she opened the door, Mrs. Gillingham, the neighbor who lived next door to Mrs. Abbey, was standing outside.

  She always wears lots of necklaces and bright pink nail varnish and long dangly earrings. I like
her because she smells like puff pastry, and at Christmas she always gives me a stocking filled with candy.

  “Oh, hiya, love!” cried out Mrs. Gillingham. She gave me a hug. “Thank goodness you’re back safe and sound! But my, that was brave of you, wasn’t it? The woman on the news said it was so you could help the refugees!”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Gillingham?” said Mum, frowning. “Did you just say you heard about it on the news?”

  “Ooooh! It’s all over the telly! ALL over it!” said Mrs. Gillingham excitedly. “I expect you’ll hear from the reporters soon!”

  “Well…yes…Thank you for letting us know, Mrs. Gillingham.” Mum started to close the door. “We’d better get some rest. It’s been a long day.”

  She waved Mrs. Gillingham out the door and then looked down at me. “Hmm. The news…”

  Just then the doorbell rang again.

  “Who is it?” called out Mum.

  “It’s Mr. Rashid,” came a man’s voice. There was a loud “Ouch!” before he added, “And Mrs. Rashid!”

  Mum looked at me in surprise and opened the door again.

  This time, exactly where Mrs. Gillingham had been standing, were Mr. and Mrs. Rashid. They lived one floor below us and have twins. You can tell when they’re home because they always leave the stroller in the hall—it’s too big to fit through their front door.

  We usually only ever see them in the elevator or when they need help getting the stroller out of the main door, but I liked them. Especially Mrs. Rashid, because she wears the brightest clothes. Once she wore a long flowing dress that had millions of tiny sequins on it and made her shine like a goldfish. She’s always smiling and laughing with the babies, and Mr. Rashid likes to shout out the cricket scores to anyone he can find. But this was the first time they had ever come to our apartment.

  “Hello,” said Mum.

  Mrs. Rashid held up her phone. “We’ve just read all about it!” she cried, shoving it into Mum’s hand and pointing to a news story with a picture of lots of Palace Guards standing around someone lying on the ground. “You were so brave. Now the Queen herself can’t ignore what’s happening to those families! I haven’t slept for months, thinking about it. Months! It makes me so angry. All those poor people with their little babies, trying to just…live.”

  “We send baby clothes and shoes whenever we can, but we don’t have much money to spare,” continued Mr. Rashid, his voice suddenly heavy and wobbly.

  “And now—” Mrs. Rashid spotted me over Mum’s shoulder and bent down. “Oh, you darling! Please, let me hug you!”

  I hesitated for a moment—I don’t always like being hugged. But Mrs. Rashid seemed nice, so I slowly walked over to her and let her hug me and then hugged her back.

  “If your refugee friend needs any help, any at all, please tell us,” she said, touching my cheeks. “Yes?”

  “Promise?” said Mr. Rashid, his eyes big and serious.

  I nodded, because I knew Ahmet would probably like Mr. and Mrs. Rashid and wouldn’t mind me asking them for help for him.

  “Good. Now you take care.” Mr. Rashid grinned as he and Mrs. Rashid turned away and headed down the stairs.

  “Well. This is turning into quite a day, isn’t it?” laughed my mum, looking down at me and giving my shoulders a squeeze.

  But before she could close the door, Mr. Greggs’s huge head suddenly popped in.

  I took a step back and hid behind my mum because I don’t like Mr. Greggs at all, even though he always dresses in a suit and takes his hat off whenever he sees anyone he likes.

  I can tell Mum doesn’t like him either because she never says hello to him when we see him, and my mum always says hello to everyone. Even the man who sleeps in the doorway of Mr. Polezki’s shop on the corner of our road.

  “Yes, Mr. Greggs. What can I do for you?” asked Mum in her most polite voice. She only ever uses that voice when she talks to people she doesn’t like. Like Aunt Christina or the man with the clipboard who calls himself Land Lord.

  Mr. Greggs cleared his throat and said, “I’ve just dropped by to say that your daughter there would do well to mind her own business. Those pesky refugees are only here because they want a piece of our benefits pie! She ought to know better—and you ought to have taught her better.”

  I looked up at Mum’s face and saw that it had gone as white as one of our dinner plates as she stared at Mr. Greggs without blinking.

  “Have you finished?” she said in a voice that was so cold I didn’t recognize it.

  “All I’m saying is that your child was nearly killed today for immigrant pests that want the easy life without having to work a day for it! I mean, I know you’re not exactly white but you’ve been here long enough to know better—surely?”

  “Mr. Greggs! That is quite enough!” said Mum, her voice cold and formal. Her eyes had narrowed, and her hands had become tight little balls. “You and your views are not welcome here. Please leave.”

  And taking a step back, Mum slammed the door shut just as loudly as she could so that one second Mr. Greggs was there and the next second he wasn’t. We could hear him ranting at us from the other side, but after a few seconds, his voice started to get fainter and fainter.

  “Despicable man!” muttered Mum, clicking shut the extra bolt on the door. “Trying to cover up his bigotry with his dinner jackets and silly neckerchiefs.”

  “Why is he so angry, Mum?” I asked, slipping my hand into hers. “And why did he call refugees ‘pests’?”

  “Because he’s a heartless, selfish man who hates everyone far too much to want to help anyone,” said Mum. “Even refugee children like Ahmet.”

  “Oh,” I said, wondering how anyone could hate someone who was running away from bullies and bombs. Mr. Greggs had clearly never met someone like Ahmet before, because if he had, he could never have been so horrible about anyone who had to become a refugee.

  “Now, let’s forget about Mr. Greggs and go see what the news is saying about you, shall we?” She ruffled my hair and then went and switched on the TV as I did a running jump onto the sofa.

  After a few seconds, a news anchor flashed up onto the screen. Her voice was warm as she said, “Today, an incident at Buckingham Palace added an extra few steps to the Changing of the Guard ceremony, as a nine-year-old child ran out and intercepted one of the Queen’s Coldstream Guards.”

  As she talked, the picture changed and I appeared on the screen, running out of the crowd and reaching up to touch a Palace Guard’s arm with Tom just a few steps behind me. I looked so scared that it made me wonder how I had done what I did. I had never, ever seen anyone I knew on the television before, and it was the strangest thing in the world to not only see myself on it but also to have done something that a news anchor was talking about.

  “It transpired that the child in question wanted to hand in a note for the Queen, appealing for help on behalf of a refugee boy searching for his parents following their joint escape from the ongoing conflict in Syria. We are expecting an official response from Buckingham Palace later this evening.”

  Mum quickly flicked over to the next channel. Another news anchor was talking, and behind him was another picture of me, looking shocked and scared.

  “The Queen’s Guard had an unexpected encounter today as a young child broke through the barriers during the famed Changing of the Guard ceremony. It is said the attack was made in protest against the government’s poor handling of the refugee crisis.”

  “But I didn’t attack anyone!” I cried out. Mum nodded but didn’t say anything, and instead switched the channel to another reporter.

  This third news anchor confused me the most, because he said: “A nine-year-old child sparked a terrorist alert today after disturbing the Changing of the Guard ceremony and raising wider questions around security….”

  Mum leaned over and t
urned off the sound.

  “But I didn’t want to hurt anyone!” I said, trying not to cry. “Why do they think I’m a ter-terror-ist?”

  Mum sighed sadly and, opening her arms, pulled me toward her. “There are lots of silly people in the world, darling, people who are so afraid of anyone who doesn’t look like them or dress like them or eat the same food as them that they call other people—even children like you—all sorts of silly names.”

  “But I eat everything!” I said, confused. “Except broccoli and baked beans. And what’s wrong with what I wear?”

  “Nothing at all,” said Mum. “But they might still be scared of you because you don’t look like them,” she said, stroking my hand.

  “So…I’m scary? Just because I look different?” I asked.

  Mum nodded. “Yes. Silly, isn’t it?”

  I leaned back against my mum and fell into a Deep Thought. That’s when your brain falls down into a giant hole in the middle of your mind and has to try to put all the pieces of a Thought together so that it makes sense. And because your brain is working so hard, you can’t think or talk about or see anything else. All you can really do is think about the Deep Thought.

  The Deep Thought my brain had found was wondering how anyone could be scared of me just because I didn’t look like them. Everyone in school looks different and likes different things—and has parents who come from all kinds of different places. Tom’s mum and dad come from different places in America—one called Florida and the other called California. Michael’s mum comes from a place called Nigeria, and his dad comes from France, which is why he always goes on lots of holidays and has even seen a giraffe and an elephant in the forest. Josie’s mum comes from Barking in East London and her dad comes from the town of Bradford way outside of the city, which is why they speak differently, and her dad always sounds like he’s asking a question, even when he isn’t. And Mum and Uncle Lenny were both born in a faraway place I’ve never been to called Indonesia and my dad was born in Austria. Mrs. Abbey once said that I was lucky to have parents from different places, because it meant I never needed to go on holiday to get a suntan.