Sadia

by Colleen Nelson

  Everyone in our class laughed as the speakers clicked off. “What did he say?” Amira asked me.

  “He told everyone they better come to watch our basketball game.” It was hard to keep the excitement out of my voice.

  “I wish I could go,” she said with a sigh. “I don’t know how to get there.”

  The sportsplex was across the city. Without a car, it would be a long and complicated bus ride. “It’s pretty far, actually.”

  Miss McKay showed up at our classroom door and beckoned for Amira to join her. She stood up and waved goodbye to me just as Mariam and Allan came back into the class. “Good job!” I wrote on the margin of my notes and turned my scribbler to Mariam so she could read it. She gave me a grateful smile. “I was so nervous!” she mouthed.

  Mariam hadn’t had time to take off her hijab before announcements. Seeing her in it made me feel like things were back to normal between us, at least for now. Mr. Letner stood at the front of the room and waited for everyone to hand in yesterday’s reading response. “We’re going to do some work on your photographs this class. The art show is coming up quick, so if you haven’t already decided which picture you’d like to display, today is the day to do it! I also need a write-up for the photo. Remember, it will be open to the public, so choose accordingly.” He gave Allan a pointed look.

  Allan held his hands out in an innocent, “why me?” look. The truth was we’d all been seeing a different side of Allan. Since that first photo of him and his brother Cody, Allan had given us other glimpses into what it was like living with a physically challenged person. Cody was always smiling in the photos, except for the one of him doing physiotherapy. In it, his face had been contorted in pain as he did an exercise. “It’s to keep his muscles working,” Allan had said. “Sometimes it hurts so bad that he cries, but the next day, he does it again. He has to.”

  “Before we go to the lab to work on the photos, I want to talk about the F-word on the board.” There was a round of laughter. “Focus. Make sure the photo you choose isn’t just in focus, but has a focus.” He looked at all of us for a long minute, making sure his words sunk in.

  We traipsed down to the computer lab, cameras in tow. I still hadn’t downloaded the photo of Mariam and me from when I’d tried on my uniform for the first time. It was special to me, but compared to what other people were choosing, not artsy enough for the div­isional art show. I looked through my file of saved photos. Most of them were basketball related. My favourite was still the one Josh had taken of me in hijab, holding the basketball. It wasn’t artsy either, but it broke down stereotypes about Muslim girls. I opened up a Word document and started typing a title for the photo. “If you give a girl a basketball …”

  Amira returned from her class with Miss McKay and slid into the spot next to me. “Guess what?” she asked. Her eyes crinkled in the corners as she smiled.

  “What?”

  “Miss McKay is taking me to the tournament! We called my parents and they agreed. I’ll get to watch your first game on Saturday.”

  “That’s great!” I gushed. I remembered sitting in the stands watching Aazim play basketball when we’d first moved here. I’d prayed for a week that Aazim’s team would win the tournament. I thought the kids looked like giants. They lost in the quarter-finals, but I couldn’t get the smell of the waxed gym floors and squeaking rubber shoes out of my mind. One day, I’ll play in the tournament, I’d promised myself. And now, a few years later, I was.

  My eyes drifted across to Amira’s screen. She’d taken pictures at her apartment. Seven people crammed around a kitchen table piled high with plates of food. There weren’t enough chairs for everyone, so the little kids sat on the counter. Next photo: the kids’ room. There were bunk beds for her brothers and a single bed for Amira pushed against the wall, with a curtain strung up for privacy. Clothes for all the kids lay in tidy piles on the floor. It was hard to imagine that five kids could share one room, but they didn’t have a choice.

  The next shot was a close-up of a medal. Glinting golden, it hung off the post of her bed on a red ribbon. I could make out the words on it: “First Place 100 Metres” and the date of last year’s divisional track meet. I gave a quick gasp of surprise. I knew who had won that medal. Across the room, Josh sat at his computer, head bent, neck craned over the keyboard. Josh had won three running events last year, and we’d all cheered for him. The boys had called it a “hat trick” and thrown their baseball caps at him when he’d won the final event. I didn’t know what hat trick meant and was too worried I wouldn’t get my Raptors hat back to throw it on the field. I sat back in my chair, incredulous. Josh had given Amira one of his medals to replace the one she’d left behind in Syria.

  Amira had already switched to a new photo. This one was her little brother. He looked about five years old. He was on a toboggan, snow on the hill around him, towering pine trees behind. The smile on his face stretched from cheek to cheek; his eyes were bright. I couldn’t resist laughing. I remembered the first time I’d flown down a hill, riding the snow and landing in a heap at the bottom. “He looks happy,” I said.

  Amira looked at me, a wistful smile on her face, too.

  “He is.” There was such weight to her words, like she was a parent looking at her child’s photograph. He was young and wouldn’t remember the hardship the family had endured; not like Amira.

  “Did you go tobogganing?” I asked, pointing at the photo.

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “I was scared.”

  I leaned in close to her. “I could show you how,” I offered. “We could go to my house after school and I’ll take you to a hill nearby.”

  She pressed her lips together. “I have to pick up my brothers and walk them home after school. I don’t know where you live. How would I find your house?”

  “I’ll come with you,” I suggested. “Then we can walk to the hill together.”

  I thought she’d jump at the chance, but she gave me a guarded look. “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to,” I told her.

  “Girls,” Mr. Letner’s head poked up from a few rows ahead of us, twisting around to see who was talking. “Get to work.”

  I gave Amira a nudge. “We’ll walk home together and then go sledding,” I whispered with finality. She sighed and slowly nodded her head.

  “Hey, Sadia!” Jillian called as she stuffed her gym clothes into her bag after practice. It took me longer to change out of my uniform than the other girls and I was usually the last one out.

  “Since there’s no school on Monday, my sister is having a party on Sunday night. I told her I’d keep quiet about it if I got to invite some friends.” She gave me a conspiratorial smirk. “My parents are going skiing for a couple of days.”

  Jillian’s sister was in grade eleven. She looked like Jillian, blond and athletic. She ate lunch in the cafeteria with a group of grade twelve students, and even though Jillian didn’t say anything, I knew a party her sister threw wouldn’t be an innocent movie night.

  I hesitated before answering. I should have said no for all the reasons my parents would want me to: there’d be drinking, boys, and no parents. Not a good combination for a Muslim girl.

  But the offer was tantalizing. And then Jillian said, “Josh asked me to make sure you were invited.”

  “He did?”

  She nodded her head excitedly. “Yeah. I mean, I’m inviting the whole team, but he specifically asked about you.”

  My stomach fluttered and I bit back a smile. How could I not go? “The whole team? Even Mariam?”

  “I was sort of thinking players only.” She looked apologetic. “But I guess it makes it awkward for you if I don’t invite her.”

  “Yeah, kind of. She’ll be at the tournament,” I pointed out.

  Jillian shrugged. “True. Yeah, let her know.” Jillian’s ponytail swung behind her as she left the change
room.

  After practising with the team over lunch hours and mornings for the last few weeks, we’d gotten close. Most days, we all sat together in the cafeteria; Josh usually found a way to sit across or beside me and we’d get into heated discussions about whose favourite team was better, the Raptors or his Golden State Warriors.

  I knew nothing could happen between us. Dating and boyfriends were completely off-limits for me. But it was getting harder and harder to ignore how much I liked being around him.

  I settled in to Math class and pulled my phone out of my pocket. The teacher was writing the answers for yesterday’s homework on the board. I quickly sent Mariam a text. Jillian invited us to her sister’s party.

  A got a response seconds later. A giggling, blushing emoji. When?

  Sunday night. Whole team is invited. Her parents are out of town.

  Mariam didn’t wait for a reply before she sent a follow-up text: Don’t tell your parents. It was accompanied by a blushing emoji holding a finger to its lips.

  The truth was, my parents wouldn’t stop me from going to a party with my team, even if the guys were there. Mariam’s parents would. But if my mom and dad knew what the party was really going to be like, it would be a definite no. If Mariam and I wanted to go, we would have to be creative. I thought back to when she’d tried to use me as a cover to go to the party at Carmina’s. Funny how a few weeks ago, I’d judged her for doing it, and now I was tempted to do the same thing.

  It was last period English with Mr. Letner. I’d changed into my basketball uniform to help Mariam present our passion project.

  Mr. Letner stood at the front of the class. Even though only some of us were doing a passion project, Mr. Letner wanted us to present them so everyone could see what we’d been working on. “I asked Mariam to go first because she embodies everything a passion project is supposed to be.” He moved to the side of the classroom as Mariam and I came to the front. “She used her talent to do something that improved someone’s life. Am I right on that, Sadia?”

  I nodded and then frowned at Mr. Letner. This was Mariam’s passion project? I thought it was mine, too. Somewhere along the way, I’d figured designing and sewing a new uniform was also my passion project. But as I listened to Mariam, I realized how much thought and skill had gone into making it. She’d thought of everything down to using something called a serger to make seams that didn’t rub against my skin. I stood mute while she explained what she had made and why. She’d brought in the pattern pieces she’d used and all her supplies, as well as some other things she’d made, like clothes for herself. She had me do a couple of fake basketball moves to demonstrate how much easier it was to move in the outfit she’d sewed for me.

  Mariam flushed with pride and did a little bow at the end of her presentation. Everyone clapped. “Any questions?” she asked.

  Avery’s hand went up. “What about other Muslim girls who play sports? What do they wear?”

  “Just their normal clothes, I guess.”

  “You should start a clothing line.”

  Mariam lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I never thought of that.”

  “You could call it Re-jab!” Allan shouted out. “Get it? Re-jab? Like hijab, but redesigned?”

  Mariam gave a surprised laugh. Who would have though Allan would come up with such a good name?

  Mr. Letner nodded. “There are probably other girls like Sadia who want to play sports but can’t because the hijab moves around or gets in the way. Anyone want to design the website? Start a marketing campaign? That could be your passion project: to see what it takes to get a business off the ground.” Larissa and Christian looked at each other and put their hands up. “Okay.” Mr. Letner pointed at them with the rolled-up paper in his hand. “There you go, Mariam. You’ve got a marketing team.” I thought of the other girls at the mosque. Maybe they didn’t play sports because of the problems wearing hijab posed. If other girls saw that I could do it, then maybe they would, too.

  Chapter 18

  It had been a long time since I’d been tobogganing. But taking Amira was more fun than I’d thought it would be. Taking her three little brothers home from school was not. They didn’t stop talking. They ran ahead and didn’t listen when she called for them to stop. One, Yussef, found a stick and started to poke the other two with it. The Amira who sat passively at school all day was nothing like the bossy, bustling big sister who walked home with me and the boys. When one of them climbed a snowbank too close to the street, she yanked him off and reamed him out so loudly the other two ran for cover. “Brothers,” Amira said with an eye roll when she let him go. I gave her a sympathetic smile, even though Aazim had never been the rough-and-tumble sort.

  We walked half a block without saying anything. It wasn’t awkward; it was kind of nice, actually. She looked at me pensively, frowning, like she was trying to decide if she should say something. “What?” I prompted.

  “Do you like it here?” she asked.

  “Where? In Canada? Or in this neighbourhood?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “It’s different than Syria, that’s for sure, but I was younger when I moved here. I was about his age.” I nodded at Omar. He was the second oldest and went to my old middle school.

  “I thought it would be easier,” she confessed.

  Dad had prepared us, telling us about his life in the U.K., before we’d moved to Canada. He’d made it sound like a fairy-tale world, which was my dad’s way; he loved to embellish and put energy into telling a story and keeping his audience glued to him. We’d been excited to arrive and see this wonderful new place. It was different for Amira. She’d been homeless, living in a camp for a year and a half. I thought of everything that she’d told me about leaving her friends and what life had been like once the war started. Leaving Syria the way she had must still twist her up inside.

  “That’s our apartment building,” she said and pointed to a four-storey building across the street. She corralled her brothers, hooking her fingers into the jacket collars of the two youngest and guiding them to the other side. “I can wait out here,” I said when we reached the front steps. The days were short at this time of year, so even though it was only four o’clock, the sun sat low in the sky. Her building was on a busy street without any trees. I could tell which apartment was hers because her mother had hung blankets and quilts over the balcony railing to air them out.

  “No, you better come in. My parents will have questions for you. Also, we should pray Asr before we go, don’t you think?” She was right. I usually did my late afternoon prayers when I got home from school, but by the time we finished tobogganing, the sun would have set.

  We trudged up the stairs, our boots leaving wet footprints as the snow melted off them. The boys’ cheeks were rosy, more from running than the cold. Mariam’s dad was waiting at the top of the stairs and patted each boy on the head as they ran past him to the open door. “This is Sadia,” Amira said.

  “Marhaba,” I said.

  “I remember you. You showed Amira around on her first day.”

  I nodded.

  “She wants to take me tobogganing,” Amira said.

  He hesitated. I knew that look, I’d seen it on my parents’ faces lots of time. He was wondering if it was safe.

  “I’ll walk her home after,” I suggested with a smile. Mr. Nasser frowned, considering his options. “And I can give you my cell number, in case you need to get ahold of us.”

  Mr. Nasser agreed to that. He pulled an older iPhone out of his pocket, probably the only form of communication the whole family had. I rattled off my number and he thumbed it in. “Come,” he said, waving us toward the open door. “Amal will want to meet you.”

  Amira’s mom sat on the couch with the youngest boy, who had just woken up from a nap. His eyes were glazed and he snuggled closer against her chest when I walked in. “Hi,” I greeted her.
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br />   She smiled and nodded back at me. “You brought a friend?” she asked Amira.

  “Yes, this is Sadia from school. You’ve met her before.”

  “Oh, yes! How could I have forgotten!” Mrs. Nasser lowered her voice. “You’re the basketball player! Amira talks about you. You play in hijab, she said. With the boys!” Mrs. Nasser looked at me as if she couldn’t believe it.

  I looked around the apartment. It didn’t take much for a family of seven to fill up a two-bedroom apartment. Besides a couch and a loveseat, a few donated toys were in bins against the wall, as well as a TV, and on a scuffed coffee table lay her parents’ English workbooks.

  The boys had moved to the kitchen, where they munched on a snack of cut-up apples and crackers. With only two short counters, I couldn’t imagine how Mrs. Nasser cooked and fed all of them at once. Guiltily, I thought of my house and how large it was. We each had our own room and more TVs than people. Was this what my life would have been like if Mom and Dad had waited to leave Syria?

  Mr. Nasser told Amira’s mom what we wanted to do. As soon as she heard, she turned to the boys. “No,” Amira said. “Please, can it just be us? I can take the boys later. Tomorrow maybe.”

  Mrs. Nasser looked at her, disappointed, but she nodded. “Yes, go. Have a good time.”

  I wondered if she’d forgotten about praying, but she took off her jacket and motioned for me to do the same. “We can wash and then pray in my parents’ room.” Part of me wanted to get outside before it got too dark, but I also knew prayers were important to Amira. At school she made her way to the room set aside for us every lunch hour. It was probably the one time of the school day when she could relax and focus on something familiar.

  After we’d washed, Amira took me to her parents’ room. Crowded with a bed, dresser, and crib, there was barely enough room for prayer mats on the floor. She closed the door so we could have privacy.