Boy, Everywhere, page 17
I took a deep breath and hunched over my cereal, trying to focus on the sweet peanut smell and not where we were going.
“You’ll be fine. Don’t worry,” said Mama, stroking my back before handing Baba a mug of tea and leaving the kitchen.
Yeah, I’ll be fine, I thought. As always. No choice but to be fine. I picked up the bowl to drink the leftover milk.
“Right, let’s go. Get that on, Sami.” Baba pointed at the blazer, hovering over me. “I’ve got to be at work before ten.”
I tutted, grabbed the blazer, slid my arms into it, and followed Baba out of the kitchen door.
* * *
We walked in silence down the road, my hands in my pockets, while Baba tried to call Uncle Bashir, but his mobile wasn’t connecting. “He must’ve changed it,” he said, looking at me. But I only had school on my mind.
I wanted to tell Baba that I didn’t want to go to Hassan’s school, but I couldn’t find the strength to say it to him. If Hassan was so nasty at home, he’d be ten times worse at school.
Baba was so happy I’d gotten into a school so quickly. He could tick me off his “settling into the UK list” now. But I’m never going to settle here, I thought. Damascus is where I belong.
We walked alongside the school grounds, eventually approaching the tall, black school gates with the huge yellow-brick building beyond. How many kids went here? It had to be thousands. It was a lot bigger than my school back home. I felt goosebumps cover my arms and folded them as we entered the main gate.
“It’s pretty big, isn’t it?” said Baba. “You’ll be fine, Sami, you’ll see.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“Just walk with your head up high. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. You belong here as much as anyone else. You’ve memorized my new number, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, good. Remember, your baba’s a doctor and I’ll be serving these families soon.” He patted my back and added, “Don’t tell anyone I’m working in the factory.”
“Why not?” I asked. Was he embarrassed?
“Because we’re not allowed to be working here yet. Mama too—so don’t mention her cleaning. It’s just to help us get by until I can work legally. No one should find out—otherwise we’ll get into trouble, okay?”
“Uhh … okay.” I tipped my head to look at him. At least he’ll have one less person to feed when I’m gone.
I looked down as we walked through the automatic double doors. It was warm inside, the heat rushing over us as we entered the reception area.
“Hello,” said Baba, through a glass screen. “We are here to see Mrs. Greenwood.”
“Oh, yes, are you Mr. al-Hafez?”
“Yes, I’m Dr. al-Hafez.”
“Please take a seat and I’ll get her for you.”
There wasn’t much to look at in the reception area, but in the larger hallway beyond it, I could see a giant painting and a trophy cabinet. I felt hot, so took off the blazer, folding it over my arm.
“Ah, hello! Mr. al-Hafez—Sami,” said a redheaded woman in a skirt suit as she walked through the double doors. “I’m Mrs. Greenwood.”
“Good morning,” said Baba, getting up and firmly shaking her hand. I stared at the brown carpeted tiles. I didn’t know what to do.
Mrs. Greenwood turned. “Just come through here.”
We followed her through the doors into a pale-blue corridor with artwork displayed on the walls, then entered a large office with a big desk under a window. There were trophies and photos in a glass cabinet and rows of books on shelves. The room smelled of black coffee.
“Please take a seat.” Mrs. Greenwood pointed to the black leather chairs opposite her desk, which was covered in sticky notes, pens, and pads of paper.
“Right, let’s go through some basic details first.” Her voice was hoarse. I wondered if she smoked. Lots of Tete’s friends smoked shisha and they all had similar-sounding voices.
She asked Baba to check a pre-filled form. Over his shoulder, I saw it listed my name, address, date of birth, subjects I’d studied in Syria, medical history, and emergency details.
“So, what’s your favorite subject, Sami?” the headteacher asked.
“Uh … science, Ma’am,” I replied as a bird chirped outside.
“Oh, you don’t have to call me Ma’am—we’re not that posh over here! Mrs. Greenwood will do.” She laughed and reclined in her high-backed chair, and I relaxed a little.
Maybe it’ll be okay. I’ll get through today, I told myself.
“Once your dad’s checked the form and we’ve had a short chat, I’ll show you around the school.”
“Okay …”
“You’ll be in year eight, Sami. It’s an important year.” She looked over at Baba and then back at me. “Now, I know you went to an English school and you were studying the baccalaureate?” She raised her eyebrows. “Well, it’s a little different here. We’ll do some assessments of your work so we can put you in the right groups in a week or so.… Don’t worry, you’ll have lots of support if you need it. Just ask if you’re not sure about anything. We’re here to help you.”
I looked at the blazer on my lap and circled my thumbnail with my index finger, over and over again. What assessments would I have to do? I didn’t even want to be here!
“Have you got your school blazer with you, Sami?” Mrs. Greenwood asked, glancing at Baba signing a form. “You need to wear it.”
“Um, yeah …” I said, raising my hands to show it to her. “I was feeling hot.”
“That’s okay.” She smiled. “Make sure you put it back on once the bell rings.”
Baba handed back the form with the black pen. “Sami’s a bright boy—he was doing very well in Syria. He wants to follow the sciences.” He picked up his backpack off the floor and started unzipping it. “Here are his certificates of achievement,” Baba said, pulling out pieces of paper.
So THAT’S what he had in there! I couldn’t believe Baba had brought them all the way from Syria. I was glad there was finally some proof that I wasn’t always a loser. Phew.
“Well, we have a triple science option here if he wants to go for that. But we will have to assess him ourselves first, Mr. al-Hafez.” She leafed through the form slowly. “So you have a younger daughter who should be in primary reception?”
“Yes. We’re waiting for her to be assessed by a psychologist before she is given a school place. She’s stopped talking, you see.” Baba pushed his hair off his forehead.
“Oh … I’m sorry to hear that.” Mrs. Greenwood put the form down and rested her hands in her lap, looking at us.
“She was present when a bomb went off in a mall,” Baba explained, “and she hasn’t spoken since.… But we are seeing progress—she is clinging less to her mother recently and she is playing more independently.”
“Well, that’s good. Was Sami there when the bomb exploded?”
“No, he was at school, thank God. He didn’t see a thing … though he has seen destruction in Syria.” Baba leaned forward with his hands on his legs. “He witnessed a bad incident at the detention center here in Manchester, but he’s dealing with it well.” He looked at me and smiled. I was still circling my thumbnail with my finger. I couldn’t stop.
“Have you made any friends since you got here, Sami?” Mrs. Greenwood asked.
“No,” I said, hoping Baba wouldn’t mention Hassan. He wasn’t my friend.
“Well, that’ll be one of the things that’ll help most in getting you settled into school.” Mrs. Greenwood smiled. “Someone you can talk to and turn to when you need help. The first week is always the hardest, but everything will seem simpler after that. It’s a big school, and we usually give our new students who come from primary school two weeks to fully settle in and get used to the buildings, the timetable, the people, and so on. So don’t be too harsh on yourself, especially as you are joining mid-year.…” She pushed her chair back. “Right, let’s show you around, shall we?”
She put the form in her filing tray and stood up, straightening her skirt. We followed her as she turned left out of the office.
* * *
The school was empty, which I was glad about. I didn’t want it to be full of kids. She showed us the humanities rooms and then took us up a staircase to the music room and the English and maths departments.
The staff room was upstairs and next to it, a library. Computers? I wondered. I couldn’t wait to go and use them. We then entered a newer building that housed all of the science labs, similar to what we’d had in Syria but with more stools around the longer benches and more gas valves.
She took us down some stairs into a bright area bordered by windows and showed us more classrooms and then the dinner hall, which stank of boiled vegetables. Next to that were the changing rooms and the sports hall. I was surprised there wasn’t a swimming pool or a proper basketball court like we’d had in Damascus. I had assumed every school had those, especially in England.
Then she took us outside and showed us the outdoor classrooms that looked like they were made out of thick cardboard. How come schools in England can’t afford proper buildings? I wondered.
Some children were beginning to arrive through the gates, some in groups of just girls, some just boys, and some a mix of both. It looked like an international school, with kids from all sorts of races and backgrounds. They laughed and shouted but looked over at me as they talked. I must’ve stood out because I was with the headteacher. I wanted to lock myself into an empty classroom and hide.
“Right, that’s the school done,” Mrs. Greenwood announced. “Let me take you to your form room and introduce you to your form tutor.” She led us back up the light and airy stairs near the science labs and past an IT room, full of computers. Brilliant, I thought. I can use these if the library doesn’t have any.
Mrs. Greenwood turned into another classroom. A tall, plump man with glasses stood at his desk at the front. His greasy brown hair was parted to the side.
“Ah, Mr. Williams, this is Sami al-Hafez. He starts today,” said Mrs. Greenwood.
“Good morning, Sami! Do you want to take a seat somewhere?” Mr. Williams shook Baba’s hand, and as I looked around the empty room, my head started to pulse. “We’ll do our best to help Sami settle in, Mr. al-Hafez. Please feel free to call me if you’d like to meet up to discuss his progress—or anything else.”
“Oh good … Yes, I will do. Thank you.” Baba’s eyes shone back at Mr. Williams.
“Right, the bell is about to go. Shall I show you out, Mr. al-Hafez?” Mrs. Greenwood walked to the door.
“Um … okay.” Baba’s brow wrinkled. “Sami, I will see you later. Walk back with Hassan. School finishes at 3:15 p.m.?” he asked, looking at Mrs. Greenwood.
Hassan? I scoffed in my head. Unlikely. I’ll just have to find my own way back.
“Yes, that’s right,” Mrs. Greenwood said, opening the door. “We’ll leave you in Mr. Williams’s capable hands, Sami. He’ll talk you through your timetable, give you a map, and introduce you to your teaching assistant. Bye for now.”
Baba pursed his lips together, gave me the tiniest of smiles, and followed Mrs. Greenwood out of the door.
I sat on one of the plastic chairs and looked at the brown table, chipped at the corners. God help me, I thought to myself as the school bell rang loudly. I unfolded the blazer from my hand and slipped it back on.
Chapter 30
I kept my head down through form registration, only saying, “Here, Sir,” like everyone else, when Mr. Williams said my name. No one bothered speaking to me, so I didn’t know what any of the kids looked like—but the first face I did see in the corridor after registration was Hassan’s. My mouth went dry, thinking he’d say something nasty, but thankfully he just ignored me and carried on talking with his friends. I had to avoid him somehow. It was bad enough seeing him at his house.
As I walked away from Hassan, a group of kids started pointing and burst out laughing. “You’re in the wrong school, mate,” yelled one. “You need to be at St. Wilfred’s!” He bent over laughing as he pointed at the yellow logo on my blazer.
My stomach dropped to my feet. I looked at the logo on my chest and realized that Hassan had given me a blazer from his previous school, the nasty rat. His dad had mentioned he’d moved to this school in year eight. Everyone here wore black blazers with a silver logo.
I tore it off and shoved it in my backpack, my cheeks on fire.
* * *
I turned up late for history after losing sight of the teaching assistant who told me to follow her and not being able to figure out the map Mr. Williams had given me. Some of the boys at the back jeered when I walked in. They knew I was the new kid and everyone had seen me in that dumb blazer. I kept my head low and sat down at the front, where the teacher told me to—that suited me fine. Just like in Syria, that was where the nerdy and shy kids sat quietly, with their books already open.
Listening to the teacher talk about British history made me wish that I’d visited all the famous historic sites in Syria before we’d left. I should’ve spent more time in the Old City, exploring the markets and the Silk Road with Tete. When I got back, I’d make sure I took her there. We’d do exactly what she wanted to do. I wouldn’t rush her through Souk al-Hamidiyeh, and I’d let her buy as many spices and olive soaps as she wanted. No moaning. Not anymore.
* * *
At break, I eventually managed to use the map to get to the library, but all the computers were being used.
“What you doing, new boy?” hissed a pupil as I walked out. “We heard the teachers talking about you. Go back to your terrorist country!” His friends all exploded with laughter. I walked past them quickly, my eyes fixed on the corridor ahead, pretending I hadn’t heard. A backpack slammed to the floor beside me—it had missed, but only just.
The bell rang at the end of French, and everyone rushed out of class, running toward the lunch hall. But I was going back to the library.
Just my luck, all the computers were being used again, so this time I sat on one of the gray plastic chairs and waited, opening a book someone had left on the table in front of me to make it look like I was busy reading.
Mr. Williams walked in. He glanced at me and then leaned over the counter to ask the librarian something.
“You okay there, Sami?” he asked as he passed me again. “You should go outside and get some fresh air while you can.”
“It’s too cold outside, Sir.” I wasn’t lying, it was—especially without a blazer to wear.
“Cold? It’s not cold!” he said as he walked out of the door.
A girl got up from a computer and tucked her chair in. I half-jogged over to grab her spot and immediately Googled “Manchester Airport flight times.” I typed in “Damascus” in the Flight Departures search, but there was nothing. I looked through the list to find other cities, but nowhere in Syria was listed. I should have guessed. If there was a direct flight from Syria, Baba would’ve got us on one. I typed in “Beirut” because we’d flown from there to Turkey, but that wasn’t there either. I just about stopped myself from slamming my hands on to the keyboard. I have to get out of here. Why aren’t there any flights? I thought.
I’d have to go to Turkey. That was where we’d flown to before getting into Europe. I went back to Google and searched for a map of Turkey. I memorized the five major cities, went back to the Manchester Airport website, and typed them in.
Finally! There was a flight from Terminal 1 to Antalya in the evening. The flight took four hours and forty minutes. I can survive that in a luggage hold, I told myself. I had to.
The bell rang, but I hadn’t researched how to get to the airport yet. I should’ve checked that first. As much as I didn’t want to, I’d have to come back to school tomorrow to find that out before I could get away.
* * *
“Sami, can you stay back for a quick word?” Mr. Williams asked at the end of afternoon registration. “I’ve asked Ali to help you settle in. He transferred here and knows what it’s like to join mid-year. I’ve just spoken to him and he’ll be sitting with you during registration from tomorrow morning. Okay?”
“I’m fine, sir.” I didn’t want to be singled out. It’d only give the kids another reason to pick on me.
“Yes, you are, but he’s a good kid and you’ll like him. Give him a chance. Go on, off you go, you’ll be late for science.”
But I didn’t want to make any friends. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I was fine by myself. No one cared that I was there, and I didn’t care about them. It was easier this way. Then I wouldn’t have any friends to lose when I left.
Not like last time.
Chapter 31
"Sami!” Mama shouted as I opened the porch door the next morning. “Here. You forgot your history trip money.” She handed me the yellow signed slip and a ten-pound note. “Make sure you hand it in today—it says the payment deadline’s tomorrow.”
“Oh, yeah! Thanks, Mama,” I said, crumpling both up and putting them in my pocket. Finally, a lucky break. Next week’s War Museum trip meant I now had money to get to the airport, without even having to lie to get it. I felt bad for taking the money Mama had worked hard for, but this was best in the long run, I knew it.
Sara shuffled sleepily down the stairs, watching me and carrying a picture book.
“Oh, and don’t worry about your blazer.” Mama briefly glanced at Sara, then whispered, “Your baba will call your headteacher and explain it’ll take a while to buy the proper one.”
