Boy, Everywhere, page 18
“I can’t believe Hassan did that to me. I hate him,” I said, pulling on my shoes, my face feeling redder.
She cleared her throat and turned round to see if anyone had heard as I opened the front door.
* * *
When I got to my form room, a thin boy with curly, jet-black hair shaved around the sides called over to me, “Sami, sit here. I’m Ali.”
I slid into the chair next to him. He didn’t say anything else, so I didn’t either. I didn’t look at him, just down at the graffiti on the table.
Mr. Williams came in wearing a bright-pink shirt that popped open at his belly button. “Ah, I see you’ve met. Good.” He sat down at the front with a smile, looking smug.
Ali didn’t say a word throughout registration, but as we stood up to go to first lesson he said, “Follow me to English. We’re in the same class.”
We walked down the corridor, Ali slightly ahead, as if he was trying to look like he wasn’t with me.
When we got to English, he traipsed to the back of the class to sit with his friends, while I stayed at the front, where I belonged, and sat down. Near the exit.
The way the teachers taught was different in each class. Yesterday, the history teacher was relaxed and joked around with the class about the trip next week, but the biology teacher was really strict and organized, like in my old school. He had our work ready and we all just had to sit down and get on with it. I preferred that lesson, where no questions were asked—we didn’t have to put our hands up and the teacher didn’t pick on you.
In our English lesson, Mrs. Palfrey said we had to read Animal Farm. She asked who wanted to read aloud and two hands went up, both of them girls. But she asked Tom at the back to read first. When he’d finished, Mrs. Palfrey turned to me. “Sami, would you like to read next?” I felt my cheeks turn red and I looked down.
“Yeah, let’s hear the foreign boy read,” shouted a boy from the back of the room. “He can be the pig! Oink!” He snorted into laughter.
“Nathan!” Mrs. Palfrey said, her face growing salmon pink. “You’ll stay back at the end of lesson. I don’t want to hear another word from you until then!” She turned to me again. “Sami?”
“Yeah, I’ll read,” I said. My heart began to beat as if it was going to run away from me.
I heard some gasps. They all thought I couldn’t speak English. Well, I’d show them.
“Okay, Sami, you want to start at chapter two?”
“Okay …”
I took a deep breath and began. I read a whole paragraph, changing my voice when there were speech marks and trying to remember everything Miss Majida had taught us back in Damascus. She used to be an actress, so she always wanted us to read animatedly, but we didn’t mind because we all wanted to show off our English skills and accents, imitating the English that she’d shown us on the TV. In England, no one seemed to want to read out loud in class. It was weird.
“Well done, Sami. That was great,” said Mrs. Palfrey, looking at me through her oval glasses as she swept her straw-colored hair from her forehead. I could feel the arteries in my neck pulsating like they were going to explode, and my hands shook. I couldn’t believe I’d done that.
Other kids read after me, and I began to relax. But I kept my eyes on the book, not daring to turn around to see who was in the class. I didn’t want to know.
The bell rang. As I picked up my book to put it in my bag, Ali stopped at my table.
“You from America or something?”
“No.”
“How come you got an American accent then?”
“I don’t know.” I didn’t think I sounded American. Did I?
“Where you from then?”
I stood up and walked out of the room. I didn’t want to answer his question—he’d only say something nasty.
“Oi, what’s up?” Ali stepped beside me.
“Nothing. I just don’t wanna talk about it.”
He didn’t say anything, but to my surprise, stayed with me and we walked to maths. We had a Mrs. Justin in this class. She reminded me of Aunty Noor, Uncle Bashir’s wife, with her short, spiky blonde hair, business-like suit, and high heels. Aunty Noor taught at the university in Damascus and was a Christian. She used to take us to church at Christmas time when we were younger, before they moved to Aleppo.
I wondered how she was coping. She loved shopping and going for fancy lunches with her family. Tete had always frowned when we ate out and she saw the bill. She said we wasted too much money.
If I couldn’t cope without a clean toilet in Turkey, Aunty Noor would be freaking out if she was in a camp somewhere. I could just imagine her face. Her nose would wrinkle when she saw anything dirty and her house was always spotlessly clean. She’d even spray air freshener in the bathroom immediately after someone walked out of it. What if they were already in the UK and we didn’t even know and that’s why Uncle Bashir had changed his number?
“So, where you from then?” Ali interrupted my thoughts, pulling out the chair next to me and sitting down.
“I thought you sat at the back. What about your friends? Won’t they laugh at you for sitting with the new boy?” I said, looking down at the blue cover of my maths book.
“Nah, don’t worry ’bout them. They’re okay. I’ve told them I’m sitting with you.”
I raised my eyebrows and turned to him. He smiled and then looked through his book. He seems genuine, I thought, and before I could change my mind, I said, “From Damascus. Syria.”
“Whoa! No way!” His eyes sparkled and his grin stretched from ear to ear. “You seen any gun battles?”
I didn’t know what to say. He clearly didn’t understand what guns could do. Maybe he didn’t watch the news.
“Right, everyone!” shouted Mrs. Justin, rubbing her hands together with a grin. “Today we are going to do some trigonometry!”
Everyone groaned out loud.
Ali looked at me and smirked. I smiled back and looked down.
* * *
I’d just washed my hands after I’d been to the toilet and was flicking them over the sink when I felt something hard hit me on my back.
I ducked, covering my head with my arms, then slowly turned. No one else was in the gray-tiled bathroom; water pipes gurgled in the wall.
Reaching round to touch my shoulder blade, I found egg slime dripping off my sweater onto the floor, broken eggshells splatted across the tiles. A sudden coldness hit my core. Who did that? I grabbed at the paper towel dispenser and began wiping the slime from my back.
An ugly laughter filled the toilets. I froze, mid-wipe. Nathan burst out of one of the stalls, his chest thrust out, his legs wide as he walked. He leered his way over to me and shouted, “All right, terrorist?” right in my ear. I pushed past him, but he yanked me by my shirt collar and pushed me onto a hand dryer.
“I know what you are. My dad’s told me all about you and how evil you people are.” He showed all his teeth as he spoke, his eyes cold and small.
“I dunno what you’re talking about,” I said, trying to kick him off me. His face was in mine, his hands fisted as he held my collar. I could feel my body tensing. Punch him. Punch him, Sami. Do it. I clenched my fists and growled.
The door flung open and Ali appeared. He stopped for a second, taking in the scene, and then shouted, “Oi! What the hell you doing, you turd?!” He pulled Nathan from behind, by his blazer, and threw him to the floor, just missing the sinks. I tried to catch my breath and loosened my collar.
Ali put his shoe on Nathan’s stomach. “Don’t touch him again,” he said. “Otherwise, trust me, you’re dead.”
Ali nodded at the door, indicating I should get out. I looked at both of them, my hands trembling, let out a big breath, and then ran out of the toilets as fast as I could, not looking back, my body stiff and my knees buckling. I wanted to run out of school and get on the first plane to Syria. But I couldn’t. I still didn’t know how to get to the airport. I’d have to wait till lunchtime to go to the library. As usual, I had to just get through whatever was thrown at me. Even eggs. But I wouldn’t have to for much longer.
* * *
Skipping lunch yesterday hadn’t been a good idea. I was starving by the time I got home, and if I was going to get on a plane today, I had to make sure I ate.
So I went to the lunch hall first, planning to eat quickly, then head to the library. As I sat down with my food, Ali came over to me. I glanced up at him and moved my tray to make space for him at the empty table. “Thanks … you know … for earlier,” I said as I scooped some hot fries and beans into my mouth. The hall was buzzing with noise—cutlery clanking, kids talking loudly, trays slamming, and chairs scraping. I wasn’t sure he’d heard me.
“S’right. He’s a total idiot,” he said, sitting down. “His dad’s a right racist—used to give Aaron Lawrence a hard time when he lived near them.”
I looked at him but carried on eating, saying nothing.
“Have you seen his house?” Ali asked, cutting through his cheese and onion pasty.
“Nah …”
“They’re Britain First supporters. Got a massive flag hanging in front.”
My face must’ve been blank. I didn’t know why that was a bad thing.
“You know—the kind that don’t like brown people or just anyone from abroad.”
“Oh.” I took a sip of my water. That explained a lot.
“So, what’s Syria like then? Must’ve been well scary. You miss it?”
I nodded. The urge to tell someone about where I’d come from pushed the words from my throat.
“It’s not all like what you see on the news, you know,” I said, looking at him then back at my plate. “We’re not dangerous or evil. We’re educated, we go to schools, universities. We’ve got libraries and bookshops”—I noticed the serving counter—“coffee shops, restaurants, cinemas. We had lives, just the same as everyone in Manchester. Proper lives. These people who don’t want us here … they should know that we don’t want to be here either.” I met Ali’s eyes. “I’m going back,” I told him, pushing my plate away and sitting back in my chair.
Ali was smiling at me, which was odd. “Come play football with us after,” Ali said, nudging my arm with his elbow. “I’m just gonna go and see the boys.” He picked up his tray and headed to his mates. I watched him walk away to the popular table. That was me, once upon a time.
* * *
After I’d eaten, I went outside to let Ali know I couldn’t play because I had to send an email. I couldn’t ignore him. I owed him that much.
Outside, everyone seemed to be laughing and shouting, enjoying themselves—everyone except me. A gust of wind blew over me as I walked across the playground and a gold chocolate wrapper fluttered into my chest. Even the wind thinks I’m only worth trash, I thought.
“Come on! We’re a player down,” Ali called over, running up to me.
I traipsed behind him with my hands in my pockets, along the painted court markings on the tarmac and onto the field, wondering if I should join him. The grass was tinged with yellow and had patches of mud where it no longer grew. It needed sun but the sky was cloudy, a really pale gray, fading to white in the distance.
I watched Ali run back into the game and kick the ball toward the other side of the makeshift pitch, the goal marked by two piles of coats.
I stood on the sidelines for a few seconds, then turned to walk away. I didn’t have the heart to play football or to explain myself to Ali. I didn’t want to pretend I was okay, that I was a part of all of this. What was the point? I didn’t belong—there was no point faking it.
“Hey!” Ali tapped me on my shoulder and walked breathlessly with me back onto the tarmac. “What’s up with you? Don’t you play?”
“Do you know which bus goes to the airport?” I said, looking down. Don’t connect with him, I told myself.
“Think it goes from Stockport bus station—that’s where we got it once. Why? Where you off to?”
I shrugged.
“You’re well weird,” he said and ran off back toward the field.
Yeah, too weird for your perfect country. I thought. I looked up at the sky and asked God to make the next three hours fly by so I could get out of here.
But before lunchtime finished, I had work to do. I strode to the library, where one computer was free. I sat down and Googled “buses to Manchester Airport.” Ali was right—there was a direct bus from Stockport bus station, the 199, which only took about twenty minutes to get there. I felt the ten-pound note in my pocket. I’d be out of here soon. I did a mental checklist—I already knew which flight to take from my previous search and the terminal it flew from, and now I knew which bus to take there, but I still needed to check out how the luggage was loaded before I got on the plane. I Googled how to find the best airside viewing platform at the airport and came across some aircraft-spotting blogs that gave a list of the best ones. Luckily, the best views were from Terminal 1. It’s time to leave, I thought, as I sat back in the chair and sighed.
* * *
As soon as the last bell rang, I was out of school like a shot and ran to the bus stop. It was already packed with kids swearing, shouting, and pushing each other. I kept my head down and waited for the bus that went to Stockport bus station, taking deep breaths to try and control my breathing. Just get to Terminal 1 and find the plane to Antalya, I told myself.
Once I got to Turkey, I’d have to travel along the coast until I somehow got to the Syrian border. After that, I had no idea how I’d get to Damascus, but at least I’d be back in Syria. I’d figure it out.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and swung round. It was Ali. “What you doing here? I thought you lived that way … near me?” He pointed in the other direction.
“Um … yeah, I do. I just … um …”
“Come with us.” He tilted his head toward his friend Mark, who was kicking the wall behind. “We’ll grab a burger and then play some footy, yeah?”
I shuffled my feet. How could I get out of this? Why was Ali even here?
Ali looked straight at me. “What Nathan said and did is just bull. Don’t worry ’bout him. I can handle him. You got me now.” He held out his fist for me to bump.
A bus had hissed to a halt, but I’d missed the sign to see where it was stopping. All the rowdy kids started pushing onto it.
I didn’t know what to say. I fist-bumped Ali back slowly. Is this a sign from God that I shouldn’t leave today? I thought. Maybe the flight’s been canceled? Maybe I should wait until tomorrow, to check the flight’s on time before I leave? At least the weekend in England started on Saturday and not a Friday, like in Syria.
“Come on!” Ali shouted, gripping my arm and dragging me out of the crowd.
Chapter 32
"Oi, Sami!” Ali shouted from the hall door at lunchtime the next day. “Come here!”
I walked toward him, putting my tray away as I went.
“Come play football with me and Mark.”
“Um …”
“Come on, man!”
“We’re a player down,” said Mark.
“Yeah, you’d be helping us out,” said Ali.
“I … I—”
“Come on, Sami! You smashed the ball into the net yesterday! We need you!” Ali shoved a fist in my shoulder.
“All right,” I said, shuffling my feet, remembering how good it felt to kick a ball about in the park after school. I followed them outside. I’d already checked the flight schedule at break. It was on time and leaving at 6:40 p.m. I had plenty of time to get there after school.
Being on a pitch again made me feel alive. I was quick to dodge the other players and dribble the ball to Ali, Mark, and their team. I didn’t score this time, but I think the others could see I had skills and wasn’t a total loser.
* * *
The seconds ticked by so slowly through the afternoon. When the school bell finally rang, I jumped out of my chair, slung my backpack over my shoulder, and dashed to get out of the door.
Ali ran to catch me in the corridor. “Man, I’m glad it’s Friday,” he said, zipping up his backpack. “Where you off now? Home?”
“Yeah …” For a moment, I thought about telling him where I was going, but I couldn’t risk it. I didn’t know him, not really.
“Come with me and Mark for a quick kick-about. We’re going to the park again. Then you can come round to mine after—Mark’s got to go to an asthma check-up, but we can play FIFA.”
“I can’t …”
“Why? Where you going?”
“Nowhere.” I slipped my hands into my pockets, rubbing Jiddo’s ring with my finger. “Just home.”
“All right, well, we’ll walk you. My house is only a few streets away from yours,” he said.
Great, I thought. How was I going to get to the bus stop now?
I couldn’t think of a lie to get rid of them, and once I was in front of Hassan’s house, I wouldn’t be able to leave again without getting caught. If I just told him no, he’d think I was rude, and he didn’t deserve that after he’d helped me out with Nathan. I’d have to drop my plans AGAIN.
“All right,” I said, pulling on my shirt collar. If I wasn’t leaving today, then going to Ali’s house would be better than going back and seeing Hassan’s vile face all evening. But I’d have to think of a good reason over the weekend not to walk home with Ali on Monday. “I’ll have to let my parents know, though.”
“Cool!” He grinned.

“My big sister’s at Manchester Uni,” said Ali as he led me into their kitchen. “My little brother’s at primary, so I’m right in the middle.” He rolled his eyes. “Mum, this is Sami. He’s from Syria.”
