Omar Rising, page 2
“Name?” a lady with red-framed glasses asks when it’s my turn.
“Omar Ali.”
“There we are. First name in the pile.” She hands me a folder with SB stamped on the front.
“What does this mean?” I point to the letters.
“Oh, that? Don’t worry.” She waves a hand. “They’ll explain at assembly next week.”
I wasn’t worried until she told me not to worry. I want to ask her more, but Uncle taps my shoulder. “Let’s see your room before I have to leave.”
“The rooms aren’t too exciting,” I warn. “They pack so much into them, you can touch one bed with your foot while sitting on the other.”
“In that case, let’s hope you have a good roommate.”
I hope so, too. Having a roommate—a total stranger I’ll share a room with for a year—is the weirdest part about all this. I run my hand over the pouch in my book bag where I stored a baggie of guava-flavored candy. My summer roommate was great—Kareem, a scholarship kid like me. Tall, lanky, and full of jokes, he always kept a stash of candy on him and was quick to share it. I hoped bringing some would be a good icebreaker, but mostly I’m just hoping I’ll get a roommate as nice as him again.
I lead Uncle across the main campus to where the dorms are situated. But when I punch in the three-digit code from summer, the door doesn’t budge.
“I got it!” A boy hurries over to us. He’s taller than me by a foot, and his floppy black hair is draped over his forehead.
“It’s one-three-five.” He punches in the code. “They change it every month. Didn’t you get the email?”
“Oh. I don’t have an account set up yet.”
“No big deal.” He smiles. “If you didn’t register at home, you can get it set up at the computer lab. There’s information on all that in your folder.”
Emails. People here have probably used email since they were babies. Another thing to add to the list of stuff I’ll need to figure out quickly.
“I’m Faisal. If you have questions, I’m in the upperclassmen dorms. See you!”
“Kids here seem nice,” Uncle says as we step inside. I check my sheet: 2-2. My room is the second one on the second floor.
We enter, and the space is set up just like the room I had for summer orientation. Two twin beds with nightstands on opposite walls. Next to each, a wooden dresser, a desk, and chair.
“This is a fantastic setup!” Uncle exclaims. “One of my cousins went to a boarding school, and there were six boys to a room there.” He glances around and then at me. “It’s really happening, isn’t it? You did it, Omar.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it.” His eyes crinkle with a smile. “May the pride we all feel in you lift you up and help you succeed. Ameen.”
I bite my lip. I know everyone rooting for me is a good thing. But right now the weight of that responsibility sinks in me like stones.
Uncle hugs me goodbye. I watch him disappear down the stairs. And then he’s gone. Back to our village. Back home.
“Hey, Omar, looks like we’re neighbors!” a voice from across the hallway calls out. I recognize Humza from the summer. “I brought the Mohamed Salah jersey I told you about. Wanna check it out?”
“I’ll be there in a second,” I tell him.
I rest my suitcase on my bed and look out the window. The soccer field is right below my window, and some kids are already playing. At the edge of the field there’s a wall with a mural teeming with students doing all sorts of cool stuff, like playing instruments, shooting hoops, scoring goals, and even doing science experiments. Bunsen burners are fired up and beakers ooze with smoky liquids. Straight across from me, the figure of a boy peers through a telescope up at the sky.
I squeeze the windowsill until my fingers grow white. I’m only twenty kilometers from home, but I’m in a whole different orbit. Still, there is no room for homesickness or regret. For the next few years, Planet Ghalib is home.
Chapter 4
Hey, roomie,” a voice calls out, and Kareem saunters into the room holding a worn duffel bag.
“No way!” I brighten. “We’re roommates again?”
“Looks that way.” He gives me a fist bump. “I was worried it’d be Naveed.”
“Naveed?” I raise my eyebrows. “He’s great!”
“Don’t get me wrong! Love the guy. But remember how he snored? We could hear him down the hallway.”
“True.” I laugh. “His roommate slept with headphones on.”
“I sleep as light as a cat, so that would’ve been awful.”
“Where are your parents?”
“They didn’t need to walk me up. My duffel bag was pretty light.”
He shrugs like it doesn’t matter. But I get it. Kareem’s a scholarship kid like me. His parents probably didn’t have time to linger. He sticks his duffel bag on his desk.
“Brought something for you,” I say. I grab the bag of candy and toss it to him.
“Guava!” He sits down on his bed and pops one in his mouth. He closes his eyes. “Mmm. I thought no one could beat Danawala’s stall back home, but this is good candy.”
“Next time I’ll get you the lychee-flavored ones. Those are pretty yummy, too.”
“Thanks, Omar! I owe you.”
“Repay me with a soccer scrimmage once we’re unpacked? We have a great view of the field from here.”
“Thinking of trying out for the team?” He cranes his neck to look out the window.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “But yeah, maybe. I’m definitely joining the astronomy club. What about you?”
“Debate club for sure,” he says. “Made it to semifinals at my last school. Think I’ll try out for basketball, too.”
“Maybe after we kick the soccer ball around, you can show me how to play basketball?”
“You’ll be learning from the best!”
There’s a knock at the door. It’s Naveed.
“The gang is officially back,” Kareem exclaims. He gives Naveed a fist bump. We join him in the hallway.
“I’m so glad we’re on the same floor again!” Naveed pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Remember Jibril? He’s my roommate. I can’t figure out if he’s nice or not. If he’s mean, can I squeeze in with both of you?”
“Jibril? He’s great, and besides, who’d be mean to you?” I playfully swat his arm. “Listen, we’re going to play soccer once we finish unpacking. I saw some—”
“Move over.” A gruff voice interrupts us. It’s a man in a three-piece suit accompanied by two servants in plain shalwar kamiz carrying enormous suitcases.
We step aside as they brush past us into the room next door. A boy with short spiky hair emerges from the staircase. His eyes are locked on the screen of his fancy silver phone.
Naveed looks at the boy and then back at us. “Okay . . . well . . . see you all later.” He darts down the hallway.
Before Kareem or I can move, an angry voice—the man’s—ricochets against the cinder-block walls next door.
“They must be joking! How can anyone live in a room like this?” he barks. “I’m not paying for a new gym so Aiden can live in a prison cell, am I?”
A prison cell? Kareem and I exchange glances.
Moments later, he storms past us. The hallway vibrates from his angry departure.
“Nice guy,” I say under my breath.
The boy looks up from his phone. His eyes meet mine.
“What?” He frowns.
“Oh,” I begin. “Nothing. I just . . . Hi. My name’s Omar, and this is—”
But before I can finish my sentence, he stalks into his room, slamming the door shut behind him.
“He’s a friendly one,” I say to Kareem as we retreat into our room.
“Must take after his dad.”
I laugh, and we get to work organizing our things. I unpack my clothes and set a photo of my mother and me on the nightstand. I tack up my poster of the Milky Way. Kareem’s taping up a photo of cricket legend Wasim Akram by his bed. In a few minutes, our room looks a little less stark and a little more like us.
Glancing into the hallway, I see Aiden’s servants still waiting around. The older one leans against the cinder-block wall, his eyes half-closed.
I grab my chair and drag it toward the door. “Would you like to sit? We have another you could also borrow.”
The older man eyes the chair and hesitates. “Thank you, but we’re fine standing,” he finally says.
I can tell that’s not true by how uncomfortable he looks. He’s old enough to be my grandfather. I’m glad my mother was never treated this way. Amal’s family feels like our own. But I know this is the lot of many servants—expected to stand at command while awaiting the next order from their employer. It’s the fate I’m here to avoid.
“Please, chota sahib.” The other man puts his palms up. “We’re happy to stand. Really.”
I wince at the term little sir. They don’t know I’m more like them than most people here.
When Aiden’s father returns, we edge closer to our open door.
“Well, they can say goodbye to the rest of the gymnasium money,” he says.
“So, we’re leaving?” Aiden asks.
“For now, you’ll stay.”
“But you said if they couldn’t change my room, we’d go!”
“I know what I said, but—”
“You’re really going to make me stay? In this dump?”
Dump? Kareem mouths silently.
“I thought it was a prison,” I whisper.
Kareem flops backward onto his bed and laughs.
“You could have been at Aitchison.” The man’s voice grows harder. “If your grades had been better, I wouldn’t be sending you here in the first place. How about instead of complaining, get your marks where they need to be. In the meantime, be grateful I got you a single.”
“That man acts like he owns the place,” I whisper.
“Sounds like he does own the gym. Aiden should move in there. It’s definitely bigger than the dorms.”
“Plus, all the basketball you can play.”
“Now, that’s the dream.” Kareem grins.
After they leave, Aiden’s door slams with such a shuddering force, the wall between us trembles. Loud music fills the air. Angry. Pulsing. The floor beneath us vibrates.
“I’d take Naveed’s snoring over this.” Kareem grimaces.
“He’ll cool off soon,” I say.
“We were going to play soccer anyway,” Kareem says. “Let’s join those kids out back.”
I side-eye Aiden’s closed door as we leave. Maybe the room is small to him, but a prison cell? And this place, with its stately brick walls, winding pathways, and lush manicured lawns, a dump? Both of us are at the exact same school, but we see it so differently.
Chapter 5
The alarm clock goes off early the next morning.
“Too soon,” Kareem groans. He burrows deeper into the sheets.
I stifle a yawn as I sit up. I went straight to bed after speaking with my mother last night, but I tossed and turned for hours. It’s not that the bed was uncomfortable. The thick, padded mattress was softer than my woven charpay at home. But it wasn’t my bed. And then there were all the unfamiliar noises, like the creaking pipes and the low roar of the air-conditioning.
There was also the problem of my mind refusing to turn off. How hard would classes be? Would I get laughed off the field at soccer tryouts? And my mother . . . was she lying awake, too, in our newly empty home?
I rub my eyes and get out of bed. If astronauts can fall asleep in zero gravity, I should be able to get used to my new bed and the sounds of this place.
As I brush my teeth and slip into my uniform, the sleepiness vanishes. I look at myself in the mirror and grin: Navy blue jacket? Check. Striped gold tie? Double check! It’s happening. After all these months of counting down, today is the first day of my new life!
Morning barrels forward at such a breakneck pace I can barely catch my breath. Back home, we had one classroom. Here we hurry from class to class as fast as we can to beat the bell. And there are so many people here. Elbows and shoulders knock against me as I race down the hallways. It’s like trying to maneuver through the asteroid belt.
When it’s finally time for lunch, I breathe a sigh of relief. The dining hall looks like the expensive restaurants I’ve glimpsed on TV, with its cream tablecloths and low-hanging lights. Back at my old school, we brought our food in cloth sacks and ate on the lawn beneath a shade tree.
“How is it already lunchtime?” Kareem mutters. We step into a line stretching practically to the door. “This day is going by at warp speed.”
“Really? It feels like it’s dragging on forever, and we’re still only halfway done.” Naveed adjusts his glasses. “But the teachers go so fast I can’t keep up. I missed a bunch of things.”
“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “We’ll compare notes after school.”
We reach the food, and my mouth starts to water. Sizzling trays of chicken kardhai, saag, and steaming hot rice and naans rest underneath warming lights. This spread is fancier than some wedding buffets I’ve been to. A friendly man with neatly parted hair replenishes the naans as I approach.
“Everything looks delicious,” I tell him.
“Doesn’t taste too bad either.” He winks. “Enjoy.”
I thank him and fill my plate.
The three of us settle down at an empty table by the back doors.
“Finally!” Kareem exclaims. “I was about to pass out from hunger.”
“Is there always so much food?” I ask them. Kareem and Naveed have both been at private schools before.
“Yep!” Kareem says in between shoveling food into his mouth. “And this chicken is amazing! Miles better than the eats we had at my other school.”
“Did you both get the email from the guidance counselor, Mrs. Rashid?” Naveed asks between bites.
“You mean the questionnaire with about five hundred prompts?” Kareem asks.
“Twenty-three,” Naveed corrects him. “She said we could schedule an appointment to see her if we need extra help.”
“Right.” Kareem snorts. “Nice try.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Take it from me,” he says. “The guidance counselor at my old school tried that. You can’t let them see you sweat. Don’t give them a reason to say you don’t belong. As far as Mrs. Rashid goes, everything is always going great.”
“Are you sure?” Naveed frowns. “The handbook said she’ll email each month to check in on our progress.”
“One hundred percent positive.” Kareem grabs his water and gulps it down. “Just hope she’s not sending us those long questionnaires each time. Like we don’t have enough to do.”
I pull out a notebook and jot down a reminder to set up my email. I’m only halfway through the day and the list of things to do keeps growing.
A bell trills outside the door.
“And that’s that.” Kareem tosses his napkin onto his tray.
“Time’s up? Already?” I stare at him. “I’ve barely touched my food.”
“Twenty-five minutes goes fast,” Naveed says.
“They should call it the food Olympics.” Kareem glances at my plate. “Omar, you’ll have to pick up your time if you want to make the cut!”
I look at my plate. Twenty-five minutes to get in line, grab our food, and eat? I wolf down a few bites as fast as I can before returning my tray.
“Hey, Omar!” Marwan calls out. He’s with Naveed’s roommate, Jibril. “Soccer was awesome yesterday! Rematch after school?”
“Definitely!” I reply.
“Speed up!” Kareem urges me and Naveed as we jostle through the crowds. I look back at Jibril’s and Marwan’s retreating figures. They’ve been in almost all my other classes, but I guess we’re in different English sections.
“Why’d they put this class so far apart from the others?” I groan.
“What kind of soccer skills can you have if you’re tired after a little jog?” Kareem teases. “Last one left complaining is the loser.”
“Never!” I pick up my pace.
“Think Aiden’ll be in this class, too?” Naveed asks. “I don’t know why, but he makes me nervous.”
I bite back a laugh. Everything makes Naveed nervous. But he’s right. Aiden’s been in almost every section we had. He barely speaks, but his presence is like a black hole swirling in the back of each class.
“Are we going the right way?” I ask. “This is far!”
“I haven’t been in this wing either.” Naveed checks the schedule. “It says ‘Administrative Room Three.’ ”
Maybe there’s a misprint, I’m about to say when we reach the assigned room.
“Did one of you ring the fire alarm or something?” Kareem asks. “Because it looks like we’re heading into detention.”
“Yeah,” I say. “The main office is right next door.”
The late bell sounds as we step inside. The space is smaller than any of the other classrooms. There are a few desks and an oak table with a swiveling chair at the front of the room. Standing next to it is the teacher.
Or—I realize—not a teacher. I recognize him from the photo in the welcome letter in our student folder. He’s Headmaster Moiz. The head of our school. He wears a gray suit. His arms are folded. He looks like he’s never smiled a day in his life.
He studies us silently, and now I’m wondering if Kareem’s right. Are we in trouble?
“Timeliness is of utmost importance,” he finally says. His voice echoes off the back wall. “We cannot expect to be taken seriously if we don’t show our teachers the respect they deserve. Part of respect is arriving where expected on time.”
