Page 9 of The New Girl

Mama stood apart from the other mothers, standing alone while they all stood in clusters. Lots of the mothers were wearing tight exercise clothes. Some had dogs tied to leads beside them. Some had work suits on, some were in jeans and one was wearing a really short miniskirt that barely covered her bum.

Safa’s mum looked old compared to the other mums. Her face was lined. The lines of worry, stress and pain. You could read Mama’s life on her face, Safa thought.

But then she saw Safa and smiled and Safa felt all warm inside. Mama’s face lit up and her brown eyes radiated love. She put out her arms and Safa ran into them. She nestled her head into Mama’s shoulder and inhaled her familiar smell of spices and lavender.

‘How was your first day, Habibti?’

‘It was fine.’ Safa wasn’t going to tell her mother that she had spent the day being stared and pointed at. That she felt like an outsider, ‘other than’, different. That she wasn’t sure if she’d ever fit in. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to fit in. Irish girls were so different. They talked so fast and their conversations seemed silly and pointless.

The only person Safa felt a little bit comfortable with was Ruby. But when the bell had rung at three, Ruby had grabbed her backpack and raced out of the classroom without even saying goodbye to Safa.

She didn’t tell her mother that the girls had sniggered when she came to football wearing a tracksuit and long-sleeved top.

What she did say was ‘I did well in football, Mama. I saved two goals.’

‘Good for you. Did you find the schoolwork difficult?’

‘Not really.’ In fact, Safa had been surprised at how easy she had found it. Her father had made sure that she kept up with her schoolwork in the camp in Greece. He had taught her maths and English and history and geography and science every day. ‘Baba’s lessons really helped. I think I know more than most of the other kids, but there is a girl called Clara who is very smart.’

Mama hugged her. ‘Baba always said you were the brightest girl in school. I know you will continue to be. You have a curious mind and a good memory; that’s all you need to do well in school. I’m proud of you.’

Safa smiled, the first real smile all day. She linked her mother’s arm and cuddled in closer to her. Mama was her safe place. With Mama beside her she knew she’d be OK. ‘What’s for dinner?’ Safa asked.

‘Always about the food,’ Mama laughed. ‘I am making your favourite – mahshi and dawood basha and baklava for dessert.’

Safa clapped her hands. ‘Yum! Thank you, Mama.’

‘It’s to celebrate your first day in school and the beginning of the rest of your life.’ Mama smiled at her.

‘Did you go to class today too?’ Safa asked.

Her mother looked away guiltily.

‘Mama?’

‘I didn’t feel like it. English is so hard to learn. I wanted to cook you a special meal and I had to go to six shops to try to find the ingredients.’

Safa sighed. Her mother’s English was still pretty bad. If she didn’t go to class, she’d never get better. She was supposed to go to class for two hours every morning, but she kept skipping it. Safa really wanted Mama to get better at English so she could make friends and so that Safa didn’t have to translate all the time. It was tiring having to do the talking for two people.

But she didn’t want to argue with her mother, especially as she had gone to so much trouble to cook all her favourite things. So Safa squeezed her mother’s arm and just said, ‘OK, Mama, you can go tomorrow.’

When they got home, Safa took off her hijab and changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt. Compared to the emergency centre, the house was nice, and Safa was really happy to have her own bedroom, but she hated the furniture. Big, ugly black couches and chairs and a brown carpet that was scratchy under your feet. Her bedroom carpet was a bright green and the walls were painted mint green, which Safa really didn’t like. She’d asked Mama if she could paint it a different colour but Mama had said no. ‘We are very lucky to have been given this house – we mustn’t change anything.’

Safa felt better now she was in her soft tracksuit and T-shirt. She hung her scratchy school jumper on the back of the chair in front of her small desk.One day,she thought,I’m going to buy my own house and I’m going to paint my bedroom walls a beautiful lilac and have a cream carpet and a big bed covered in fluffy purple cushions.

Safa slipped her bare feet into her slippers and went downstairs to the small kitchen to get a snack. Mama had made hummus and Safa dipped warm pitta bread into it and savoured the flavours. The hummus you got in the shops in Ireland was gross. It tasted awful. Mama’s hummus was the best.

Safa sat back in her chair and felt her body relax. She was home. She didn’t have to concentrate on what people were saying; she didn’t have to pretend not to notice or mind the staring.

She had found the noise of school hard to take too. Since they had had to leave Syria and since all the awful things that had happened on the way to Ireland, Safa couldn’t handle lots of noise. It made her feel panicky. School was full of noise: scraping chairs, shouting, chatter, loud laughing, lockers banging open and shut, doors slamming ... it was non-stop noise that bounced and echoed off the walls and hurt her ears. When she felt the panic rising, Safa would dig her nails into the palms of her hands and close her eyes. She’d count her breathes, in for five, out for five, in for five, out for five, to try to control her breathing. It usually helped to slow down her racing heart. The counsellor in the refugee camp in Greece had taught her the technique and it did help.

Safa chewed the pitta and let the taste of home bring her back to sunny days eating in the garden of their house with the smell of jasmine filling her nose. She could see Baba sitting there, reading the newspaper, with his glasses perched on the end of his nose, stroking his beard absentmindedly as he caught up with world politics.

She could see Mama singing along to the radio in the kitchen and little furry Adira sitting on Safa’s lap, purring.

Safa pushed the image aside. It hurt to think of her father and Adira. She had named her cat Adira because it meant ‘strong’. Adira was strong, and brave, but not strong enough. Not strong enough to survive a bomb. Safa’s stomach hurt. She didn’t feel hungry any more.

She left the kitchen and went up to her room. She lay on her bed and pulled out the photo of Baba holding Adira. Safa kissed the photo of her father and her cat and laid her head on the pillow. She felt completely exhausted. It had been a long first day. She was glad school was over. But she also knew she had to go back tomorrow and try to fit in.

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