Amina's Song: Chapters 12–25

When he gets through attendance, Mr. Griffiths talks about his goals and expectations for the year. He uses phrases like “mutual respect” and “exemplary manners,” while people slump in their seats and yawn, waiting for practical information like grading or homework policies.

“Our major project this quarter is an interactive learning initiative. Over the next nine weeks you will become an expert on an individual from history, learning enough to become that person and assume their identity.”

“Our major project this quarter is an interactive learning initiative. Over the next nine weeks you will become an expert on an individual from history, learning enough to become that person and assume their identity.”

“You’re going to pretend to be someone important in history—a warrior, artist, inventor, leader, or writer—anyone you want. You will research this person extensively, through memoir, biography, and other sources, and then capture the voice of the person. We will be doing a series of research activities around the person, writing, peer editing, and more.”

“Can it be an athlete?” he asks.
“Not if the person's primary achievement is playing a sport. But if you can make a case for their significant contribution to history, like through activism or humanitarian works, then maybe.”

“Can it be an athlete?” he asks.
“Not if the person's primary achievement is playing a sport. But if you can make a case for their significant contribution to history, like through activism or humanitarian works, then maybe.”

“Robin Hood is fictional,” Mr. Griffiths sighs. “You need to research real people, and people who you can find a sufficient amount of material about.”

This time my clammy hands aren’t because of nerves but excitement—or maybe a little of both.

Plus, since we’ve been back from our trip, Mustafa’s been extra good, which I know is so our parents will take him driving. He got his learner’s permit before we left for Pakistan and is desperate to practice enough to get his license as soon as he’s allowed.

“Okay.” Something is definitely up with Zohra. Normally she would get animated and start spilling any random facts that she knows about Malala.

“What is it?” Dread spreads inside me.
“It's Abu.” Zohra bites on her lip. “He fell in the bathroom last night.”

They’re speaking in Urdu, and I get the gist of what they’re saying but miss parts of it.

I’d never seen him so tense and worried, and he almost flew over there when Thaya Jaan had to have a procedure to look inside his heart and put in a balloon to open up a clogged artery.

Emily is solemn as she bites into her sandwich, which I noticed is kabob free today.

“So I want to hand out stickers or pencils at the dance.”
“At the dance? What are people going to do with them?” I imagine her campaign merchandise strewn across the floor of the cafeteria and kids stepping on it in their fancy shoes.

Mustafa snorts. “True,” he says. “She’s right. No one wants to be the one sticking out in ethnic clothes at school.”

As I savor the last piece from our cookie stash, I think back to our daily chai in Pakistan. I’d give anything to be there right now and to see the tea trolley with unlimited chocolate sandwich cookies, juicy mangos, and even that hot chocolate.

I raise my hand again, but Mr. Griffiths calls on Justin next, who saunters up to the front of the room and crinkles the edges of his paper as he starts speaking.

“I know. It was so—” I drop my head and don’t finish my thought.
“Ignorant?” Mustafa volunteers.
“No. I mean, well, yeah, but it was so...embarrassing” I half whisper the last word.

“The idea that anyone could harm an innocent girl for wanting to go to school is sickening. The people doing these things are illiterate fools themselves, led by some of the most corrupt humans on the planet. They are a disgrace to Muslims everywhere.”

“The idea that anyone could harm an innocent girl for wanting to go to school is sickening. The people doing these things are illiterate fools themselves, led by some of the most corrupt humans on the planet. They are a disgrace to Muslims everywhere.”

Everyone eats in silence for a few minutes and tries to digest these heavy thoughts. I nibble on my naan and think about what Mustafa said.

I nod and take a bite of my keema, remembering the time my uncle told me that the spicy minced meat was his favorite dish when he was a kid. He listed all the different things his mother would put in it, like cauliflower, peas, onions, and his least favorite, turnips that masqueraded as the much more palatable potato until he bit into them.

I nod and take a bite of my keema, remembering the time my uncle told me that the spicy minced meat was his favorite dish when he was a kid. He listed all the different things his mother would put in it, like cauliflower, peas, onions, and his least favorite, turnips that masqueraded as the much more palatable potato until he bit into them.

When we get home, I run ahead of Rabiya into my room and tuck my notebook into a drawer so it’s out of sight, hoping she’ll forget about it. But we’re barely hanging out for five minutes before she starts to interrogate me.

I’m in an orange maxi dress that reaches my ankles, with a cropped white cardigan. Mama forced me to put it on, since the dress is sleeveless.

I, on the other hand, am the total opposite of Soojin. My feet are heavy as I trudge behind her, and while I hear the beat of the music, my body isn’t interested in moving to it. I’d much rather sing along and remain stationary.

“My sister is obsessed with Shah Rukh Khan movies,” Nico adds. “I had to watch him in Dilwale three times.”

“That’s all right,” Nico quickly interjects. “I thought you wanted to learn.”
“I do! But...maybe you could come to my house instead?” The words tumble out of my mouth before I’ve had the chance to think them through.

“You want to come?” Nico offers.
“Oh, uh, no, I can’t.” Soojin’s brow furrows, and she backs away from the unexpected invitation. “I have to go to dance now. Have fun.”