When the Moon Is Low(8)

“He’s right. You’ll be a giant sitting among babies. It’s a terrible idea. Like a chicken trying to climb back into an egg!” KokoGul cautioned.

“It won’t bother me,” I promised.

A necessary lie. This was the first time I’d seen my father consider my wish in a real way.

“Let me talk with the principal of the school. Let’s see what they say. Although I’m sure your mother will miss you being around during the day.”

“Isn’t this all a bit silly? Why would she want to bother with school now? She has everything she needs here at home.” KokoGul was clearly surprised at the direction this conversation had taken.

“I’m not promising anything. Let me talk with the school and see if they’ll consider it,” he said. Ever noncommittal, my father left both KokoGul and me feeling hopeful.

Much to his surprise and KokoGul’s disappointment, the school agreed to enroll me provided I start from the beginning. I entered the first grade six years behind schedule. The night before my first day, I ironed the austere skirt and blouse, wanting to make a good impression on Moallim-sahib. Mauriya and Mariam, my two youngest sisters, were tickled to see me in uniform for the first time as we left the house together in the morning.

Najiba and Sultana, the older two, seemed a bit more concerned about what others would say to see an adolescent walk into a first-grade class. On the walk to school, Najiba tried to prepare me.

“Moallim-sahib will check to make sure that you have a pencil and a notebook. And she will probably ask you to sit in the back of the room, you know, since you’ll be taller than the other students.”

I appreciated the delicate way Najiba phrased her prediction. Sultana nodded in agreement, but less diplomatically.

“Yes, no one would be able to see over your head.” Najiba shot her a look and Sultana focused on her shoes, her steps slowing.

“You’ll be moved soon. You mostly know the alphabet already. You’ll be reading quickly.”

I gave Najiba a grateful smile. My sister and I were not very close, but there was sincerity in her words and on this particular day I needed it.

“If Sultana could learn it, then I’m sure I’ll have no problem.”

Sultana huffed, glared straight ahead, and quickened her steps. I hadn’t meant my comment to be biting. Ashamed, I turned around to check on Mauriya and Mariam trailing behind us. They walked hand in hand, bags slung over their shoulders.

My sisters distracted me from the trepidation of my first day of school. Najiba pointed me in the direction of my classroom once we passed the school’s wrought-iron gates. Sultana quickly disappeared into her own classroom. Mauriya and Mariam waved me off cheerfully.

I entered slowly, my eyes scanning the room. I wasn’t sure if I should find a chair or walk to the front and introduce myself to the teacher first. The other students were filing in and busily taking their seats. I decided I’d best make my presence known, rather than have the teacher notice me and make a scene. I was almost more a woman than a girl, yet here I sat beside children. In another setting, I could have been their caretaker. Here, I was their peer.

“Welcome, dear. I had heard you would be joining us. You’ll sit in the last row, on the end. It’s the last empty seat we have. Here, take this book. This is what we’re learning from now. Do you know your letters?”

My first teacher was a firm but kindhearted woman who took an instant liking to me, thank goodness. She spoke to me differently than she did to my classmates and did not make me feel as awkward as I must have looked to sit among such young children. Grateful and determined, I worked fervently. I had listened while my siblings mastered the alphabet, so the letters rolled off my tongue easily enough.

Within two months, I moved into the second grade. I was happy to be advanced but sad to leave my teacher behind. And that was before I’d met my next moallim. My second-grade teacher seemed put out to have such an oversized pupil in her class. She called on me often to read aloud and took great pleasure in watching me fumble the words. When my classmates snickered, she would facetiously chastise them.

“That’s enough! Remember, students, don’t be fooled by Fereiba’s size. She is new to second grade.”

I worked even harder and, after passing the competency exam, she had no choice but to move me along to third grade. Every afternoon, I came home from school and got started on the chores I couldn’t escape. Since I’d promised that I would still help KokoGul and I didn’t want her to complain to my father that I was lagging in my housework, I still beat the dust from the carpets, laundered, and tended to the animals in the backyard. Only after the chores were finished and the family had eaten did I sit down to my studies. I toiled into the late hours. Padar-jan noticed.

“Fereiba-jan, you’ve been studying harder than your sisters ever did. The proof is in the marks you’re getting. Are you managing well enough?”

“Yes, Padar-jan. I just want to catch up to where I should be.”

“And what of your classmates? Are you getting along well enough with them?” I knew what he meant. He was asking if I, the teenaged third grader, was drawing too much negative attention.

“They’re fine. They don’t bother me and, anyway, I’m hoping to move out of this class soon.”

Satisfied, he left me to complete my assignments. We would repeat the conversation every so often until I’d moved into the fifth grade and sixth grade, when the subjects required more focus and learning. Reading had come easily to me, but mathematics was different.