Ayesha At Last(43)

Ayesha burst out laughing at the thought of her grandmother, who didn’t leave the house most days, investigating crimes and running after bad guys.

Nani lifted her chin, offended. “Don’t laugh. I would have been very good at it too, except Allah decided I should be a mother first. A woman plays many roles in her life, and she must learn to accept them as they come. Men are not so flexible,” she said, a half smile on her lips. “That’s why it’s important to find someone who complements you, rani. Someone to dream with you.”

Ayesha walked Khalid to the door, and he took his time putting on his shoes. When he stood up, she noticed he had flour in his beard, and she reached out and absently brushed it away. His beard was soft, like spun cotton, and her hand lingered.

He clasped her wrist to stop her, and their eyes met—hers wide in sudden realization, his steady. Ayesha blushed bright red, embarrassed at violating their unspoken no-touch rule. He looked at her for a long moment, then gently, reluctantly, dropped her hand.

Her face still flaming, she stared at the tile floor, too embarrassed to say anything.

Khalid fiddled with the lock on the door. “Hafsa,” he said in a low voice. “Have you ever wondered—”

His phone pinged and he frowned at it. When he looked up, the spell was broken. “Are you free tomorrow night?” he asked. “The imam wants us to check out the caterers for the conference.”

They made plans to meet and Ayesha watched him turn and cross the street. She hadn’t known he lived so close to her.

She shouldn’t have touched him; she couldn’t believe that she had. Yet her hands on his face felt natural and right. She could still feel the gentle pressure on her wrist from his warm hand, the heat in his eyes.

Whatever he was about to say, it could wait. A bit of space would help his words expand and grow soft. Ayesha could admit it now: Khalid wasn’t like any other man she’d ever known.





Chapter Eighteen

Ayesha was late for work again. The reality of teaching was beginning to hit her now. She had been excited to start a new career when she had first graduated from teachers’ college. That feeling had quickly been replaced—first, by the difficulty of securing a position, and then by the demands of substitute teaching. She had settled into a sort of routine and understood how exhausting it was just to teach, day in and day out. She was always “on,” always responding to students, parents, other teachers. By the end of the day, she was so tired, she didn’t have the energy to talk to her family. Her more seasoned teacher colleagues assured her that it would not always be like this. Give it five years, they said. Once you have your own class and have found your rhythm, teaching will be easier.

The thought of another five years made her even more tired.

Today Ayesha was substitute teaching two eleventh-grade English classes and one ninth-grade boys’ gym class. The English students had an essay due tomorrow, and they were bent over laptops and papers, diligent and quiet. Gym class was something else altogether. The teacher had left convoluted, fussy instructions: The boys had seven minutes to change, three minutes to warm up, then fifteen minutes of basketball drills, followed by four rotations of games at ten minutes each. Ayesha’s head spun trying to make it all out, and the end of the class found her standing on a chair in the middle of the gymnasium, keeping an eye on four simultaneous games of basketball and trying to make sure the boys didn’t kill each other.

The principal, Mr. Evorem, poked his head into the main door. He drew back, perhaps at the pungent odour of teenage boy, and gave her a discreet thumbs-up. She jumped off the chair and smiled weakly.

“Come see me later,” he called out to her.

“Miss, you’re in trouble!” Nathan, one of the students, yelled as he threw a perfect three-pointer.

She dismissed the class and went in search of the principal.

Mr. Evorem was in his office, dusting sports trophies.

“How are you enjoying our school, Miss Shamsi?” he asked. He continued before she answered. “Teaching is a challenging career, and the first few years can be quite tough. Stick with it, and it will reward you. I remember my first years in the classroom. There’s nothing more satisfying than a happy, productive class.” Ayesha recognized his wistful tone. She sounded like that too—when she talked about poetry.

“What subjects did you teach before you became a principal?” she asked.

“Math, science, gym. I still coach a few teams, but the admin work has to come first.”

Ayesha knew he was being modest—Mr. Evorem organized half a dozen sports teams and tournaments, and he tried to attend every game played on school grounds.

“You’re lucky to have a job that encourages your passion,” she said.

“That’s the thing about teaching. There are a lot of options. You just have to see where it takes you.” He turned back to her, suddenly businesslike. “Miss Shamsi, I wanted to give you a heads-up. There might be an opening for a permanent teacher on our faculty in September.”

Ayesha had waited for this moment for so long, she didn’t know how to react.

“Your students like you, and you work well with your fellow teachers. You’ve probably noticed that our student body is quite diverse. Our school board wants to see that diversity reflected in our new hires.”

So they were looking for a token ethnic. Ayesha was familiar with the role; she had played it often enough. She heard Clara’s scoffing voice in her head: Who cares? It’s a job, and you’ll be good at it. Everyone needs an in, and if yours is hijab and brown skin, go for it!