Every morning, as he left for school ever earlier to beat the sunrise, Ahmed expected to run into Inspector Fontaine. But with Max’s family back from vacation, the police officer kept away. Even so, Ahmed considered changing his route. One night, in the early hours of the morning, he investigated other ways of getting out of the garden to the street. But this involved sneaking through multiple gardens, raising the risk of being spotted, and only confirmed his suspicion that the LeClerq’s yard was still the quickest and safest way out.
Still, Ahmed worried. It had been easy enough to pass himself off as the gardener on a clear afternoon. But would Inspector Fontaine believe him on a rainy predawn March morning? The police officer began to haunt his dreams, trimming the garden with a pair of large clippers. He would come closer and closer to where Ahmed was hiding. Ahmed would try to run, only to realize his feet were rooted to the earth and he had turned into an orchid.
“You can’t grow here,” the cop would say, grabbing Ahmed by the stem, his clippers gleaming.
But Ahmed could live with nightmares. At least when he woke from them, he no longer had the sinking feeling that waking life was worse. Three months into school, it was as if he’d always been there—the aides at the gate greeting him in the morning, the other boys waiting for him to kick off the football match at recess, the stack of increasingly thick French readers in his desk. Best of all, at night, he always checked his homework and discussed his day with Max.
“Your room is a total disaster,” Max said on one of these nights.
“Disaster?”
“A mess.”
Ahmed looked sheepishly around the cellar. Piles of paper—mostly used to practice French—were scattered across the floor next to a banana peel and a stack of comics Max had given him. Since starting school, he’d been busier than ever, but he realized the disorder was also a sign that he felt comfortable.
“You were so neat, I was beginning to wonder if something was wrong with you,” Max said.
Ahmed grinned. “I know. It is hard to believe I am not perfect.”
Max shoved him. Ahmed shoved him back. Then they teased each other about girls and teachers until they were laughing so hard they had to clap their hands over their mouths so they wouldn’t wake Max’s parents.
But one afternoon a couple of weeks into March, a problem emerged that had nothing to do with Inspector Fontaine.
“Ahmed, may I talk to you?”
Ahmed looked up from his math worksheet to find Madame Legrand waving him up to her desk. There was nothing unusual about this—she often called him up to correct a mistake on his French homework or slip him an extra worksheet or book. It pleased him that even without the cue of her gesture, he understood her French. His long hours of study were starting to pay off.
“Oui, Madame.”
It was only after he’d trotted past Max, Farah and Oscar to the front of the room that he noticed the white slip of paper in her hand. It was the sign-up form for the parent-teacher conferences at the end of March, before the spring break. His “mother” had signed the form saying she couldn’t come.
“Tell your mother she has to come,” Madame Legrand said, handing the form back to him. “It’s important.”
For the first time, Ahmed wished he didn’t understand the French. He gave a half nod and took the form, but hesitated.
“It’s hard for her, Madame,” he said.
It made it worse somehow that Madame Legrand’s expression softened.
“Why?”
Ahmed swallowed, trying to think of an answer. Could the imaginary Jasmine or Nouri be sick? It would have to be something serious—the parent-teacher conferences were still two weeks away. Or should his mother herself be ill? But he didn’t want Madame Legrand to worry that he wasn’t being taken care of and alert the authorities.
“Max, eyes on your work!” Madame Legrand said.
Ahmed glanced around just in time to see Max look back down again. He clearly had figured out what was happening. But at least his bold stare had distracted Madame Legrand. With a sigh, she turned back to Ahmed.
“Tell her I can come to her if it’s necessary.”
Ahmed forced himself to smile, as if he were grateful for this kind offer.
“No, Madame,” he said. “It’s not necessary.”
He carefully folded the paper and walked back to his desk.
* * *
AFTER SCHOOL, Max held an emergency meeting in the garden. Unlike the last time they had all gathered there, Ahmed didn’t hide behind the holly bush, but instead followed Max, Oscar and Farah through the front door. It felt strange to enter the house this way, to meet Madame Pauline, who for so long had been only a disembodied voice, to eat kiwi slices and meringue cookies with the others around the dining room table. The nanny looked the way he had expected—grim and colorless, like the weather—and she stared at him and Farah unapologetically. Teddy was far more welcoming, rubbing against his shins and even jumping up into his lap. Ahmed worried that the cat’s familiarity might give him away, but it only seemed to amuse Madame Pauline.
“Well, the cat likes him,” she muttered under her breath in French.
After the snack, they went out to the garden to kick around Max’s football. Madame Pauline watched them for a bit through the picture window. As soon as she disappeared, Max trapped the ball the way Ahmed had taught him.
“Okay,” he said in English. “What’s the plan?”
Oscar translated for Farah, who replied to him in French too soft and fast for Ahmed to understand.
“She says she can call and cancel on the morning of the meeting,” Oscar said. “Say she has a sickness.”
“But Madame Legrand will just try to reschedule,” Max said.
“And what if she tries to go to my mother?” Ahmed added. “She say this is possible.”
Their plan was falling apart. Ahmed’s gaze fell on one of the flowerbeds. It had been less than a month since he’d tidied up the garden, and already the weeds were taking over. He bent down and yanked out a dandelion, then another. It felt good to rip them out of the earth, to make room for the pale green stalks peeping through the dirt.
“You don’t have to do that,” Max said. “Madame Pauline knows you’re here as a friend.”
Ahmed shrugged. “Garden need it.”
Farah kneeled down next to him and began pulling weeds too.
“Is there an adult you can trust?” she asked in slow, simple French.
Ahmed thought about this, then turned to Max so he could translate.
“Ibrahim, the man I came to here with, is possible stay with his family in Molenbeek.”
A crack behind him made Ahmed jerk around. But it was just Oscar breaking a stick in half with his foot. He held a few others he had gathered into a pile. “What if he play uncle?” Oscar said in English. “Come to school in place of your mother?”
Max trotted over, looking excited. “Could you get him a fake ID, Oscar?”
But before Oscar could answer, Ahmed shook his head. “He may have lost his fight to stay, and even if not—I cannot ask this of him. He last sees me six months ago, and now I come, ask him to risk his own chance to stay by lying?”
He sank onto the damp grass. How long could they keep this up? New threats seemed to be emerging faster than the weeds in the flowerbed. But the thought of stopping school, leaving his friends … He had no interest anymore in running off by himself to Calais.
“Don’t worry,” Farah said in French.
“Yeah,” Max said, “we’ll think of something.”