7

Fa-toosh

Nadima stuck to me like glue as we traipsed from class to class, which, btw, given the size of our school, was very wise. I seriously thought about drawing her a map.

All the other kids were chattering away, but Nadima and I just walked along silently, exchanging the odd smile – but it wasn’t awkward or anything. When we got to each class I told her which lesson it was and showed her which books to get out. Which, frankly, was about all the help I could give her.

It was a typical Friday morning (yawn): double science (double yawn) followed by history (huge YAWN) and then French (zzzzzz). I had no idea if Nadima actually understood any of the lessons. (But then that wouldn’t make her any different from most of 7R.) But she soon gave up trying to make any notes.

French must have been a complete nightmare for her. I mean, how on earth is she supposed to cope with learning French in English when she can’t understand English? It would be like me trying to learn Italian in Russian or something. Ridonkulous! Plus our French teacher is rubbish. She just reads stuff out from the board. She’s about as much use as a chocolate teaspoon. And it’s so boring. After about five minutes I’d completely zoned out and was thinking up names for my web business. Something catchy, you know, like ‘Amazon’ or ‘Gumtree’. Then I started wondering why ‘Amazon’ was called ‘Amazon’, and why ‘Gumtree’ was called ‘Gumtree’. What even is a gumtree?

But the bell finally went for the end of the lesson and we headed off to lunch. Lily and Kara and everyone were sitting together in the canteen, but I just wasn’t in the mood for Kara, especially after she’d had a go at me earlier on. So I took Nadima off to sit under the trees along the side of the back field.

Loads of kids were outside on the grass eating, or messing around. We leaned with our backs against a tree trunk in the cool, and got out our lunch boxes. I offered mine to Nadima to have a taste.

‘What is?’ she asked.

‘Tuna pasta mayo.’

‘Tuna … pasta … mayo,’ she repeated before putting the fork in her mouth. She chewed for a moment and then said, ‘Mmmm! Is good. I like!’

‘Thank you! Made by my own fair hands,’ I told her.

She frowned so I said slowly, ‘I made it.’

‘Ah!’ She nodded, understanding. Then she offered me a taste of hers.

‘Mum make,’ she said.

It was some sort of salad thing, with chunks of tomatoes, peppers and cucumber – and torn up bits of pitta bread. I took a forkful. The salad bits were crunchy but the bread was soft and literally dripping with dressing. An explosion of lemon and spices hit my tongue.

‘OMG it’s fabulous!’ I mumbled, with my mouth full.

Nadima’s eyes shone. ‘Is fattoush.’ She grinned.

‘Fa-toosh.’ I repeated. ‘Your mum is a brilliant cook,’ I said, helping myself to another forkful.

After we’d eaten I got out my phone. ‘Swap numbers?’ I said. She shrugged, not understanding me, so I mimed texting and pointed at each of us.

‘Ah! Yes!’ She nodded.

Then we spent the rest of lunch looking at ridonkulously cute pictures of cats and dogs until the bell went for afternoon registration. It was really good fun. It still felt a bit odd, not being able to have a proper conversation, but we had a good laugh, and we seemed to like the same things. Except I think I’m more of a dog person and she’s more into cats. But who cares?!

Straight after lunch it was English. The second I sat down I remembered I hadn’t done the stupid Persuasive Writing homework at lunchtime. I groaned out loud, but there was nothing I could do about it. Mr Y was going to kill me.

‘That’s the third time this term,’ he glared at me. And I’m pretty sure he smirked when he added, ‘I’m afraid that means a letter home.’

I gasped. Mum was going to go ape. ‘Can’t I just do it tonight?’ I begged.

‘Nope. You should have done it last night.’

‘But that’s just really harsh!’ I wailed.

‘That’s enough!’

‘But, sir –’

‘One more word out of you and I’ll put you on report,’ he warned.

I shut up. The rest of the class went deathly quiet. Then Mr Y glanced at Nadima and then back at me. ‘I hope you’re not going to be a bad influence on our new arrival.’

How unfair was that?! I was speechless. Which was probably just as well. Because if I went on report Mum would literally murder me.