Eleven Shorts +1

The Girl with the Glistening Plaits

THE GIRL WITH THE GLISTENING PLAITS

Shireen Jeejeebhoy

THE GIRL WITH the long black hair pulled back in two glistening plaits, stood demurely at the front of the class as she had been taught to. Her new teacher, Miss Prunet, was telling everyone her name and where she was from. It seemed to take forever. She hid her restless thin hands behind her back; only the blackboard saw her nervousness. Her brown eyes looked sideways at her new teacher. She was tall and thin. Her scrawny neck topped her severe face and stiff iron-gray curls. Her voice held a steely note and no sympathy for a new pupil.

The small girl shifted slightly to ease her feet in their unaccustomed black leather shoes. She ached to take them off. Instead, she turned her fathomless eyes to the sea of pale strangers in front of her. They stared back with a mixture of curiosity and fear. To them, she was a dusky angel from an unknown land; to her, they were a roomful of waxen exotics.

Miss Prunet’s wrinkled, claw-like hand pointed her to a desk three rows back and in the centre of the class. The girl walked between two aisles of desks to her new place, shrinking into herself away from the prying eyes.

“What’s your name? Nutty something, eh darky,” hissed a voice from behind her. She turned and looked into a pair of cold light blue eyes. Her inky hot eyes widened at what they saw: the boy had no lashes and no brows, it seemed, and she could see his pink scalp through his almost-white, stuck-up hair. How awful.

“Moti,” she snapped and turned back.

“Moti, I will warn you only once since you are new here and not accustomed to our ways. I will not tolerate any talking in class or any disturbance of any kind. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Miss Prunet.”

“When you wish to answer a question, raise your hand and wait for my permission before you answer. And if you want to go to the little girls’ room, raise your hand for permission. But I would prefer that you do not disturb the class, so I expect you to go before class starts. These are our rules, and I expect you to follow them. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Miss Prunet.” Really, Moti thought, Miss Prunet was no different from her old teacher. They were both mean. She started to feel at home.

“Good. Now then, your books are in your desk. We are reviewing numbers up to fifty. I do not expect you to know them, but please try to follow, and I will help you catch up after class.” With that last pronouncement, Miss Prunet bestowed a superior smile upon Moti and turned to the blackboard.

Moti lost interest in the lesson quickly: she had learned her numbers up to one hundred last year. For her, the day stretched into an infinite yawning tunnel. She clamped her jaws tight against the boredom and let her eyes roam around the room without turning her head too much. She did not want to attract Miss Prunet’s dreaded attention.

No one had black shiny hair like hers. Their hair ranged from brown to white, and no one’s hair glistened with oil. How come they didn’t like it nice and shiny? Some girls had short hair, and others had their hair held back by barrettes; only one girl’s hair was in plaits like hers, but it was done differently: her plaits were wrapped around in giant circles above her ears, and she too seemed to be by herself. She wondered why — she had blonde hair and pale skin like the others. Maybe it was the plaits. For the first time, a doubt about how her mother did her hair crept in. Maybe she should get barrettes like everyone else.

As she judged them one by one, she became aware of others watching her from out of the sides of their eyes. Blood rushed into her face, and she bent her head and concentrated on the desktop. Carved initials littered the top of the desk; these mysterious letters conjured up ghosts of students long grown up. Had any of them been like her? Had any worn plaits like hers? Probably not. Some had been almost rubbed out by the wear of time. Recent pencil markings contrasted harshly with the old carvings. She itched to carve her own brand into the desk. Maybe later. For now she traced her fingers idly along their rough lines.