The Girl in The Green Scarf

T w e n t y - n i n e

Sebastian's smile slips then, the grooves along his cheek deepening.

"And she calls me butterfingers," Anas says, patting down his ruffled hair with a scowl on his face.

"No. I call you klutz." I shove the book he was reading with Sebastian into his hands and turn him around by the shoulders. "Now go back to silent reading."

He places two fingers on his forehead, closing his eyes dramatically. "How can you tell me to read so soon after probably giving me a concussion?"

I drop my hands, resting them on my waist. "Alright then," I say with a fake sigh of defeat. "Go rest on the front desk for the remainder of class."

A grin breaks across Anas' face and he quickly works to hide it. He drags his feet to the front desk, doing a big show of massaging his temples as if to ward off a headache.

"And stay there during break as well, you know just to make sure your head is fine," I add, once he flops into the chair. Instantaneously his eyes go wide, headache forgotten. Another round of laughter and snickers fill the library.

"I think I'm good to read," Anas grumbles, opening his book.

"Only if you're sure it won't affect your probable concussion," I say with fake concern.

With a smile I turn back to face Sebastian who has moved to sit on my table.

"Has anyone ever told you what an amazing teacher you are?" He reaches for the history book I was reading, and starts flipping through its pages.

"Just about everybody does," I reply, ignoring the sarcasm in his voice.

I fix the chair - the painful screech of iron grinding against concrete fills the library - and sit.

"What language is this thing written in?" He asks, narrowing his eyes in concentration, as if to translate the words in front of him.

"Arabic," I say, snatching the book back. "You might have heard of it. Our Holy book, the Qur'an is in Arabic."

He swings his feet under the table. Arms planted behind him.

"Do you speak it well?"

"My father did. My brother does too," I lean forward, propping my chin on a hand. "Most of our names are in Arabic. But I just know well enough to understand Qur'an and know when someone is planning to kill me."

"How are you reading this book then?" He asks.

"I'm just pretending so no one complains that the teacher is loitering away the hour," I admit, placing the book down with a sheepish smile.

He chuckles, the sound still foreign to my ears. "Told you. Amazing teacher."

He hops off the table, pushing back hair that falls carelessly over his brow.

"Is 'Hamsa' Arabic?" he asks.

I gaze up at him, slightly confused by his sudden interest in my name. "Yes. It means whisper."

He blinks at me for a few moments, then laughs - so hard he has to bend over to catch his breath.

"What's so funny?" I demand with a frown.

"Whisper?" He says, wiping away a stray tear. "This is meant to be a joke right? I mean, not even in another universe can you be called 'whisper'. Your name is supposed to be shout, yell, scream ... I don't know, like something loud!"

I narrow my eyes at him, gaze turning murderous, frown transforming into a scowl.

"Uh-oh." he says, eyes color of deep water going wide with mock fear. "She's mad, what is she going to do? Shout?" Again he breaks into a fit of laughter.