A Chance To Rise

Chapter 3, A New Task.

The ancient ceiling fans of the school library rotated with a persistent squeak, their blades pushing around stale air that smelled of old paper and wood polish. Dust particles floated in the slanted sunlight coming through the high windows as Zaid nervously tapped his fingers against the worn wooden table. Even in the library they weren't allowed in the air conditioned hall, they couldn't focus from how hot the room was but they had no choice. His textbook lay open to page forty-three, but he hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes.

Bassam sat across from him, his dark eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he scribbled notes in the margins of his notebook. The rhythmic scratching of his pen was the only sound between them until Zaid cleared his throat.

"Bassam," Zaid began, his voice slightly higher than usual. He swallowed and tried again. "Bassam, can I ask you something?"

Bassam didn't look up immediately. He finished writing a complete sentence first , the period at the end a firm dot before raising his head. His dark eyes focused on Zaid with patient curiosity. "Go ahead, ask," he said, capping his pen with a quiet click.

Zaid's fingers found a frayed edge of his notebook and began worrying at it. "Why do you have a red classification card when it's your uncle who pays the tuition?" The words came out in a rush, as if he'd been holding them back for long.

Bassam's expression didn't change, but he set his pen down carefully, aligning it parallel to the edge of his notebook. The library seemed suddenly quieter, the squeak of the fans fading into the background.

"My uncle," Bassam began, then paused. He looked past Zaid's shoulder at the rows of bookshelves before continuing. "The man who pays for me, he's actually my father's friend, not my real uncle. After my father died, this man took me in. He supports me, but we're not blood relatives."

Zaid could see the tension in Bassam's jaw as he spoke. The overhead light cast shadows under his eyes that made him look older than his sixteen years.

"The school knows the situation," Bassam continued, his voice carefully neutral. "That's why they gave me the red card. He registered his support as a charitable act." There was something in the way he said "charitable act" that made Zaid wish he could take back his question.

"I'm sorry," Zaid blurted out. "I didn't mean to"

Bassam waved his hand, cutting off the apology. "It's okay. I'm not upset." He uncapped his pen again, signaling the conversation was over. "We should finish this chapter before the bell."

Just then, Zaid's phone vibrated in his pocket with a distinctive chime. He pulled it out, his eyebrows shooting up when he saw the notification. "Fifty dinars transferred to your e-wallet" he read, momentarily forgetting their serious conversation.

Bassam looked up, a small smile breaking through his serious expression. "What's that look on your face! You got good news?"

Zaid grinned. "Forget the school cafeteria tonight. I'm treating you!"

"Treat me to shawarma then," Bassam said, his tone lighter now.

"Deal!" Zaid agreed immediately. He stuffed his books into his backpack with renewed energy, the earlier awkwardness forgotten. The library suddenly seemed brighter, the dust motes dancing happily in the sunlight as they packed up to leave.

___

The sun was beginning to set as they left the shawarma shop, the warm pita bread and spiced meat a comforting weight in their stomachs. The streetlights flickered to life one by one as they walked back toward school, their shadows stretching long on the pavement.

It was the laughter that caught their attention first, it was too loud, too sharp, the kind that carried an edge of cruelty. Around the corner near the school gates, a group of students in their school's distinctive blue blazers had gathered in a loose circle. Their expensive shoes scuffed the pavement as they jostled each other, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of taunts.

Bassam stopped walking so abruptly that Zaid nearly bumped into him. "Let's go," Bassam said quietly, already turning away. "Before they see us."

But Zaid couldn't look away. In the center of the circle was a boy, small, painfully thin, his uniform hanging off his narrow shoulders. He couldn't have been more than fifteen, his face pale under the harsh streetlight as the older boys took turns picking at him.

"Just one more minute," Zaid said, his feet rooted to the spot. The scene unfolded like a slow-motion nightmare. One of the blue-blazered boys grabbed the younger student's wrist, twisting it just enough to make him whimper. Another snatched his backpack, tossing it to his friend while the victim scrambled after it, only to be tripped.

Bassam grabbed Zaid's elbow with surprising strength. "I said let's go. There's nothing we can do."

"But"

"Look at their cards," Bassam hissed. "They all have blue card. Do you think anyone will care if we report this? They'll just say boys will be boys." His grip tightened. "Come on."

Reluctantly, Zaid let himself be pulled away. He glanced back one last time to see the bullies shoving the younger boy into a waiting car, the door slamming shut with finality. The engine roared as they drove away,

leaving Zaid with a sick feeling in his stomach.