3
3 Aida
AidaAidaHe is trying to tell her what to do again. School has not been in session for a week yet, and this new teacher has the nerve to wag his finger at her, someone older than himself. She looks at him, smiling, nodding while he rambles on. What is his name again? Aida thinks. Something like Michael, or Mike, or Micah. Regardless, he seems like the type who would probably never bother to actually ask her a question that required a response; he likes the sound of his own voice too much for that. Funny how some Americans take themselves so seriously, she thinks. In her country, someone like him would be humble; he would know his place. Aida knows her place, and that is why instead of turning her back to him and walking away, she stands there, taking it. She is a refugee, and wh
