Azita and Me: A journey towards independence and self belief...

By Sarah Martin

Holly has been keeping a low profile at school to avoid situations where the class bully can make unkind comments about her single sex parents and exclude her. Her strategy is upset when Azita, an Iranian refugee, joins her Year 7 class, and they become friends.

The two girls are opposites, and Holly's world expands in unexpected ways. It

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sid Harta Publishers
• Release date: Jun 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9780645525717

Book preview

The bell rang and everyone made a stampede to be first out of the classroom. I wasn’t in a hurry—I had at least half an hour before my bus. I had my exam essay in my hand, and I wanted to reread what Mrs Hargraves had said before I put it in my bag, so I took my time collecting my books, letting her words sink in.

Holly, this is a mature and thoughtful discussion that goes beyond the normal capacities of a Year 10 student. And most commendable to have written so fluently and tellingly under exam conditions. Good work, and keep writing.

Her handwriting was like a set of staccato, red hockey sticks across the page.

I was the last one in the classroom, and I was almost out the door when I heard Mrs Hargraves say my name.

‘Holly,’ she said. ‘Have you got a minute? I’d like to talk to you about your essay.’

Mrs Hargraves was my favourite teacher. She’d been teaching me English for two years. We got on well. I stopped and she came towards me.

‘You know you are the only girl who chose that topic Differences. I liked the way you handled it.’

‘Thanks.’ I waited. Seemed she had more to say, but was thinking about how to say it. We both looked out the window, a bit embarrassed by the silence. The school, Stratham College, named after the town, is for girls from Kindergarten to Year 12. It is situated on a promontory overlooking the sea, and the sweep of the bay fills the whole space if you look out from almost anywhere in the school. That day, lovely golden sunlight danced on blue stillness. Of course, it wasn’t always like this. If you’d been watching the sea as long as I have—ever since I landed here in Year 4, you’d know all its moods, too. And you’d know that from this classroom you couldn’t see the fringe of the mangrove swamp, which kind of spoiled the idyllic picture of the perfect school. My parents chose it because it had a reputation for being caring and progressive, with a radical approach to learning, most of which was true.

Mrs Hargraves seemed to have at last made up her mind about something, so I dragged my eyes away from the window to look at her. ‘I think you have a good story here, not just an exam essay. And I think you should write it now, while it’s fresh in your mind.’

‘Well, it’s a few years ago now,’ I laughed. But I saw she was serious. She was always a bit intense. That was partly why I liked her.

‘Yes, but it’s still relevant, you know. And I think it would help you to write it all down as you remember it …’ she trailed off.

I felt the tears welling up. The last thing I wanted to do was to cry in front of Mrs Hargraves. I thought I had got over that. So I rolled my eyes instead, pretending that I didn’t really know what she meant. I don’t think she noticed, though.

‘School holidays are coming up. Why don’t you try writing it all out? I think you should put yourself back in time and try to remember exactly what happened and how you felt. The grieving process can take a long time, and sometimes it’s good to take it slowly.’

I started to say I couldn’t possibly do it, and what grieving process was she talking about? But I did know what she meant, even if I wasn’t going to admit it. She was getting more and more enthusiastic: ‘Yes, and you should definitely write it in the first person, but like a novel.’

I was shocked. ‘You mean write a book—with chapters? But I wouldn’t know how.’

‘Oh, yes. I think you can do it.’ She had a habit, I’d noticed, when she was all fired up, of just lightly twisting her hands. She was doing it now as she looked at me. ‘Try writing it in the present tense, as though it’s happening right now. It’ll bring it all back for you. And start at the point when things begin to happen. You can always fill in the details when you need them as you get into the story. Can you see what I mean?’

I didn’t answer, but I felt myself getting excited. And it wasn’t as though I had a great summer planned. But I didn’t want to raise anyone’s expectations, particularly not my own. I looked at my watch. If I didn’t leave then, I’d have to wait another half hour. So, I just nodded at her and said, ‘Yes, well, perhaps I might. Bye. See you tomorrow. I’ve got to catch my bus.’

I dashed out of the classroom, my head in a whirl, and raced down the path to the bus stop. But already my mind was writing the first chapter.

Today looks like it might be the worst day of my life. We’re into the third week of Year 7 and we’re in class doing Maths, which I like. Miss Cartwright sits at the front desk, and we bring our work up to her, one by one, for her to check. Kelly is standing beside her, explaining why she hasn’t finished all the sums we were working on last week. We’re all sort of listening while we’re working, feeling sorry for her because it doesn’t sound like much of an excuse, when the door opens and Mrs Millington walks in. She’s the Principal. We call her Mother Super Superior because she always seems to be looking down her nose. Maybe it’s because she’s tall, but you get the feeling she doesn’t like anyone but herself.

‘Sit down, girls,’ she waves her hand at us as we start to stand up, and Kelly rushes back to her place, relieved at the interruption. Mrs Millington has someone with her. A girl in school uniform, holding books and a pencil case.

‘This is Azita Jahanbani.’ She fumbles a bit over the name, but covers it with a jolly voice. ‘She’s from Iran and she’s come to join your class. I know you’ll all make her welcome.’ She puts on her pretend kind of smile that goes nowhere near her eyes, and starts telling us how nice it will be to have a new girl at this time of year when we’ve all settled in, and that she will be the first student from Iran in the school, and I don’t know what else she says, because I am listening to the silent whisper that Isobel is passing to me.

I sit halfway down in the middle of the classroom. Mostly it’s Melissa in the back row who starts the silent whisper. We can all do it, on an inward breath without moving a muscle in our faces, staring straight ahead, so that the teacher doesn’t know what’s going on. You hear it from the girl next to you, and pass it on. The girl at the end of the row has to lean forward a bit so the girl in front can pick it up. Sometimes you don’t pass it right to the front row if the teacher is watching. And with the Principal in the room, there is no way the front row is going to get this one.

But I hear it loud and clear like a shout in my head. ‘Refugee.’ It is definitely a Melissa whisper. Trust her. She’s the meanest girl in the class, and I know straight away what she’s up to. She always has to have someone to make fun of, to get others to follow her—it makes her look popular. I bet she’s already decided against the new girl, who has black hair in a long plait, and dark golden-brown skin, darker than any of us ever get even in the middle of summer. Her dress and blazer are way too big, she’s wearing glasses, and she looks like she might be a bit dorky. And her name makes it likely she doesn’t speak English well, if at all. And now Melissa’s told everyone that she’s a refugee. I’m not sure exactly what she’s trying to say, but I know, if Melissa’s involved, it’s not meant to be nice.

I am not happy. To begin with, the seat next to me is empty since Maggie left. The new girl is going to have to sit next to me. No way am I going to join Melissa’s group in making this girl’s life more miserable than it probably is. I don’t like Melissa. I don’t like what she does. She did it to me on my first day in Year 4 when I unwrapped my homemade, wholemeal sandwich at lunchtime. She said, ‘What kind of bread is that?’ in a scornful tone, and the other girls copycatted her and giggled and turned away. When I told Mum about the sandwiches and asked if I could have white bread sandwiches like the other girls, she thought that was a crazy idea. ‘Why would you eat that crap?’ And then she said that some girls are often really bitchy up until the end of Year 9. After that, things start to get better. When I said, ‘But that’s almost forever, Mum,’ she told me ‘It doesn’t mean you have to put up with it. You have to be true to yourself and stand up for the things you believe in.’ I didn’t say anything. Sometimes I don’t think Mum realises that the pecking order in class can be pretty mean and nasty, and it’s best just to keep your head down and try to avoid being noticed, and not set yourself up to make a fight about anything you can’t win. And I’m never likely to win against Melissa.

We were watching the chooks in our back yard when we had that conversation. Snow White is definitely at the bottom of the pecking order—she never gets a look in at the kitchen scraps until Princess and her sidekick, Snow Whiter, have picked them over. After that it is the turn of Blacky and Snow Whitest, and then Much Blackier. Princess is gold with brown-and-white flecks on her wings and is definitely the top chook. Blacky and Snow Whitest are always sidling up to her trying to get her attention, but Snow Whiter chases them away—she wants to be the only one that Princess bothers with. Much Blackier hangs about on the edge, trying to pretend she’s best friends with Snow Whitest, who is a little higher in the pecking order, but not as high as Blacky. I told Mum then that I had named Princess after Melissa because, once in Grade 5, I overheard Melissa’s mum say, as she leant out of the car window at the school gate, ‘Bye, Princess, have an awesome day!’

Mum just laughed and ruffled my hair. ‘Anyone who calls their daughter Princess is asking for trouble. I’d say she’s one of those girls who needs other girls to flutter around her because she’s basically insecure. You’re okay on your own two feet, just ignore her and pick your friends from girls who don’t orbit around her. But don’t let her make life difficult for you.’

Mum made it sound easy, but it isn’t. I mean it’s not as though I can control what Melissa does, and how she does things. So, I never told her what Melissa did when she found out about my parents, because I knew it would hurt them. What she did meant that I went down almost to the bottom of the pecking order. Virginia who isn’t very smart, and Mandy who cries if anyone is mean to her, and Kelly and a couple of others are still below me. So, I keep my head down and avoid Melissa as much as I can. But deep down we both know that she and I are sort of ‘in competition’. We are both good at Maths and English and we are both good at sport. I try to let her be best at everything so she’ll leave me alone, which she does, most of the time. This is why having the new girl next to me, and being nice to her, is going to be tricky. Once you start being nice to someone who is below you in the pecking order you automatically ‘trade down’ as Mum would say, and that leaves the way wide open for more girls above you to be mean and leave you out of things if they feel like it. Sometimes it improves their status in the pecking order, if they show that they can be mean, too.

But back to the classroom. I sneak a look around me. Isobel is staring at the new girl with that closed look that says, ‘I’m bored and nothing you can do will