Free The Girl from Baghdad by Michelle Nouri Page B

mother that night.
    When we returned home from our holiday, I was full of excitement. I was about to start at a new private girls’ school. Dad accompanied me on the first day and introduced me to the principal. After exchanging a few polite words in her office, they walked me to my classroom at the end of a long corridor. The principal told me that there were sports stadiums in another wing where I could play volleyball or soccer. In the courtyard, as big as a town square, official ceremoniesand parades took place for Saddam Hussein and other government officials.
    A huge picture of Saddam was the first thing I noticed in the classroom. Another thing that attracted my attention was a light-skinned girl named Dani. She was very pretty. She had ash-blonde hair, a fair face full of freckles and brilliant chestnut-coloured eyes. I sat at a desk next to hers, and we stared at each other the entire morning. The third day of school, one of my classmates passed me a note that was going around; it was a poll to elect the most beautiful girl in the class. There were three names: mine, Dani’s and another. Almost all the votes were for Dani and me. I voted, refolded the paper, and passed it to my neighbour. Raising my head, my eyes met Dani’s: she was smiling at me arrogantly, as if she was sure to win. I replied with a scowl, which she returned as she grabbed an eraser to throw in my direction. At that moment, the principal entered the room. Everyone stood up and she made an announcement:
    â€˜In two weeks we will have the honour of receiving a visit from the Raìs, Saddam Hussein. For this occasion, all our classes will march in a big parade. Tomorrow will be the first rehearsal in uniform. Please, especially first year students, you must be perfect! One of you will be chosen to bring the flag to the flagstaff, where it will be hoisted.’
    Dani and I exchanged looks, as if to challenge each other.
    The following morning an army of young girls learnt military-style drills in the courtyard. We practised marching in lines, alongside the other classes. A girl in third grade came up to me and gave me the flag; I was proud of the fact that I had been chosen and couldn’t resist turning to Dani to gloat. In response, she grabbed the flag out of my hands.
    â€˜You don’t deserve it! It’s my turn!’ she said.
    â€˜Let it go! They chose me! It’s mine!’ I declared, trying to take the flag back.
    Our squabble soon turned into a fight. We started pulling each other’s hair and our classmates circled around us. Hearing the screams, the principal came out and dragged us into her office, grabbing us both by the arm.
    She was an intimidating woman: very tall and skinny. She tapped her long nails on the desk while she scolded us, looking us up and down. Her black hair shook at her every movement. For the most sensitive students, just one look from the principal was enough to make them start crying.
    After a stern reprimand, we were forced to sit on a bench and wait for our parents. Sitting there together, we regarded each other curiously. The fact we had both survived the principal’s scolding made us feel like accomplices. Dani made the first move.
    â€˜Is the black car that sometimes brings you to school yours?’
    â€˜Yes, but my dad often needs it, so I have to catch the bus.’
    â€˜Where do you live?’
    â€˜Near Arba’taash Ramadàn, in Al Mansùr.’
    â€˜Then we’re neighbours,’ she replied, surprised. ‘That means you’ll hear my dad screaming at me tonight from your house. He’ll be outraged as soon as he knows what we’ve done!’
    We started laughing, but soon heard some steps coming from the long corridor. My dad appeared, looking very angry. He told me to wait there for him; he was going to speak with the principal.
    I stood up to follow him when he came out of the office. But, before leaving, I waved to Dani. ‘See