Laila.....
There's a strange kind of closeness that happens in small towns — like the way everyone knows your name before you've told them, or how you keep running into the same faces no matter which street you take.
It started with the library.
Ashwell's library wasn't much — a single room tucked behind the church, its books old and its windows cloudy with dust. But it was quiet. And that made it mine.
I'd come every Tuesday after school. Sit by the farthest shelf with my notes and my worn-out bag. Read in silence. Sometimes write.
Last Tuesday, she was there.
Tracy.
She sat near the window. Cross-legged. Reading something thick and dog-eared, probably for her church classes. I didn't say anything. Didn't expect her to either. She didn't even glance up.
But she didn't move away either.
That was enough.
---
The next time was in Biology.
The teacher was handing out partner assignments for a long-term project. I already knew what that meant — I'd either get the shy kid no one wanted, or I'd work alone. Again.
But then he called her name with mine.
"Tracy Summers and Laila Hassan."
I blinked. So did she.
For a moment, she hesitated. Then nodded slowly. No complaints. No look of discomfort. Just… stillness.
We sat together that class. Not much talking — just quick eye contact, brief instructions, and scribbles of notes between us.
I noticed the way her fingers trembled slightly when she passed me the worksheet.
She noticed I was left-handed. I caught her staring.
She looked away.
---
I told Mama that evening I had a partner for class. She raised an eyebrow.
"A girl?"
I nodded.
She smiled, but not fully. "Be kind, but careful," she said gently, as she wiped her hands on her apron. "People here are not always what they appear to be."
---
It was only after I'd finished my prayers that night — when the house had gone still — that I realized something strange:
I didn't dread going to school tomorrow.
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