“All right, take the girl. But make sure she’s back in a week.”
“God bless you, sir.”
Nezih didn’t like having his hand kissed. He held Saniye by her shoulders and made her stand up. A beautiful woman, he thought. If only she didn’t smell like bleach.
Derdâ couldn’t understand. She asked again.
“A whole week?”
Saniye was taking the girl’s belongings out of her closet in the ward and packing them into two bags. She looked at Derdâ.
“The assistant principal gave us permission.”
“But I have school work.”
Saniye looked into Derdâ’s eyes.
“You can catch up when you come back.”
“So I’ll be back a week from today?”
Saniye looked deep into Derdâ’s eyes.
“Yes, my girl, what should we do in the village? I got a week off myself.”
Better than being arrested, Derdâ thought. Better than being taken away by the gendarmes. She thought of her school books. She was having some problems with fractions. She’d have lots of time in the village to figure them out.
“Wait, let me go get my books from the classroom.”
This time Saniye remained silent. She only looked up as the girl left, staring at the girl’s long braid that bounced and swayed with every step. They will like her, she said to herself. And she smiled.
The classroom was empty. Derdâ opened her desk and took out her books and notebooks. She carefully slipped them into her bag. She hated it when the corners of the pages got bent. She was about to pack her math book when Nazenin came in.
“Where are you going?”
“My mother came. We’re going to the village,” said Derdâ. Whenever she was alone with Nazenin she felt a concentrated fear pounding in her forehead. She started to pack quickly so the fear wouldn’t burst. She didn’t even notice she was crumpling the pages.
“When are you coming back?”
“A week from today.”
Nazenin was acting strangely. Her voice didn’t have a trace of its usual violence. Usually it was like getting punched when she spoke to you. She never had to use her fists. But now she was only watching. Silently. Derdâ was trying to zip up her overloaded bag, and she just watched. Nazenin was fifteen years old. In some places that’s the same as twenty-five.
“You’re coming back, right?” she asked.
Derdâ didn’t know how to react to this sudden interest. She hadn’t yet learned how to speak confidently.
“Of course I’m coming back. My mother said so. I’m coming back next week.”
Derdâ slung her bag over her shoulder and took a step. But Nazenin blocked her path at just a comfortable slap distance away. Nazenin was a thick book taller than Derdâ but Derdâ stood up tall to make up the difference. For a few heartbeats Derdâ saw Nazenin, and Nazenin saw all the girls like Derdâ who had left. Not one had come back. And not one had ever known she wasn’t coming back. She would go, too, when the day came. She would follow her uncle and never come back to this school ever again. She would leave. Leave and never come back. Nazenin stepped out of the way. Derdâ walked away. She wondered whether she should turn back and wave. But the thought scared her and she couldn’t do it.
“Hey, Yatırca girl!”
Derdâ froze. She turned around. She saw a hand. A hand in the air. Nazenin’s palm. A wave. And Derdâ smiled for the first time that day, maybe even that week.
Derdâ took small steps so she wouldn’t slip on the slushy snow. Her legs ached and her ears were already red from the cold. She was listening to her mother.
“You wanted to bring all those books and now look, you can’t walk.”
“Are we going to Kurudere?”
“We’re going to your aunt’s. Do you remember your Aunt Mübarek? That’s where we’re going.”
They had to get to the main road and get on the minibus before the biting cold went to their heads. Saniye warmed herself by talking.
“What happened at school today? They were all talking about something, but I didn’t understand what.”
Derdâ stared out in front of her. She wanted to press her face into her mother’s chest. Out of shame, and because of the cold.
“There was a girl from our village. She fell off the bed and died. The gendarmes came. And Teacher Yeşim …”
But those who warm themselves up by talking don’t listen. Saniye had already lifted her arms in the air and was fluttering like a silly bird to flag down a passing minibus.
When the white door slid open the warmth of the bodies inside hit their faces. They stepped up the single step and sat down. Derdâ didn’t have to sit in her mother’s lap after all because the driver didn’t ask for Derdâ’s fare. He was a distant relative of Saniye’s. One of those endless, useless, good-for-nothing relatives.
The snow that had piled up on their collars melted and slid down the backs of their necks. The warm smell of the breath of fifteen people packed into a small minibus made them sleepy.
Their eyelids lowered and their frozen eyelashes melted and softened. Derdâ was sitting at the very back between her mother and an old man. Her head made pillows of their shoulders. The little girl fell asleep. As she slept she got smaller. And as she got
