Omar Rising: Chapters 6–15

Even Aiden’s negative energy wafting over like fog from the back of the room feels muted here.

They aim to evoke a response. It could be awe, discomfort, or even repulsion, but the goal is to make you feel.

They aim to evoke a response. It could be awe, discomfort, or even repulsion, but the goal is to make you feel.

Stepping into the administrative office, my feet sink into carpeting so plush, it’s like I’m walking on clouds.

I know he’s not going to burst forth from his office like a gust of wind and drag me inside to berate me, but the sooner I leave the better.

I settle down on a sofa across from a sleek black TV hanging on the wall, right next to Naveed and Humza, who are fighting for the remote. I stifle a laugh. Their scuffles for the remote were a regular fixture during orientation weekend, too.

“Work hard on what you truly believe in and persevere. If you do, anything is possible.”

I kick the ball with all the force I can muster.

I feel a pang of sympathy for Naveed. If worrying was a sport, Naveed would be a world champion.

“Astronomy sounds fun,” Humza says wistfully. “Not sure I’ll have room after all the clubs I have to sign up for.”

Watching my new friends complaining, I think about how different we are. For them, Ghalib is a given. It’s part of their family legacy. For me, it’s a life raft.

“As an alumni of this fine academy, it is a great pleasure to welcome the future generation of the brightest and best our country has to offer.”
An alumni? I blink at this new information. It’s hard to imagine him my age, wearing a uniform and sitting in one of these seats.

The headmaster introduces us to the deputy headmaster, who’s as stern looking as he is; the bursar, Mr. Rashid; and his wife, Mrs. Rashid, the guidance counselor.

Before I can respond, Headmaster Moiz summons Faisal to join him onstage.

You will receive details about this in a forthcoming email, but tasks will include chores like grounds maintenance, kitchen work, and laundry duty.

As this is a significant time commitment in addition to your studies, Scholars will not participate in extracurricular clubs their first year.

We were told all about Ghalib’s stellar reputation, but why weren’t we oriented to the fact that scholarship kids would be second-class citizens?

But I don’t trust that I won’t start blubbering when I see all the activities I can’t be part of.

"You can do stuff like fold towels and linens in the laundry room, that’s a cinch. Dishes—washing, drying, putting them away—that’s a breeze, too.”

His hair’s matted, and he holds his hand up to cover a yawn.

“Faisal is a pro at getting his work done as efficiently as possible,” Shuaib says.

He pulls out a vat of flour and pours it into a larger mixer.

Is it a coincidence the class I struggle most in is the one where the teacher clearly doesn’t believe in us?

I look down and see indentations on the cutting board from my blows.

“Don’t know what got into him wanting to teach a class after all these years. He’s bound to have gotten rusty.”

"Yep. Taught English when I started here,” Shuaib says. “Guess he got nostalgic and thought he’d take a stab at it again."

“Hopeless?” he scoffs. “The Lahore Sikanders are hopeless at cricket. Yasin Ullah’s bowling average is absolutely hopeless. But this? Sure, it’s hard, but you’re smart enough to figure it out. Look at Faisal. He’s been where you are, and now he’s almost flying the coop. It won’t be easy, but there’s no reason you won't be like him, right, Faisal?”

“Well, Headmaster was never my teacher. And English is hard for many people... Learning all the rules is brutal,” Faisal says somberly.

Relax, I tell myself. But I can’t push away Jibril’s baffled expression.
The gulf between me and the other students seems to grow bigger and bigger every day.

Half of the class is on the blue team. I’m on the red team with Kareem and Naveed and Humza. Corresponding bandannas wrapped around our arms set us apart.

They usually never acknowledge I exist, but right now they’re looking straight at me.

“Do I detect a little imposter syndrome?" Mr. Adeel asks.
“What’s that?” Marwan asks.
“When you worry you’re not good enough. It’s common in the arts, since art is so subjective. Try not to compare yourself with others. Do your best, and the work will be its best.”

Imposter syndrome. I definitely feel like an imposter sometimes. But this can’t be a “syndrome” because my grades aren’t subjective like art. They aren’t open to interpretation. They’re solid, undeniable letters on my papers.

“Why can’t you be a science and art person?” He laughs when he sees my dubious expression.

I know how it feels to be surrounded by people who doubt you, but I like how this girl doesn’t pay them any mind. Instead, she looks straight ahead—determined. They can think what they want; she’ll do what she needs to do anyway.