Why couldn’t the school bend a little and reward her hard work?

Leeba: She fought the hardest battles; can’t we acknowledge that?

Mrs. Reuben: We can’t celebrate one girl’s achievements at everyone else’s expense.

Leeba

IT was Friday, which meant that the girls were restless, tapping pens, rustling papers, itching to hear that final bell. I was, too, honestly.

I was wrapping up the class when my eye landed on Shira.

Despite the undercurrent of jumpy energy in the room, she was sitting still. She wasn’t wearing that hoodie school rules prohibited — that was new. She had notes on her desk — also new. And she hadn’t asked to leave the room, or called out some snarky comment, or even put her head down to nap on her desk this morning, which was a minor miracle.

I passed her desk and caught her eye.

“Great job today,” I said quietly.

She didn’t look up, but I caught the faintest twitch of a smile. Shira-style gratitude.

After ten long minutes, class was over, and the girls scrambled for their stuff. I closed my binder and began straightening up the desk. When I looked up, the room was empty, except for Shira.

“Everything okay?”

She shrugged elaborately. “Just... figured I’d go home a little later.”

I nodded like it made perfect sense.

“I didn’t fail the dikduk quiz,” she said, not quite looking at me.

“Yeah. You didn’t.” I didn’t tell her that when I’d finished grading it, I’d wanted to dance. And that the only reason I hadn’t celebrated it with the entire class was because I would never embarrass her like that. Shira wanted recognition, but it had to be done right.

“I got a seventy-six.”

“That’s a real number.”

Shira smirked. “Better than that forty-two last time.”

“But that was better than a zero,” I said. “Better than not bothering at all.”

She finally looked up. “My mother said I should thank you.”

I smiled. “Thank your own hard work.”