Betrayal of the Red Shoes

Looking out the window of my house again, I watch the kids starting to arrive at school. They walk up the stairs, slouched, as if they’re walking dead. They drop into their chairs as if they’ve been doing hours of work in the fields. There is this one young boy I always see. He’s around 16, exactly my age. He comes to school always wearing bright red shoes. He, too, seems like there are so many other places he’d rather be when I’m here right across the street wishing I was right there where he is. But at least here isn’t back home where my friends and family were torn apart, terrorized, and taken away. I hear the bell at exactly three in the afternoon everyday. I run into my room and watch them rush out of school with smiles on their faces.

The next day, I see him again; the boy with the red shoes. Except this time, he’s leaving before three o'clock, alone. Is he sick? Is he not feeling well? What happened? What could be the reason for him leaving before everyone else? It must've been something urgent or else he wouldn’t have left. The next morning I see the boy with red shoes come back to school, but yet again, I see him leaving school early. He leaves early the next day, and the next day too. It’s always just before three o’clock. This time there were people by the entrance and I saw him climb out the window instead. I'm assuming that he doesn't want others to know. I decide to follow, his red shoe steps to see where he is heading.

I follow his shoe prints that lead me right around the corner. There he is, standing with some other kids I recognize from school. I'm shocked; I thought they all needed to be in class studying. I walk closer trying to hear what they're talking about. They notice me and I immediately freeze; they start coming closer to me.

One of them yells, “What the hell are you staring at?”

“Nothing, I just don’t understand. Why aren't you at school?” I asked.

“None of your business. Who even are you?” one of the boys replied in a snippy manner.

“My name is Bassam Alhamadam I come from Syria.”

“Wait are you, one of those refugees?”

The boy with the red shoes finally spoke up, “I think I’ve heard about you in class.”

“Really? You know about me too?” For a second I was so happy.

“No, I left class before the teacher could say anything else. So, what's your deal then?” the red shoe boy responded.

“My family and I escaped from Syria as soon we realized home wasn't the same anymore. It was a hard decision to make but it was the right one. We ran away and to this day we struggle to adjust to our new life. My one wish is to go to school; I sit by my window everyday wishing I could learn something new. Tell me, please, what is it like?” I plead.

“It's so boring. That's why we ditch,” another boy says.

In my head I was so frustrated. A wave of emotions hit me from the inside. They were so ungrateful. I couldn't believe the words coming out of their mouths. They are so blessed; don't they understand?

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