Does My Head Look Big in This? (23 page)

Even if I get the marks I need to get in to the best uni course, assuming I can decide which one I want to do, I probably couldn’t find a casual job now. So what about later on? Look, I’m not some whinging conspiracy theory victim who blames red traffic lights and rainy days when you forget your umbrella on “prejudice”. But you hear stories, you know? Friends who get top marks in university and then when they get up in front of an interview panel they find the interviewers choking on their bottled water because the candidate is wearing hijab.

I wonder sometimes where I’ll get my answers from. At Hidaya we were all going through the same thing. Whenever we felt like a mishmash of identities and started to wonder what our place was here, there was Mr Aziz telling us we didn’t need to apologize for our heritage. Sometimes I just don’t know what to think and I can’t even be bothered trying to work it out. I know one thing though. There’s nothing scarier than fearing your future won’t live up to all you’ve dreamed it to be.

“So Mum comes into my room and shows me a photo of this Turkish guy, lives in Adelaide,” Leila tells me on the telephone.

“Résumé?”

“Twenty-five, mechanic, looking for sweet, innocent housewife. Willing to move to Melbourne. Prefers brunettes. Mum was quick to assure him that I have brown hair and can cook and clean.”

“Excellent press agent.”

“Cream of the crop.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Told her I had homework and to leave me alone, but that if he needed a lawyer in several years’ time, he was welcome to call.”

“She must have flipped.”

“She has her approaches. Sometimes she has a hernia. Other times she tries to reason with me.
You think you lawyer you get job with hijab? Who take you? Why you want work hard for nothing? They see your hijab and they refuse
.”

“Someone will employ us,” I say.

“I wouldn’t fight so hard if I didn’t believe that
someone
wasn’t out there.”

I pause and then it hits me. “Me either.” And I mean it.

27

I
n English Mr Pearse announces the teams for the last two debating rounds. So far our Year Eleven teams have won two out of three debates. I’m teamed up with Adam and Josh and our names are down for the last debate, which is at the beginning of November, about a month away. Claire, Rita and Kishion are competing in the fourth round. I peek a glance at Tia. She is pouting angrily at Claire and Rita.

Josh, Adam and I meet up at lunch time to start preparing our debate because we want to get it all out of the way so we’re left to kill ourselves over our end-of-year exams when they come up. Josh is eating a gorgonzola and salami sandwich. We need oxygen masks. One kid enters the room, takes a sniff, asks who farted then walks out.

“I learnt my lessons young,” I tell Josh, holding up my odourless (and tasteless) cheese and lettuce sandwich.

“I didn’t,” Adam grins, taking out his lunch. “I’ve got leftovers from last night.”

“Whatigit?” It’s interesting how cheese and salami, when mashed together in somebody’s wide-open mouth, can produce a rainbow of colours.

“Who cares! You just made me lose my appetite.”

Josh swallows his food down in a gulp and grins sheepishly. “Sorry man. I’m just so starving. I tried to eat my chips in class but Mr Piper busted me.”

“I’ve got garlic chicken pizza. It’s fatal.”

“You guys are gross! There are some things you just avoid eating at school.”

We spend ages talking about food, swapping “the most I ever ate” stories until Adam looks at the time. We finally end up discussing the debate and start preparing our speeches. Adam and I get into about fifty-five arguments about the team line-up and theme until Josh tells us to shut up or he’ll burp.

Each of us has a practice run and we boss each other around with hints and tips until we’ve all pretty much established that we think we’re top and know what we’re on about.

“Hey Adam,” I say after the bell rings and we’re packing up our things to go to class.

“Yeah?”

“Did you watch that doco last night on SBS about the Taliban?”

Adam looks at me dumbfounded. “Is this a. . .?” His voice trails off.

“Nope!”

He looks at me suspiciously, and then we break out into these big goofy grins. We don’t stop talking all the way to class, swapping ideas and arguments and theories and big, impressive words. We pass each other notes in Maths and Mr Loafer swipes one off our desk and demands to know how our note about the government’s asylum-seeker policy has anything to do with our Maths class.

“Er . . . it doesn’t add up?” Adam answers, kicking my foot under the table as we try to keep a straight face.

Adam follows me out of last period and walks with me to the bus stop.

“Look,” he says after a couple of minutes of chitchat, “I’ve got this party at my house on Friday night. It’s kind of my birthday.”

“
Kind of
your birthday? What, you couldn’t decide if it is or isn’t?”

“Shut up, OK. It’s my birthday. Can you . . . can you come?”

I take a deep breath.

“It’s complicated. Is it one of those . . . is it one of those parties where everybody gets blind drunk and takes turns throwing up in the pot plants?”

“No! No, it’s not. It’s just a group of friends coming over. Mainly from school, some from my weekend soccer club. Food, music. We have to have alcohol, but it’s not like one of
those
parties.”

Almost every weekend somebody throws a party. I’m usually invited and I’ve been to a couple but to be honest it’s not much fun if you don’t drink. When you’re sober the jokes aren’t as funny and you have to pretend to be in hysterics when everybody is pissing themselves laughing over a leaf on somebody’s shoe or something. Simone hates them because finding something to wear is her nightmare and then she spends the night thinking everybody is making fun of her. We dance a little but to be honest we’re so self-conscious that we end up doing a little step to the side and back thing, which is about as uncool as you can get. That was all without my hijab. Unless I’m going to a costume party, I don’t really think I’m going to fit in very well. But then again, it
is
Adam’s party. I mean, I’d walk in dressed as a polar bear for the chance to go to his party.

“Can Simone and Eileen come too?”

“Yeah, sure, of course. I was going to ask them anyway.”

“I’ll have to check with my parents first.”

“Nerd alert!”

I laugh. “Tell me about it. You tell anyone and I’ll bring up the SS secret.”

So Adam has invited me to his birthday party. Now just how am I supposed to convince my parents about this?

They’re not stupid. They know what high-school parties are like and the whole drinking scene is strictly out of bounds. Just as I predicted, my dad gives me a flat-out no, turns his back and continues with his crossword. So I go inside where my mum is sitting reading a Diana conspiracy theory book. I give her a kiss and tell her I love her. The worst possible “yes” extraction method for a cluey parent.

“Spill it out.”

“Can’t I give you—”

“
Yallah
,
I’m reading.”

I take a breath. “Can I go to a birthday party Friday night? It’s at this guy’s house in my class. Eileen and Simone are going too.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because, I said so.”

“But
why
do you say so?”

“Because I can say
because
and
I said so
and get away with it and when you have kids you’ll do the same thing.”

“No, I won’t,” I say, storming out of the room. “I’m making a conscious plan to be an
explainer
parent. Not a
because
parent.”

“If you say so.”

I give her a look and go and mope in my room. I make sure to turn the volume up really high and listen to mushy love songs because it allows me to feel even worse than I already do. It eventually works. I hear a creak on the hallway floor and prepare myself. I jump into bed and lie facing the wall, rubbing the mascara on my eyes so I look like a panda.

My mum enters my room and sits down on the edge of the bed.

“I spoke to your father.”

I let out a noncommittal grunt in acknowledgment.

“I know you too well, Amal. Your it’s-the-end-of-my-life performance is not going to work with me.”

I sit up and hook my hands under my knees, resorting to a sulky pout instead.

“Whose party is it?”

“A guy called Adam Keane. Biggest nerd in class. Straight A student.”

“The one you talk on the phone with?”

“Yeah.”

“As
friends
?”

“Of course!”

“I sincerely hope so. Just be careful that you both understand that. Actions speak louder than words, ya Amal.”

“Ma! I know what I’m doing and I know what’s right and wrong. We’re just good friends. And as if Adam would even think of me in that way. I’m wearing the hijab. He knows I’m not the type to do anything and, anyway, he’s way too hot and cool to even consider me!”

“Of course he would. You’re gorgeous. But that’s besides the point. Is he decent? And please don’t patronize me, I want an upfront answer.”

“I’ve never heard anything bad about him, Mum. Honestly.”

“So this Adam, he’s a good boy?”

“We have very mature discussions about interfaith issues.”

Cringe.

“
Really?
”

“Yeah. He’s really into understanding my beliefs and stuff.”

“Will his parents be there?”

“I’m not sure, Mum. He didn’t say.”

“Alcohol?”

“No. He’s not like that. His parents . . . wouldn’t approve.”

I can’t believe I’m lying to my mum. I’m an absolute hypocrite. Please Allah, I’m so so sorry, just this once let me get away with it. Only this once. Please.

You never feel good when you lie. It doesn’t matter how much you want something, if you lie to somebody you love, and they actually, sincerely believe you, you feel like a cockroach that needs some serious Mortein action.

“Wise parents. So Simone and Eileen are going?”

“Yep.”

I told them on the bus and by the time we got halfway home they were already discussing what they were going to wear.

“And how will you get there? I think we should drop you off.”

Panic floods through me. “Simone’s mum offered.” She hasn’t but I’ll make a quick call as soon as my mum leaves the room. “She’s going out that night so she doesn’t mind. It’s on her way. And she said she’ll drop us off home too. So you don’t have to bother or worry about anything.”

“We want you home by ten thirty. No later.”

“What about eleven?”

“No.”

“Oh come on, Mum! Ten thirty is embarrassing! I’ll look like a geek! Please! It’s hard enough as it is. . .” I bat my eyelashes at her and she rolls her eyes.

“OK.”

“Eleven thirty would be more appropriate for Simone’s mum though. I don’t want to wreck her night.”

“If there’s any possibility of her night being wrecked, we’re more than happy to get in the car and pick you up. Eleven or you will not hear the end of it, Amal. Do I make myself clear?”

“Waterford.”

Simone and I meet up for a walk after school.

“So your mum’s OK being taxi driver?”

“Oh, yeah, sure! No big deal.”

While we’re walking Simone asks me to promise that I won’t go aggro on her.

“About what?”

“Just promise first.”

“I hate those tests. I use them on my
parents
for God’s sake.” She gives me a desperate, pleading look and I promise.

“OK,” she says nervously. “I’ve . . . I’ve started . . . look, I’ve tried every diet, OK? And nothing works. My appetite is just too big for carrots and celery. Even if I go all moderate, like a sandwich for lunch, I still crave something sweet or I just don’t feel full up. So I’ve . . . started smoking.”

“
What?
”

“Apparently it’s a good appetite suppressant. How do you think Tia keeps her figure? I overheard her telling Claire and Rita that she doesn’t eat much, just smokes because it stops her cravings.”

“Yeah but my cousin Samantha smokes and pigs out all the time! She has Macas
at least
once a day.”