Does My Head Look Big in This? (6 page)

“. . .No. . .”

“Just forget about it. He’ll come round.”

“Yeah . . . I guess. . .”

I need a place to pray, so at lunch time I go to see Mr Pearse. All through the year I’ve been carrying out my two afternoon prayers at home after school but I’d go through them at supersonic speed so that I could make it in time to watch
Home and Away
. It never felt right and now I really want to try to pray at the set times, the way it’s supposed to be.

“Now let’s see.” Mr Pearse leans back in his chair and stares at his desk, deep in thought. “Will an empty classroom do? I can arrange one for you if that’s suitable.”

“Well, have you ever seen news reports where the camera zooms in on a group of Muslims praying? The ‘bums up’ shot? Forget every other move in the prayers, it’s the bums up that really sets the cameras off. So I’d hate to be in a classroom with my rear end in the air and people walk past and start thinking I’m into solo yoga.”

He chuckles. “I see what you mean. You can use the storage room adjoining my office. You’ll have your privacy as it’s nicely tucked away, and it can be accessed through my office so just walk right in when you need to. How long will the prayer take?”

“About ten minutes.”

“Oh, is
that
all? It’s nice and simple then.”

Yep, he’s my favourite, favourite, favourite.

5

T
he first thing I do when I get home from school is jump on my bed and call Leila.

“Oh my God! I wore it! To school! To
McCleans
!
And everybody was staring and kind of freaked out and avoiding me and Mr Pearse was so cool and Ms Walsh, well, yeah, she spun out but that was to be expected, and Simone and Eileen were
so
supportive and Tia obviously scrunched up her face at me like I’d walked in covered in cow dung but, hey, I’d be insulted if she ignored me, and Leila, it felt so amazing and scary and—”

“Amal! Chill pill please!”

“OK, OK,” I say breathlessly. “Adam ignored me, Leila!”

“He did not!”

“It was brutal.”

“So confront him. You’re not the type to sit and cry in a corner.”

“How long did it take you to feel, you know,
confident
?”

“Sometimes I still get nervous; depends where I am. But I’m used to it now. The hijab’s part of me. Hey, got to go! Mum’s calling me. She’s having a tantrum because I can’t be stuffed watching her cook tonight. See ya!”

I hang up the phone and call Yasmeen. Her reaction is to give me a long lecture about the urgency of me applying make-up.

“Tell me you had eyeliner on today.”

“Are you scrunching your face up in tension waiting for my answer?”

“Yes.”

“I’m happy to disappoint. It’s a big fat NOPE.”

“You are beyond
pathetic
, Amal. Do you not understand that if you wear eyeliner and eyeshadow your eyes will be devastating with the scarf? Trust me. You’ve seen my mum. Her eyes are similar to yours, although yours are probably a little more greeny-blue, and only God knows why you got the coloured eyes when I’m the one who knows how to apply cosmetics. When Mum does her eyes up under her hijab she looks hot.”

“Yasmeen, my principal would probably put me in front of a school assembly and wash my make-up off with steel wool if I went to school all dolled up.”

“Go figure. You’re at nerdville. Anyway, back to your attempt to wear the hijab without the assistance of Revlon. I hate to disappoint you, but there are only a few women in this world who can get away with the natural look. Don’t you read
New Weekly
?
“Stars without their make-up”, etc.?
Hello?
Do you have a big modelling contract you haven’t told me about? Are you co-starring in Brad Pitt’s next movie? If your answer to either of these questions is no, then go out and buy some cosmetic products this instant.”

We talk for ages. I tell Yasmeen about Adam and Ms Walsh and Simone and Eileen and Tia Tamos and Mr Pearse and Adam, Adam, Adam. She fills me in on the goss from her school and all the people from Hidaya who moved on there who say hi to me. We talk and talk and I miss her and Leila so much it aches.

At dinner my parents tell me Ms Walsh called them and wants to see them tomorrow. They’ve arranged to meet at five. I’m livid. My mum wants me to calm down and my dad wants me to stop with the conspiracy theories.

“I don’t want to take it off,” I plead. “If she thinks she’s going to make me take it off I’ll take her to court!”

My dad snorts. “Stop being so dramatic.”

“Well, I will!”

“No one’s taking anybody to court,” my mum scoffs, giving me an amused look. “
Or
making any such threats either.”

“OK, fine. I’ll ring the tabloids. I’m sure
they’ll
be interested. I can just see the cover story now: ‘Innocent Muslim girl – victim of snobby grammar school prejudice’.”

My parents laugh. I don’t see anything funny.

“Look,” my dad says, calmly placing his fork and knife down at a proper angle to his plate and adjusting the napkin on his lap in his usual I-am-such-a-nerd-and-eat-as-though-I’m-at-a-five-star-restaurant fashion. “It’s really very simple, Amal. All your mum and I need to know is one thing. Are you convinced?”

“I think I am . . . I mean, yeah sure, it was really hard at school and everybody was staring at me and I just know they’re all wondering if I’ve flipped. I know it kind of looks like I’m asking for it. Do you know what I’m saying? You don’t put the hijab on and walk into McCleans expecting people not to wonder what the hell is going on.”

“Exactly our point,” my dad says. “Why are you doing it if you know what you’re up for? Are you mentally prepared for the staring and small-minded stereotyping and misconceptions?”

Before I answer, my mum interrupts: “You see how people react and look at
me
, at my age! You’re still young and starting out. You’ve got university and then looking for a job. Have you thought all of it through?”

“Maa! I’m not a kid! I’ve spent every last minute in these past four days thinking through every single potential obstacle. I’ve predicted all the smart-arse comments people can throw at me. Nappy-head, tea-towel head, camel jockey, and all the rest. Yeah, I’m scared. OK, there, happy? I’m petrified. I walked into my classroom and I wanted to throw up from how nervous I was. But this decision, it’s coming from my heart. I can’t explain or rationalize it. OK, I’m doing it because I believe it’s my duty and defines me as a Muslim female but it’s not as . . . I don’t know how to put it . . . it’s more than just that.”

I take a big sip of water because there’s a lump starting a roadblock in my throat and the last thing I want is for my parents to see me cry. So I swallow my glass of water in seconds and manage to extend the corners of my mouth enough to flash a tiny smile at them. After all, everybody knows that when you’re sixteen you don’t cry in front of your parents. Not if you’re ever planning on bringing up the whole “stop treating me like a kid” argument again.

My parents glance at each other and then smile warmly at me. My mum reaches over and squeezes my hand tightly. “We’re proud of you, darling.”

My dad says: “OK, ya Amal, we understand. That’s all we needed to know,
habibti
. Leave the rest to your mum and me.”

“Now pass me the salad,” my mum says, “and tell us everything we need to know about this Ms Walsh.”

My dad and I toss between taking the garbage out after dinner or wiping the table. I go garbage.

As I walk up to the side of the house and put the rubbish in the bin, I almost don’t notice Mrs Vaselli, our next-door neighbour. She’s sitting out on her front porch and I suddenly hear a harsh cough and an “In ze name of ze Father, ze Son and ze Holy Ghost”.

She’s a grump. If you smile at her she scowls. If you nod at her she curses you. If you attempt conversation she pretends that she can’t hear you. If you ignore her she yells out Greek swear words. I dread being outside at the same time she is.

I don’t know what her constitution is like, but I’m struggling to get the lid off the bin with my fingers all numb from the cold. It’s a typical winter evening in Melbourne where you take in a breath of the air and your body goes into a spasm, like when you take a quick sip from a 7-Eleven Slurpie and your head is frozen into agony.

I look over her way and wave a reluctant hello because if I don’t she’ll probably tell my parents and then I’ll get the “she’s an old lady, show some manners” lecture.

“Hi, Mrs Vaselli,” I call out.

“Why you keeping leave za cigarette pack on my grass?” She has a thick accent and a voice that seems like it’s bottling up years of anger.

“I don’t smoke, Mrs Vaselli.” The cold has obviously reached her head.

“Huh! You
sure
? Maybe you acting innocent to your parent. But you no tricking me!”

“I said I don’t smoke,” I say firmly. “Maybe somebody was walking down the street and threw it. Maybe it got blown here by the wind. There’s a million ways it could have ended up on your grass but me smoking isn’t one of them!”

“Huh!” She turns her face away abruptly, indicating to me that the conversation has ended.

*

The next morning at
fajr
I pray that Ms Walsh lets me wear the hijab and that Leila’s parents grow some brain cells and quit pressuring Leila about marriage. That Simone’s next diet works, Adam and I become the best of friends, and Ms Walsh lets me wear my hijab. I pray that Palestinians are granted the same rights and freedom and dignity that the Israelis enjoy and that the streets fill with Israelis and Palestinians walking side by side in peace. And that Ms Walsh lets me wear my hijab. That Tia loses her hair – I mean gets over her power trip – and that my class stops their silent treatment.

And that Ms Walsh lets me wear my hijab.

6

I
’m on edge in home room. Then English, then Maths, then recess. By three o’clock Simone and Eileen are as nervous as I am and we’ve managed to get through a whole packet of doughnuts in between the last two periods, waiting for five o’clock to come.

They wish me luck as they get on the bus. I’ve told my parents I’m staying after school to go home with them. There’s no way I’m waiting at home while they’re in there with Ms Walsh discussing the most important thing I’ve done in my life. I wait out the rest of the afternoon in the library. I try to do some homework but I see Ms Walsh’s name in every line I read. So I go into the music section, put on a set of headphones and listen to an album. But her name is popping up in all the lyrics too. So I just sit and stare at a huge oak tree outside the window.

I fall into a daydream, imagining the whole school ignoring me for weeks and months. And I imagine that one morning at school assembly, while Ms Walsh attacks the microphone with a lecture on the evils of chewing gum, she gets a message that I’ve been hit by a bus, no make it a tram, and I’m in intensive care. Ms Walsh starts sobbing and drops the microphone in a dramatic crash, then storms to the hospital with a troop of my class, showering me with flowers and apologies. Adam approaches the bed and takes my hand, whispering that he wants me to wake up from my coma because he loves me and thinks I look beautiful in hijab because it accentuates my eyes. I get so caught up in my daydream that pretty soon my eyes start to go fuzzy and my skin all prickly. It’s only when I feel my throat choking up that I snap back to reality.

Soon it’s five thirty. And then it’s five forty-five. Then I start to panic. The librarian, Mr Thompson, approaches me and tells me they’re closing at six. So I pack up my things and wait outside on a bench in the quadrangle, wondering, as my teeth are chattering and my nose is turning into a Rudolph, if it would have been the same if I’d waited for them at home.

And then my mobile rings and my mum tells me to meet them at the car park. And I run, which is hard with a backpack filled with textbooks and folders, but I don’t care and just run, my scarf lifting up in the wind.

At the car, my parents are looking out for me. I bolt up to them and my mum tells me off for running with a heavy backpack and asks if I want to be a hunchback when I’m older. My dad gives me a hug and then I stand in front of them, panting and sticky, the cold wind rushing against me.

“Well? What did she say? Can I wear it?” And I don’t know why but I burst into tears and then my mum is hugging me and telling me it will be OK and my dad is having his Mr Brady moment and telling me it’s been sorted out. And I cry and I cry because until this moment I’ve never felt so sure about what I wanted.

We go out to a Japanese restaurant on Brunswick Road. We have to take our shoes off and my dad’s embarrassed because he’s got a massive hole in his right sock and his big toe is sticking out. He dashes past our waitress and plonks himself down on the cushion in case anybody notices.