Half My Luck

by Samera Kamaleddine

  ‘Hey, is Imogen coming back?’

  ‘Today? Not likely. Shontel is getting home from hospital.’ I can see Carina’s interest pique. ‘Why? Did you need to talk to her about something? Do you need to tell her something? You can tell me, and I can pass anything on.’

  I’m not sure that she’s the best person to be questioning, but she’s all I’ve got in this moment. ‘Carina, can I ask you something?’

  She nods enthusiastically.

  ‘Why is no one telling the truth about Daniel? There’s been heaps of time for someone to speak up. I just . . . I just need to understand why he’s being protected.’

  A look of disappointment washes over Carina’s face. Not the goss she was hoping for.

  ‘I can’t speak for everyone else, but I’m definitely not doing it.’ She jiggles her head swiftly from side to side. ‘Chances are, I’m probably going to be captain with him next year, so imagine how awkward it will be if we have to stand next to each other at assembly and he knows I was the one who dobbed him in.’

  The real chances are, Daniel probably won’t be allowed to be school captain if he’s found out as the culprit behind Shontel’s injuries. At least, that’s what I’d like to believe.

  Carina is studying my face. Her mousy-brown fringe is as blunt as she is. ‘You know what, you’re not like those other Lebbo girls. You’re not a troublemaker. If I were you, I wouldn’t start being one now.’

  I watch Carina with her boyfriend, Kyle, and the Suck-ups, laughing, mucking around, taking selfies . . . like nothing major is going on in the world around them. Like all that matters is their annual Ultimate Tanning Competition and their gluten-free salads and student representative council votes.

  ‘Want anything from the kiosk? I’m really craving —’

  ‘I’ll go,’ I say, spying Jordan behind the counter.

  I jump up from my towel, and George hands me a ten-dollar note with an order for a packet of cheese Twisties and a Killer Python. ‘Of couuuurse you’ll go,’ she adds as I’m practically running north. ‘Don’t forget to check your hair.’

  Standing in line, with just three others in front of me, feels like the longest wait ever. I don’t even know what I want to say to him yet, I just know I’m in a rush to get there and say something. I also wish there was a mirror here to check my hair.

  But when I’m finally at the head of the queue, it’s Jordan who speaks first. ‘Isn’t that your mate over there? Getting it on in the water?’

  I turn to face the river, and yep, that’s Maddy. Latched onto Daniel like a horny koala.

  ‘Ugh. She’s not even embarrassed.’

  ‘Welllll, I’ve seen worse down here . . .’

  ‘No, I mean about hanging out with him.’

  Jordan has no idea who Daniel Mason-Johnson is. He’s not missing out on any life-changing bromance, I tell him, placing George’s order and getting the same for myself.

  But there is something he should know about him . . . ‘Taking a break anytime soon?’

  He looks around the kiosk to a redhead girl wearing glasses. ‘Yeah, Olivia can handle it for five.’

  We walk towards the boatshed, and before we’ve even reached our tree, I’ve spilled the truth about Maddy’s new boyfriend being the one responsible for the bunger incident.

  ‘So, an upstanding dude, then,’ he jokes. I swear he’s looking at my hair.

  ‘It gets worse. I bumped into him and Maddy in the street last night and I kind of lost it. He probably thought I was going to get all “Lebbo” on him and call my cousins for back-up or something.’

  Jordan is choking on his own laugh. ‘Getting some balls, then, LK!’

  Hardly. Nothing about that moment felt ballsy. The bravery inside me is just a seedling. I really wish it would hurry up and grow.

  ‘Remember how you told me to “support the truth”?’

  ‘Yeah?’ He’s leaning up against the tree now. Always so cool and calm.

  ‘I’m trying to find the truth, but it’s harder than I realised it would be,’ I admit, watching him stare out towards the river. ‘Everyone seems to have their own reasons for not giving Daniel up to the police. But none of them – their reasons – are good ones. Like, no one wants to sound like they’re being racist by defending what he did to the Cedars. Or letting them take the fall. But my gut is telling me that this is exactly what it’s really about for each and every one of them.’

  ‘Is that what you want it to be about?’

  ‘What? No.’

  But it might be. Do I wish it wasn’t? Yes. That doesn’t mean I’m wanting it to be.

  ‘Cool. Just a question.’

  I take the snacks back to George and our beach towels, and we spend the rest of the afternoon being grossed out by Maddy and Daniel’s PDAs. Maddy doesn’t bother to come over and say hi.

  Mum is annoyed I didn’t come home for lunch. She makes sure I know it as soon as I step through the front door. ‘Grandad was really disappointed. I bought all these cold meats and salad from Woolies.’

  ‘Well, Mum, my friends don’t get in trouble for missing lunch with their grandparents, so I don’t see why I should.’

  Noah is snickering from his position on the floor in front of the Nintendo Switch. Where he’s no doubt been for the whole of this sunshiny day.

  ‘I don’t care what your friends’ families do, Layla,’ she says, following me into the kitchen.

  She’s making this a way bigger deal than it is. I open up the fridge and pick at the plate of leftover deli slices. ‘It’s one time, Mum. It’s not like I never rock up to any family stuff.’

  ‘Well, of course, you never miss a Tuesday at your tayta’s . . .’

  Of course, any excuse to take a dig at that. She hates that after the divorce I was forced to stay in touch with that side, being the oldest and all.

  ‘You know Dad would crack it if I didn’t go. Tayta would be straight on the phone to him, wherever he is,’ I say with a mouth full of corned beef. ‘And if it was the other way around – if it was your parent I was going to see every week – I’m a hundred per cent sure you wouldn’t think it was a bad thing.’

  Mum doesn’t seem to have a pre-prepared response to this one. She just shakes her head at me with that default disappointed look on her face and leaves the kitchen. I shove the meat plate back in the fridge, and when I turn around, she’s right in front of me.

  ‘I’m going on a date tonight,’ she announces. It’s been a while since she’s gone on any dates. There was a guy last year, but he dumped her to go travelling around India. ‘So, you’ll be staying in to watch Noah, please.’

  ‘What? No way!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But I was going to . . .’ I didn’t know what I was going to do. I literally had nothing to do. But based on principle, I was not staying home on a Saturday night to babysit my fourteen-year-old brother.

  ‘Bad luck, Layla.’

  Yeah, it is bad luck. Every single person in the world is dating except for me. Including my mum.

  I’ve been thinking about it for a few days. About trying to see Shontel again. On the way to Tayta’s, my feet are on a mission of their own and instead of going straight at the roundabout, like they usually do on a Tuesday, they go right. Towards the river, towards the Meyer house.

  I get to the front gate and realise the last time I was actually inside it was Imogen’s tenth birthday party. It was princess-themed. Back then, your parents made you invite the whole class, whether you were friends with them or not. I really was friends with Imogen then. Some things change in the most epic way.

  The doorbell makes my heartbeat speed up and bounce along with it. I can hear feet plodding on the floorboards, getting closer, and I feel a bit sick. When the white wooden door opens, it’s Mrs Meyer behind the security screen. She looks super professional in a black sleeveless tunic dress and her short blonde bob is as perfect as a wig.

  ‘Layla?’

  ‘Hi, Mrs Meyer.’ I hid
e my hands behind my back in case she can see them twitching.

  ‘Goodness, I haven’t seen you in a while! Don’t you look lovely and tanned.’

  By now my extreme sunburn has turned a more flattering brownish hue. I can thank my Lebanese genes for something.

  ‘Come in, are you here to see Imogen?’

  I don’t have a legit excuse to be here, so I nod. If I don’t speak any untruthful words, is it really lying? Mrs Meyer swings open the screen door to let me through and the sunken living area is everything I remember it being. Family photos from those portrait studios – the ones in Westfield with the black satin backdrops – still line every available surface, and by some miracle, their deaf Siamese cat, Zoe, is still alive. She’s curled up on the lounge next to a reclined Shontel. Imogen is on the adjacent lounge with an obvious ‘what the?’ look on her face.

  ‘Hey.’ My greeting is sheepish.

  The sisters glance at each other and then back at me.

  ‘I know it’s a bit weird . . . that I’m dropping in, but . . .’

  ‘It’s okay, it’s fine. It’s nice of you.’ Imogen’s glance is now at the doorway her mum has gone through, the one that takes you into the corridor with the bedrooms and main bathroom. ‘No one else from school has bothered.’

  I’m surprised by this. I’ve imagined everyone from school rallying around, probably our year adviser, Mr Hyman, the Suck-ups (especially the Suck-ups) . . . all being #Brave4Shontel. But clearly, they really are all just getting on with their summer like nothing even happened to her. Or else they don’t want to face how something happened to her.

  ‘That’s pretty slack. So, no one has come by?’ I’m guessing not Daniel Mason-Johnson, the gutless wonder.

  Imogen tightens her mouth. ‘Well, one person has stopped by.’

  I’m trying to look for Shontel’s wounds. Her trackies and long-sleeved top (no wonder the air-con is pumped up) cover any evidence, but there’s some bandage poking through the end of her sleeve, tightly sealing her left hand. She’s flicking channels with a remote control, as if we’re not even in the room.

  ‘Your cousin was here yesterday.’

  Sufia came here? To the Meyers?!

  ‘I’ll get you a drink, Shon.’ Imogen gets up and I follow her to the kitchen. I remember exactly where it is.

  ‘Why was she . . . what did she say?’

  Imogen isn’t making any attempt to get Shontel a drink. She’s standing behind the island bench with her fists clenched on top of it.

  I stay on the other side, facing her. ‘I didn’t know she was coming, I swear.’ I still can’t believe Sufia actually turned up here.

  ‘I know you didn’t, she told me that.’

  She finally opens the massive stainless-steel fridge door behind her and pulls out a carton of orange juice.

  ‘Remember when we were in primary school and Sufia used to drag people behind the library to hustle them into doing whatever it was she wanted them to do that week?’ she continues, grabbing a glass from the dish rack and pouring some juice into it. ‘Like, carry her school bag, or swap lunches, or stuff paperclips in someone’s hair?’

  I remember. Everyone was scared of her, so they did whatever she said. Even the older kids were too chickenshit to stand up to Sufia.

  ‘It doesn’t work anymore. She can’t throw orders around and expect us just to submit. No one is scared of her, or the Cedar Army, you know.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘I know, but —’

  Imogen puts her hand up to indicate I should stop talking now. ‘Don’t apologise for her. She’s going to have a lot of apologising to do herself if what she and the Cedars are planning actually goes ahead.’

  So, she made a threat. I feel frozen . . . like the air-con in this place. My mouth feels like it must be gaping in a super-unattractive way.

  Mrs Meyer walks into the kitchen, now in heels that click loudly on the floor. ‘Imogen, what have I told you about your posture?’

  Imogen looks embarrassed, but quickly pulls her shoulders back and stands a little taller. I, on the other hand, feel like I’ve shrunk back to my ten-year-old height.

  Retaliation: an action of returning a military attack. Revenge, vengeance, payback.

  The words are flying around my head as I frantically hit ‘dial’ and ‘redial’ on Sufia’s number. She’s not answering. I’m practically running down Imogen’s street, again not knowing the exact GPS route of my feet.

  I can’t believe they would be so stupid. Although part of me admits I can. When you’re so used to being under attack, I guess you’re always ready with some kind of default counter-attack. But these aren’t scenes from the Middle East I see splashed on the Arabic news channel at Tayta’s. And this can’t be solved with combat.

  I’d left without any details of what the Cedars have planned. Or what Sufia said they have planned, anyway. Which, let’s be real, could be two completely different things. Imogen’s mum started on at her about some summer maths program she’s supposed to be studying for, saying it’s a whole lot of money they’re spending for her to be ‘wasting the summer away on that beach’. That’s something I don’t remember from primary school. But it was awkward for both of us, so I excused myself and rushed past Shontel in the lounge room without so much as a ‘get well soon’.

  I’m just as bad as the rest of them. I went there to gain for my own battle. We’re all battling something and we’re all trying to win. Some of us are just not as good at the fight as others.

  My greatest battle this minute is getting Sufia to pick up my calls. Still, it rings out. Still, my legs are smashing strides. Still, my eyes are blurred from sweat and dizziness. I force them to refocus, and in front of me is Tayta hosing away at her front lawn, despite the fact there are serious water restrictions in place this summer.

  ‘Layla! Ahlan wa sahlan!’ Welcome. It’s about the only place I do feel welcome right now.

  CHAPTER 5

  Imogen and I stopped being friends at the start of Year Seven, when she told me her dad ‘doesn’t like wogs’. This was at the glass sliding doors at the rear of her house, after sport one Tuesday afternoon. She said I couldn’t come in. And I didn’t think to say anything back. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard the word ‘wog’ being casually thrown into convos, but it was the first time someone had said it about me. The shock had frozen my tongue.

  That’s probably the moment I knew I was cursed, before I even knew what the evil eye was. It had never occurred to Imogen before that my dad was a different religion to her family, that my grandmother wore a hijab and hers didn’t, that my lunchbox wasn’t stuffed with ham sandwiches. It didn’t matter, but now it did. And I quickly felt like it was a curse that all those things were different.

  Despite my protests that she should save water for the farmers in drought, Tayta is still spraying her nozzle at her lavender-blue hydrangea shrubs. ‘Inshallah,’ God willing, she says, with her non-hose-holding hand in the air for full effect, ‘rain will come and the farms they will be good. Very good!’

  She has so much faith in something – or someone – that she can’t even see. I’ve lost faith in the things and people I can see – from Maddy to Sufia and everyone in between.

  ‘Has Sufia been here, to your house, today?’ I know it’s a long shot, but I have to ask.

  Tayta shakes her head and starts singing an Arabic ballad to her hydrangeas.

  Sufia could be anywhere right now. The beach, driving around with Ricky P, Macca’s . . . I’m too tired to go looking for her. And besides, what will I even say to her when I find her? Why do you have to act so tough? Why are you helping to give the Cedars a bad name? How are we even related? How come I’m the only one who got the evil eye put on her the day she was born? But Sufia doesn’t believe in the evil eye. She says it’s a bullshit lie a group of old Leb women made up to torment people. Well, it worked. I’m well and truly tormented. And bullshit li
e or not, I need to know how to break it.

  Tayta finally stops drenching her garden, tells me her kidneys are too sore to keep going, and motions me inside. We have vine leaves to roll, she says. This is the first time she’s ever let me touch the food, and I don’t know what makes today so special. I’m nervous. Her vine leaves are always so perfectly wrapped. As if I’m not going to make a total mess of them.

  She lays a plastic sheet on her tiled living area for us to sit on, then gets the colander full of vine leaves and the bowl of rice stuffing into position. We’re down on the plastic, cross-legged, and she shows me how to stuff and roll, stuff and roll. I concentrate hard. It’s just the meditation I need.

  When we’ve stuffed and rolled about two dozen, my mind drifts off task. If I was un-cursed, how would I feel? Different? New? Certain? My rice-filled vine leaf falls apart.

  ‘Tayta?’

  She’s softly humming the same tune she was singing in the garden. She nods, not lifting her gaze from her speedy, but precise, rolling.

  ‘How do you get rid of it? The evil eye. How do I get rid of it?’

  Rolling paused, she looks at me with serious eyes. ‘You want me to get the sheikh?’

  I don’t know, do I want her to get the sheikh?

  ‘He do the prayers, gone! I call him now.’

  ‘No, no,’ I say as she’s trying to come out of her cross-legged position. ‘Another day.’ I’m not that spontaneous. I need some time to over-think this. I just want to know that there is a way. I wonder why she’s never told me about the way before.

  I can imagine Sufia’s face, or Maddy’s or George’s, if they were sitting here watching a sheikh preside over me with curse-breaking prayers. Maddy would find it hilarious, and so would George, but she’d also be curious, and Sufia . . . well, she’d no doubt have her best eyeroll on high rotation. I wish she and her MIA eyeroll would turn up right now. She still has a whole lot of explaining to do and I’m not letting her off this easily.

  Sufia doesn’t turn up. And she doesn’t return any of my calls or voicemails or texts. I’ve practically given up on her when George phones late in the arvo to say Sufia and the Cedar Army have just rocked up at Lame Beach. I finish stuffing and rolling my pile of vine leaves so that I can head straight there.