by Sarah Ayoub
I spend the rest of the night wondering about the price of popularity and fun; and whether, once paid, it’d be worth it. I know I’ll only really find out if I put myself in the firing line. Like I don’t feel fragile enough as it is.
6
I hate looking at my generation and seeing apathy and complacency
When Lent starts, Years Ten, Eleven and Twelve have to spend an entire afternoon listening to a series of motivational talks. The idea is that Lent is a time to mull over our temptations and weaknesses and to renew our Christian faith. Although we all scoff and roll our eyes, we sit and listen intently to what each of the speakers has to say, because, as Sister Magdalena tells us, they’re ‘enriching our increasingly plagued lives’. I want to put my hand up and ask what’s so plagued about our lives, but then I remember I’m keeping an entire journal of what plagues me and bottling up the rest like a freak, so I’m not exactly one to talk.
The speakers are a priest, who talks about how we can find strength in Christ at this ‘important but sometimes difficult stage’ of our lives; an ambulance driver and police officer, who warn us about the dangers of drink driving, drug abuse and speeding; and a councillor from our local government.
It’s during the third talk that the trouble starts. The councillor, Edward Franks, talks about career programs at the local library, study-help sessions run by former teachers and HSC examiners, and a barbecue organised with ‘sister councils’ so we can meet teenagers of Anglo-Australian, Aboriginal and Islander backgrounds and learn how our lives are all similar, even though our parents come from different places.
As he finishes speaking, Zayden Malouf and his buddies make scoffing noises.
‘Is there something wrong?’ Councillor Franks asks.
I can see the tips of his ears turning red and think how funny it is that adults are automatically scared of antsy teenagers, especially ones the newspapers label as having a reputation for trouble.
‘Yeah, there is, actually,’ Zayden says in a deep, almost threatening voice. ‘I want to know why you’re pretending to care about us, when everyone knows the police are butting into our lives trying to find out if we were involved in those stupid attacks after those dumb Aussies started that brawl in Brighton.’
The whole room falls silent. I half-expect Councillor Franks to come up to me and ask to borrow the hole I often want to crawl into.
‘What’s your name, son?’ he asks.
‘Zayden. Zayden Malouf.’
‘Err, right,’ Councillor Franks responds. ‘Well, young man, we can’t exactly not cooperate with the police on such a matter. If we’re punishing those responsible for the brawls – on both sides, I might add – then it’s also fair to punish those who retaliated. That’s the way things work in our country. It’s all about justice and fairness.’
He smiles awkwardly and we look at him blankly. It shits me, and everyone else too, I’m sure, that he’s clearly dismissed Zayden’s name as being too difficult to pronounce.
‘Yeah, but that’s not my point,’ Zayden says. ‘My point is that you’re arranging a barbecue when everything’s still fresh, like you’re expecting it to solve the problem. Don’t forget that more than half of us were born in this country – we know how things work and that you want to punish the offenders. But why do you think arranging a sausage sizzle is going to solve the problem?’
Councillor Franks tries to answer, but by now everyone is talking. Some of the Year Elevens start sniggering at Councillor Franks until Zayden and his friends give them death stares.
‘When my older cousins started uni or their apprenticeships the year after the Cronulla riots,’ Zayden continues, ‘it was hard for them to get part-time jobs or to get into places because of their ethnicity. After the riots, one of the federal politicians arranged for four boys from Bankstown Boys High to walk the Kokoda Track with a couple of Aussie boys from Cronulla. Others got to go to Gallipoli. You know what they all had in common, Councillor? They were all Lebanese Muslims. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but we don’t want people coming in here and talking about the efforts they’re making for us when only half of our community get to take part in them.’
Franks looks stunned. I feel inspired and stoked that I haven’t been crushing on a shallow guy for all these years.
‘You go on about how Australia’s made up of all different people and communities,’ Zayden says, ‘but so are we. The Lebanese people aren’t just Christian and Muslim, they’re also Druze and Jewish. When something bad happens, we all get labelled the same way, but when a good opportunity comes along, only one part of the Lebanese community gets to participate. How come my cousins missed out on the opportunities in 2006, but now you want to invite us to some sister council barbecue? We don’t want to hear your thoughts on fairness when you don’t practise what you preach.’
Franks glances nervously at his watch. He quickly finishes his talk by telling us about what’s going on at council level and leaves the hall.
As everyone starts talking again, I notice Sister Magdalena having a serious conversation with the (very cute) police officer who spoke to us earlier. She turns to face us and claps her hands three times, signalling for us to quieten down.
‘Seniors,’ she says, dramatically, ‘Constable Adam Baldwin has stayed back today to talk to you briefly about a very serious matter. I hope you will assist him if you’re able to. As I have told you time and time again, without those who protect us by enforcing the laws that make our society great, we would be in a state of anarchy. If you listen to Constable Baldwin quietly, you may leave early today as a special treat. But I will leave that to Mr Trebold’s discretion. Good afternoon, Constable Baldwin.’ She’s about to leave, then turns back to us with an almost pleading look in her eyes. ‘Please behave,’ she says, scanning the room. ‘All of you!’
Constable Baldwin walks to the centre of the room and clears his throat. I notice a few Year Eleven girls at the front gazing at him admiringly, as if he were Prince Charming come to rescue them from their bored teenage slumber.
When he starts talking about the Brighton brawl, all the slouchers in the hall sit up straight, including Zayden and his friends. I notice Zayden has a defiant look on his face and wonder if he knows something.
Constable Baldwin explains that he’s a member of the special Bankstown squad the Commissioner has formed to investigate the violence.
I hear Vanessa whisper to Rita behind me: ‘As if they expect us to rat on our own people.’
‘Those hooligans who decided to retaliate are the ones causing your lovely culture grief,’ Constable Baldwin says, looking undisturbed by the number of death stares directed at him. ‘So instead of letting them harm your reputation further, let us deal with them before they get you into even more trouble.’
By now we’re evenly divided along an axis of get-out-of-here looks and he-has-a-point shrugs.
Constable Baldwin sighs when no one responds. ‘Look, I know this probably feels pretty crappy for you guys,’ he says, glancing at Mr Trebold as if worried he’s going to be chastised for using the word ‘crappy’. ‘The recent violence was almost as bad as what happened in Cronulla when you were young – a dark chapter in the history of a country that’s always been about embracing others.’
Someone sniggers at the back, but Mr Trebold glares at them and they shut up. Constable Baldwin keeps going.
‘As I understand it, a young fellow from this school was injured in the brawl, so you owe it to him that everyone responsible for those stupid acts – no matter which side they were on – is brought to justice. They need to pay for the havoc and pain they’ve wreaked on our society, on people going about their daily business. I realise you might not want to raise your hands now, so I’m leaving some business cards with Sister Magdalena. I know she’ll be very pleased with any effort you make in aiding our investigation. Remember, it’s always better to work with us than against us.’ And with a tip of his hat, he’s gone.
We file out of the hall to see Sister Magdalena waiting for us. She doesn’t discipline Zayden for his earlier behaviour – perhaps because she believes that for once in his life he’s said something worthwhile.
Dora is way in front of me, and despite the fact that we usually walk out of the school gates together, I don’t run to catch up with her. Although I’m still struggling to accept our changing friendship, there isn’t much I can do about it. No one stays friends forever, right?
I’m almost at the front of the school when the sight of my brother having a conversation with Zayden stops me in my tracks. They seem to be arguing, like Zayden is trying to convince Andrew of something. It’s weird. Apart from the fact that Zayden’s cousin George is one of Andrew’s good friends, they have nothing in common, and as far as I know they’ve never spoken.
‘Hey, Andrew,’ I call out as I approach. ‘How come you’re out early? Wagging class?’
‘No!’ he says, a little too quickly.
I sense he’s hiding something, but before I can say anything else, Zayden turns to me and smiles.
‘Relax, Sophie. Cut the boy some slack.’
I stare at him dreamily, almost forgetting why I’m there. He picks up his school bag and gestures for me to walk alongside him. Andrew gives me a look and walks away.
‘What did you think of my performance today?’ Zayden asks. ‘Pretty good, ay? I love putting people in their place.’
I laugh. ‘You did that all right, but there was so much passion behind what you were saying. And you were so right. I was proud of you for sticking up for the boys.’
‘Pfft,’ he says. ‘I don’t really give a shit. None of the stuff I said was anything I came up with! My cousin’s a journalist and she was going on about it all the other day. I just needed some ammo to back me up when I subtly told the guy to screw it. There’s no way in hell we want to be mixing with the kind of scum in the Shire and eastern suburbs – something that our little friend Mr Goldsmith will figure out soon enough.’
He raises his voice for the last part, and I realise Shehadie is walking in front of us, so close he’s probably heard the whole thing. Zayden looks at me as though I should be impressed, but before I get a chance to react Vanessa calls out to him to offer him a lift home in her car.
I make my way over to where Mum is waiting, my conversation with Zayden playing over and over in my mind. I can’t believe he spoke so powerfully about something he doesn’t even care about just to get at Councillor Franks. He made out that he was passionate about the subject, but when it came to the crunch, it was all show. That hurts – especially because what he was arguing about means so much to me.
On our drive home, I see Shehadie walking to his grandma’s place. He looks as though he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. For a second, my heart aches for him. I know what it’s like to feel invisible, but at least I’m kind of the same as everyone else. The last thing you want to be in high school is different.
I remember what Constable Baldwin said about it being better to work with the cops rather than against them, and I wonder if we should be doing the same thing with Shehadie. After all, it’s going to be a long year, and we’re all trying to figure out what will happen when we leave our cocoon. Will we flourish or flail in the big wide world?
7
I hate that I still can’t fight my own battles
‘Did you know that two out of three children who are denied access to education are girls?’ I call out to Leila as I lie sprawled on the floor of her spare room.
She appears in the doorway. ‘That’s pretty bad, Soph, but does it have any relevance whatsoever to the exam you’re studying for?’ She raises her eyebrows because she already knows the answer.
I shrug guiltily. ‘It’s boring! I don’t think anyone in my entire year will ever use algebra in their careers, and I am not exaggerating.’
She gives me a smirk. ‘Be that as it may, you told your mother you needed to come here for some space to study, so study is what you’ll do. And, I might add, algebra’s going to be in your exam whether it’s relevant to your future or not.’
I pout at her and she softens. ‘How about a cup of tea? Maybe a five-minute break will do you good.’
A few minutes later, I’m sitting on her sofa, drinking a glass of Milo and eyeing the gorgeous leadlight shade hanging from the ornate ceiling of her living room. Leila and her best friend, Lisa, live in Sylvania, in a beautiful Californian bungalow. Bankstown used to have the same style of houses – until my parents’ generation knocked them all down and replaced them with giant wog palaces complete with columns and stone statues in the front yard.
Lisa works shifts, and when she’s away I love coming here and hanging out with Leila. Dad usually drops me off in the morning and I get to spend the entire day relishing some downtime.
‘So tell me,’ Leila says, munching on an Oreo, ‘how’s the famous Zayden?’
‘I dunno,’ I mumble.
She gives me a knowing look.
‘We were on holidays for ages,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘And I’ve barely spoken to him since we got back to school. We don’t have a lot of classes together.’
‘Wasn’t there some beach party you were going to? That would’ve been a good chance to talk to him.’
‘It would, had your brother let me go.’
She scrunches up her face in disappointment. ‘Aww, no way! Why didn’t you call me, kiddo? That’s what I’m here for!’
‘Meh,’ I say. ‘I was entirely unfazed.’
She knows I’m lying.
‘Was it because of the Brighton Brawl?’ she asks. ‘If so, I get it, because it could’ve turned into something nasty.’
‘Yeah, but it didn’t,’ I say, wounded. ‘Nothing happened at all. It was just another exciting thing that I missed out on.’
‘Aww, little one, you’re too young to remember Cronulla, but your dad isn’t. He was probably picturing you being mauled by a crowd chanting “No Allah in the Nulla”.’
‘Yeah, I guess,’ I say, my voice trailing off. I’m trying not to cry in front of her. ‘I’m not as bummed about not going to the party as I am about Dora going without me. I mean, I know I can’t expect her not to go – she’s kind of my Zayden spy anyway – but she’s been a bit weird ever since. I think it’s because she spent the night hanging around Rita Malkoun and Vanessa – you know, the popular girls. She doesn’t bitch about them the way she used to, and they’re getting really friendly at school and stuff.’
‘Is she ditching you for them?’
‘No,’ I admit. ‘It’s not like that. Well, not yet anyway. But I’m scared that it will be. I mean, I don’t want to be invisible, but I don’t really wanna hang out with them either, you know? And she always wants to.’ I sigh. ‘I wish they’d opened the school to more than just Lebs. I feel so different to everyone else at school, not just because I think about things on a bigger scale, but for other reasons too. I don’t cry about my blow-dried hair when it rains, and I don’t feel the need to have a boyfriend just to make some sort of cool statement.’
‘I hate to tell you this, little one, but most girls are like that. It’s not exclusive to high school and it’s not exclusive to Lebanese people. You can be your mother’s age and still be trying to figure this stuff out.’
We’re both silent for a while. For some reason I haven’t told her about the new guy at school, even though I normally would.
‘You know what the best thing for you would be?’ she says. ‘A job.’
‘A job?’ I pull a quizzical face.
‘Yeah! You’ll get to meet new people outside your school, and some of them won’t be Lebanese, so you’ll at least get to feel like you’re living in Australia. And you’ll get to spend some time away from home, even though you’ll be at work. It’ll stop you going insane.’
‘That’d be awesome!’ I say. ‘Plus, there’ll be the added perk of money in my pocket.’
‘Tell me abo
ut it! How cool would that be?’ She claps her hands. ‘What kind of place do you picture yourself working at? I worked at McDonald’s, then a newsagent. McDonald’s was pretty busy, but the newsagent was kind of boring because we only ever got old people buying Lotto tickets on pension day.’
‘Erm, before we get too excited, what if my parents say no? I mean, they really want me to focus on getting good marks this year. Mum even takes the phone off the hook when I get home from school because she wants no interruptions when I’m studying.’
‘Then we need to figure out a way to convince them it’s going to enhance your education in some way,’ Leila says, a gleam in her eye. She thinks about it for a second or two. ‘What if we tell them that you’ll need a casual job when you’re at uni, and you’re better off getting one now before it gets too competitive? That’s true enough, and I reckon my brother would believe it.’
I sit up. ‘Yeah, I guess so. But, Leila, he’d embarrass me – he’d want to visit me at work to see that I was okay, or send Mum to wait outside and drive me home as soon as I finish. I wouldn’t get to hang out with anyone.’
‘Good point,’ she admits. ‘What if we make it so it’s too far out of their way to come collect you?’
‘Then they’ll just say it’s not worth it. It’s not like they care about me earning money. They don’t expect me to pay board or anything.’
‘Another good point.’ Then she hits the jackpot. ‘I know! My friend Rachel’s sister manages the Big W in Miranda. I’ve met her a few times and she’s really nice. What if I ask her to give you a job on the weekends? You can come and sleep here after family dinner on Friday night, then I’ll take you back home on Saturday after you finish work?’
‘That’s an idea with potential,’ I say excitedly. Then I scrunch up my face again. ‘Except Dad’s always saying that good Lebanese girls –’
