His eyes met hers, gently. His mouth twitched, like he wanted to say something, reassure her, or something. But then Seb pushed him and made another joke. The moment passed. What had Ethan wanted to say?
Layla’s heart hurt. Was this what it was like to grow up? Layla wasn’t sure it was worth all the pain. This struggle is so real …
As they walked closer toward the group of boys, Layla switched her attention to searching for that face. The face that she remembered as twisted and angry, but it was nowhere to be seen.
‘Yo, where is Peter?’ she hollered at the group when they got closer. The boys started chuckling and jeering. ‘Is he hiding? Is he too scared?’ Layla didn’t know where she was getting this bravado from, but acting bigger than she was, channelling her inner warrior – well, it was working! She felt strong. The cheering from the boys fed her and egged her on.
‘Peter, where are youuuuuu?’ she teased.
When she got to the group, the boys settled down a little.
Baz, the one who looked a little like Obama, jumped in. ‘Nah, nah, don’t get your knickers in a knot now. Peter isn’t here today.’
Peter wasn’t there. Oof! It was like a weight was lifted from Layla’s shoulders, but she didn’t change the expression on her face. She couldn’t let them know how much easier she could now breathe.
‘Not here!’ she laughed and scoffed, loudly. ‘Ha! So, he really was too scared to see me, hey? Well, now we know who’s reaaaaally the boss around here!’
Layla looked at the faces of the boys around her. She didn’t know them well, but she didn’t see hatred or anger; their faces were full of cheeky smiles and curiosity.
‘Who?’ Tony asked cheekily.
‘Oh mate. Me, of course!’ Layla chuckled and pushed his shoulder good-naturedly. ‘Now, you should all call me QUEEN!’
‘Queen Layla does have a ring to it,’ Seb mused. Scotty rolled his eyes. ‘You are wild. Peter is going to kiiiiilllllll ya!’
Layla smirked. ‘He can try.’
The rest of the break flew by. Layla sat in between Seb and Ethan, and as the laughs and jokes swirled around her, she realised that she might have made some new friends, but something still felt off. She was acting loud and brash, but that was only part of who she was. Would these boys still like her if they knew she was really a tree-climbing bejeweller, or that she went to mosque all the time, or that she had never been on a holiday (like a proper holiday, trips back to Sudan don’t really count because visiting the family was WORK!)? Her mother was always telling her that they weren’t like other families.
‘Just because other people do things, doesn’t mean we follow them mindlessly,’ she would often scold Layla, when she asked about sleepovers or expensive theme park trips. ‘We do what we think is important. Being different is the best way to be.’ Layla wasn’t convinced, but she never won that argument.
As she sat there, her mind distracted by these uneasy thoughts, she felt something on her arm, tickling her slightly. Annoyed, Layla absentmindedly tried to brush whatever it was away, and then jumped as she realised it was Ethan – poking her!
‘Oi, Queen Laylz!’ Ethan had been trying to get her attention. ‘You coming to this party on the weekend?’
‘Wait, huh? What are you talking about?’
The boys started laughing. ‘You really went off into your own world there, didn’t ya?’ asked Tony. ‘There’s a big party at Baz’s this weekend. His parents are away. All the cool kids are invited – you’re in, right?’
Layla looked down at her fingers. ‘Yeh, ha … totally,’ she muttered, slightly under her breath. There was no way on earth her parents were going to let her go to a party this weekend.
‘Lit! I’ll send ya the deets. You’re on Snapchat, yeh?’ asked Tony.
‘Yeh. Add me. QueenLayla …’
Layla’s stomach dropped as she realised she was already lying to these boys, the people who were supposed to be her new friends. She felt bad, but it was too embarrassing to admit how different she really was to these kids. Hopefully they wouldn’t figure anything out just yet.
The bell rang for the end of morning tea. She could deal with the party later … for now she had to channel the jamel!
That afternoon they were studying history with Ms Taylor. Layla loved history but could never remember the specific dates of when different things happened. But Ms Taylor wasn’t going to let her get away with anything this week.
‘Layla, what do you know about Nelson Mandela?’ Layla straightened up in her chair. This, she knew. ‘They called him “Madiba”, miss,’ Layla replied. ‘He was this South African guy that went to jail for twenty-seven years because he was fighting against a-part-hide. Or maybe a-full-hide, something like that …’ Layla smirked at her little pun.
‘A-part-hide?’ Ms Taylor laughed, humouring the teen. ‘I think you mean “apartheid”, but yes, that’s who Nelson Mandela was. Do you know what apartheid was about, Layla?’
Layla wrinkled her nose. ‘Wasn’t it to do with something, like, white people being in control and not letting black people go to the same schools and stuff? I don’t know the details, but my mum has a huge book on it.’
Ethan piped up next to her. ‘Miss, wasn’t it when the South African government separated the white people from the coloured people and black people because they thought white people were better?’
Ms Taylor nodded. ‘Well done, Ethan. It was a pretty terrible and inhumane system.’ The teacher turned around and switched on the projector, starting a documentary clip about the racist system that governed South Africa for decades. As she explained what happened over those forty-three years, Layla felt her mouth becoming dry.
How did people find it within themselves to be so awful to each other?
As the class finished up and the students began packing their bags for home time, Layla walked up to Ms Taylor’s desk. She was nervous, as they hadn’t quite got off on the right foot on their first day, but something had been playing on Layla’s mind.
‘Hey, miss.’
Ms Taylor looked up from her tablet, presumably she was checking the work they’d completed in class that day.
‘Yes?’ her voice was neutral. Better than icy, Layla thought. She must have been in an okay mood so Layla went for it.
‘How could something like that happen? How could people let that happen to other humans?’ she asked.
Ms Taylor put her tablet on the desk, which was bare except for a single ceramic cup containing her tablet’s stylus. Hmm, bejewelling is definitely not her vibe. Ms Taylor was a painstakingly neat and tidy individual. Her face betrayed little emotion as she carefully placed her hands on top of each other and looked up to Layla across her desk.
‘Well, it is quite complicated. Why do you think?’
Layla involuntarily took a step back. She wasn’t expecting to be asked her opinion. ‘Maybe it had something to do with South Africa?’
The teacher shook her head and clasped her hands together, threading her fingers and then bringing them up to her chin. She leaned forward, her chin on her hands, her elbows on the table.
‘But it’s not just in South Africa. You know this used to happen in Australia as well?’
Layla slowly nodded her head. ‘I mean, kinda. With Indigenous people?’
‘Well,’ Ms Taylor said, unthreading her fingers and shaking them out, then rubbing her hands on the tops of her thighs underneath the desk. Layla wondered why Ms T was moving about, agitated. She was usually so calm and collected.
Her hands stopped. ‘Well. Yes. When the British first came to Australia, they did a similar thing to the Indigenous or First Nations people who lived here. The government were being bullies and using their power to make other people do what they wanted.’
Layla gulped. She had heard the details about how modern Australia came to be, but the idea that adults could be bullies, like a grown-up version of Peter, was terrifying.
‘My grandmother was one of the peo
ple who suffered from their terrible policies. She was part of something called the Stolen Generation, where kids were taken from their mothers and put into missionaries. The government would then “own” them. It was a mess.’
Layla blinked furiously. She had no idea Ms Taylor had Indigenous ancestors. ‘Oh … wow. Miss. Miss. Does that mean you’re actually black too?’
Ms Taylor nodded. ‘Yes, Layla. Even though I might not look it, I’m as black as they come. My people, the Turrbal people, are from around here.’ The fine lines around Ms Taylor’s mouth creased as she smiled, bittersweet.
‘But that’s not why I’m telling you this. Because around the world there are all sorts of people who have done terrible things. History is full of awful stories of war, hurt and anger.’ The teacher took a deep breath. ‘But you know what else we can learn from history? You know why I teach the story of Nelson Mandela, or Madiba, as we black mob call him too?’
Layla shook her head.
‘Well, he’s famous for his twenty-seven years in prison, yes. He’s also famous for forgiving those who imprisoned him. He said that forgiveness liberates the soul and removes fear. He is a great example of how to move past the pain of someone who has hurt us, and work together.’ Her voice trailed off as she finished the sentence.
Ms Taylor looked down at her desk, seemingly lost in thought, and a silence fell between them. The quiet grew louder, and Layla looked around her. The classroom had emptied out completely. All that was left were chairs and tables, slightly crooked and sitting askew. As the silence stretched, a slight discomfort crept over Layla. She cleared her throat.
Ms Taylor started, looking up at Layla like she was only just seeing her.
‘Oh, Layla! You’re still here. You should head off now. Get home safely, dear.’
The teacher’s fingers quickly flitted over the desk, picking up the tablet and plucking the stylus out of the ceramic cup, turning to place them into the bag next to her feet.
Layla walked to her own bag, slipping her laptop into a pocket and slowly zipping up all the compartments. But Ms Taylor’s words rang in her head: forgiveness liberates the soul. It was easier said than done though. She walked from the classroom, waving a quick goodbye to Ms Taylor and out to the front of the school.
Easier said than done. How do you forgive someone who was so awful to you? Who pushed you over and then lied about it? Who could ruin your future? A whole group of people who watched while you got yelled at, humiliated, bullied? Madiba had been in jail for, like, twenty-seven years. Maybe it gets easier to forgive as you get older. Or maybe he was just a better man. Layla shook her head slightly, trying to clear her thoughts. Her hijab rustled around her ears, having loosened while she was running around at lunch.
Nah, she wasn’t going to forgive Peter. Not him. Never. She was going to find a way to beat him at the competition and show him, and everyone else, who was the boss. She had to win. She could forgive him after she’d beaten him.
CHAPTER 11
‘LAYLA! Layla!’
Layla was standing in front of the school gate, waiting to be picked up. Her parents were late, as usual. In the background, she heard her named being called, the sound slightly muffled by the tunes blasting out of her white earbuds into her ears. Mama was always yelling at her to turn the volume down. ‘You’ll be deaf before you’re twenty!’ she would scold Layla, who would just poke her tongue out with a retort.
‘Maybe that’ll be good, so I won’t have to listen to you!’
Layla pressed pause on the vintage iPod Nano, then pulled the right earbud out of her ear so it sat just below her earlobe, held to her jaw by the headscarf. The cheeky thing about wearing earphones with a hijab on was that no one knew you were wearing them. All the Lebanese girls at the Islamic School used to listen to music during school assemblies, their earphones hidden by their hijab. You could always tell though, if you looked closely – their fingers would be tapping along to a beat, even if their faces betrayed nothing.
‘Lay-la!’
The voice called again, but it wasn’t the voice of one of her classmates, or even an awful Cox. It was the voice of Mr Gilvarry.
‘Oh, hi, Mr Gilvarry! How are you doing?’
‘Good, Layla, and you?’
‘Alhamdulilah, I’m doing okay. I mean, I’m at school, and that’s a start! Better than last week at least.’
Gilvarry chuckled. ‘Yes, yes indeed. How are you going with those books I leant you?’
Layla groaned internally. The books! She had completely forgotten about them. They were sitting on her bedside table gathering dust – even more dust. She’d either have to fess up or lie to Mr Gilvarry. This thought made Layla remember the party Baba and Mama would never let her go to. Janey Mack, that party. She should probably tell Ethan. Layla quickly buried that thought. So much stuff to not think about.
Channel the jamel! she told herself, but that mantra wasn’t for the purpose of avoiding responsibilities, though it would have to do for now.
Layla tuned back into the conversation with her tech teacher. ‘Oh, sir! I haven’t had a chance to read them. In fact, my parents were so upset I was suspended that they made me do chores all week! They made me weed the patio.’
Gilvarry chuckled again. ‘Oh, the excuses! It’s okay, Layla, you don’t have to make things up–’
Layla was slightly relieved Mr Gilvarry wasn’t upset, but shocked that he didn’t believe her. She jumped in, ‘Oh, no, it’s not an excuse, sir, I am serious.’
Layla stuck out her hands to show the teacher her blisters. She was usually quite self-conscious about her chubby hands and thick fingernails, which never looked anything like the hands of people on TV, but now wasn’t the time to think about that.
‘All right, all right,’ he started to say, chuckling.
Layla was on a roll though and wasn’t about to stop. She touched the tips of her fingers to each other to emphasise her next point.
‘In fact, it was so much effort that I started researching whether or not there’s a machine that could pull the weeds out, ’cos if there isn’t, I could maybe invent something that will fix the problem, you know?’ Hands on hips, she took a deep breath and waited for her mentor’s response.
Gilvarry began to stroke his beard with his right hand, grasping at his chin and slowly pulling down. Layla was shocked the entire beard could fit in his one hand, but when scrunched together it wasn’t very much at all.
‘Quite the beard, isn’t it?’ he said.
Layla nodded.
‘Well, the first thing I’m thinking, young lady, is that you’ve got the right sort of perspective. Robotics should be used as something that fixes a problem needing to be fixed, not only something that would be “cool”. Everyone usually tries to build something like a real-life Pokémon, but what use would that be?’
Layla could think of many uses for a real-life Pokémon. They could help her catch the other ones, for a start …
Gilvarry continued: ‘My first thought was whether a robotics solution would be the best solution for the problem you’ve identified?’
Surely robotics was the correct solution for every problem. Baba was always talking about how in the future no one would have any jobs because machines would do everything. Except, of course, for the people who fixed the machines …
‘What do you mean, sir?’ she asked.
‘Well, I have a weed problem in my backyard. They’re shocking! They shoot up so very quickly and make my garden look like something out of the Forbidden Forest in Harry Potter.’ Gilvarry’s face gleamed in the afternoon sunlight as he smiled, his cheeks pink with sunburn and jolliness. ‘But do you think I spend hours weeding every week?’ he asked Layla, who shrugged, her eyebrows raised.
Mr Gilvarry tugged on his beard. ‘No, Layla, I don’t. I use a spray on the weeds once a month. It kills the nasty little things down to the roots so they shrivel up, and all I do at the end of the weekend is sweep them up and throw them in the bin.’
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Layla’s shoulders slumped, her school jacket bunching up around her shoulders. ‘Oh, so there is already a solution to the weeds issue.’ She sighed, a long, deep sigh that betrayed the exhaustion of the last few days. ‘God, why am I such a failure? I haven’t even properly started this project and I’m already behind.’
This competition was her way of showing the principal and the chair that she deserved to keep her scholarship. It was also her way of showing that boy Peter who was boss. But, ya-nhar-aswad, her big project idea was already dead!
‘Aye, there is one. But that doesn’t mean you can’t create another solution. Or, you can always think of another problem. Just because this one didn’t work out doesn’t mean you are a failure. It’s just part of the process of learning. It would be too easy if everything worked out from the beginning, wouldn’t it?’ Gilvarry smiled at the young hijabi again, then started, as if stung by a bee. ‘Oh! What time is it? Oh dear.’ Gilvarry looked down at his watch, then turned abruptly and started walking away, back up the path through the tall school gates. ‘I’ve got to run now, Layla,’ he called. ‘But just remember – failures make the story more interesting!’
Layla waved at her tech teacher, his trademark bus driver shorts and socks making him visible for miles. How do those long socks never fall down? she wondered, then turned back to look at the road, waiting for her ride. There was almost no one left, as most people had been picked up already and the school buses had left a while ago. A couple of meters away, a few students from the year below stood huddled together, looking down at their phones. Layla sighed, looking forlornly at the iPod Nano in her hands, which only held 250 songs. The metal case of the Nano was scratched and weathered, and only a slight hint of the original rose gold colour tint was visible. Layla ran her fingers over the little device, feeling the dents made by more drops than a dubstep bassline. Pressing play, she slipped the Nano back into her top jacket pocket, her hand brushing against the embroidered crest. Her hand then went up into her headscarf, repositioning the earbud back into her ear, so she could be enveloped by music once again. She was listening to Mama’s 90s playlist, and although she would never admit it to anyone, it was certainly her favourite. I’m a survivor …
You Must Be Layla Page 8
