by Clare Atkins
‘Don’t start this again,’ says Dad.
‘Mel reckons they’re hiring at KFC.’
‘They’re always hiring. Just concentrate on your studies.’
‘Can I concentrate on them now then? Instead of doing slave labour out here?’
Dad continues picking tiny red chillies and placing them in sandwich bags. ‘Slaves don’t get pocket money.’
‘Huh. Ten bucks a week.’
‘When I was your age –’
‘I know. You had no shoes. You only had rice for dinner.’
He scowls. ‘It’s not a joke.’
My phone’s ringtone finally sounds: Mmm, message from the dark side, there is. I hurry to get it out. But it’s only Will.
Dad’s eyes bore into me, as I read the text: Want to come over?
I hesitate, but then Dad mutters, ‘You’re lucky to have a phone at all.’
I throw my gloves to the ground. ‘Keep your ten bucks. I’m going for a run.’
KENNY
Frustration coils in my body, as Jonathan disappears into the house.
Minh shakes her head, ‘Why do you let him talk to you like that?’
‘What am I supposed to do?’ I know I sound annoyed, but I’d actually kill to know the answer.
Minh shrugs. ‘Use the chopstick.’
I have to laugh. ‘Are you joking? Jonathan’s taller than me.’
The chopstick is what our dad used on us when we were small. A quick smack on the hand or bum, and obedience was guaranteed. I tried it with Lara once, when she was about three years old, but Roxanne was quick to forbid it: ‘That’s not how parents do things here.’ So instead we talked about ‘acceptable behaviour’ and gave ‘time outs’. And Lara turned out alright, but Jonathan … I can’t help but wonder: if I’d used the chopstick on him, back when he was small enough to be scared of it, would I be having these problems now?
The front door of the house slams shut, as he heads out.
Minh asks in Vietnamese, ‘What was he saying about
KFC?’
‘He wants to work there.’
‘You mean become a manager?’
‘No –’
‘Being a manager is quite a good job.’
‘He doesn’t mean that –’
‘It’s not as good as engineering, but better than construction.’
I only just manage to stop myself biting back. She’s always needling me about dropping out of university for the quick dollars of Darwin’s building boom. We end up bickering like an old married couple. Sometimes I feel relief when she leaves and I hear the tinny motor of her scooter driving away. But then I picture her sitting alone, in her tiny apartment with only piles of junk for company, and feel bad.
Minh continues, ‘Construction is too unreliable. You injure your back, the work is gone.’
‘I don’t need it anyway. I’ve got a new job now.’
Minh just scowls. ‘That job is no good. Bad for the soul.’
I sneak a glance at my watch, the red second hand ticking oh-so-slowly around the white face.
ANA
Rivulets of sweat trickle down my neck onto my back. Zahra is on the walking machine next to mine, panting and red-faced despite the air-conditioning. She seems better today, although her long sleeves warn me not to assume anything.
At least she agreed to come to ‘Teenage Gym’ with me, even though she claims to hate it. The other activities – Computers, Art and the Excursion – were already booked out.
She grimaces, as we chat in Farsi. ‘It’s crazy that machines like this even exist.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A machine to make you walk on the spot? How much must one of these cost to make?’
‘Are you volunteering to walk outside in the hot sun?’
‘Sure. Just move the big fence and off I’ll go.’
I’m relieved to hear her joking again, even if her delivery is deadpan.
She presses a button on her walking machine, slowing the speed while checking the clock. ‘Thirty-five minutes to Mars Bar.’
My feet thud on the rubber in time with the pop music blaring from the TV in the corner. American music clips aren’t censored in Australia; five girls are jumping around onscreen in clothes that look like underwear. Maybe it is underwear.
‘Do you think normal girls in Australia wear things like that?’ I ask Zahra.
‘Some do. Haven’t you seen them changing for gym class at school?’
I have. Frilly matching underwear sets abound. I always feel self-conscious in my worn black bra and thin cotton pants, the same ones we were given when we arrived at Christmas Island. Mine are fraying now, with thin trails of cotton spooling from the edges like spider webs. I put in a request, but they wouldn’t give me new ones. ‘Still functional,’ the officer said. And, looking at the underwear on the women dancing onscreen, maybe they are; there’s more material left in them than they’re wearing, anyway.
I slow my machine to match Zahra’s pace.
The green-shirt calls to us from the back of the room. ‘Still half an hour to go if you want the two activity points. Don’t slack off now, ladies.’
JONO
I run through the backstreets and arrive at Will’s, panting and dripping with sweat.
He’s sitting by his pool, already high. He erupts into snorts of laughter at the sight of me. ‘What look are you going for there? Sports grunge?’
I got dressed quickly as I was bolting out the door; I’m wearing my old soccer shirt, boardies and a pair of mouldy runners that are at least a size too small. I tell him to shut up, as I take a seat by the glistening pool. I’m tempted to jump in, but settle for splashing my face with water. It’s as warm as a bath.
‘I can’t stay long. Told Dad I was going for a run.’
‘Well, that’d buy you a few hours, wouldn’t it? You’re pretty slow.’
‘Piss off.’ I check my phone again. Still nothing from Ana.
‘Where’s Mel?’ I ask.
‘At work. She said to find out if you wanted to apply.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Your dad?’
‘Got into another fight with him about it this morning.’
‘Did he see you in that povo outfit? That might’ve convinced him you need the cash.’
I know he’s joking, but the remark stings. I look at Will lounging back in his deckchair: his new boardies, designer sunnies, label T-shirt, easy grin. It’s not that I’m jealous of him – I’ve never had to be, because he shares. His whole family is incredibly generous. Tracy feeds me almost every morning, and Will’s dad, Tony, often shouts us movies and pizza. They’re always saying their house is my house. Except I know it’s not.
Will picks a pre-rolled doobie out of a bowl on the ground beside him. ‘Here’s a little something I prepared earlier.’
He lights up, takes a few lazy drags then passes it to me. ‘It’s been seriously good stuff lately. I’ve bought extra the last few times.’ He tosses a small sandwich bag holding fat heads of pot into my lap. ‘You can have that if you want.’
I don’t argue; my personal stash is running low. I stuff it in my pocket. ‘Thanks … Where’d you get the cash from?’
‘Saved up my pocket money.’ He gives me a wink. ‘It’s cheaper anyway. To buy a whole lot at once.’
‘In bulk?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘Better for resale too.’
My brain hurries to catch up. ‘So what – you’re selling now?’
‘Just a bit here and there.’
‘But … why? It’s not like you need the money.’
‘It’s fun.’ He gives me a lazy shrug. ‘And I can buy extra stuff. Like these sunnies.’
‘Yeah?’ A spark of possibility ignites in my brain. ‘What kind of profit do you make?’
Will pulls out his phone and walks me through the numbers. I’ve never seen him do maths so fast, apart from calculating the odds in sport.
My eyes widen at the final figure o
n his screen. ‘Shit. That’s not bad.’
‘You want to help?’
‘I think, maybe, I do … just sometimes … yeah …’
Will grins. ‘Cool.’
ANA
We wait in the queue for the shop. When we finally get to the front, Zahra tells the officer her boat number then mine.
‘Two Mars Bars, please.’
I jump in quickly. ‘Sorry – one only.’
She frowns. ‘That one better be for me.’
‘It is.’
The officer gets a half-melted chocolate bar from the back of the shop and shoves it towards Zahra. ‘Next!’
I hurry to blurt it out: ‘One phone card, please.’
‘Sorry, sold out. Try tomorrow. Next!’ We’re bustled out of the way, as the people behind us push forwards.
Zahra narrows her eyes. ‘What’s the phone card for? You’re not calling him, are you?’ My blush confirms it, and she shakes her head. ‘You’re crazy.’
‘I’m not doing anything wrong.’
‘I don’t get it. Why do you like him so much?’
I struggle to put it into words. ‘He … treats me like … a normal person. An Australian.’
She almost laughs. ‘But you’re not. Do you think Australians live like this? We’re the lowest of the low here. Worse than peinshahr.’
Her words cut close to the truth, but I say, ‘That’s nothing to do with Jono.’
‘His dad’s an officer.’
‘One of the good ones – you said so yourself. And Jono’s good too.’
‘He’s a Soc.’
‘You don’t even know him, Zahra. If anything, he’s more like Ponyboy. He’s sensitive and smart. And I don’t think his dad’s rich at all.’
‘Yeah, but he’s got privileges. Freedom. Rights. He might have worries, but I bet he’s never been scared for his life. Which means he’s a Soc. He’ll never understand what it’s like to be us.’
Ever since I arrived, Zahra’s been the authority, the one who’s been here longer and knows more. But this time I challenge her. ‘How do you know? You’re not even friends with any Australians.’ Zahra hardly mixes with the mainstream kids. She holds herself apart.
She hesitates, then says, ‘Remember, I had Music with Mel last year.’
It takes me a moment to work out who she’s talking about. ‘Jono’s friend?’
She nods. ‘We used to sit together in class. Then the school held a Year 9 dance and I was so excited – they were going to let us out for it – but I didn’t have anything to wear. The officers wouldn’t help, and I didn’t have money to buy something on the black market. So I made the mistake of asking my Australian ‘friend’, Mel, if she owned any dresses. It was like lighting a match. She was furious. She thought I was making fun of her dressing like a boy. And my English wasn’t good enough. Before I could explain, all this hatred came pouring out. She said at least she had a mind of her own, unlike Muslim women, who are so oppressed that even the boat people pluck their eyebrows.’ Her voice is shot through with pain. ‘She couldn’t see … or listen … or understand … that this’ – she gestures towards her immaculate eyebrows – ‘is a small freedom. One little thing I can control. That I choose this the same way she chooses shorts over skirts.’
I ache for her. I ache for me.
‘What about the formal?’
‘I didn’t go. The only clothes I had were the ones they give us in here. I couldn’t show up like that. I wanted to feel like a normal teenager … even if just for one night.’
Her words feel like an echo of my heart.
I remember …
… kissing Maman goodbye, as Yasmin and I head out the door.
Abdul stands behind her, holding my new baby brother, Arash.
It is a relief to pull the door closed behind us as we go.
Outside, the air is warm and sticky. Yasmin grins, conspiratorially. ‘Are you wearing something different under that?’
I am.
She takes me to her friend’s apartment, my first underground concert. We shed our hijabs and a layer of clothes at the door.
Yasmin gives my singlet top and short skirt an approving nod. The room is pulsing with bodies and beats. We push through them towards the makeshift stage. There’s a woman rapping about the oppression of forced marriage.
I stand still, listening with an open mouth.
Yasmin tugs at my hand and we start to move, laugh, dance.
I feel completely alive …
I look back at Zahra, and take her hand. ‘I’m sorry that happened with Mel. And I’m sorry you couldn’t go.’
Her eyes are watery, but she forces a smile. ‘Maybe this year.’
‘For sure.’ I want to entertain her dream. ‘What do you think it feels like? That kind of freedom?’
She thinks for a moment, then says, ‘I think it feels like … jumping into a clear pool of water. Or falling through a star-filled sky.’
JONO
I run home through a monsoonal downpour of rain. It strips the humidity from the air. The earth smells steamy and rich. My mouldy runners slap through puddles, sending up showers of muddy spray. My clothes and hair are soaking, but I don’t care. Will’s sandwich bag of pot is safe and dry in my pocket.
I’ve been out ages; Dad has texted more than once. I messaged back that it had started raining and I’d stopped in at Nightcliff Library to read. I’ve learnt that half-truths are more likely to be believed than complete lies.
The rain eases, as I run across Trower Road, dodging the cars.
I stop and check my phone for the hundredth time today. Still no call from Ana. But in my stoned state even the thought of her makes me smile.
I jog the last block home, as the sky erupts in a riot of pinks and reds.
ANA
The clouds are on fire, and there’s a pale crescent of moon. I stare up at it from the Wickham Point playground, as Arash does laps of the slide. He clambers up the steps and swooshes down the smooth blue plastic, before running back around and doing it all over again.
Zahra and Jamileh sit talking on a bench nearby. Jamileh has her sister Shadi’s baby cradled in her arms. ‘He sleeps so much during the day, but at night …’ Her words are slow and deliberate, as if even the effort of stringing them together is almost too much.
‘Do you think you’ll be able to come back to school?’ asks Zahra.
‘I don’t know. I want to but …’ Jamileh trails off.
I know the ‘buts’; I’m all too aware her situation could soon be mine.
Zahra catches my worried frown and says, ‘Don’t worry, Ana. I already heard my mum telling your mum she’ll help when the baby comes.’
We’re distracted by an argument erupting near the swings. Some little kids face off against each other, one versus two.
‘Are you playing or not?’ The ‘one’ has her hands on her bony little hips. She couldn’t be more than eight. ‘If you want to play you have to look sad. You’re the detainees. We’re the officers. If you don’t look sad we’ll send you to Nauru.’
The other two decide they’d better comply. They sit huddled together on the fake grass and pretend to cry, while the boss-girl marches around them yelling orders.
When I look back at Jamileh, there are tears trickling down her cheeks. ‘I’m scared they’ll send us back there now the baby’s born. I’ve heard people talking … that pregnant woman upstairs from us even tried to kill herself last night …’
Zahra says, ‘I hate seeing babies in here, let alone thinking about what it must be like for them on Nauru.’ There is a hardness to her voice I haven’t heard before. But she doesn’t say anything to try to ease Jamileh’s fears; the reality is that none of us know where we’ll be tomorrow, let alone next month.
An Afghani woman appears and calls the children back to their rooms. All three of them disappear.
Jamileh stands. ‘I should get back too.’
‘I’ll come,’ says Zahra.
‘One more, Anahita. One more.’
My friends give me amused and sympathetic looks as they leave.
We are alone now, just me and Arash. In the distance, I see dark specks of birds flying home for the night. I make my eyes go blurry so the fences dissolve into dusk. It is almost beautiful. I take a deep breath in.
When I focus my eyes again, the birds are overhead. Their silhouettes are ragged, like pieces of dark cloth fluttering in the sky. They are noisy, screeching, raucous. They are not birds at all. They’re bats.
A shiver runs down my spine, as if a cold breeze has blown into my body and out the other side.
In a flash, I see myself …
… walking along the street in the grey light of afternoon.
Omid, a boy I like from school, keeps pace with me on the footpath on the other side of the road.
We smile at each other over the passing cars.
I look up, and see racing pigeons wheeling through the pale brown sky.
Something pointed and metal presses into my back.
Omid’s expression has changed. He looks fearful.
I know that it is a gun …
My whole body is shaking as I hurry to the slide. ‘We have to get back, Arash. It’s time to go inside.’
He takes hold of my hand, as we walk back towards the rooms.
I hear his small voice: ‘When are we going to Australia, Ana?’
I squeeze his fingers gently. ‘Soon, Arash. Soon.’
JONO
I wake to the feel of light cotton sheets soft on my legs. The warm air from the fan caresses me from above. I hear the chirping of cicadas outside and slowly open my eyes.
I’m in my room. My phone is on the bedside drawers. And it’s ringing. Shit, it’s ringing. I snatch it up.
No Caller ID.
‘Hello?’
Her voice swells to fill the line. ‘Jono? Is that you? I wake you up?’
‘No … no. It’s fine. How are you?’
There’s a pause, then I can hear a grin in her voice, as she says, ‘Do you want Australian answer?’
