“Exactly,” my mum says.
“Yeah but you got to swear!” Yasmeen says.
“That’s right,” I add. “We’ve been deprived of your number one secret weapon.”
Our mothers look at us, grin, and then tell us, Aunt Cassandra in Urdu and my mum in Arabic, to grow up.
During the week I catch the train to Leila’s house. Yasmeen is there when I arrive. Every time the three of us get together, we hug and scream hello like we haven’t seen each other in months.
Almost immediately Leila’s mum insists we eat “a snack” and starts shovelling food down our throats.
“Amal, you have not eat any sheekon,” she scolds me.
“This is my second piece, Aunty.” (Leila’s mum is another quasi aunt.)
“You no like my sheekon,” she moans.
“It’s delicious, honest.”
“Then have more piece.” She serves another helping on to my plate, adding rice and salad because I don’t think this woman would wake up tomorrow if I ate chicken without rice and salad.
“Yasmeen, you want bread?” Before Yasmeen answers, Leila’s mum puts a round of pide bread on Yasmeen’s plate. Yasmeen and I look at each other in exasperation and Leila wails to her mum to stop feeding us like we’ve just broken the forty-hour famine.
“Amal is good girl,” Leila’s mum says, darting a look at Yasmeen. “She wear hijab. She good girl.”
Yasmeen ignores the stares and continues eating.
“It’s only a piece of material, Aunty,” I say through gritted teeth. “What’s in your heart is what counts.”
I could have been speaking in Spanish. She puts another spoon of salad on my plate, pats my shoulder and says: “Why you no wear it too, Yasmeen? Be good girl like Amal.”
“I’m allergic,” Yasmeen says as she takes a bite of food.
“Pah! No excuse. More reward for you. Don’t you want to be good girl and go to heaven?”
“Mama!” Leila cries. “Stop with the bogus preaching will you! Leave Yasmeen alone, for crying out loud.”
“Don’t you yell at me, Leila! You so rude. So rude sometime. Ya Allah! Please bless my daughter and make her good girl. Don’t punish her. I forgive her, Allah. She make me cry every night. Give me migraine. Oh, big migraine. But I forgive her. No punish her please.” She sneaks a look at Leila, but she’s washing down her food with Coke, flipping through the TV guide.
Her mum walks off into the lounge room, still moaning about a migraine.
Soon after, the kitchen door is thrown open and Leila’s brother, Sam, who was born Hakan but has been calling himself Sam since high school, comes in.
“Hey,” he mutters, nodding at us as he opens the fridge.
“Hi,” we say, our conversation ending abruptly.
“What’s to eat, Leila? I’m starving. Make me a plate.”
“It’s on the stove in front of you. There’s chicken and rice and salad.”
He slowly turns to look at her. “Don’t give me attitude and don’t think you’re too good because your friends are here. I said make me a plate. I’m going to get changed. Leave my plate in the oven. And where’s my blue shirt? Mum better have ironed it. I’ve gotta be in the city in an hour.”
He gives her a threatening look and storms out upstairs.
“Jerk,” Leila mutters, getting up to serve out a plate for him, her face pink with embarrassment. “Shit-faced pig. Ya Allah, I don’t know how I’m related to this idiotic family.”
We don’t say anything, only sit at the table, awkwardly playing with our food.
“I’ll give him all the leg pieces because he loves the breast,” Leila whispers. “I’ll hide the rest in the back of the fridge. He’s too lazy to look there anyway. And he doesn’t need the tomatoes and cucumbers in the salad. I’ll just pick them out like so and leave him with the lettuce. Hurry up and drink that Coke, girls. We don’t want to leave any now, do we?” She turns to us and grins. “I can get my own back, don’t worry!”
Five minutes later we’re in Leila’s room, clutching our stomachs and groaning about how we ate like buffaloes.
“She would have cried if you refused another helping,” Leila tells us. “It’s her one pleasure in life, feeding people. Thank God I’ve got good genes or I’d be arriving at school in a truck.”
Yasmeen sits in a beanbag and starts playing DJ with Leila’s stereo.
“Leila!” Leila’s mum calls out.
“Yes, Mama?”
“Come vacuum.”
“Can’t Hakan do it?” Leila cries back limply.
“Eh?” she snaps, storming in to the bedroom. “Why your brother do it when he have sister?”
“Because the last time I saw, he wasn’t a quadriplegic and it’d be nice to know he does something around here apart from farting and channel surfing!” Leila’s fuming, her eyes popping out with anger. Yasmeen and I dart looks at each other. It’s always uncomfortable sitting in somebody’s home while they do battle in the family war zone.
“Don’t talk big English to me. Don’t think I no understand what you say . . . you fart too.”
We all burst out laughing and Leila’s mum raises her eyebrows at Leila.
“Vacuum. Now.” She walks out and Leila punches her pillow.
“See what I have to put up with?”
“A farting brother?” Yasmeen says, giving her a hug.
We laugh, knowing that there’s not much to say except to reassure her it will all be OK, even though we’re not so sure of that ourselves.
11
In school the next day, at lunch time I go to the girls’ toilets to do my wuduh before prayer. As I’m washing my feet Tia walks in with Rita Mason. I ignore them.
“What are you doing?” Tia asks me in a mocking tone.
“What does it look like?”
“I don’t know. You’re not walking in the desert, you know. We do have shoes in this country.”
I ignore her. “I’m washing for prayer.”
“Oh! Looks a bit complicated. You actually wash your feet, just so you can, ah, what was it, pray?”
I stand up to my full height, one sock off, one sock on. Very dignified.
“That’s right. See, Tia, I wash my feet five times a day. So that means that at any given time of the day, my feet are cleaner than your face.”
“Touchy!” she snarls, storming off with Rita.
“Are you putting your name down for debating?” I ask Simone as we walk to the school gates to wait for the bus.
“Uh-uh.” Simone shakes her head. “Way too stressful. We’ve got enough work as it is. And getting up in front of all those people? Ew, gives me the creeps. Especially rebuttal. I hate when you’ve got, like, five minutes to come up with a way to knock their arguments. I’m too busy panicking about whether my hands will shake or my voice will crack.”
“Oh come on! You’re brilliant at English and Legal Studies.”
“No way,” she says, looking flustered.
“Why?”
“Dunno. Too embarrassed. Everybody staring at the fat chick with a rebuttal argument.”
“Simone!” I growl. “Don’t say that about yourself! It’s all in your head. Nobody’s thinking that. You’ve got to learn to love yourself!”
Simone pretends to choke. “Amal, get over yourself. You’re not Oprah.”
“Well then stop with the ‘I look like Roseanne’ routine.”
“And you’re not Dr Phil either. Why don’t you try for the debating? You’ve got the big mouth for it anyway!”
“Thanks, Simone. Really convincing argument.” We laugh and she jabs me in my side. Then she suddenly stops clowning and hisses to me: “Josh’s coming our way. . . Oh my God, is my hair OK? Do I look OK?”
“Course you do!” I say quickly. We pretend
to be engrossed in conversation and act surprised to see him when he approaches us.
“Hey girls!” he says cheerfully.
“Hi, Josh,” we say in unison.
“TGI Friday, hey?”
“Tell me about it.” Simone shifts her bag on to her other shoulder. “This week has just dragged.”
“This weekend is going to drag for me,” he groans.
“Why?” I ask.
“My sister’s wedding.”
“Cool,” Simone says. “Should be fun.”
“You think? I’m going to be kissed by a bunch of ageing relatives with bad breath and opinions on what colour socks I should wear with my suit.”
“That is bad,” I say.
“And I’m going to get so harassed about school and exams. What TER score I’m hoping for, which unis I can get in to and all that crap.” He rolls his eyes. “And my grandma is going to push her nannies’ club on to me.”
I shudder. “I hate when the oldies gang up on you.”
“I know! I get people from my parents’ stupid yacht club ganging up on me!” Simone cries. “Asking me in their fake British accents whether I want to follow in my mum’s footsteps. Like I really want to be a rich housewife who drives a four-wheel drive to the supermarket and spends the day doing Pilates or maxing out a credit card on green organza napkins because Sarah Murdoch or some other high-profile supermodel thinks it’s so hip darling.”
Josh bursts out laughing and Simone blushes slightly.
“Why have they got fake accents?” I ask incredulously.
“Holiday in London. They come back thinking they’ve developed a sexy Beckham voice. Losers!”
I notice the way Josh’s eyes light up as he looks at Simone. She’s positively glowing.
“So what’s the nannies’ club going to do to you?” I ask.
“For sure they’ll interrogate me about what I think of all the female guests. Do I have a girlfriend? What’s my type? Do I like long or short hair? Orthodox or secular? Does she have to keep Sabbath?”
“So do they arrange a girlfriend for you?” Simone asks.
“No! No way!” he says quickly. “They’ve tried but there’s no way. They don’t know my type anyway.” I could swear he looks her in the eye when he says this and my heart skips a beat for her. I want to walk away and leave them to talk but before I can make up an excuse to do the bolt Simone breaks the silence. I can tell she’s embarrassed and unsure of herself.
“So who’s your sister marrying?” she asks him.
He appears distracted but then he shakes his head and smiles. “Don’t even ask.”
“Why?” I ask. “You don’t like him?”
“He’s just really religious.” He stops and looks at me sheepishly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to have a go at you.”
I smile at him. “Don’t be silly. So is he an orthodox Jew?”
“Man, he’s ultra orthodox. And my family are secular Jews. Tamara’s always been really relaxed about religion but now she’s really strict.”
“How d’you mean?” Simone asks.
“Since they got engaged, she gets really aggro when we don’t follow Sabbath.”
“Observant Jews won’t do anything that’s considered work on the Sabbath,” I explain to Simone.
“That’s right – so her fiancé doesn’t use any electricity. He doesn’t turn on light switches or the TV and stuff. Doesn’t drive, write, shave, carry anything. Doesn’t tear toilet paper even!”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of that,” Simone says.
“He cuts a roll of toilet paper the day before and has it ready for the next day. Tamara’s been trying to follow it too. She sits in front of the TV on Thursday night and tears the toilet paper and piles it up and Dad cracks these jokes which just make her go crazy.”
“Yeah, I guess she would if she’s the only one in her family practising her religion,” I say. “Is she going to wear the wig?”
“The sheital, you mean,” Simone corrects me.
“Wow!” Josh says. “How come you know that?”
“Simone knows heaps about other religions,” I boast. “Don’t you, Simone?”
She coughs and sneaks a stern look at me. “Er . . . I try. She has to wear it once she gets married, right?”
“Yeah,” Josh says. “Solomon, that’s her fiancé, really wants her to.”
“Somebody’s waving to you over there,” Simone says. “In that car.” He turns around to look and then picks his bag up from the floor.
“My cousin. He’s a big shit-stirrer too. The whole family’s going to be talking now.” He grins at me. “We’ve got a family dinner tonight for Tamara. It will definitely be interesting.”
“Why would your family be talking?” I ask.
“Yeah? What’s so interesting?” Simone adds.
“It’s talking with a Muslim girl kind of interesting,” he says. I glance over to his cousin, who has a puzzled frown on his face.
“Add Palestinian,” Simone says.
“Do you want me to wave?” I ask.
“Yeah, Amal, actually, please do.” Josh walks towards the car and as I wave at him I meet his cousin’s open-mouthed stare. I smile cheerfully but his cousin dodges my gaze, turning his head to look out the window. Josh stops in front of the door and is about to get in when he runs back to us.
“Hey Simone, did you get those notes on that Orwell book, Nineteen Eighty-Four, in English today?”
“Er . . . yeah. . .” she stammers. “I did. Do you need them?”
“I took them down but boy was Mr Pearse racing through it, so I didn’t get it all. Do you reckon I can go over them with you on Monday at recess? We’ve got that test coming up and I’m so screwed. My notes are so bad.”
“Yeah . . . sure . . . no problem.”
“Cool.” He races off and gets into the car, slapping his cousin good-naturedly on the back as he rolls down his window.
“Hey girls!” he calls out.
“Yeah?”
“We’ll continue our discussion about Israel’s secret operations in the West Bank on Monday, and you can finish leaking info about the PLO! Have a great weekend!”
We erupt into a giggling fit as we notice the furious scowl spreading across Josh’s cousin’s face. He slams his foot on the accelerator and screeches off.
Simone and I look at each other then start jumping up and down and squealing with delight like two kids in front of an ice cream shop.
12
It just kind of happens. Adam and Josh become part of our little group. Not every recess or every lunch time. But when they’re not in the library or playing sport with the guys, they sometimes sit with us. I emphasize the word sometimes because there is no routine or predictability to it. Therefore, whenever the lunch bell rings I need a Panadol because a million thoughts rush through my head. Three of those million are as follows:
1.(The bell rings.) Is Adam going to join us? Is Adam going to join us? Is Adam going to join us? What is the purpose of living if Adam is not going to join us?
2.(The bell rings.) Do I have time to put some lipgloss on, curl my eyelashes and make it to the oval, and if I do the aforementioned, do I risk him already having gone to the oval, not seeing me there and walking off?
3.(The bell rings.) What if I’m eating my sandwich and he happens to join us right at the moment I’m taking a huge chunk out of it? What if there’s food stuck in my teeth? (Yesterday Simone, Eileen and I decided that we’d use code to help each other out. If we say “Big Brother” it means that there’s an urgent need for you to pick your teeth. If we say the word “Survivor” it means that you are safe.)
On second thoughts, perhaps I need more than one Panadol.
Eileen is away sick today so at lunch time Simone and I are sitting by ourselves under a tree next to t
he football oval. Our attention is absorbed in a magazine article about “overcoming your body hang-ups” and how “flabby arms should be no obstacle to loving the inner you”. As further reinforcement of this tabloid wisdom, the article features a model in a size six bikini with about as much flab as a foetus. Suddenly Adam and Josh approach us from across the oval and Simone immediately hisses “Big Brother”. I do some pretty impressive quick-pick-teeth action and flash her a huge smile. She nods reassuringly at me and my heart resumes its normal beat. Josh and Adam then plant themselves down next to us and Simone and I put the magazine aside.
“Hey, can I have a look?” Josh asks Simone.
“Are you serious? It’s a Cosmo.”
“Yeah, so? My sister used to have them all over the house.” Simone passes him the magazine and he opens it.
“Adam, man, check this chick out.” Adam leans over the page and I glance at Simone who is suddenly looking uncomfortable and shy.
“Yeah, she’s hot!” Adam says.
“Bull crap!” Josh cries. “She looks like she’s about to snap in two. Mate, you could be sneezing in another suburb and she’d fall flat from the impact.”
It’s funny how a person’s body can ignore internal messages. I’m pretty sure Simone is silently ordering her mouth to stay neutral but it is stubbornly ignoring her and widening into a massive grin.
“Do they have any of those quizzes?” Josh asks.
“Yeah,” Simone says, “but this edition is about whether you’re a social butterfly or a wallflower.”
“OK, ask me the questions and let’s check out what score I get.”
“Man, what are you doing?” Adam asks, punching Josh in the arm.
“Getting in touch with my feminine side,” he says in a high-pitched tone, batting his eyelashes flirtatiously at Adam.
“Let’s see how you score then!” Simone says, opening the magazine. “OK, Josh, question one: your high heels are giving you excruciating blisters. Do you a) sit down; b) go home; c) continue partying – nothing’s going to stop you from getting on the dance floor!”
Does My Head Look Big in This? Page 9
