Does My Head Look Big in This?

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  “You are such a liar!”

  He roars with laughter. “You asked for it. I bet you’ve been expecting some corny, tear-jerking crappy story with some Bryan Adams sop song playing in the background.”

  “Yeah! Something juicy, you know? What you just gave me is the kind of B-grade movie script that never gets a cinematic release and is screened at, like, eleven p.m. on a Saturday night some time in December.”

  “Don’t bag those December late-night movies. I saw my first Sylvester Stallone movie then. . . Hey, I’ve got something juicy to divulge! But it stays between you and me, eh?”

  “Swear on the Koran.”

  “Deal. I saw a shrink. Can you believe it? A shrink! How tripping is that? Dad and Charlene sent me to see one a couple of years back. Because they thought it’d be so hard for me to adjust to the whole idea of Charlene and they said I needed closure or whatever stupid term they use about my mum pissing off on us.”

  “What was it like?”

  “The shrink kept trying to suggest that I felt guilty about my mum leaving and that I couldn’t admit to it. Far out, he couldn’t get that I’ve never felt guilty. Not once. Why should I feel guilty? I was seven! And the shrink kept saying that if I couldn’t face up to my guilt I’d find it hard to trust women and have a meaningful relationship. Who was he kidding? It was as simple as me being bloody pissed off and that’s never changed. I lasted two sessions.”

  “Only two?”

  “Yeah, he pissed me off. Plus, he picked his nose when he thought I wasn’t looking. Lost his credibility for ever.”

  At the start of semester I wouldn’t have been able to imagine having a whole opening up/sharing secrets/D & M session with Adam Keane. But not only are we gossiping on the phone, he’s actually confiding in me about his own family secrets.

  According to my extensive research based on literary articles in Dolly, Cleo and Cosmo, the number one problem with the male species is their inability to communicate and share their feelings. After tonight I plan to write to all these magazines and inform them that my friendship with Adam Keane has discredited their theories and put the whole Venus/Mars philosophy to shame.

  “So you didn’t tell me what you think about Josh and Simone,” Adam says. “I waited for you to bring it up at school all day but you didn’t so I take it you think it’s a bad idea?”

  “No! Not at all! I was waiting for you to bring it up.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Never mind,” I sigh.

  OK, I might hold off on that letter as I believe Mars and Venus might still have their merits. I might just approach a publisher instead and ask them to invest in a how-to manual for decoding guys’ text messages with a prologue written by some psychologist.

  “Anyway, did Josh mention, er, is he interested in Simone?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Oh come off it, Adam. Why would you message me then?”

  “Well, is Simone interested in Josh?”

  “I don’t know . . . she’s never said anything to me.”

  Ahem.

  “I reckon there’s something between them,” he says. “But she’s so shy. I mean, when she breaks out of her shell she’s funny and outgoing and Josh, in my opinion, I mean, he would be attracted to her at those times.”

  “Well, so he should be! She’s smart and funny and gorgeous and caring and—”

  “OK, Amal, I get it. Talk about hard-core marketing.”

  “Oh yeah? And what about Josh? Haven’t you got anything to say about him?”

  “Yeah, he’s the only guy I know who can beat me at Daytona.”

  “That it? That’s how you promote your friend?”

  He chuckles. “I was stirring you. I’m not going to sit here and do a public relations campaign for him. He’s your friend too; you know he’s a top bloke.”

  “So be honest then. Is he going to ask her out?”

  “How should I know? Even if I did, I know what girls are like. You’re going to call Simone and Eileen within one second of hanging up the phone and start attacking our conversation like vultures on a Colonel fillet burger.”

  “We are not!”

  “Oh yeah right! Every tone in my voice, every word and sentence and pause is going to be analysed to death. You’re going to delegate lines to each other and come back and brief each other about the meanings.”

  “You’re so full of it!”

  “OK, Amal,” he says, laughing at me. “I’ll let you go now. Be sure to tell them that when I use prepositions in my sentences it means I’m buying time to think up ways to mislead you about Josh.”

  “Oh just shoosh!”

  After I hang up I sit on my hands for fifteen minutes, wondering if I should call Eileen.

  Oh stuff it! I think, reaching for the phone. He’s probably calling Josh anyhow.

  As I go to dial her number my phone beeps an incoming message: MAKE SURE 2 SAY HI 2 THEM 4 ME.

  26

  On my way to prayer I go to see Mr Pearse for help on an assignment. After we’ve finished I stand up to leave and he asks me to remain seated. He wants to “talk”. Teachers don’t talk. They either lecture or advise or recite a rhyme or an analogy. They do not simply “talk”.

  He leans back in his chair, scratching the bald patch on his head. I wonder if he’s married or has children. There’s a ring on his finger but you can never be too sure. I’ve heard some guys wear rings just so they can pick up (Girlfriend, Edition no. 56).

  “Amal, let’s have a chat about how you’re coping.”

  “Er . . . coping with what?”

  “School, class, Tia.” He smiles at me and I shrug my shoulders.

  “I’m fine. School work’s making me age prematurely, but that’s called education.”

  “Oh, I completely agree.”

  “I’ve also started taping myself reading out my essays and I go to sleep listening to an essay on the Cold War, thinking it will sink in. Like I’m some smoking addict listening to a Quit tape.”

  He chuckles and shakes his head. “Impressive. You’re capable of getting top marks in VCE. You can be anything you want to be.”

  Oh my goodness he’s going all To Sir with Love on me.

  “You think?”

  “Of course I do. Why? Don’t you?”

  “Yeah I guess. . .”

  “How are you coping with other things? Have people been giving you a hard time . . . about your veil?”

  Don’t tell me we’re doing the counselling thing!

  “No. Everything’s fine.”

  I avoid eye contact and stare down at my shoes. There is no way I’m getting sucked into a one-on-one “tell me how you feel” session.

  “If you experience an iota of prejudice I want you to inform me immediately, Amal. Got it?”

  “Yep.”

  “As I said, I have every faith that you will achieve your goals if you work hard and stand up for yourself when challenges arise.”

  “Thanks, Mr Pearse.”

  “OK, well, you can go now.”

  “Thanks.”

  I drop off to sleep that night thinking about what Mr Pearse said to me. About achieving my goals and being anything I want to be. Ever since I wore the hijab I’ve been feeling pretty scared.

  Even if I get the marks I need to get in to the best uni course, assuming I can decide which one I want to do, I probably couldn’t find a casual job now. So what about later on? Look, I’m not some whinging conspiracy theory victim who blames red traffic lights and rainy days when you forget your umbrella on “prejudice”. But you hear stories, you know? Friends who get top marks in university and then when they get up in front of an interview panel they find the interviewers choking on their bottled water because the candidate is wearing hijab.

  I wonder sometimes wh
ere I’ll get my answers from. At Hidaya we were all going through the same thing. Whenever we felt like a mishmash of identities and started to wonder what our place was here, there was Mr Aziz telling us we didn’t need to apologize for our heritage. Sometimes I just don’t know what to think and I can’t even be bothered trying to work it out. I know one thing though. There’s nothing scarier than fearing your future won’t live up to all you’ve dreamed it to be.

  “So Mum comes into my room and shows me a photo of this Turkish guy, lives in Adelaide,” Leila tells me on the telephone.

  “Résumé?”

  “Twenty-five, mechanic, looking for sweet, innocent housewife. Willing to move to Melbourne. Prefers brunettes. Mum was quick to assure him that I have brown hair and can cook and clean.”

  “Excellent press agent.”

  “Cream of the crop.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Told her I had homework and to leave me alone, but that if he needed a lawyer in several years’ time, he was welcome to call.”

  “She must have flipped.”

  “She has her approaches. Sometimes she has a hernia. Other times she tries to reason with me. You think you lawyer you get job with hijab? Who take you? Why you want work hard for nothing? They see your hijab and they refuse.”

  “Someone will employ us,” I say.

  “I wouldn’t fight so hard if I didn’t believe that someone wasn’t out there.”

  I pause and then it hits me. “Me either.” And I mean it.

  27

  In English Mr Pearse announces the teams for the last two debating rounds. So far our Year Eleven teams have won two out of three debates. I’m teamed up with Adam and Josh and our names are down for the last debate, which is at the beginning of November, about a month away. Claire, Rita and Kishion are competing in the fourth round. I peek a glance at Tia. She is pouting angrily at Claire and Rita.

  Josh, Adam and I meet up at lunch time to start preparing our debate because we want to get it all out of the way so we’re left to kill ourselves over our end-of-year exams when they come up. Josh is eating a gorgonzola and salami sandwich. We need oxygen masks. One kid enters the room, takes a sniff, asks who farted then walks out.

  “I learnt my lessons young,” I tell Josh, holding up my odourless (and tasteless) cheese and lettuce sandwich.

  “I didn’t,” Adam grins, taking out his lunch. “I’ve got leftovers from last night.”

  “Whatigit?” It’s interesting how cheese and salami, when mashed together in somebody’s wide-open mouth, can produce a rainbow of colours.

  “Who cares! You just made me lose my appetite.”

  Josh swallows his food down in a gulp and grins sheepishly. “Sorry man. I’m just so starving. I tried to eat my chips in class but Mr Piper busted me.”

  “I’ve got garlic chicken pizza. It’s fatal.”

  “You guys are gross! There are some things you just avoid eating at school.”

  We spend ages talking about food, swapping “the most I ever ate” stories until Adam looks at the time. We finally end up discussing the debate and start preparing our speeches. Adam and I get into about fifty-five arguments about the team line-up and theme until Josh tells us to shut up or he’ll burp.

  Each of us has a practice run and we boss each other around with hints and tips until we’ve all pretty much established that we think we’re top and know what we’re on about.

  “Hey Adam,” I say after the bell rings and we’re packing up our things to go to class.

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you watch that doco last night on SBS about the Taliban?”

  Adam looks at me dumbfounded. “Is this a. . .?” His voice trails off.

  “Nope!”

  He looks at me suspiciously, and then we break out into these big goofy grins. We don’t stop talking all the way to class, swapping ideas and arguments and theories and big, impressive words. We pass each other notes in Maths and Mr Loafer swipes one off our desk and demands to know how our note about the government’s asylum-seeker policy has anything to do with our Maths class.

  “Er . . . it doesn’t add up?” Adam answers, kicking my foot under the table as we try to keep a straight face.

  Adam follows me out of last period and walks with me to the bus stop.

  “Look,” he says after a couple of minutes of chitchat, “I’ve got this party at my house on Friday night. It’s kind of my birthday.”

  “Kind of your birthday? What, you couldn’t decide if it is or isn’t?”

  “Shut up, OK. It’s my birthday. Can you . . . can you come?”

  I take a deep breath.

  “It’s complicated. Is it one of those . . . is it one of those parties where everybody gets blind drunk and takes turns throwing up in the pot plants?”

  “No! No, it’s not. It’s just a group of friends coming over. Mainly from school, some from my weekend soccer club. Food, music. We have to have alcohol, but it’s not like one of those parties.”

  Almost every weekend somebody throws a party. I’m usually invited and I’ve been to a couple but to be honest it’s not much fun if you don’t drink. When you’re sober the jokes aren’t as funny and you have to pretend to be in hysterics when everybody is pissing themselves laughing over a leaf on somebody’s shoe or something. Simone hates them because finding something to wear is her nightmare and then she spends the night thinking everybody is making fun of her. We dance a little but to be honest we’re so self-conscious that we end up doing a little step to the side and back thing, which is about as uncool as you can get. That was all without my hijab. Unless I’m going to a costume party, I don’t really think I’m going to fit in very well. But then again, it is Adam’s party. I mean, I’d walk in dressed as a polar bear for the chance to go to his party.

  “Can Simone and Eileen come too?”

  “Yeah, sure, of course. I was going to ask them anyway.”

  “I’ll have to check with my parents first.”

  “Nerd alert!”

  I laugh. “Tell me about it. You tell anyone and I’ll bring up the SS secret.”

  So Adam has invited me to his birthday party. Now just how am I supposed to convince my parents about this?

  They’re not stupid. They know what high-school parties are like and the whole drinking scene is strictly out of bounds. Just as I predicted, my dad gives me a flat-out no, turns his back and continues with his crossword. So I go inside where my mum is sitting reading a Diana conspiracy theory book. I give her a kiss and tell her I love her. The worst possible “yes” extraction method for a cluey parent.

  “Spill it out.”

  “Can’t I give you—”

  “Yallah, I’m reading.”

  I take a breath. “Can I go to a birthday party Friday night? It’s at this guy’s house in my class. Eileen and Simone are going too.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “Because why?”

  “Because, I said so.”

  “But why do you say so?”

  “Because I can say because and I said so and get away with it and when you have kids you’ll do the same thing.”

  “No, I won’t,” I say, storming out of the room. “I’m making a conscious plan to be an explainer parent. Not a because parent.”

  “If you say so.”

  I give her a look and go and mope in my room. I make sure to turn the volume up really high and listen to mushy love songs because it allows me to feel even worse than I already do. It eventually works. I hear a creak on the hallway floor and prepare myself. I jump into bed and lie facing the wall, rubbing the mascara on my eyes so I look like a panda.

  My mum enters my room and sits down on the edge of the bed.

  “I spoke to your father.”
/>   I let out a noncommittal grunt in acknowledgment.

  “I know you too well, Amal. Your it’s-the-end-of-my-life performance is not going to work with me.”

  I sit up and hook my hands under my knees, resorting to a sulky pout instead.

  “Whose party is it?”

  “A guy called Adam Keane. Biggest nerd in class. Straight A student.”

  “The one you talk on the phone with?”

  “Yeah.”

  “As friends?”

  “Of course!”

  “I sincerely hope so. Just be careful that you both understand that. Actions speak louder than words, ya Amal.”

  “Ma! I know what I’m doing and I know what’s right and wrong. We’re just good friends. And as if Adam would even think of me in that way. I’m wearing the hijab. He knows I’m not the type to do anything and, anyway, he’s way too hot and cool to even consider me!”

  “Of course he would. You’re gorgeous. But that’s besides the point. Is he decent? And please don’t patronize me, I want an upfront answer.”

  “I’ve never heard anything bad about him, Mum. Honestly.”

  “So this Adam, he’s a good boy?”

  “We have very mature discussions about interfaith issues.”

  Cringe.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. He’s really into understanding my beliefs and stuff.”

  “Will his parents be there?”

  “I’m not sure, Mum. He didn’t say.”

  “Alcohol?”

  “No. He’s not like that. His parents . . . wouldn’t approve.”

  I can’t believe I’m lying to my mum. I’m an absolute hypocrite. Please Allah, I’m so so sorry, just this once let me get away with it. Only this once. Please.

  You never feel good when you lie. It doesn’t matter how much you want something, if you lie to somebody you love, and they actually, sincerely believe you, you feel like a cockroach that needs some serious Mortein action.