Does My Head Look Big in This?

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  “Oh Allah,” Yasmeen whispers. Both of us grab one of Leila’s hands and don’t let go. Hakan storms through the restaurant and up to our table, his girlfriend struggling in her heels to keep up with him.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” he asks coldly, his furious gaze fixed on Leila.

  “I’m having a birthday dinner, Hakan,” she says slowly and calmly. “It’s no big deal.”

  “Hakan?” the tissue-top girl pipes up. “Who’s Hakan? Isn’t your name Sam?” He flashes a silencing look at her and she gives him a timid half-smile, stepping backwards and playing with her nails.

  “Do Mum and Dad know about this?”

  “No, they don’t,” I say, before Leila gets a chance to respond. “They think she’s at my house, because that’s what we told Leila. That we were having dinner there. But we lied. It was a surprise and when she arrived at my house, we brought her here. It’s not her fault.”

  “Yeah,” Yasmeen adds. “She had no idea.”

  “Shut up,” Leila hisses but I squeeze her hand tighter.

  “So you two can go around like sluts and drag my sister along with you?”

  “Don’t you dare call us sluts!” Yasmeen cries.

  He ignores Yasmeen, his eyes focused on Leila. “Get your things, you’re going home.”

  “I . . . I. . .” Her face has collapsed into a confused, defeated heap of terror and weariness. She gathers her present and places it in her bag.

  “No!” I shout. “We’ll take her home. OK? I’ll get my mum to pick us up and we’ll drop her off.”

  “She’s not going anywhere with you tarts.” I want to hit him. I want to yell and shout at him, but for Leila’s sake I don’t. I ignore him and the veins in my head are popping against my skull from the pressure of keeping my rage at bay.

  Suddenly the manager of the restaurant is before us, asking us to pay the bill and leave. Yasmeen and I put money on the table and we all gather our things and walk out, Hakan beside us like a security guard escorting a disgraced patron out of a store. Nearby tables are looking at us and smirking, as though we’ve proved they were right to think we were troublemaking wogs after all. Our faces burn red as we stand outside, the smell of smoke and aftershave and pizza and alcohol overwhelming us in our dizziness, the icy wind cutting into our faces.

  “Please,” I plead with him. “Let us take her home. Go out with your girlfriend and we’ll explain everything to your parents.”

  Yasmeen and Leila are standing side by side, their arms linked, teeth chattering, a look of desperate panic on their faces.

  Hakan’s girlfriend is clutching his arm, shivering in the cold. So she does realize it’s freezing, I think, in one of those tangent thoughts.

  “Come on, Sam,” she coos into his ear, pressing her cleavage up against his chest and caressing his arm with her nails. “Let’s leave them. We’re meeting the gang at Heat, remember? Kylie and Dave are probably wondering where we are.”

  His face relaxes for almost a split second and I plunge in.

  “I promise my mum will drop Leila off. Look, I’ll call her now, in front of you. You go out and have your fun. I’m sorry if we did this behind your family’s back, but honestly Leila had no idea. We forced her along. She had no choice.”

  Retch. Vomit. Oh God, let him say yes, please.

  “Some Muslim you are,” he leers, looking at me up and down.

  He wins. I betray Leila and let loose. I can’t hold it any more. I feel almost faint from keeping my fury inside and I swear and shout at him for being a hypocritical sexist filthy scumbag. For going ballistic at Leila over an innocent dinner when he’s the one going around with a tart, drinking himself blind and smoking dope. For daring to disrespect us and judge us. I can’t stop. I see Leila’s face crumple into shock and Yasmeen is motioning for me to shut up, but I betray my best friend and lose control.

  He takes a step towards me and stares me in the eye. “You bitch,” he spits out in a low tone. “You’ll never see Leila again.”

  He seizes Leila’s arm and storms away, his girlfriend teetering behind him. Leila looks back over her shoulder and our eyes connect for a moment, but he just walks faster and we stand there, watching them disappear into the crowd.

  My mum doesn’t say anything on the way home. Yasmeen and I are curled up to one another in the back seat. Yasmeen doesn’t stop crying but I’m numb. I can’t cry. I can’t talk. I can’t whisper. It’s like I’m under anaesthetic.

  When we arrive home my dad is waiting for us in the lounge room. Yasmeen and I collapse on to the couch and my mum sits down next to him at the table.

  “What were you thinking?” my dad shouts, running his hands through his hair in frustration. “You know what Leila’s parents are like. You lied to us! You lied to them! How could you?”

  “It was worth it,” I say. “For those first two hours it was worth it.”

  “Worth it? God knows how much trouble that poor girl is going to be in now. You lied to us, Amal! How could you deceive us like this? And how could you not think about the consequences of your actions? I’ve always had faith in your good sense and judgement, Amal, but you have really disappointed me tonight!”

  My chin is trembling and I’m blinking back tears.

  “Amal,” my mum says, her voice strangely calm and soothing, “there is never an excuse for lying.”

  “Please,” I plead, “you have to call her parents and tell them Yasmeen and I set it all up. They can’t think she had anything to do with it. Please.”

  My dad sighs, putting his head in his hands and staring down at the table.

  “You’re grounded,” my mum says, standing up and getting the cordless phone. She waIks into the kitchen with it and I hear her speaking to Leila’s mum. And then I start sobbing and Yasmeen is holding me and sobbing too.

  After half an hour my mum comes out of the kitchen, looking thoroughly exhausted.

  “Leila is OK,” she says. “I spoke to Gulchin and tried to calm her down. She kept raving on about this nearly ruining everything for her daughter, or something dramatic like that. She didn’t make much sense. But I made it clear to her that this was not Leila’s idea.”

  The look in her eye tells me that she knows there’s more to the story but she doesn’t say anything, and I want to fold into her arms and fall asleep against her chest. But she tells us to go upstairs to bed.

  36

  I don’t dare to telephone Leila’s house on Sunday. Yasmeen and I send her a text message but she doesn’t reply. We log on to MSN Messenger but she’s not online.

  “I’ll get her to call you when I see her at school on Monday,” Yasmeen promises. But on Monday Yasmeen sends me an SMS telling me Leila’s absent.

  During lunch time I’m sitting with Simone, absorbed with my mobile, sending Yasmeen messages.

  “You OK?” Simone asks in a concerned voice.

  “Yeah, fine,” I answer abruptly. I don’t want to tell her what’s happened because I’m scared. I know it sounds dumb but I’m worried that she’ll think, Oh typical Muslim nutters. Locking their girls up in the house. I can’t deal with that now. I can’t seem to deal with anything. I just want to know Leila’s OK.

  Simone doesn’t say anything, and I’m grateful to her for that. All I can see in my head are scenes of Leila being yelled at, grounded, taken out of school. I’m so distracted that I don’t notice that Eileen has joined us. I look up and she’s sitting cross-legged beside me. Both her and Simone are staring at me, expressions of concern on their faces.

  “You OK, Amal?” Eileen asks softly.

  “Not really. . . I. . . Boy do I so not feel like being at school today.”

  “When do we ever?” Simone rolls her eyes. We sit in silence for a few moments. Then something comes over me.

  “Let’s just get out of here!”
I cry, pulling them up with me.

  “What?” Simone asks.

  “Let’s wag. Go to the beach. Or catch a train to the Dandenongs. Or go go-cart racing. Rollerblading. Let’s just get out. I feel like I’m going to suffocate in this place.” I can’t believe I’m suggesting this. If Ms Walsh finds out, if my parents find out, it will be over. But I don’t care. I push my parents out of my brain, throw a fire blanket over Ms Walsh’s face, forget what everybody else will say and beg them to leave with me.

  And they do.

  We sneak out of school, catch a tram to St Kilda beach and then take a ferry to Williamstown. When we arrive, Eileen and I buy massive ice cream cones, Simone buys an apple, and we go for a walk along the pier. It’s a gloomy, overcast day. It’s like the clouds are ganging up on the sun, refusing to let the rays break through. There’s a slight whistly sort of breeze, very fresh, very salty. Like Vegemite in the air, I think, smiling quietly to myself as I think of Mrs Vaselli. We pass a fisherman, who looks at us and laughs.

  “Skipping school, eh?” he grins.

  We nod and grin back at him.

  “Caught anything?” I peer down into his bucket.

  “Not yet. But I’ve got time, and the sea breeze has never bored me yet.”

  “Good luck,” I say.

  We sit further up along the pier, dangling our legs over the edge.

  “I’d be listening to Mr Piper talk about Stalin now. . .” I say, my voice trailing off.

  “Hmm. I’d be in English,” Eileen says. “Fantasizing about the moment I finish my exams and jump on the Internet to book an overseas trip.”

  “Sounds nice,” Simone says wistfully. “I’d be daydreaming about walking into class in a size ten and everybody cheering at me and asking me out on a date.”

  “Everybody?” I tease.

  “Yeah, everybody. And Tia would beg me to go along with her to the coolest club so that the bouncer takes a look at me and lets us all in.”

  “I’m going to get you to say, ‘I’m beautiful just the way I am’ ten times a day, Simone,” I growl at her. “No less than ten times a day. Starting from now!”

  “No way!” She pushes me away.

  “Come on Eileen; tickle her until she says it.” We start tickling her and she loses her breath shrieking.

  “Come on!” I warn her.

  “OK, OK,” she gasps. “I’m beautiful just the way I am. Ugh you are such a loser. Happy?”

  “Say it like you mean it!”

  “Amal, shut up will you! How many times do I have to tell you you’re not Oprah?” She takes out a cigarette, looking at us self-consciously as she lights it.

  “Are you still on that crap?” I ask.

  “You can’t even do it properly,” Eileen says.

  “Just a matter of practice,” Simone says.

  “Wow! Practising how to poison yourself and make your breath reek like the fart of a seagull!” Eileen cries.

  “Stop preaching.”

  “Stop smoking.”

  “Stop mothering me.”

  “Stop ignoring me.”

  “Stop pretending to know what it feels like.”

  “Stop pretending to hate yourself.”

  “Will both of you shut up?!” I cry.

  “Anyway,” Eileen says, “it’s your life, Simone.”

  “You’ve got that right. So anyway, Amal, you haven’t even told us what you’d be daydreaming about.”

  I raise my eyebrows at them and lie on my back, my legs still dangling over the edge. They lean back and join me and we stare up at the sky.

  “So?” Eileen asks, after several minutes.

  “I’d be daydreaming about lots of things,” I answer. “About Leila . . . becoming all she’s capable of being . . . and walking up to her brother and telling him to shove his face up his rear end!”

  “Woah! Reverse a little!” Eileen says. “What happened to Leila?”

  I pause, biting my nails as I fix my gaze on one cloud as it moves and collides into the others. I try to follow its movement, its distinct silhouette, as it fuses and melts away. And then I lose track of its shape and I’m left looking at a chaotic mess of fluffy shapes collapsing into each other.

  I tell them all about Leila. And they don’t tell me it’s a Muslim story. They don’t tell me it’s a Turkish story. They understand it is Leila’s story, and I feel ashamed to think that I could ever have doubted them.

  37

  Nine a.m. Tuesday. Mr Pearse’s office. Somebody saw us wagging and dobbed us in. We’re punished with a week of lunch time detentions. He excuses Eileen and Simone from his office, and asks me to stay back for a moment.

  “Amal, I just want you to know that I don’t plan to tell Ms Walsh or your parents about this.”

  I look at him in surprise, a smile forcing its way on to my face. “Really?”

  “Yes. Really.” He leans back in his chair, tapping his pen on his knee. “Look, don’t think we don’t understand what you’re going through here. I know you haven’t approached the school counsellor. Maybe you should think about it.”

  I shrug. “What for?”

  “To deal with any issues you may be having. I’m not naïve, Amal. I know that people judge you. I’ll tell you something personal. My partner is Koorie. When we walk down the street together we can feel people staring, whispering, raising their eyebrows. She’s always confronting the assumptions and generalizations. All Koories are alcoholics. All Koories are dole bludgers. You know what I’m talking about. The things the media and politicians churn out for ratings.”

  “Mmm. . .”

  “So I understand what you’re going through.”

  “You’re making me sound like I should be on suicide watch, Mr Pearse.”

  He sighs and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Amal. I don’t mean to cast you as a victim. I just want you to know that if you’re having any problems—”

  “I’m doing fine.”

  He doesn’t look very convinced. “I thought you should know that I’ll be accompanying your team to the interschool debate.”

  “Er . . . OK.”

  “If any students are giving you a hard time you will approach me, won’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  “You don’t lie very well.” He gives me a gentle smile and sits upright. Some teachers understand that when it comes to your classmates, even your enemies, there is a strict code of silence. You don’t snitch. Mr Pearse doesn’t seem to get it.

  “Just know that you don’t have to put up with bullies.”

  “Yeah, thanks. Can I go now?”

  I make about twenty calls to Leila’s house and mobile that night. Finally, at eight forty, her dad answers and puts me on to her.

  “Oh my God! Where have you been? Your phone’s been off. I’ve tried your house but nobody’s picked up. Are you OK?”

  “Hey, Amal. Yeah, I’m OK.” Her voice is flat and faded, and my heart twists at the sound of her.

  “Did they go psycho? I’m so sorry you had to go through it!”

  “Nah, forget it. It’s not your fault. What on earth have you got to do with them?”

  “Why aren’t you at school then?”

  “I’ve just been sick. . . Anyway, Amal, I’m sorry but I’ve got to go.”

  “Why so soon? I miss talking to you.”

  “We’ve got people over.”

  “Ohh . . . the usual?”

  She sighs and her voice is thick with strain. “Yeah, Amal. The usual.”

  “Oh . . . OK Leila. Well, call me tomorrow then?”

  “Yep. OK.”

  “Well . . . bye, love ya!”

  “Love you too. . . Bye.”

  Tonight I’m taking the rubbish out after dinner when Mrs Vaselli waves me over to her front porch.
>
  “You wanting tea?” she asks.

  I smile at her. “Um, OK, sure. Just let me tell Mum or she’ll think I’ve been abducted.”

  Mrs Vaselli doesn’t count in the grounding rules so I return in a couple of moments and enter her house. The aroma of freshly baked cake hits me as soon as I walk in. She insists I sit at the table while she makes tea and cuts me a big chunk.

  “It smells yummy.”

  “Of coursing it is. I making za best cake.” She grins at me and hands me a plate. “I making one for your mum too. She very busy woman. Always working. I put on plate and you give to her. But you remembering to returning my plate.”

  I laugh and reassure her I’ll bring it back sparkling clean. As I’m sipping on my tea and rambling on about school I notice Mrs Vaselli’s white and lavender china tea set stacked on the corner of the bench.

  “Have you got visitors?” I ask incredulously, pointing to the china set.

  She avoids eye contact and sips on her tea. “Soon. . . Maybe. . . We’ll see.”

  “Who?”

  “You always asking ze questions.”

  “Yeah I know. So who is it?”

  I can’t hold back my astonishment as I’ve never seen Mrs Vaselli in entertainment mode.

  She coughs and shifts in her chair. “Spiro and his wife. You wanting more cake?”

  “You called!” I leap from my chair in excitement, nearly knocking my tea out of my hand.

  She shrugs her shoulders casually and stares down at her mug. But I know her too well now. I can see the corners of her mouth itching to break out into a grin.

  “Is it OK? Is he coming? When did you call? What did he say?”

  She looks up and finally smiles, the frown lines in her face loosening away. “We talking now . . . my son . . . we talk now.”

  “Well it’s about time! So what happened? What did you say? Are you going to see them?”

  “I no know. Maybe. . . I hoping so. I want fix my house and my kitchen nice for when zey coming . . . maybe . . . zey has work so hard coming now.”