Ten Things I Hate About Me

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  I don’t know what to write back. I don’t want to be nasty just to earn his approval. But I’m too chicken to defend Timothy. I tear a piece of paper from the corner of my book and think about what to scribble back.

  But I’m as blank as a freshly painted wall. I can’t think of anything remotely witty or flirtatious to write. So I do the pathetic thing and ignore the note, turn my head toward the front of the classroom, and avoid the potential for any eye contact with him.

  After class I resolve to say something to Peter face-to-face. I have no idea what, though. I’m relying on my brain to perform under pressure. I turn from my desk but my path is blocked by Timothy. Timothy is tall and handsome. His bag is slung over his shoulder, his head cocked to one side as he looks at me. “So I guess we should exchange numbers.”

  “Why?” I blurt out, distracted by Peter, who is standing behind me, listening. My palms feel sweaty and I tug nervously at my hair. “Oh yes, because of the project.”

  Timothy gives me a weird look and then smiles. “A short memory span, huh?” He raises one eyebrow and murmurs to himself: “Well, it looks like we’re going to ace this assignment.”

  I chuckle uncomfortably, still conscious that Peter is eavesdropping. “Um, yeah.” We exchange numbers and I start packing my books away. Peter walks past and flashes me a sympathetic look.

  “You must be stoked, huh, Goldfish? Mr. Turner organizing the pairs saves you the hassle of begging somebody to be your partner.”

  Timothy looks at Peter as though he were a cross-dressing cockroach. “Sometimes I want to pity you. But even that would require me to acknowledge that you exist. You have as much relevance to me as a piece of lint on an unwashed sock.”

  Peter looks momentarily surprised. Then his eyes narrow in anger. “You’ll always be a freak, Goldfish.” He grins at me, convinced that he’s won the confrontation, and walks away.

  “You got to him,” I say in an impressed tone.

  He shrugs. “So when do you want to start working on this project?”

  “Whenever.”

  “Are lunchtimes OK with you? I mean, the last thing I want to do is waste my lunchtime in the library, but it’s either that or after school.”

  If I work after school I’ll miss the bus, which will mean either Dad or Shereen will have to pick me up. I’ve done my best to avoid that from happening. If anybody sees Shereen with her hijab on, my cover will be exposed.

  “I’d prefer lunchtimes, too.”

  “OK, how about tomorrow? The sooner we get this thing done, the sooner I can go back to spending my lunchtimes thinking about my tropical-fish tank.”

  For a split second I believe him. It’s a testament to the persuasive power of classroom gossip. Then I smile. But at the same time I’m worrying about what people, especially Peter, will think if they see me happily conversing with Timothy. Standard human decency has nothing to do with the situation. This is about my social standing.

  It would have been easier if Timothy had had the personality of a spatula. I could have worked with him, looked bored, and avoided anybody reaching the conclusion that I was enjoying my fate. Now he’s gone and messed it all up by making me smile.

  10

  “ON MY CUE! One, two, three!”

  Mustafa starts playing the daff, which is an instrument similar to the tambourine. The sound of Samira’s guitar creeps in, then Hasan and I join in too. We’re practicing with Miss Sajda and I’m loving every minute of it.

  My darabuka is balanced under my arm and I drum down on the leather top with the palms of my hands, creating a deep, strong rhythm that echoes and reverberates in my chest. I feel a strange sense of calm and exhilaration. The sounds trigger memories of colorful weddings and Lebanese parties and dance floors and live bands and belly dancers. I get lost in the beat of the drum as my palms move faster and then slower; one beat, then two, then four quick beats, then back to one. My palms coax the sounds from the leather, and beads of sweat line my forehead as our music becomes more intense.

  This is where I belong, I think to myself. This is who I am.

  When we’ve finished we gather around Miss Sajda. We’re all on a high. We’re skateboarding in the sky, our voices rapidly rising over one another’s as we voice our delight with our performance.

  “Man, we need to go professional!” Mustafa says. “We’re too awesome to be stuck in a primary school classroom!”

  “You got that right, bro,” Hasan says. “I want an audience. I want to feel a crowd.”

  Miss Sajda laughs. “At the risk of encouraging your immodesty, I have to say I agree with you. You all play beautifully.”

  “We’re fully sick, Miss Sajda,” Samira says.

  Miss Sajda grins. “How somebody who weaves notes of poetry out of the oud can describe her performance as sick is beyond my generation.”

  “You’ve got to get with the vocab,” I tell her.

  “No, thanks,” she says. “I’ll stick with the dictionary for my definitions.”

  “So what do you think, Jamilah?” Mustafa asks me. “Do you want to try and get some gigs? We haven’t had much luck getting gigs with Oz Iz In Da ’Hood.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” I say. “You’re not exactly American Idol material.”

  Samira and Hasan giggle. Mustafa looks at me, grins, and then launches into a song.

  “Yo! American Idol is not my pleasure

  I seek higher things as my treasure

  I don’t need to be judged or adjudicated

  Just to get a TV channel rated.”

  We all burst out laughing.

  “Don’t knock our talent, Jamilah. We’ll get there one day. We’ve just got to persevere, that’s all. But this band we have going here has real potential.”

  “My dad will never let me.” I’m not embarrassed to talk about my family life to my friends at madrasa. They’ve never ridiculed me or made stereotypical assumptions about me.

  “How about you leave your dad to me?” Miss Sajda says.

  “Are you serious?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  I make a silent prayer to God to lend Miss Sajda a helping hand.

  “Your serve,” I tell Amy. It’s gym and the two of us are playing squash. We paired up after Liz and Sam ran straight to a court together, Liz flashing Amy an apologetic smile.

  “What do you think about Liz and Sam?” Amy asks me as she bounces the ball with her racket.

  “I still think Sam is intimidating.”

  “In what way?”

  “In the same way Peter is: cool, popular, confident. You feel like you have to come up with something brilliant and witty whenever you talk to them.”

  “Peter and Sam are good friends, you know.” She looks at me slyly.

  “Yeah, I know. What’s with the look?”

  “What look?”

  “The one you just gave me.”

  She gives a short hoot of laughter. “Don’t be so paranoid.”

  “Don’t be such a tease.”

  Amy raises her racket to serve and then lowers it and laughs. “You’re right. I did give you a look. Peter’s paying a lot of attention to you lately, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah…and it’s weird and totally unexpected.”

  “He has power in the classroom. The computer geeks hang on his every word, even when he’s making fun of them. Ahmed and Danielle’s gang say they hate him but I think they secretly crave his approval. He can even make his enemies care.”

  I think for a moment. “Not Timothy.”

  “Huh?”

  “Timothy couldn’t care less.”

  “Yeah, well, not all of us have the luxury of being so totally unaffected by other people’s opinions.”

  Suddenly the door slams open and Liz falls into the court. Sam is close behind her, grabbing her and kissing her neck. Liz squeals at him to stop, but she’s laughing and he continues.

  “Get your own court, will you?” Amy cries. “Or maybe a room.”

&
nbsp; Liz looks at us and grins. “Sorry, guys. We just came to see if you wanted to skip the rest of gym. Sam, Peter, Chris, and I are going to the parking lot for a smoke. We’ll be back before the bus comes to pick us up.”

  “Since when do you smoke?” I ask.

  “It’s not a habit,” she says defensively. “But I don’t mind one here and there.”

  “News to us,” Amy says, pursing her lips as she stares at Liz.

  For a moment Liz looks uncomfortable, but then Sam throws an arm around her shoulders and draws her close to him.

  “She hated it at first but now she’s a pro. So are you two coming or are we going to waste the rest of the hour between four walls?”

  “Thanks for the offer,” Amy says, “but I’ll take the four walls.”

  I glance at Liz. She’s avoiding eye contact with Amy, whose face is etched with disappointment.

  “What about you, Jamie? Peter will be there.” Liz gives me a knowing look and I feel myself blushing.

  “Um…no, thanks. We’ve got a good game happening here.”

  Liz has become part of the cool crowd and half of me wants to throw down my racket and join her. I want Peter to admire my courage for skipping class. I want him to flirt with me. I was so close to saying yes, but I didn’t. Not because I knew it was wrong. Not because I was trying to take a stance. But because I didn’t want to leave Amy alone. If the circumstances had been different, I think I might have said yes. And that’s not because I like Peter. No amount of good looks can override the fact that he’s as good-natured as a crocodile with a toothache. Nah, it’s pretty simple. I might have said yes because sometimes wanting to be cool can come at any cost.

  Liz, Sam, Chris, and Peter make it back to the squash courts without Mr. Delerio noticing. We board the bus later and I take a seat beside Amy. Liz passes us on her way to the back row and pauses.

  “We got away with it!” she whispers and winks.

  “Congratulations,” Amy says in a tight voice.

  Liz looks as though she’s going to say something, but then offers us a flippant smile and walks away to join Sam.

  I’m staring out the window when I hear Nicholas Kastani cry out, “Give it back!”

  I turn around and see Peter holding Nicholas’s MP3 player. He has the headphones over his ears and is laughing hysterically.

  “What is this? Greek music?”

  “Congratulations, genius,” Nicholas says. “Got a problem with it?”

  “It sounds like the guy’s coughing his words.” Peter starts gargling out pretend song words. “You Greeks should stick to running fruit shops.”

  “That’s enough, Peter,” the bus driver yells out.

  Chris, Sam, and several other kids laugh loudly. Ahmed, Paul, and Danielle yell out abuse at Peter.

  “At least my ancestors weren’t convicts,” Nicholas says, snatching his MP3 player out of Peter’s hands.

  I glance over at Liz. She’s cuddled up in Sam’s arms, smiling as she watches Peter in action. I wonder if she realizes how much she’s compromising by being with Sam. I wonder if I would do the same if I had the chance to be with Peter.

  11

  “WHAT’S IT LIKE living without a mom?” Amy asks me today.

  I’m caught off guard by her question. Until now, my mother has been an off-limits topic. I can’t imagine why she’s suddenly presumed I’m willing to talk about her.

  “It’s hard…” I say, focusing my eyes on the floor and not her face. Then I turn to her and give her a clenched smile. “I really don’t want to talk about it, if you don’t mind.”

  She’s taken aback but then smiles at me awkwardly. “Fine…no problem.”

  She doesn’t press the topic and we revert to more familiar ground: celebrities, school gossip, and music. Once again I’ve insured that the train tracks keep on running parallel.

  I really don’t like to talk about my mother. I think about her all the time but I’ve never been comfortable opening up to anybody—including my family—about how I’ve felt since she died. My dad always says prayers for her. If her name is mentioned, he always asks Allah to rest her soul and grant her paradise.

  The day of her death replays in my mind over and over. She picked us up from school. Bilal and I were in the backyard playing soccer. Shereen was in her bedroom listening to music. Mom was hanging the laundry on the clothesline. She came inside. She told us to be careful not to ruin Dad’s vegetable garden. She sat in the armchair. She called out to us to telephone Dad. She felt pain in her chest. She was tired. She closed her eyes. Bilal and I thought she was just whining about the housework. She told us again: “Call Baba.” So Shereen called.

  She opened her eyes. She looked at us. She said: “It hurts.” She was a pious woman. She said: “I declare that there is only one God and that Mohammed is His last Prophet.” She closed her eyes. And she never opened them again.

  She was born in Beirut and died in Australia. If she had never boarded that plane in 1974, would she have lived longer? What would God’s plan for her have been? From the moment of her birth God had her heading for that armchair. Some guy in a factory manufactured it with professional care. He put it together, nail-gunned the upholstery over it, wrapped it in plastic, and shipped it off for sale. Nobody knew it would land in our living room and hold my mother in her dying moments. It tore her from our lives. I slashed it with a knife when we returned from the funeral.

  My father grieves through memory. He is constantly reminiscing about his life with my mother. We can be eating dinner and he’ll remember eating the same dish with her and go off on a tangent about an outing or conversation they shared. A smell can send him into a long story about the scent of freshly roasted chestnuts on their first movie outing in Beirut or the smell of henna in her hair. When my mother was young, she had long wavy hair down to her waist, kissed raven-red from her dedicated use of henna powder.

  My favorite stories are of Mom and Dad’s engagement days. My dad sounds like an entirely different person then: carefree and full of spirit. Not bogged down with rules and traditions.

  They met at a mutual friend’s house in Beirut. My mom had been playing tennis with her girlfriend Maha. Maha was married to Hatim, my dad’s close friend. I’m pretty sure Maha and Hatim set the whole thing up. Mom arrived at Maha and Hatim’s house and Dad was there, in his light-blue flared pants, puffy white shirt (tucked in), Afro hair, and thick black mustache (AGH!). Dad says it was love at first sight for both of them. I asked Shereen to verify this. As the oldest, she was closest to Mom and a teenager when Mom passed away. Shereen flatly refutes Dad’s claim. According to Shereen, our mother was attracted to Dad and thought he was funny, but it took several dates before she was convinced he was “the one.” Dad still stands his ground. “The mustache was very handsome,” he says.

  Apparently my mother was a very bad cook in her newlywed days. She eventually became a whiz in the kitchen. I’m not able to personally testify to this given that I was nine when she died and my taste in food ranged from peanut butter on toast to fries. I can say that she could make a bowl of Cocoa Pops into a five-star meal.

  I remember Dad was cooking roast beef one day and as he was garnishing the meat he suddenly burst into a fit of laughter.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I just remembered something.”

  “About?”

  “Your mother. When we were engaged I took her on a picnic. She insisted on bringing lunch. At one stage I’d mentioned to her that one of my favorite dishes was roast beef stuffed with spices and garlic. She was so sweet. She tried to make it. Except she stuffed the meat with about five whole heads of garlic. She hadn’t minced the cloves, she’d just shoved them whole into the meat! I nearly choked! Of course, I pretended it was the best I’d ever eaten. But we both stunk until December.”

  I love hearing stories like that. My dad’s eyes light up as he wanders back into his past. I wish I could sit him down and ask him to tell me more about Mom. But s
omething always holds me back. I don’t want to admit how much it hurts or how much I need his memories. That’s why I keep it all bottled up inside. It fizzes and fizzes until I’m ready to explode sometimes. So when Amy opens the topic up today, I resist the temptation to let it all burst out.

  12

  WHEN I COME home from school today Dad has a bundle of investment brochures he needs me to read to him.

  Ever since I was little, Shereen, Bilal, and I have been my parents’ interpreters. If there were letters to read, bills to decipher, or forms to sign, our parents would rely on us to translate.

  Now that Bilal spends as little time at home as he can and Shereen’s busy changing the world, Dad seems to rely on me more and more. Last week it was insurance renewal papers. The other day it was a parking fine. It’s child labor exploitation whenever his friends visit. Uncle Kamil brings me his immigration documents. Uncle Yusuf needs me to explain whether his daughter’s report card is really recording an A + average. (It is. She’s a genius, that girl.)

  Sometimes I feel frustrated and embarrassed that my dad’s English is still so broken after all the years he has been here. He can get by, of course. He drives a cab, so he can obviously communicate. But sometimes I feel that people would take him more seriously if he were fluent. They hear his heavy accent and he’s suddenly less Aussie.

  My father talks to us in Arabic all the time, watching Arabic satellite channels, reading Arabic newspapers. Sure, he watches mainstream TV too. He insists on watching every single news program and bulletin, even if they’re back-to-back. But his writing and reading skills are still poor.

  “Can’t you get Shereen to do it?” I moan. I’m feeling too lazy for a translation exercise.