Ten Things I Hate About Me

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  When there’s so much fear and misunderstanding and ridicule, why would anybody want to stand out? As well-meaning as Miss Sajda’s efforts may be, I’m not interested in being a hybrid identity. I’ve learned that the safest thing is to leave the kebabs at home and stick to white bread and Vegemite.

  27

  TODAY I’M AT work, in the back in the food preparation area attending to the spills, when one of my dad’s family friends, Uncle Joseph, walks up to the counter and spots me as he places his order.

  “Jamilah?” he cries out in surprise.

  I want to duck. Uncle Joseph is one of those people I would like to see buried in a time capsule out in the Sahara desert with instructions that the capsule be opened in the year 2090. That may seem harsh, but Uncle Joseph has caused one too many problems for my family.

  He is a chronic gossiper and interferer. He relishes any opportunity to call my dad and report on the activities of Shereen, Bilal, and me.

  When it comes to Shereen he is relentless. Her political activism is “disgraceful.” “The way she carries on, she’ll never find a husband,” he says mournfully. “You’ve allowed her too much freedom, coming and going when she pleases, attending rallies and protests. What man is going to be interested in a girl who parades herself on television with flags and signs, screaming and carrying on?”

  My dad doesn’t say much in Shereen’s defense. He just nods quietly and that is perhaps the most infuriating and hurtful part of it.

  So when I see Uncle Joseph at McDonald’s, I know Dad’s cell phone is going to be active tonight.

  “Come over and say hello!” Uncle Joseph cries, leaning over the counter as I attempt to hide myself behind one of the machines.

  Emma, the girl serving Uncle Joseph, looks over and rolls her eyes sympathetically at me. I smile at her and come out and shake Uncle Joseph’s hand. He moves over to the side of the counter to allow Emma to serve the people behind him.

  “So you work here now?” he asks, his eyes greedily taking in every incriminating detail.

  I take a deep breath and prepare to be on my best behavior. I don’t want to give him any reason to run back to my father. “Yes, Uncle Joseph,” I reply in a sickly-sweet voice. “Twice a week.”

  “Night shift?”

  “Well, it’s an after-school shift.”

  He coughs and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m surprised your dad allowed you. It’s not right that a girl your age works at night. You don’t need extra money. You’re still at school. Why do you need it? Most young people work to buy these silly DVDs…or cigarettes…” He looks at me slyly. “Do you smoke?”

  “No, of course not!”

  He looks at me suspiciously. “I hope not.”

  “Um, how are Alexandria and Rita?”

  He smiles smugly. “My daughters are wonderful. They’re such good girls. They’re getting excellent grades at the university; they’re volunteering in the church youth group.”

  I resist the temptation to tell him that they’re both going out with guys several years older than they are and that their photos are at the entrance to the Imperial nightclub.

  “I should get going now,” he says. “Really, though, your father is mistaken to let you work at such a young age. It’s not respectable. Oh well, some people have different standards of parenting from others.”

  He smiles insincerely at me, grabs his bag of food, and walks out. My heart is pounding angrily in my chest. Maybe it’s a good thing he left abruptly like that. I might have exploded and made a fool of myself in front of everybody here.

  I’m willing to bet my life that he’ll be dialing Dad’s number before he turns the car ignition.

  “So you saw Uncle Joseph tonight?” my dad asks when he picks me up after work.

  I just knew it. Dad must be on Uncle Joseph’s speed dial.

  “Yeah, I did. I can’t stand him!”

  He tut-tuts and shakes his head. “Don’t be disrespectful, Jamilah.”

  “Respect should be earned. It shouldn’t automatically be given just because somebody happens to have an older birth certificate than me.”

  He ignores my comment and sighs, concentrating on the road. After a moment’s pause he says: “I had my reservations about you working. I knew people would talk. Joseph would never allow his daughters to work at night. Maybe you are too young to be working a night shift.”

  I turn in a panic toward him. “No, please, Dad! Don’t take this away from me. Just ignore him. He’s going to talk no matter what I do. I’m begging you!”

  We’re sitting at a traffic light and he looks over at me. I’ve completely lost all sense of pride and self-respect and tears start crawling down my face. He passes me a tissue and sighs heavily.

  “OK, Jamilah. I’m tired of fighting with you. You win this one.”

  28

  TIMOTHY AND I are collating our research results. He leans over to my side of the desk to retrieve his pen, which has rolled down. He smells of aftershave, mixed with Flex 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner.

  “So, are you an only child?” I ask.

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Because we’ve already done music, TV shows, and celebrity diets.”

  “I have an older sister, Jessica. She’s the publicity director of a company that sells ergonomic office furniture.”

  “Sounds fascinating. Do you get along?”

  “Yeah, like Bush and bin Laden at a pool party.”

  “What’s the problem? She doesn’t like your cocky attitude?”

  He grins and taps his pen on the desk. “Yeah, precisely. She’s like my dad. They’re obsessed with navy blue suits, long working hours, and big fat paychecks.”

  “Some people call that ambition.”

  “Yeah, at being mediocre. All her opinions are cut and pasted from the editorial sections of newspapers. She won’t eat at a restaurant unless it rates a mention in the Sydney Morning Herald Good Food Guide. If you could buy designer cotton balls, she’d be the first in line.”

  “I don’t know if I’d like an office job. It would depend on what I was doing, I guess.”

  “I know it wouldn’t suit me. And the kind of office job my dad wants for me makes me feel like an ice cube in an ice cube tray. You become a perfectly symmetrical, generic mold and pretty soon nobody can tell the difference between you and the other navy suit on the six o’clock train.”

  “Ahh, the ‘I want to be an individual’ testimonial. I did that in fifth grade. I came to school with a bob. Not a good idea with manic curls. I ended up getting pelted with salt-and-vinegar chips by Owen Thompson during recess. Individuality doesn’t pay off.”

  “Sure it does. Being a lemming, like my dad and his colleagues, isn’t an attractive way to live.”

  I smile. “You know something?”

  “I know lots of things.”

  “Apart from your occasional cockiness and irritating confidence—”

  “Is there a positive in this sentence?”

  “I like talking to you.”

  “Oh, wow!” He jumps out of his chair and bows. “Thank you. You have made my day. My year. My life.”

  “Shut up, you idiot,” I say, motioning at him to sit down. “It’s a compliment. Trust me.”

  “Because my talking abilities are generally looked upon with disdain?”

  I laugh. “You said it. Not me.”

  He raises his eyebrows at me. “You’ll get there soon, I think.”

  “Where?”

  “You’ll walk into class. And you’ll be yourself. And it will be glorious for you.”

  “You remind me of someone else I know. He’s always lecturing me too. You’d like this guy. He doesn’t take crap from anybody. He’s—”

  He suddenly stands up, sweeping his books into his arms. “I’m sick of this assignment. I need a break. How about we finish up tomorrow?”

  He doesn’t wait for my answer. He walks off, bumping into Liz on his way out.

 
“Hey, Goldfish! Watch it!”

  He gives her a devastating look of pity. “I wouldn’t bother waking up in the morning if I was that pathetic.” Then he storms out.

  “What a jerk!” Liz cries, taking a seat next to me.

  “Why’d you call him Goldfish?”

  She snorts. “Everybody does. What’s the big deal?”

  “It’s mean.”

  Amy walks in and approaches us. “This assignment is a bummer,” she says, sighing heavily and plonking herself down into a chair. “Oh, hi, Liz. It’s been a while. Have you taken a moment out of your schedule to speak to us?”

  Liz laughs harshly. “That time of the month?”

  “No, Liz. There’s a far more obvious explanation for my mood.”

  Liz raises an eyebrow and turns to me. She grabs my arm and looks into my eyes. “Jamie, you need to hear me out. You’re making a big mistake. Peter is obviously interested in you. The only reason he hasn’t made a move yet is because, believe it or not, he likes you. Seriously likes you. And he doesn’t want to mess it up. He says you’re different from other girls. He’s going to ask you to the formal. But you’re screwing it all up. The way you are with Timothy. He’s not on Peter’s level. Peter’s getting pretty confused about where your interests lie.”

  “Are you suggesting that Jamie should treat Timothy like crap so Peter stays interested?”

  “Was I talking to you?” Liz snaps.

  “No. You don’t do much of that anymore. But that’s not the point, is it?”

  “Hey, let’s not argue,” I say. “Anyway, I don’t know what Peter’s up to. Timothy and I were paired up to do this project together. We’re not dating, for God’s sake.”

  “He’s a loser, Jamie. And yet you seem to enjoy his company.”

  “Maybe that’s because he’s nice.”

  “And because,” Amy says, “unlike some people, Jamie isn’t a fake. She’s real and gutsy!”

  I don’t deserve that, I feel like crying out.

  “You’re just jealous.”

  “Of what? Changing my entire personality to fit in with the cool crowd isn’t exactly a priority for me. Or Jamie. We’re happy to be ourselves.”

  Liz jumps out of her chair and casts a furious look at Amy. “You’re so full of it,” she says and stomps away.

  “Oh well,” Amy says, folding her arms across her chest. “I don’t think she even knows who she is anymore.”

  Little does Amy know that it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to look in the mirror and know my own reflection.

  29

  TONIGHT’S BAND practice is awesome. Miss Sajda has brought along some albums newly released in the Middle East. There are some Arabic singers performing songs with Italian and French singers, but the rest are mainly Lebanese and Egyptian pop songs with really funky beats. The music is a combination of classical and modern influences: traditional Arabic instruments such as the darabuka, the oud, the ney (like a flute), and the riq (a small tambourine), mixed up with the modern electronic Arabic keyboard and Western techno-dance music.

  Miss Sajda closes the classroom door and turns up the volume on the stereo so that the music feels as though it’s pulsating through my veins. She grins wildly at us, hypnotized by the power of the music. I forget that she’s my teacher, that she assigns me homework and annoys me with her Did You Know? facts and figures about the Arab world. All I can think about is the tingling feeling in the palms of my hands as I hold the darabuka and how my excitement and exhilaration is reflected in her shining eyes.

  On Miss Sajda’s cue we start to play. I try to make my way through the rhythm of the song, keeping in tune with the beat of the music. Miss Sajda cheers us on and starts to dance across the room. We all laugh and she grins back at us.

  When we’ve finished I look down and notice that my palms are bright red. I collapse back into my chair and Miss Sajda turns the music off.

  “Excellent work, everybody!”

  “We’re going to knock them dead at the formal!” Samira says.

  “Just watch out for a guy called Peter Clarkson. If he starts in on you, throw a drum at him.”

  We all pack our instruments away and say our good-byes. I’m walking out of the door when Miss Sajda calls me back.

  “Can I have a word with you, Jamilah?”

  I turn around. “Yeah, sure.” I put down my darabuka case and hop up onto a table.

  “Your dad would be proud if he heard you tonight.”

  I shrug. “So what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I get nothing in return. He won’t let me go to my formal. I’m not particularly interested in his opinion at the moment, given that he doesn’t care one bit about mine.”

  “But he told me you’re allowed to play in the band.”

  “Yes, but I’m not allowed to stay back for my formal.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s coed. I’ll be the only one in class not allowed to go. Do you have any idea what that kind of humiliation means?”

  She leans back in her chair and looks at me thoughtfully. “Well, I’m sure your classmates will understand.”

  “Understand what?” I cry. “That my father doesn’t trust me?”

  Her eyes widen in shock. “Of course he trusts you, Jamilah. He’s always talking about how proud he is of you and how reliable you are and how pleased he is that you’re so well liked at school.”

  “You know something? You tell me that and I think: big deal. Anyway, I’m well liked at school because nobody has a clue about…anything…”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing,” I say quietly.

  She clears her throat and leans toward me. “Don’t bottle it all up, Jamilah.”

  I look at her intently. And I break. “This year has been one big mess! Nobody at school knows about my background. But with me playing in the band it will no longer be a secret. I’m going to look like an idiot! Then there are these guys I’m talking to. Peter’s the most popular guy at school and he’s interested in me. But he doesn’t have a clue that I’m Lebanese-Muslim. Then there’s Timothy, who I’m doing a school project with. He’s so unbelievably confident and sure of himself! And then there’s John, my e-mail buddy. He’s the only guy I’ve ever completely opened up to and it was the most fantastically liberating feeling! But I must have offended him or something because he’s blocked my address so that I can no longer send him e-mails. And my friend Amy is going through some sort of personal crisis but refuses to talk to me. It’s all falling apart and I have nobody to talk to because talking means I expose myself. And I’ve been pretending for so long that I can’t reverse it all without losing everybody!”

  I sink into my chair like a deflating balloon.

  She cups my chin in her hand and looks into my eyes. “If they don’t know the real you, then you’ve already lost them, Jamilah.”

  30

  AMY ISN’T AT school today and I text her to see if she’s genuinely sick or has just opted for vegging on the couch in front of the television.

  She instantly responds. I’m ok. Are you 3 2night? I was thinking of coming ova.

  My dad has invited a group of his friends over tonight. This means that they will set up camp in the living room, playing cards, drinking Arabic coffee and cups of sweetened mint tea. They’ll smoke their water pipes and cigars, tell Arabic jokes, and shake the roof tiles with their roars of laughter.

  Shereen has a friend over who is helping her paint banners for an upcoming protest against African poverty. The entire scene is just not the kind of introduction Amy needs to my blissful domestic existence. Yet again I am forced to spin a story and respond to her text message as follows:

  Would have loved u 2 but going out 2night with family. Won’t be back until late. Sorry.

  Her response?

  np

  That’s bad. She didn’t even make the effort to write out “no problem,” opting instead for a two-letter abbreviatio
n.

  I wonder if Amy’s getting fed up with me. I wonder why she wants to visit me. There are just too many questions and I’ve let things go too far to find out the answers.

  Amy is absent from school again. I ask Liz if she’s heard from her but she shakes her head. She’s not interested. The only thing that gets her attention now is Sam.

  Peter and Chris are in the hall playing catch with a pencil case. As I approach them on my way to my locker my throat chokes up. Being around Peter always makes me feel like I’ve got a Land Rover stuck in there.

  “Hey, Jamie,” Peter says, planting himself in front of me. “What do you think about a stand-up comedy act at the formal? It would be so much better than this dumb band idea they’ve come up with.”

  “You can’t dance to stand-up comedy,” I joke.

  “We’d make pretty good comedians!” Peter says. “They should have asked us to perform.”

  “The phrase penal colony sent you and Chris into a fit of hysterics in class the other day.”

  “Exactly.” Peter chuckles. “We see the humor in everything.”

  Timothy and Lindsay Parker enter the hallway. Peter notices and I can practically see his eyes gleam with excitement.

  “Well, look what we have here,” Peter cries. “A Goldfish and a FOB. Hey, Lindsay, did you find Goldfish on your way to Australia in a boat?”

  “You’re a comedian,” Lindsay says sarcastically.

  “Actually, we were just discussing comedy. Maybe Goldfish could provide us with some fish jokes.”

  Timothy shakes his head and looks at Peter with an expression of pity. “Man, it takes originality to be a comedian and the goldfish joke is wearing a little thin. Why don’t you go look up a book on marine life and come back to me with another name. It might actually make you interesting.”