Ten Things I Hate About Me

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  “She’s welcome to come to our place.”

  He is so predictable. I have an answer ready. “Her mom needs her to be home tonight. She’s not feeling well and needs someone around.”

  There’s a long pause.

  “Dad?”

  “I have a late shift tonight. Who will pick you up?”

  “I checked with Bilal. He said he can.”

  “So you asked him before you asked me?”

  “Dad,” I moan. “I just wanted to cover all my bases before I bothered you.” I bite down hard on my lip, praying that he’ll take the bait.

  “I want you home by nine. And this is not to become a habit.”

  “OK, sure,” I say jokingly, “I’ll tell the Board of Education to review the way they assign their tests so it aligns with your rules.”

  “Yes, you do that,” he responds. I can sense that he’s trying to hold back a laugh and I suddenly feel guilty about lying to him.

  And yet the temptation is so strong. It’s like being on a diet and being confronted with a slice of chocolate mud pie. You decide to devour it and deal with the consequences the next day: an extra-long run on the treadmill, a compensatory day of carrots and celery. I don’t think my dad would appreciate the analogy, but that’s the way I rationalize it as I hop onto the bus with Liz, Sam, and Peter.

  I wonder what Amy would think. She’s absent from school again so I don’t have to face her today. Somehow I don’t think she’d approve.

  As soon as we arrive at the cinema complex Liz and Sam decide that they’re “famished.” They give Peter and me pathetic, wide-eyed looks of despair and rub their tummies.

  “I must eat food,” Sam says.

  “OK, grab a burger and take it into the cinema with you.” My voice is desperate. We have fifteen minutes until the next movie begins. If we miss it, the next one doesn’t start for another hour. That means I won’t get home by nine.

  “I hate eating a burger over my lap,” Liz complains, pouting at me. “It’s so icky and messy. And I like to eat one fry and then take a bite of the burger. There’s a system involved.”

  “How cute,” Sam says, grabbing her by the waist and whacking a big sloppy kiss on her neck.

  I start to panic. If I insist on the earlier movie I’ll be the whining odd one out. But if I don’t, I’ll get home late and my dad is likely to send out an Australian Federal Police task force with sniffer dogs to look for me.

  “I hate to be the party pooper,” I say meekly, “but do you mind if we see this showing? It’s just that my brother’s picking me up and he can’t come by later.”

  “You can hitch a ride with me,” Peter offers. “My brother’s picking me up too ’cause he’s free tonight.”

  My heart starts racing like an Olympic athlete sighting the finish line. So I keep spinning a web of lies. “Thanks, but we’re going out afterward, so he has to pick me up anyway.”

  “Well, I’m hungry!” Liz says, looking at me with an annoyed expression on her face. “I wish you’d told me that when I invited you.”

  I want to thump her on the head with a blunt instrument. Has she always been so selfish?

  We end up deciding to see a different movie. One that allows Liz to eat her meal according to her wretched system and me to get picked up on time. We grab some food, and because Peter, Sam, and Liz all want to smoke we take our food outside and hang out on a bench in the parking lot.

  “Want a drag?” Peter asks. We’re sitting up on the bench, our feet resting on the seat. We’re so close that our legs are touching. He blows the smoke close to my face and I can’t help but cough. He bursts out laughing.

  “You dork! You can’t go coughing every time somebody blows smoke in your face. It’s not cool. Here, I’ll teach you how to take a drag.”

  My eyes dart maniacally to the left and right, searching for any familiar faces passing by in the parking lot. There’s every possibility that somebody we know might see me. But I ignore my conscience and put the cigarette to my lips. I cough and splutter and Peter points at me and laughs with Sam and Liz. I feel like an idiot.

  “You just need practice,” he says. He takes the cigarette from me and inhales. “You know, you’re pretty innocent, Jamie. But you don’t fool me. I bet you’ve got lots of dark secrets.”

  “What makes you say that?” I stammer.

  He taps his temple with his finger. “Trust me, I know these things. I think there’s a wild side to you. Like they say, you’ve gotta watch out for the quiet ones.”

  “Well, what you see is what you get,” I say in an unconvincing voice. “So are you excited about the formal?” I smile broadly, trying to steer the conversation in another direction.

  “Yeah, but I’m still pissed off about the band. You can’t dance to Middle Eastern music.”

  “You need props,” Sam says. “Like camels or bombs.” They let out a big hoot of laughter.

  “My dad thinks it’s just political correctness,” Peter says. “The school’s obviously trying to suck up to the minorities.”

  I clear my throat and play with my fingernails. This is wrong. I regret being here. I want to be around people who make me feel good about myself and who bring out the best in me. But I’m sitting here listening to my heritage being trash-talked, and I’m a mute.

  I can’t help but think of Timothy. There’s so much courage and fire in him. He can be quiet and unassuming and then bold and daring. He walks around the school knowing that Peter and his entourage spread rumors about him being a snob because he used to live on the North Shore. And yet he holds his head up. He refuses to wear a bulletproof vest to protect against their words, words that shoot out and pierce the skin. He’s like a football player who runs out onto the field without any protection. No mouth guard or knee and elbow padding. He’s ready to tackle anyone, but he does it without any fierce need to prove a point.

  I want to be like that. I’ve got so much protective padding strapped to myself that it’s suffocating my voice, my conscience, my personality.

  And then there’s the guilt.

  Trust. It’s all I’ve ever wanted from my dad.

  I’ve defended myself. Argued that I’m worthy of it. That my word is my honor. That he can snuggle up to it and sleep well through the night.

  But I’m betraying my father, and the hypocrisy is sitting in my stomach like an undigested sandwich.

  I sit and listen to the three of them ramble on about a world wholly foreign to my own: nightclubs and joints and getting wasted and doing “it” and picking on losers like Ahmed and Paul in the locker room.

  Then Peter notices two Indian ladies walking up the stairs in their colorful saris. He cups his hands to his mouth and yells out: “Curry munchers!” Liz and Sam cackle and Peter looks thoroughly pleased with himself.

  The movie is a blur. All I can see is Amy shaking her head at me. All I can hear are Timothy’s words of disappointment. And my father? He’s sitting in an armchair, his argeela in one hand, a cup of tea in the other, smoking my betrayal, drinking in my deceit.

  After the movie, we go to the parking lot, where Peter’s brother is waiting. They decide to hang out at a nearby park.

  “Come along,” Peter says. “My brother’s brought some beer. We’ll play truth or dare. We can find out about your wild side.” He winks at me and I feel dirty. I turn the offer down, reminding them about my other commitments.

  They jump into the car and leave me waiting alone in the dark. I stand under the theater entrance lights and wait for Bilal.

  I put one foot into the car and he raises his hand in the air. “Stop!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You stink of smoke!”

  I pull my hair and clothes to my nose. It’s as though I’ve taken a bath in an ashtray.

  “Have you been smoking?”

  “I took one drag. It sucks. I have no idea why you do it.”

  “You can’t go home smelling like that. Dad will know as soon as I turn the car in
to our driveway!”

  “He’s working late.”

  “He told me he’ll be home by nine.” He leans his head on the steering wheel. “What are we going to do?”

  I throw my jacket into the backseat. “I’ll wash my hair.”

  “I told you he’ll probably be home by the time we arrive.”

  “Wait here.”

  I run to the theater restroom. I pick a basin. I tip my head over into the sink. I glance over at the soap dispenser to my right, take a deep sigh and do what I know I have to.

  I start to wash my hair with the soap from a theater-bathroom soap dispenser.

  It is as disgusting and moronic as it sounds. I scrub and scrub, and when I’m satisfied that I’ve worked up a decent enough lather, I reach out to turn the tap on.

  Except there’s no water. Just a faucet.

  I look up at half an angle, my hair dripping with soapsuds; my eyes squinting through the water and soap that’s dribbling down my face. I realize that Hoyts has decided to go high tech on its patrons. The faucet operates with a sensor so I have to position my head at a certain angle to get the water to run. It was already going to be tough work to rinse my hair with my head upside down in a tiny sink. Try adding a stupid sensor to the equation and you have a recipe for disaster.

  I’m in a panic now. I’m rinsing as much as I can, frantically twisting my head into different angles every three seconds as the water keeps on stopping.

  I eventually throw my head back, stretch my neck muscles, which have gone into a spasm, and tie my hair into a bun. I look shocking. My eye makeup has run down my face, my hair looks greasy with soap, and the front of my top is drenched. It will have to do. I rush out of the bathroom, ignoring people’s stares.

  Bilal gives me a pitiful look.

  “Was it worth it?” he asks.

  “I don’t know what is anymore,” I say, and burst into tears.

  37

  DAD AND BILAL are having a fight. I’ve never seen them at each other like this. It’s past three on Saturday morning when I hear shouting. I’ve been on tenterhooks ever since the movie, but Dad doesn’t seem to suspect anything and this fight doesn’t sound as though it’s about me. I get out of bed and peek out from my door. Bilal is in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and drinking a glass of water. He has obviously just arrived home. My dad is screaming at him: “How dare you walk into our home at this hour smelling of alcohol and smoke!”

  I think Bilal is drunk because he slams the glass of water down onto the counter and yells back: “You drove me to it, Dad! I come home this afternoon and tell you that my friend’s boss thinks I’ve got a real talent for fixing cars and you frigging have a go at me about getting a real job! And then you wonder why I don’t talk to you.”

  My dad’s face suddenly turns shades of purple and red. He looks like he’s about to combust. I wonder whether our supply of soap is going to be big enough for this fight.

  “Is this how you talk to your father?” he shrieks in Arabic. “Where is your respect? You speak to me like I am some person off the street! I am your father! Do you hear me? You come to my home drunk? With two sisters in the house, you dare to disrespect them?”

  Usually Bilal would calm down after being told off like that. He would realize that he’s overstepped the mark. But he must have really had too much to drink because he actually sneers at my dad and says: “You don’t listen to what I want. Well, it’s my life, not yours.”

  My nervous system just about collapses when I see him challenge Dad like that. Shereen then hurricanes out of her bedroom and throws herself in the middle of Dad and Bilal.

  “Shut up, Bilal! Go to your room!”

  “Stay out of this, Shereen,” Bilal yells back.

  “I said go!” she orders him.

  “This is between Bilal and me, Shereen,” Dad cries.

  “Dad, just calm down. It’s the middle of the night. The neighbors are going to call the cops on us with all this yelling. Bilal will go to bed and it can be sorted out in the morning.”

  Dad starts muttering under his breath and Bilal looks at Shereen, shakes his head, and storms out of the room, banging the kitchen door shut on his way out. He passes me in the hallway and gives me a brief look. His eyes are bloodshot and I shrink back in fright. He doesn’t address or acknowledge me but goes into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. I bite down on my quivering lip to stop myself from crying. I stand in the doorway for four or five minutes, scared to even raise an eyelid in case Dad hears and realizes I’ve been watching. I start to feel pins and needles attack my toes and feet and I finally muster up the courage to turn around and climb back into bed.

  It must be two hours later when I wake up. Shereen is snuggled up beside me, clusters of tissues around her pillow. I sink my head into my pillow and hug her close, wondering, not for the first time, if things would have been different if our mother was around.

  When I wake up later that morning I find a note from Shereen on the pillow beside me:

  Jam, I’ll be in the city today, at the rally against the war in Iraq. Tell Dad you guys should go ahead and have dinner without me. I doubt I’ll make it back in time. Love you—and try to keep the peace this morning between them.

  Tree-hugger xxoo

  I try to detect any noises that might indicate that either Dad or Bilal are awake. Soon enough I hear Dad’s smoker’s cough, the sound of his heavy slippers against the kitchen floorboards, and the whistle of the kettle.

  I jump out of bed, take a shower, and get dressed. I tap on Bilal’s door but there’s no response, only the faint sound of his snores. I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m not in the mood for adopting the role of United Nations peacemaker at breakfast.

  “Morning,” I say, entering the kitchen and kissing my dad on the forehead.

  “Morning,” he answers, smiling wearily at me.

  He doesn’t look like he’s had a lot of sleep and it occurs to me that he doesn’t have anybody to hug him in bed. That when he goes to bed angry or upset with us, he has nobody to complain to or confide in. That in between the bickering and the working and the paying of the bills and the juggling of three personalities, there must also be loneliness. It hits me so suddenly that for a moment I want to reach out to my dad and hug him. But something holds me back and I know what it is: my lack of courage. I always seem to lack the courage to translate my conscience into action, to go from thinking good to doing good. As I stare at my dad moving quietly about the kitchen preparing his ritual morning cup of coffee, I feel an intense sadness. For the first time I see him for what he is—a lonely man. But there’s such a gulf of misunderstanding between us that I don’t know how to make up for it.

  Take away human noises from a house and you’re left with a humming refrigerator, the ticking of wall clocks, and the creaking sounds of wood expanding in the roof.

  Bilal leaves as soon as he wakes up. He wants to “chill out” somewhere in the city.

  My father has another madrasa meeting with Miss Sajda and the other staff members. He leaves the house smelling of musk and cigarettes, muttering about Bilal and insolent behavior.

  I walk around the house. I picture Amy in the living room, relaxed on the couch with a bag of chips and good conversation. My mother is in the kitchen cooking up a feast, smiling down on us as she soaks crushed wheat and chops up parsley.

  I try to picture another woman in her place. But then I push the thought to the part of my brain that deals with such things in the shadows of the night.

  Computer time, and the sound of the keyboard competes with music I’ve downloaded from the net. I send an e-mail to John. Just for kicks. Just to know if he’s still a candidate for a missing persons ad.

  My e-mail is still blocked.

  But wait. I look closely. There is a sign of life.

  My intermail messenger indicates that Rage_Against_The_Machine is online.

  I’m about to send a message when my cell rings.

  The cal
l changes everything.

  Shereen is on the other end. She’s been arrested with five of her friends and is in custody at a nearby police station.

  I lose my grip on the phone and it drops onto the floor. I sweep down to get it, practically dropping it again, my hands are shaking so much.

  “Are you there?” I ask in a panic.

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “What do you mean arrested?” I whisper.

  “I don’t have a long time to talk, Jam. They arrested us at the protest. Don’t stress. They haven’t charged me yet. But can you try to look up a legal aid lawyer? I don’t want Dad involved. I’ll tell him myself. Is Bilal around?”

  “I’ve been trying to get in contact with him all day. He took off this morning and his phone is off.”

  She gives me instructions as to which station she is at and what I’m to do. I’m to search the Yellow Pages for a local legal aid lawyer.

  I flop down miserably on my bed and start biting my nails, racking my brains for a solution. I don’t know who to turn to. I try Bilal’s cell again but the woman on the other end is relentless in her advice to me to “please try again later.” I angrily throw my phone down.

  I find the number for the local branch of legal aid. I’m greeted with a recorded message telling me that opening hours are Monday to Friday, nine to five. What do people do in these situations? The cops don’t suspend their arresting powers on the weekend.

  I want to scream out in frustration and then it dawns on me so clearly that I want to jump up and down: John’s mother is a lawyer! It might be worth a shot to send John a message.

  From: Ten_Things_I_Hate_About_Me@intermail.com

  To: Rage_Against_The_Machine@intermail.com

  URGENT URGENT URGENT URGENT JOHN, I URGENTLY NEED YOU TO REPLY TO THIS MSG. I KNOW YOU’RE THERE SO DON’T IGNORE ME. PLEASE. MY SISTER HAS BEEN ARRESTED. SHE’S AT PARRAMATTA POLICE STATION. SHE NEEDS A LAWYER AND SYDNEY DOESN’T BELIEVE IN WEEKEND JUSTICE. PLEASE REPLY. I NEED YOUR MOM’S HELP. YOU CAN CALL ME AT 042135654.