I sip my iced coffee. I want to tell him that when we were in the camps waiting for a boat we spoke about what we imagined Australia would be like. Kangaroos, koalas, wide-open spaces. Then, when we arrived, we were locked up, and the images we had shrank smaller and smaller until Australia became tiny patches of sky beyond the barbed wire.
I want to tell him this and more. But I don’t.
“So are you a beach person?” Michael asks. His eyes are fixed on me again. There’s an intensity in the way he stares at me sometimes, as though he’s trying to read my mind, figure me out.
“Not really.”
Just then my phone vibrates. I look down. Mum’s left me a voice mail message. That’s when I realize there’s a missed call from her too. I listen to the message. She tells me to come home early from the library (my cover for today) because they need me at the restaurant. I text her back and put my phone away. I can sense Michael’s eyes following me as I take a sip of my drink.
“So what do you want to do when you finish school?” I ask him.
He sighs. “Architecture. UNSW. My dad’s old university. Part-time job at a boutique firm while I study. A prestigious career, following in my father’s footsteps. Nothing left to chance.”
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic about it.”
His voice drops a few tones, but his eyes are lively, his face mobile. “Yeah. It’s kind of complicated.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s actually the last thing I want to do.”
“Hmm. That is complicated.”
“Told you.”
“So what do you want to do?”
Now, a torrent of words. His eyes light up as he talks to me about wanting to go to UTS Design School. About wanting to do graphic design, but not traditional graphic design, the cutting-edge stuff: augmented reality. Virtual reality. A completely different way of thinking about branding, marketing, gaming.
“Let me guess,” I say when he takes a breath. “Your dad’s against it?”
“Worse. He has no idea.” He looks at me helplessly and then exhales. “So anyway, what are your plans?”
“I have absolutely no idea. I just need to get the best grades so that my parents don’t die of disappointment.”
“No pressure or anything for you either, hey?”
I smile. “I’m at Victoria College on a scholarship. We’ve moved to the other side of Sydney to make the next two years possible for me. Moved from the one place in Sydney where my parents felt completely at home. If that wasn’t enough, they’ve invested in a partnership to open an Afghan restaurant, when the restaurant they were running in Auburn was doing really well. They’ve turned their lives upside down for me. So getting average grades is not an option.”
“Yep. That’s pressure.”
“Will your parents melt into puddles of abject depression if you don’t do architecture?”
Leaning his chin on his hand, he thinks for a moment. “Yep. I think that just about summarizes my current situation.”
“Welcome to the parents-overly-invested-in-our-future club.”
He suddenly bursts into laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
There’s a look of triumph in his eyes. “Looks like we have something in common after all.”
I send a text message to Paula.
I need a new job. Last year I worked part-time at a local juice bar but my shifts were cut and I couldn’t find anything else over summer vacation. My MacBook Pro is on its last legs, and I want to preorder the Oculus Rift and HoloLens, because you can never have enough virtual reality headsets. My parents could easily fund my addiction to gadgets with big fat weekly direct deposits to my bank account, like Terrence gets. But they pride themselves on old-fashioned “stand-on-your-own-two-feet” values. That means no silver platter. We might be upper middle class, they constantly tell me, but things are tough in the real world and you need to be prepared.
Tough is relative I guess. They’ve basically lined up a job for me at the end of university thanks to Dad’s friend Kyle (a job I have no intention of taking). Then there’s the fact that I already have my own car, a Jeep Wrangler. It came as a surprise, not a birthday present like some kids at school. When my granddad passed away last year he left Nathan and me each a chunk of money in his will so that we could buy a car when we got our licenses. The only thing I’d ever won before was a Mother’s Day raffle in third grade, which consisted of a tacky basket with plastic flowers and floral soap that ended up giving Mum a rash. So when Dad told me about the will I kind of fell apart—in a good way, and still respecting my alpha male credentials (no, I didn’t cry). I’d been close to my granddad and he’d only had us because my grandma had passed away when I was a kid and Dad was an only child. Mum had wanted to delay me getting the car until I finished school, but Dad and I convinced her in the end. It made life easier for them if I could get myself to school and basketball games. The rule was I had to stick to local.
On Sunday, Terrence, Fred, and I go to Chatswood so that I can submit my résumé to different shops. It feels positively Jurassic having to hand in a hard copy, but I’ve had no luck with my online applications.
When we’re done, we go to the food court for lunch.
“I told you I can lend you money,” Terrence says. “What’s the point of being friends with a spoiled rich kid if you don’t use me?”
I laugh. “Nah, man, I’m good. Thanks anyway.”
“He’s got too much pride,” Fred says. “Me? I’ve got none. Can you get a guy another burrito?”
Terrence throws Fred a ten and Fred kisses the note, laughs, and gets up to buy round two.
“I’m serious,” Terrence continues. “I know you’re into all that geeky hardware stuff. I can get it for you.”
“Quit it, you bastard. You’re getting soppy.”
He grins.
Fred comes back with a burrito and hot chips.
“Keep the change,” he says, throwing ten cents on the table. We all laugh.
“So did you meet up with Mina for that dumb assignment?” Terrence asks.
“Yeah,” I say, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. I don’t want to talk about Mina with him.
“She’s smart,” he says. “Good-looking too. But a stuck-up cow.”
“Nah, she’s all right actually.”
“It was fun stirring her up like that,” Terrence laughs.
“So did you meet up with Jane?” I ask, trying to change the topic. “Morello paired you together, didn’t he? Has that guy got no clue about the torture he’s putting her through, assigning the two of you together?”
Terrence is too busy chewing to bother responding.
“She’s got the hots for you bad,” Fred says.
Terrence swallows and then grins. “Yeah, I know.”
“You’re messing with her, aren’t you?” I say, frowning. “Don’t do that, man.”
“That kind of attitude is the reason you’ve had girlfriends and I’ve had fun.”
Fred bursts out laughing.
“You guys are such Neanderthals,” I say, rolling my eyes at them.
Terrence shrugs, taking my comment as a compliment. “Just because you’ve always been a sensitive New Age geek doesn’t mean we have to be as well.”
I shoot Fred a look. “I don’t know why you’re laughing, you moron. The one and only time you’ve kissed a girl was when the lifeguard gave you CPR at Coogee.” Terrence roars with laughter. Fred is easygoing and in no denial about his abysmal record with girls, so he laughs along too.
Mum’s on her phone, checking out Facebook.
“What’s so funny?”
“I’m just looking at the photos of the kids at Jolly’s After-School Care.” She smiles. “I miss them.”
“Why don’t you apply to work at an after-school-care center around here? You’re a natural.”
Mum eyes me. “I have been applying,” she says slowly.
I grin at her, impressed. “Real
ly?”
“I sent my résumé to fifteen places in the area. I got one response. When she heard me speak she was surprised. Said she expected me to speak English fluently.” Mum gives me a reproachful look. “Didn’t I warn you that polishing my résumé too much would create false expectations?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I just fixed the spelling and grammar.”
“Well, I don’t know what to do. Someone with my name and background isn’t going to find work here, whether I can structure a sentence or not.”
“So it’s not my fault then,” I say, trying to distract her so that neither of us has to contemplate the weight of her words.
I just manage to dodge the cushion she throws at me.
“I miss Auburn,” she says.
“Yep. I hear you.” I pause. “But, Mum? Don’t give up.”
She shrugs, and it’s as though she’s flicking my comment onto the ground. “Sometimes the apartments here feel like graves,” she says. “They’re not places where people come out and speak to each other.”
I smile coyly. “You really want creepy bifocals with staring problem in number twenty-five to socialize with you?”
She waves her hand in my direction and shushes me. But I’m just getting started.
“You don’t even like the couple next door because they have a dog.”
She pulls a face. “That’s not why I don’t like them. Stand in the elevator with them one day. It’s as though any eye contact will kill them. I’m lucky if they grunt hello. People here are just cold.”
She throws her phone to the side and stretches her arms above.
“Better than people being in everyone’s business.”
“But at least people care about each other.”
“Excuse me, but Aunty Tashima didn’t care about anybody but herself when she busted me for skipping school in seventh grade and had to tell everybody. The news probably reached Kabul.”
“Oh, you are a drama queen, Mina.” Mum lets out a faint chuckle. “That was years ago. Anyway, being a nosy gossip is different. I want people to talk to me, not gossip.”
“What kind of elevator small talk are you so desperate for anyway?”
“I want big talk. I want to know people and for them to know me. But it’s all on the surface here. Nothing personal. I stick to good morning and, maybe if they smile long enough, the weather. But we’re strangers and that’s how people want it.”
“Shake things up and talk then.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Ten years in Auburn and I felt finally that I could just be. Here, I have to try to learn to be all over again. Who I am in Auburn cannot exist here.”
Her words ring true, but I worry that agreeing with her will only exacerbate her feelings.
“Just be yourself and things will sort themselves out,” I try.
“Your advice is terrible, Mina,” she says, practically wincing. “Just terrible.”
I have to admit she has a point.
She shakes her head at me and we grin at each other. “Please just fix me a cup of tea, will you?”
“How many weeks pregnant again?” I ask, getting up.
“Enough to be pampered day and night.”
“Does the self-pity routine get worse?”
“Oh yes, definitely. That, and hemorrhoids.”
“Ew!” I splutter. “Too much information.”
“See. Nothing personal. I’ve lost you to them already.”
I laugh and make her tea.
“Sorry, Mum.”
“For what?”
“For making you leave Auburn.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Mina,” she scoffs. “All I care about is securing the best future for you. And we have the restaurant here too. So it’s a move for us as a family.”
“But you sound so upset.”
She waves my words away like a pesky fly. “Ignore my silly whining. We don’t have the luxury to do grass is greener. We’ve got to make this work. And we will. I don’t want you to worry about anything except your grades. Every now and then I might carry on, but just ignore me. Who wants to try to get kids to do arts and crafts when all they want to do is run around after a long day of school anyway?”
It’s Thursday and we’re busy tonight. Baba and Irfan are out back running the kitchen. We’re a couple of staff down, so I’ve stepped in to help, along with Mum, who’s steering clear of the meat.
I’m behind the front counter chatting with a couple as they settle the bill, when the restaurant door is flung wide open and a man with a huge birthmark on his face walks purposefully toward me. He stops and waits, eyes darting around the restaurant as I finalize the bill. I sense a nervous energy about him. He’s tapping one leg impatiently; his arms are folded tightly over his chest. When the couple leaves, I turn my attention to him.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah. Yeah, you can.”
I stand tall, waiting for him to continue.
“Yes?” I press him.
“Is your meat halal?”
I look at him, dumbfounded. His question takes me completely by surprise.
“I said is your meat halal?”
“Yes.” I wonder if he’s been hired to check certification and point to the halal certificate behind the counter. “We’re certified, as you can see.”
“Pretty obscure place to put the certificate, isn’t it? The customers can’t see it there.”
I study his face closely, trying to make sense of what’s happening. “It’s right behind me in plain view.”
“It doesn’t say where the money’s going.”
I don’t know who he is or what he wants, so I hold my tongue, not daring to provoke him until I know more.
“And who are you?” I ask. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“I didn’t offer it.” He looks around the restaurant again and then whips out a phone and scrolls through the screen. He looks up at me. “Is the manager here?”
“Yes. Both of them. Why?”
“I just need to talk to them.”
“Well, they’re in the kitchen now and we’re low on staff tonight. So unless you’re ordering, I’ll have to ask you to leave, please.”
He takes a long breath and lets it out. He looks like he has a whole lot more to say but must think twice because he barks that he’ll be back soon, turns swiftly on his heel, and marches out the door.
It gets manically busy after that and by the time we close up I’ve forgotten all about him.
The best part about eleventh grade is the free study periods. The worst part is that Paula’s don’t coincide with mine.
I’m in the library with Jane, Leica, and Cameron. Leica and Cameron are nestled up close to each other doing work, but not close enough for the librarian to give them a hands-off warning. Jane’s giving me a brain freeze, sparing me no details about her hour with Terrence for their assignment. I can think of better things to do than try to decode Terrence’s feelings for her. Things like, say, pouring salt into an infected blister. That Jane’s not getting the message that I’m bored has me seriously doubting her credibility when it comes to interpreting Terrence’s mixed signals.
I’m saved when Sienna, from history, comes up to the table and invites us to her birthday party.
I panic inside. Parties are nightmare territory for me. I’ll have to spin a story to my mum about studying at a friend’s place. But even if that works, because of my early curfew, I’ll probably have to leave before most people have even arrived.
My head isn’t coping with trying to summarize the chronology of World War I while listening to Jane go on and on about Terrence. So I close Word, knowing this means a late night tonight, and open the website of one of my favorite bands, The xx.
Not long to go for their album to drop. I’m counting down.
The bell rings, to my relief, and I’m left alone.
Then I notice Zoe and Clara enter the library. They can see that there’s plenty of space next to me and,
given we’re in the same class, avoiding my table isn’t a neutral decision. They make eye contact with me, then sit down at another table, close enough to me to make the point. A short while later Zoe gets up and makes a beeline to a bookshelf near me. On her return, balancing a pile of books in her arms, she stops to talk to me.
“How’d you go with the essay?” Her tone is off balance. Here is a girl who’s trying desperately hard to suppress her anxiety about coming second. I feel a wave of pity for her.
“I got an A.”
Her face crumbles for a split second. She quickly regains her composure. “Do you have a tutor?”
“No,” I snap, irritated. “Why would you ask that?”
“It’s just a question.” I have to hand it to her. She seems to think I’m the impolite one.
I throw the question back at her. “Do you have a tutor?”
Now it’s her turn to be indignant. “I don’t need one!”
“So what did you get—”
She doesn’t give me a chance and quickly turns on her heel.
Weary of her antics, I plug my earphones into my ears.
Bliss.
I’m in the moment but outside of it. The people and things around me don’t exist. It’s just me and the music and a swell of joy and sorrow and memory courses through my veins. It was Christy Bonnaci from ninth grade who first put me onto indie music. She took me aside after a particularly vigorous free-dance class in drama and said, very seriously, very sage-like, “There’s nothing wrong with liking the playlist of a Just Dance Wii game, but I think you can do better than that.” One recess with a pair of earplugs and I was converted.
I should be studying but Zoe’s put me right off. I just feel like chilling out, except that word is all wrong because the music doesn’t cool me down—it warms me.
But then somebody plonks a bag on the table and sits down opposite me.
“You like The xx?” A bewildered tone. I force an eye open to check who the voice belongs to.
Michael stares at me, a look of surprise on his face.
I slowly raise my head. “Yeah. I do.”
He smiles.
The Lines We Cross Page 7
