“Of course we don’t,” Mum hastily adds.
“Can’t you see that you’ve given the people who threw the brick permission to hate?!”
“That’s just not true, Michael!” Mum snaps.
“But it is true, Mum! Fuck Off We’re Full has the same impact, whether it’s spray-painted on a window, or hidden in polite language on your website.”
“What are you saying, Michael?” Dad asks.
“Your organization is making racist hate speech against Muslims and asylum seekers normal.”
“I reject that, Michael,” Dad says, sitting upright and furiously shaking his head. “We have never encouraged hate speech, not to mention vandalism! We stand for constructive debate. And it’s a bit more complicated than pulling out the race card. Muslims are not a race.”
“Go and look at the Aussie Values Facebook page,” I say. “Go and read the comments under the articles you post. Bomb them to the crusades. Shoot the lot. Assimilate or go back to your caves.”
“Those comments are unacceptable,” Mum says.
“There are articles up on that page about Islam being an ideology like Nazism,” I continue. “There’s one that says that if you don’t control Muslim numbers they’ll take over and start raping and beheading people.”
“I never posted those articles,” Dad says tersely. “But I won’t deny people their right to free speech.”
I think about Mina and her family. “Free for people like us,” I mutter. “Because people like them pay the price.”
My parents don’t reply. They stare at me, and a thick, oppressive silence settles between us. We sit like that for a while and then, quietly, deflated of all anger now, I say: “You know what hurts? You guys just think I woke up one day and decided to rebel against you out of some teenage protest …”
Mum puts her elbow on the armrest and cups her head in her hand as she hears me out. Dad is leaning forward, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped together. He looks worn out. His eyes are closed, but I know he’s listening too.
“I want you to know that’s not what happened. I’ve tried really hard to see your point of view. I’ve struggled to reject the things you believe in. But I’ve done my own research because in case you’ve forgotten, it’s the two of you who taught me never to accept things at face value.”
Mum nods once, but doesn’t respond. Dad opens his eyes, but also remains silent.
“Where do we go from here?” I ask, because sometimes trying to change somebody means having to break them first, and I don’t want to be the one to do that to them, no matter how much it hurts to know that the way I’ll navigate my life will forever set me on a different path from them.
The mood is somber, the room enveloped in shadows as the sun starts to set. Mum, as if reading my mind, gets up to turn on the light.
“We’ll just have to find a way,” Dad eventually says, resigned, sad even, but at least not angry enough not to want to try.
“Mina, your friends are here!” Mum calls out to me.
“Who?” I call back, walking out of the kitchen carrying a pile of menus and napkins.
Paula and Jane are standing at the door in their school uniforms. I put the menus and napkins on the table next to me and run over to them. We hug each other tightly. Then we step back and I give them a questioning look.
Jane self-consciously tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and starts to stammer. “I came because I wanted to say—”
Paula stops her. “It’s in the past. Forgiven.”
A smile spreads slowly up to Jane’s eyes.
They both take in the scene around us: the damaged furniture Baba and Irfan have stowed in a corner for the insurer to examine. Piles of trash spilling out of bags and waiting to be disposed of.
“What can we do?” Paula asks.
“The cleaning’s all done. But can you keep me company while I sort the cutlery?”
“No,” Jane says. “We’ll keep you company while we help you sort the cutlery.”
I grin at her.
I glance at the clock. It’s almost five. A sudden feeling of fatigue courses through my body.
“How’s Michael?” Paula asks as I walk her to the door. Jane is ahead of us, on the phone to her mum.
“I haven’t had a chance to talk to him,” I say. “I’m confused.”
“Confused about what?”
“Not about my feelings for him …” I feel scared to say what’s been running through my head all day.
“Then what?”
I motion around me. “This is because of Michael’s family, Paula.” I shake my head. “I just can’t see how things can work between us. They’re not going to stop. And we’ll be caught in the middle.”
Paula smiles. “Maybe. But sometimes you have to get in the trenches. Some people are worth the risk.”
“Wilde?”
“No. Me.”
We laugh.
I close the door behind me and sink into the throne, my legs aching. I close my eyes. Before I can stop myself, I fall asleep.
I wake up to the sensation of Mum gently shaking me by the shoulder.
“We’ve decided to close for tonight,” she says, pulling me up. “Come on, let’s go home.”
The last of the daylight slowly fades away as we drive home. I send Michael a text.
I smile to myself when he replies within seconds.
I lean my head against the glass as I type another text.
His reply is instant.
Baba pulls into our parking spot and Emily sends me a text message, letting me know she’s made us dinner. She’s been checking for us from her window. She doesn’t want to impose and knows Mum needs her rest now that she’s closer to her due date. She asks me to pick the food up from her apartment.
I show Mum the text, which means explaining my earlier text. Mum’s furious with me, but I don’t give her a chance. I snap at her—something corny about friendships and honesty—and storm off to collect the food.
The three of us collapse onto the couch and tuck into Emily’s chicken noodles and fried pastries. Mum finishes eating, goes to her room, and closes the door. I sneak up and listen at the door. She’s talking to Emily. When it sounds like the conversation’s drawing to a close, I run back to the couch and jump next to Baba.
Mum emerges, her eyes brighter, a lightness in her step. She shakes her head at me, giving me a half smile that tells me she might forgive me.
Baba turns on the TV, muttering under his breath as he flicks through the channels.
“What’s wrong, Baba?”
“Irfan saw the ad. It’s on News Tonight. Now.”
I sit up straight and alert. He flicks the channel again and there’s the reporter, introducing the story, under the caption Refugee Scammers.
I’m expecting the worst. Instead, there’s Michael’s father and two Aussie Values members watching with horror as Michael denounces Aussie Values on national television.
I’m overwhelmed with emotion but don’t want my parents to see. I jump up, mutter something about needing fresh air, and go outside, onto the veranda. I lean against the rail and look up at the inky sky. I can hear the hooting of an owl in the distance. Hot tears fall down my cheeks, but I welcome them.
There’s a lot of ugliness under this sky. But there’s plenty of beauty here too. I want to find it, spread it around, all over the cruelty and injustice. I want to shake this world like a can of soda, pop the lid, and watch the bubbles explode. Join a revolution to do nothing less than change the world. I want to get angry and be passionate. But the best part is that I have Michael beside me, and it looks like he wants to do the same thing.
Dad is fielding call after concerned call following the News Tonight program. I’m doing my homework at the dinner table and can hear him in the next room. “It doesn’t change anything. Well, that’s his right … Yes, it could just be some kind of adolescent rebellion. I hope people will make up their own minds.”
Mum is sitting a
t the kitchen bench, dunking a cookie into her cup of coffee as she completes a field-trip form for Nathan. I can tell she’s listening to Dad too, and she throws the occasional glance my way.
“Is there a girl, Michael?” she asks out of the blue. She clears her throat, speaks gently. “Is that why you’ve suddenly changed?”
I groan softly. “If you’re asking because you think I said those things to impress a girl, then the answer is no.”
She taps her fingers faintly on the bench. “But there’s a girl?”
I sigh. “Yes, there’s a girl. But not how you think.”
She treads carefully. “Well, tell me about her,” she says cautiously. “She’s obviously changed you.”
“Actually, no, she didn’t, Mum,” I say. “As corny as this will sound, she made me realize I didn’t need to change, I just needed to figure out what I stand for.”
She purses her lips and murmurs something to herself.
Dad emerges then, his face solemn and weary. He turns on the kettle and stands in front of it, staring at the countertop as the water boils.
“Are they calling for my head?” I ask Dad in a droll tone.
He raises his eyebrows. “Don’t flatter yourself. We can survive without you.”
I stare at him, slightly shocked. But then I see the beginnings of a faint smile on his face and I can’t help but let out a laugh.
“Glad you can both see the humor in this,” Mum says.
“We’re not the first family to divide on politics,” Dad says matter-of-factly. “It shouldn’t split us apart.”
“Well, obviously I won’t let that happen,” Mum says tersely. “We wouldn’t be much of a family otherwise, would we?”
It’s almost ten at night when I remember. Guilt stabs me and I reach for my phone and call her.
“Paula! K4! What happened? I’m so sorry for not asking.”
It doesn’t surprise me that she’s quick to forgive me. “Oh, come on, I totally understand. Nothing’s happened yet anyway. Surgery’s actually tomorrow.”
“Mina! Wake up! It’s time!”
I open one eye, half asleep as I peer at Baba in confusion. His eyes are wild. He’s trying to tuck his shirt into his pants, smooth down his hair, and put his shoes on all at the same time.
“Keep your phone charged and close to you! I’ll call you.”
I hear a sound coming from inside. A loud moan.
“Is she okay?”
“No!” He half laughs, half chokes. “Oh my God, Mina, it’s happening! Get dressed, quick!”
Mum moans again, only louder this time.
We arrive at the hospital, and Baba and I help walk Mum inside. She’s quickly taken to the delivery ward and I’m left alone in the waiting room.
It’s just past eight in the morning and I lean back against the wall, close my eyes, and try to block out the infomercial break in the morning breakfast program.
A midwife comes past an hour later and tells me Mum’s making good progress. I go downstairs to grab a coffee and a muffin. I text Mum’s friends to let them know. Rojin calls me on the spot, asking if Mum would mind if she visited her in the hospital, and if I could let her know as soon as the baby is born so she can bring a gift.
By midday I’ve read every pregnancy-related magazine in the waiting room and consider myself an expert in all things prenatal. I text Paula to check up on K4 and she calls me instantly, laughing and crying as she tells me that the lump was detected and removed before it had the chance to spread.
“Oh, Mina, I’m so excited! And guess what? Just guess? Go on, try! You won’t guess. But try! Okay, fine, I’ll just tell you. Dad’s applied for long service leave! And Mum spoke to Nancy and guess what? Nancy’s going to cancel her Europe trip at the end of the year and come here instead! FOR A MONTH.”
We go a bit silly over the phone. She invites me to her place for celebratory cake, and I tell her I’d love to but I have a prior engagement otherwise known as I’m going to be a sister again!
It’s all-round squealing.
Three hours later and Baba emerges, his face wet with tears.
“It’s a boy!”
I scream out with joy and he hugs me so strongly I feel as though my ribs might pop.
“How’s Mum?” I ask anxiously.
“Exhausted! But she’s okay. Come on, she’s in a room now. He’s beautiful, Mina. Looks like a hairy monkey. A perfect hairy monkey.”
Mum’s lying back in the hospital bed, pale, eyes droopy with exhaustion, but smiling. I kiss her and she points to the bassinet beside her. I approach cautiously. Inside is a tiny thing with a shock of black hair. He’s fast asleep, mouth pouted and eyes shut tight. I love him already.
“What did you name him?”
“Nabil.”
I pick him up and sit down on one of the visitors’ chairs. Nabil is sound asleep. I stare into his perfect tiny face.
“Hello, Nabil,” I whisper.
I study his face. I don’t want to break my gaze for a moment. He’s cast a spell over me. I raise him up closer to hear him breathing. The sound of a baby’s breath seems like a miracle to me. The more I stare at my baby brother the more I am reminded of Hasan’s face. These eyes are almond; Hasan’s eyes were more rounded. These eyelashes are long and straight; Hasan’s curled. This nose is small with nostrils that flare slightly, like Hasan’s. These lips are thick on the bottom, thinner at the top; Hasan’s were thick and pouted. This baby’s skin is the color of honey. Hasan’s skin was pale.
My chest is fit to burst. I feel complete again. For Nabil has returned my brother to me.
Mina and I arrive at school early, when it’s easier to meet in private, in a secluded section of the oval. I see her approaching me and feel like she’s hooked a lasso around my heart. She plants herself in front of me and grins.
“Come here, you,” I say, and open my arms. She throws herself against me and I wrap my arms around her.
Dropping my hands around her waist, I lean back slightly and she tilts her chin up to meet my eyes.
“So you’re a big sister again, hey?”
She smiles. “He’s beautiful.”
She touches my right cheek with the palm of her hand. “I saw you on TV. Michael, you were incredible. That took guts. But how are you coping at home? It’s not fair on you.”
“They’re devastated and upset, but making an effort.” I laugh faintly. “I’m trying to get them to appreciate the funny side of the situation. You know, get them to see that things could be far worse. I could have come out and told them I was converting. Or dating a Muslim. That’s for another day.”
Mina smiles.
“That put things in perspective for them,” I say brightly. “So, anyway, enough about them. Did you miss me?”
She looks at me coyly. “A little.”
“Well then, prove it.”
And I bend down and kiss her.
“The poetry slam is on at school tomorrow,” Paula tells me during last period.
“Nice.”
“Come watch?”
“Yeah, of course.”
Butterflies erupt in my stomach. Because there’s a poem in my head. It moved in weeks ago, just like that, unannounced, big and bold, daring me to evict it. It’s been playing on repeat, settling in and getting comfy, like when you try to make your own dent in a new couch. It’s there, like a challenge. And no matter what I do I can’t sweep it away, or drown out the voice inside that keeps reciting it.
Baba calls me during recess, talking so fast I can barely make out what he’s saying. I tell him to slow down and he laughs.
“Mina, Mina, Mina!” he says in a singsong voice. “The lawyer says Adnan, Mustafa, and Mariam will be released on Saturday! Thank God their visas weren’t canceled!”
I race through the school grounds in search of Michael. He’s at the basketball courts. I wave at him and he jogs over. My heart is pounding wildly and I’m grinning like a maniac. I tell him the news and he picks me u
p and spins me around.
It’s lunchtime. The poetry slam is being held in the school hall. Several people have performed so far and the audience is really getting into it, clapping and snapping their fingers at their favorite lines. Paula’s arranged for one of the slam artists from Bankstown to visit. Sara performs a piece that manages to cover her first love, body image, and working out. From the moment she speaks, she sucks us all in. She’s fast-paced, angry, funny, tender, and totally uncensored. When she drops the F-word the audience cheers. I can see the teachers nervously looking at each other, but one of them shrugs as if to say let it go.
I’m sitting in the front row, alongside Michael, Cameron, Leica, and Jane. My stomach is churning. Poor Brian’s got an impossible act to follow. Not to mention he’s slamming about his cat.
Terrence and Fred start to make meowing sounds.
Brian finishes and Paula calls my name. The others look at me, eyes widening as I slowly stand up.
“You’re going up there?” Michael asks in shock.
“Are you nuts?” Jane says helpfully.
I laugh. “Yep. Talk me out of it, please.”
“No chance,” Michael says, grinning.
I don’t realize how large the hall is until I’m standing up on stage in front of endless rows. People are chatting among themselves, laughing and mucking around. Paula introduces me and the teachers start their shushing and pacing, flashing menacing looks at the ones slower to realize I’m ready to start.
I look out at the audience and an unexpected wave of confidence rushes through me. I have something to say and it matters. I’m not embarrassed and I don’t care what people will say about me.
I recite a little prayer to myself, take a deep breath, clasp my fingers tightly around the microphone, and begin.
I’ve come from the place of go back to where you came from
From unmarked graves and stinking camps
The Lines We Cross Page 24
