Huda and Me

by H. Hayek

  I run to my grandma and wrap my arms around her. ‘I love you so much, Tayta. I’m going to miss you.’ I look into her light-brown eyes, then kiss her on the forehead.

  ‘Allah maak, ya ibni.’ Her delicate voice is so precious to my ears. I want to remember her calling me my boy forever.

  Jido softly snores on his side of the bed. I wish I had time to snuggle up beside him and lean into his cosy body.

  Instead, I make dua. ‘Oh Allah, please let us find Raheed safe and sound. Oh Allah, please help my grandma get better. And please let me come back here really soon. Ameen,’ I whisper.

  The taxi driver beeps. So I kiss my jido on the head and race out the door.

  It feels like deja vu.

  ‘The flight crew would like to welcome you to Melbourne’s Tullamarine International Airport. We will be arriving at the gate momentarily. Please remain in your seats with your seatbelt securely fastened until the aircraft has come to a complete stop …’

  I open my eyes, expecting to see Huda next to me. But instead I see Dad.

  ‘You okay?’ he says. It’s been so long since anyone asked me that.

  ‘I’m all right. Just worried about Raheed.’

  Dad nods but doesn’t say anything.

  We get off the plane and clear passport control as quickly as possible, then take the Nothing to Declare customs queue and, at last, make it through the arrivals gate. Happy-looking groups of people holding balloons and welcome home signs have gathered around the gate. Their eyes are wide, their faces eager, as they await their loved ones’ arrival, and I feel a pang in my chest. I imagine me and my siblings gathering like that, one week from now – in some sort of happy parallel universe, where Aunt Amel was the best babysitter ever.

  I wish everything had turned out okay. But it hasn’t.

  I take a deep breath. I’m not sure where we’re heading – to the police station or home. Or perhaps we’re going to drive around and look for them. I can tell from the lines on Dad’s forehead that it’s not the right time to ask. I think about my baby brother Raheed’s sweet, chubby cheeks for the billionth time. Why did she take him?

  Just at that moment, an announcement comes over the loudspeaker. ‘Calling remaining passenger, A. Boogie, for flight JFQ 771 to Wellington, departing at 4:20 p.m. Please check in at desk 57, then proceed to gate 14 immediately. We repeat. Please check in for flight JFQ 771 to Wellington, immediately.’

  Something in my brain clicks.

  Wellington was in our geography test last term. It’s the capital of New Zealand …

  And that very first morning with Aunt Amel, when we all stood in the kitchen and she gave each of us a task, she said: ‘It’s not exactly the New Zealand ski trip I’ve been dying for, nor even the two-day day-spa at Daylesford, but I’ve always made the best out of any situation…’

  On top of that, she’d listed Raheed’s job last: to be her holiday buddy. I’d assumed she meant for her ‘holiday’ at our house, but now another possibility hits me in the face like six overdue library books. NEW ZEALAND.

  And finally … A. Boogie. How many parents out in the world could possibly think that was a good name for their child?

  I spot a sign pointing to the departures area of the airport, and I start sprinting. I sort of remember my way from when I was here with Huda two and a half days ago.

  ‘Hey! Where are you going?’ Dad cries from behind me.

  But there’s no time to explain. I have to reach desk 57, and I have to reach it now.

  People, signs and destination screens flash by me. I run, and I run, and I run …

  Finally, there it is. Departures check-in desk 57. With a big screen above it that says: Flight JFQ 771 to Wellington, departing at 4:20 p.m. GATE 14.

  Dad catches up and grabs hold of me.

  ‘New Zealand!’ I pant-scream into his bewildered face. ‘Wellington! Holiday buddy! BOOGERS!’

  ‘Akeal!’ Dad pant-screams back. ‘Where are you talking about?’

  But I’m not listening. I’m casting my eyes about frantically, because the entire area is packed.

  And then … right up the front of the crowd, standing in front of desk number 57 for flight JFQ 771 to Wellington, I spot a woman in an orange hijab holding a baby in a sling.

  I beeline straight for her. She’s arguing with a man in a crisp white shirt with a hanky around his neck.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he is saying to her from his position behind the desk, ‘I’ve already explained to you why you can’t bring the infant on the flight.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s very important that we go on this holiday. You don’t want me to leave my little baby behind, do you?’ Aunt Amel says.

  Dad’s right beside me. He lunges forward, but I hold him back.

  ‘She’s not going anywhere,’ I tell him.

  I swing my backpack around in front of me and unzip the secret pocket on the side, as Aunt Amel half-climbs over the desk and tries to access his computer herself. The airline attendant fends her off in alarm.

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am, you cannot board the plane without valid documentation.’

  I rezip the secret pocket, feeling like I have pure gold in my hands. I step forward and clear my throat. Aunt Amel glances over her shoulder. She looks very stressed, but her skin is glowing. Almost as if she’s just spent two days at a day-spa in Daylesford …

  ‘Hey, Aunty, you might be needing this if you want to get on that plane.’

  And I flutter Raheed’s passport in my hand before I toss it to my baba.

  Afterword: Four Days Later

  Huda’s face beams at me from the phone screen.

  ‘So, what did Aunt Amel say when the cops got there?’ she asks as she fiddles with her neatly plaited ponytails.

  ‘I’ve already told you this five times!’ I can’t help but chuckle.

  ‘But tell me again! Please!’

  ‘Okay, okay. She told the police she was taking Raheed for a short break to escape the family trauma he’d experienced over the last week – from us. When that didn’t fly, she changed her story.’

  ‘Uh huh?’ said Huda eagerly. ‘To what?’ Even though she knew the answer already.

  ‘Well, she told them she realised she’d trained us kids so well in being self-sufficient that we didn’t need her anymore – only Raheed did. So she’d figured she might as well take him someplace she actually wanted to be, for the second week of her “holiday”.’

  Huda was shaking her head, rolling her eyes and smiling, all at the same time.

  ‘She did book return tickets for them both,’ I went on, enjoying this too, ‘so she really was planning to bring him home again, but the police were still very unimpressed. Not to mention Mum and Dad! And, Huda, can you imagine how she’s going to feel when she gets her next credit card bill and sees our flights on there as well as hers and Raheed’s …?’

  Huda bursts out laughing, like it’s the first time she’s heard any of this. She’s giggling so hard she can barely hold the phone. Hearing her laugh makes me laugh too, even though it wasn’t funny four days ago.

  Raheed sits on the rug next to my bed, playing with my favourite marbles – the massive bonkers I know he won’t be able to swallow. I lean over and stroke his wispy hair.

  Huda finally calms down enough so that I can speak again. ‘How’s everything over there?’ I ask.

  Huda presses her lips together. Her smiles fades. ‘Not good, Akeal.’

  My mouth goes dry. ‘What’s happened? Is Tayta getting worse?’

  My sister doesn’t answer.

  ‘Hurry up and tell me. Don’t hide anything. I can deal with it.’ But I’m not sure I can.

  Huda closes her eyes and takes a breath. ‘Promise me you won’t be upset?’

  I nod.

  ‘You pinky promise?’

  ‘I said I promise!’ I snap.

  ‘Okay, well, it’s not good over here … it’s great! Oh my God, this is, like, the most AMAZING place ever, and Tayta is feeling so m
uch better, and look at my hair – she plaited it for me this morning. About an hour ago, Jido went and bought me a watermelon from some guy pulling a little cart full of these monster melons, and now he’s gone to get me baklawa from the little sweet shop down the road, and our cousins came to see me, and I really liked my cousin Heba’s cardigan so she took it off and actually gave it to me, and then we had running races along the river …’

  Huda hops off the bed, still blabbering about all the fun she’s having, and opens the door leading to my grandparents’ garden. She switches the phone camera off selfie-mode, and through the glaring sunshine and azalea bushes, I see my mum and Tayta sitting on the bench where we sat with Jido only a few days ago.

  ‘Habibi, hello!’ My mum’s smile shines brighter than the Lebanese sun.

  She takes the phone from my sister and holds it up to her and Tayta’s faces. I pull my eyes away from Mum and notice my tayta’s smooth skin. She has a new glow to her cheeks, and a sparkle in her eye.

  ‘Ya ibni, ana mishtaktilak,’ she says in her gentle voice.

  ‘I miss you too, Tayta!’

  Mum wraps her free arm around Tayta’s shoulder. ‘She’s doing so much better, habibi. I haven’t heard her cough once since yesterday.’

  She’s smiling through teary eyes. I think back to the dua I made by my tayta’s bed. I know Allah was listening.

  My bedroom door swings open.

  ‘Is that your mum’s voice I can hear?’ Dad says. He’s carrying his mosque-shaped alarm clock. ‘Look what I found in the freezer. It’s frozen solid.’

  He taps his knuckles against it, then pops the clock on my windowsill to thaw.

  Dad picks up Raheed and sits beside me on the bed. From the soft look on his face, I can tell he’s noticed my tayta’s glow too.

  Mum kisses Tayta on the cheek and carries the phone with her further into the garden. Huda appears behind her, swinging from one of the big branches on the mulberry tree.

  ‘Oi, Akeaw! Wish you were here! This is the best climbing tree ever!’ my sister calls to me.

  I can only just make out what she’s saying, because her mouth is full of mulberries. Even from here, I can see that her face is stained with purple juice. Mum glances up at Huda and laughs.

  ‘It’s almost like the more time my mum spends with Huda, the stronger she gets. It’s so strange!’ Mum tells my dad.

  ‘You want to hear something even stranger?’ Dad retorts. ‘These kids are keeping this house spotless. I haven’t seen one dish in the sink, or an empty toilet roll on the bathroom floor, since we got home.’

  Mum’s eyebrows jump so high they almost reach her hijab. ‘Let’s hope it stays that way. Any news on the tickets?’

  ‘Yes, all sorted. The travel agent is sorting out the best deal for us for the next school break.’

  I leap off my bed in excitement. ‘Next holidays? We’re going to Lebanon?!’

  Mum and Dad nod.

  ‘We’re all finally going on that holiday,’ Dad says. ‘Together.’

  And on both sides of the world at once, Huda and I dance with joy.

  Acknowledgements

  Although Huda and Me is a work of fiction, the parents and siblings in the story are real. They are my family.

  Mum and Dad – Hend and Ibrahim – you are the best parents in the world. Thank you for giving me everything I needed in this world. Thank you for putting up with me. Thank you for always being there. You are the most selfless and giving human beings to ever walk this earth.

  To my siblings – Omar, Kholoud, Suha, Layla, Akeal and Raheed – you aren’t as nice to me as Mum and Dad are, but I guess you’re all right. Each of you has made me a better person in your own way. Omar, you are generous. Kholoud, you are kind. Suha, you dress up as Superman and that makes me laugh. Akeal, you should’ve given me more of your stuff. Layla, I like it when you buy me things. Raheed, you are perfect. We all know the real stories.

  K.L. and N.I., my sweet boys, what did I do to deserve you? I wrote this for you, my loves.

  Fadey – I’ve never met anyone like you and I know I never will. Thank you for all the good you’ve brought into my life.

  This book wouldn’t have been possible without some truly extraordinary people.

  Thank you to Jodie Webster, my publisher, for believing in the manuscript of Huda and Me. Thank you for your gentle guidance, suggestions and special kindness. Without you, this story of a little Muslim girl on a mission would still be sitting in a file on my desktop. Thank you, thank you.

  Elise Jones, where do I start? As an editor, you embraced the story, guided me and cast magic with letters and words (and snips). As a human, you are the best of them. No one else could have made this book what it is. No amount of thanks will ever be enough.

  To Kirsty Murray, my Faber Writing Academy at Allen & Unwin tutor, you inspired me from day one. You believed in me and this book. You answered my million questions and eased my doubts. I’ll never forget your advice, encouragement and support.

  Huge thanks to the team at Allen & Unwin – you have brought Huda and Me to life. Forever professional, always kind, you have all made the process of submission through to publication a pleasure. I am so lucky.

  Thank you, Nick Richardson. I remember sitting at a café on Sydney Road in 2014, telling you about this idea I had, about funny memories from my childhood and the naughty stuff I did. You gave me the advice I needed: there needs to be a story. Thanks to you, here it is. Two years earlier, you believed in me as a journo and gave me my first job in the newsroom. You’re a special sort of person, Nick.

  Obayda Kannouj – there will only ever be two in the club. Cut! We laughed when it was good and we laughed when it was bad. This book wouldn’t have happened without you. Thank you for inspiring me, every single day. PLTs 4eva.

  To all the little Muslim girls and boys, wherever you are – you can do anything. You are enough. You don’t need to change. Close your eyes and choose your own adventure. Now go for it.

  Without Allah’s blessing, this book would not exist. Alhamdulliah, always.

  About the Author

  H. Hayek is the second-youngest of seven children, born to Lebanese-Australian parents. She was born in Adelaide, grew up in Perth and now lives in Melbourne. She struggled with reading and writing through her earliest years at school, but knew from the time she was a little girl that she wanted to work with words. After completing a degree in Mass Communication (Journalism & Public Relations) she went on to graduate with a degree in Teaching. She has worked as a primary school teacher in Melbourne’s west and as a journalist. But above all, writing stories involving unique kids, with unique backgrounds, has been her passion. H. Hayek enjoys exploring themes of identity – what it means to be Australian, Muslim and Lebanese. She also enjoys being a little bit mischievous.