Muddy People

by Sara El Sayed

  The weedy boy next to me was making soft but audible gasps, in between picking bits of gravel out of his sole and throwing them at his friend, a well-built redhead down the row. He was eventually successful at getting his friend’s attention. The redhead turned and made eye contact with me. He looked annoyed, but then I saw he was holding back a laugh.

  I sat in his smile for a moment. It was the first flash of familiarity I’d experienced since arriving in the town, even though I was aware it wasn’t for me. The weedy boy pointed to the girl sitting in front of him. He put his hands to his own head and wiggled his fingers, grinning at his friend. I followed his gaze, and my jaw dropped involuntarily. You could actually see them – hundreds of little brown lice running around her hair like ants in a disrupted nest. I backed away, into the kid behind me. ‘Sorry,’ I whispered, without looking at him. He didn’t say anything. I imagined him frowning at the back of my head. The redhead made a face that was a combination of amusement and disgust. Fucking yuck, he mouthed to his friend, but I pretended it was to me, and smiled at the joke.

  After assembly, I was pulled up by a teacher who was quietly taking attendance of her class. She sent me to the office, where a timetable was printed out for me.

  I did not say a word for the rest of the morning, other than ‘here’ when a teacher took the roll. In each class I picked a seat that had a view of the clock. The seconds moved slowly.

  Mohamed was nowhere to be found at lunchtime. I had thought I would be able to scan the grounds and see his fuzzy black mop, but it was just a blur of red shirts, flat hair and unfamiliar faces. I looked for the weedy boy. I looked for the redhead. I even looked for the lice girl. I gave up, settling on a patch of grass in direct sun, while others gathered in the shade in friendship groups already formed, carried over from primary school. The grass itched the backs of my thighs, and the sun was giving me a headache, but I didn’t get up. I was already too tired.

  After school, everyone gathered at the front gate. Multiple buses pulled up, set to disperse to different suburbs across Hervey Bay. I peered at each, looking for the one to our area. I clutched my pass, ready to go.

  Mohamed sauntered to the gate with what looked like a new friend. It bothered me, how easy it he found it to make friends. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up, just like the boy with him. He stopped a few metres away, chatting. I could have walked over and stood with him, but I couldn’t get my legs to move. Having to explain who I was to Mohamed’s new friend or, alternatively, just standing next to Mohamed in silence and not introducing myself: both prospects seemed dreadful. The group of boys I saw that morning near the bubblers were now running around laughing, shooting a staple gun at each other. One copped it to the arm; the other suffered a staple lodged in his forehead. If that was what it took to fit in at Fraser, I didn’t have it in me.

  The bus finally arrived, and we shuffled on. I sat in the front, so I could watch for familiar landmarks and get off as soon as we reached our stop. The girl who smelled like cigarettes boarded and sat across the aisle from me. Her skirt was rolled up, half its original length, and she was sporting black eyeliner. She played ‘Low’ by Flo Rida loudly on her flip phone. I looked around. No one seemed bold enough to stop her. Not even the bus driver. I wished I had her confidence. I put my earphones in but didn’t play anything. I didn’t know how I would survive a whole year in this place.

  That evening, I spent a long time in the shower. I lathered, rinsed and repeated. Over and over and over. Afterwards, I made Mama check my scalp for lice.

  ✾

  Mama was never an avid prayer, but once we moved, she started doing all five daily prayers. She got up at around four am to pray fajr in the living room. If she placed herself correctly, she could face Mecca perfectly and see the horizon through the kitchen window. I think she hated the kitchen a little less in those early hours of the morning.

  I was taught to pray according to a routine. You stand while you say one part. You bow at the waist for the next bit, and then you go to your knees for the last. You have to recite different things in each position. Once you’re finished, you start again. The number of repetitions depends on the time of day. But sometimes, when I’d watch Mama pray, she’d spend a long time on her knees, her forehead pressed to the carpet. People tend to spend more time like this when they have lots of questions, or need extra help.

  On one morning, Mama said she heard a loud crack, as if of a glass pane, while she was bowing. She looked up at the window; it was fine. The sun was just starting to come through, turning the sky from black to purple. She looked around the room and saw Aisha still asleep in the trundle. At first, she thought she was hearing things. But then she felt something at her knees. She looked down. Water pooled in the carpet.

  It was the fish tank. A large crack ran across the glass where the ugly little brown fish had once sucked. They were now convulsing in death throes on the carpet. When Mohamed woke up, he screamed and wept into the floor.

  ✾

  Every second weekend, we would fold into the car and drive back to Brisbane to visit Baba. It would’ve been easier, I thought, for him to visit us, seeing as we were five and he was one. But it was the way it was for some reason. Every fortnight was a reminder of where we would return to eventually. That this diversion from normal family life was temporary.

  I was looking forward to this trip because Baba had told me he had got Foxtel.

  We passed Asbestos Manor on our way out of Hervey Bay. The blinds were open, and I tried to see inside, but it was too dark. There was washing on the line, so someone was living there. A king in an asbestos castle.

  ‘They were ugly anyway,’ said Aisha. ‘No one liked those fish.’

  ‘You’re ugly,’ said Mohamed.

  ‘I think we’re lucky, in a way,’ said Mama. ‘You don’t often get the chance for a clean new start. New house. New fish. Looking forward to the future. Forgetting everything else.’

  ‘I’m not getting new fish,’ said Mohamed. ‘I’m never having fish again.’

  BABA

  There is a cat that visits my father’s house every day. Her grey hair is soft and fluffy, like a fur duster. She has a belly that sags. A primordial pouch. I’ve read about them on the internet; it’s to protect their internal organs. My father doesn’t let her into the house, but he talks to her through the flyscreen. She paws at the mesh, sticking a claw or two in at times, threatening to rip. I know this irritates my father because he doesn’t like his things being ruined. He tells her, ‘I don’t have food for you, habibi.’ It makes me happy when he uses the word habibi, because it means he’s not upset, rather that he feels sorry for her.

  He loves her – he’s told me so. But at the same time, he’s scared of her. I don’t think he’s afraid she will hurt him. He is scared that she will get used to him, reliant, and he will not know how to take care of her. This cat is his companion, more consistent in presence than me. Sometimes she greets him at the back of the house, sometimes at the driveway as he pulls in. She is not skinny enough to be a stray, but it’s unclear who she belongs to. She scales all fences, pledging allegiance to no one.

  I ask my father if I can give her something to eat, but he says no, because if I do she will keep coming back. But she does that anyway.

  My brother turns up at Baba’s house around dinnertime. He seems to have a sixth sense for when food is ready. Supersonic hearing for the sound of a hot plate hitting a table. The speed with which he pulls into the driveway always scares me; I worry the cat is there. But he hasn’t hit her yet.

  He springs into the room. Once he’s finished eating, he sits on his phone streaming UFC, guffawing at every takedown, and then leaves. I feel I have more of an obligation to my father. Perhaps I am making up pre-emptively for all the ways I will disappoint him in the future. I sense Aisha has this feeling too. She does the dishes and puts his clothes in the dryer.

  Mohamed could punch my father in the face one day and bend to receive a kiss on his
forehead the next. Sometimes he doesn’t answer Baba’s calls for weeks. I pick up on the second ring. Baba describes Mohamed as ghalbaan, which means poor, or helpless. He’s not aware of his behaviour. He doesn’t mean any harm. So Baba lets it slide.

  There is some Zuan in the fridge, my father says. Chicken spam. I retrieve it and cut it into small pieces, and take it outside to the cat. She’s still there, rubbing her cheeks against the CrimSafe. I place the spam on the ground, on a napkin. She puts her nose to it and sniffs, but doesn’t eat it. This is frustrating, because it took a lot for me to convince my father that I could give her food. She meows at me, and I say, what do you want? She lets me pat her, then meows again. She walks to the end of the patio, and I follow. She looks behind as she walks, as if to check I’m still there. We reach the back fence. The sun is setting and the sky is a brilliant red. I want to take a picture but my phone is inside – by the time I get it, the sun will be gone. So I stay and take it in. It’s like watching fire.

  The cat meows, then jumps onto the fence. I feel as though she wants to show me something. Her belly swings as she jumps again and disappears.

  Inside, my father is standing, looking out the window at the dying sunset. He is saying something in Arabic to himself, and I only catch a few words. It’s a thanks to Allah. I know his heart is hurt, but it is opening.

  RULE #13

  KEEP YOURSELF INTACT

  It was a new feeling, blacking out – ears blocking and vision disappearing but for a few sporadic splashes of light. I shuffled out of the classroom like a zombie, unsure if I was heading in the right direction. I ran into the side of the door, pinching my shoulder in the hinge, then into a cement column outside. If it weren’t for the excruciating pain and the impending void of darkness, I would have considered being embarrassed.

  This is how it started: I was in Year Eight Science. The teacher asked the class to gather around the projector screen so he could show us a video about koalas. We were studying environmental science, which at the time meant watching reruns of Steve Irwin programs. Steve was weighing a baby koala to make sure it was developing properly. I started to feel faint just as I watched the joey climb onto Steve’s head and nestle into his hair. I often got dizzy spells now. Since moving to Hervey Bay, I had lost a lot of weight – not intentionally. But this was more than vertigo. This felt like a power down. The joey’s name was Berry, and that’s the last thing I remember hearing before I started to lose my senses.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ I said. ‘Can I go to the bathroom?’

  The teacher should have known something was up, because I didn’t make eye contact. I didn’t look at anything, because I could hardly see anything. I couldn’t hear his response, and I wasn’t sure he had even heard my question, but I turned around and headed for the door anyway. I made it to the closest bathroom, hoping each step would land, but as I tried to enter the toilet block, I hit a cage door. The bathroom was locked. I felt as though Allah was testing me. Either that, or he really wanted to see me ruin myself.

  I could feel my stomach turning as though one of Irwin’s saltwater crocodiles was inside me, its scute grating at my uterine walls. I managed to make my way to the toilets near the school office. I busted the stall door wide, pulled my pants down and sat. As I saw the stream of dark blood enter the bowl, I buckled over. This wasn’t my first period, but ever since I had started losing weight, my periods had become more and more painful. I was sweating profusely even while I was shaking. There was rising bile in my stomach. I gagged, and it made it as far as my throat, only to slip back down again. My leg jittered involuntarily.

  I spoke to Allah then, for the first time in years. I told him that if he wanted to kill me in that moment, I would be okay with it. Anything to get me away from the pain.

  An hour passed before someone came looking for me. A voice called out into the bathroom, ‘Sara, are you there?’

  It was Tamara. She and I had gotten to know each other a little on the bus. I thought she was cool. She never offered me one of her cigarettes, because cigarettes were expensive, but she had said if I ever got some she would teach me how to do it.

  ‘Yes.’ I spat onto the floor. The bile again. ‘I’m in here.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘No. Is my bag still at the science block?’

  ‘Not sure. Do you want me to go get it for you?’

  ‘I just need a pad.’

  ‘Oh, hang on.’ Tamara shuffled in her bag and handed me something thin under the door. The pink packaging was damaged, and I could see the tampon inside. I swallowed, and took it so as not to be rude.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  I had never used a tampon, and I wasn’t about to start with Tamara outside the door. The only other time I had seen one was in Grade Five, when the school put on ‘Girl’s Night’ for mothers and their daughters, sponsored by U by Kotex. That ordeal was worse than the sex ed course we had been subjected to weeks earlier – then we had watched a video that featured a cartoon penis that looked like a poinciana seedpod, but at least parents weren’t present. At Kotex’s night of nights I had to sit next to Mama while a lady in a pantsuit described the smell of discharge. The only saving grace was that we were each given a gift bag when we left, full of feminine hygiene products. The cute prints on the wrappers made me excited to start bleeding. Mama took the bag, removed the tampons, and gave it back to me.

  ‘Why can’t I have those?’ I said.

  ‘Because those are not for girls.’

  Tamara brought me my bag, in which I found a fresh maxi pad. She took me to the office, and Mama was called. Mama couldn’t leave work, so Nana was called. Nana asked whether I could be sent home in a taxi. The answer was no. Nana picked me up in a taxi. Aisha was with her too.

  ‘If I have to pay a two-way fare I might as well make the most of it,’ Nana said when I asked why Aisha got an early mark because I was sick. ‘What have you eaten today?’ she added as I remained semi-conscious, still clinging to my stomach.

  ‘Nothing. I didn’t feel hungry.’

  ‘Well, that’s why you’re sick. You need to eat something. You look terrible. So pale. Do you get any sun at school? You look awful.’

  ‘It’s because I have my thingy.’ I was ashamed to use the word period.

  It was novel to be home on a weekday. The bay air was vibrant when the weekend crowds weren’t around. I tried to get some sun on the balcony, but there was only its warm memory left on the tiles. I lay on the tiles for a moment, face down. This soothed the pain in my stomach a little. The glass door opened, and Nana emerged with a pack of Advil, a glass of water and a banana. I took the Advil and the water.

  ‘I don’t want to eat that,’ I said.

  ‘Then what do you want?’

  ‘Are there any raspberries?’

  I was addicted to frozen raspberries. Some days it was all I ate. I didn’t like them fresh, or thawed. They had to be in our freezer for a couple of days – the whacked-out temperature setting caused them to form into hard blocks of ice. I’d sit in front of the television or my computer, or stand at the freezer door, fingers cold and red, and crunch through the ice to the sweetness within. Mama told me about a thing called pica where people with low iron and low blood pressure tend to eat strange things. But I was there for the raspberries, not the ice.

  I took a warm shower after eating. I was the thinnest I had ever been. My hair looked puffy around my drawn face. In actuality, I was losing hair by the clump. I could feel it running down my legs in the shower. I put the shower head on my stomach. The warm water helped the pain. I could see myself in the reflection of the shower door. I looked small. Young. Like a child, the girl who was made fun of for her nipples all those years ago. But I didn’t hate my body. In fact, I actually liked it. I liked the way my rib bones jutted out, and I liked the way my arms were so thin I could fit into clothes I wore as a nine-year-old.

  ✾

  The Grade Eights were the last to go on break at the
end of the year. All the older grades went on holidays as soon and their exams ended, but we were stuck in the oppressive heat until the last possible moment. As a consolation, the teachers organised an end-of-year treat for us. We had a choice: either an excursion to the beach or a trip to the cinema to see Twilight. I had bought a bikini at Big W the last time I was there. I kept it stashed away in my room, and would try it on in the bathroom. It was deep blue with black trimming. I liked the way my body looked in it, especially the way the drawstrings tied neatly atop my hip bones. Tamara and I agreed to take the beach option.

  When I got to school, Tamara was already there, waiting for me near the toilets.

  ‘Do you need to change?’ she asked me. I shook my head, pulling the strap of my bikini from underneath my shirt to show her. She smiled. ‘Just give me a sec,’ she said. She disappeared into the toilet block and I followed. Although I hadn’t eaten or drunk anything that morning, I went into a cubicle anyway. I unbuttoned my skirt. The feeling of being able to use the toilet without removing a one-piece was elating. I felt free. I felt normal. What could Lilly say if she saw me now?

  ‘Come on,’ called Tamara. ‘I’m waiting outside.’ Her shadow passed my cubicle.

  Then I saw it. In the crotch of my bikini bottoms was a dark blotch. I couldn’t know what it was for sure, I told myself. It could just be a discolouration in the fabric. I touched it. My fingers came back red. I pulled at the toilet paper dispenser and wiped. More red. Sure enough, this was Allah punishing me for the bikini, I thought. It had to be.

  I had brought underwear to change into after swimming. I took my bikini bottoms off and stuffed them in my bag. There was no pad in the front pocket, where one usually lived, just an open, empty wrapper. I cursed myself for being too lazy to replace it. Toilet paper would have to do. I wrapped some around the crotch of my underwear and stuffed some more into my bag. I knew it wouldn’t last long.