by Sarah Ayoub
Dedication
To my parents, Tony and Yolla Ayoub, who gave my wonderful life its strong foundations, necessary guidance, and constant love
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
1. I hate spending New Year’s Eve alone
2. I hate that the actions of a minority can influence the opinions of the majority
3. I hate that I can’t keep up with the rules of high school
4. I hate that I don’t belong at my school, and I hate the fact that sometimes I really, really want to
5. I hate feeling like I can never win
6. I hate looking at my generation and seeing apathy and complacency
7. I hate that I still can’t fight my own battles
8. I hate it when the universe plays tricks on me
9. I hate it when people find a way inside my head
10. I hate being the one who always misses out
11. I hate it when things don’t go according to plan and I’m the one in the firing line
12. I hate that there’s no reliable map for finding my place in the world
13. I hate that I’ve been stupid enough to buy into the ‘friends forever’ bullshit
14. I hate feeling like I don’t have a say in my own life
15. I hate it when the right thing is right in front of my face
16. I hate it when people can see right through me
17. I hate that finding my place means listening to my conscience
18. I hate that I’ve become paranoid about my friendships falling apart
19. I hate realising I’m my own worst enemy
20. I hate it when I give a part of myself away … with no guarantee of the outcome
21. I hate it when I’m caught completely off guard
22. I hate that heartache is always around the corner
23. I hate it when the truth makes sense
24. I hate that the answer to a problem is usually the one you don’t want to hear
25. I hate discovering that my loved ones are hiding the biggest secrets
26. I hate that sometimes other people’s experiences make me understand Dad’s reasons for wanting to censor my own
27. I hate banking my entire future on the smallest thing
28. I hate … therefore I am
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
1
I hate spending New Year’s Eve alone
Breathe, I tell myself. A sense of dread settles over me. There are only two possible outcomes of what I’m about to do, and honestly, will either of them impact my life that much? I pause to think it over. Yes! I need a positive outcome. I can’t stomach the idea of things remaining the same. The same and I are sworn enemies. The thought of another year of sameness is about as inviting as sticking needles in my eyes.
Oh God, I’m ranting. I hope to heaven I don’t rant when I make my speech. I decide against a final practice run in front of the mirror and make my way to my bedroom door.
A whiney voice stops me the moment I get outside. ‘Sophie, Viola says that one day I’ll grow hair in weird places all over my body and Mum’ll take it off with a sticky sugar sauce she keeps in the freezer and that it really hurts.’
I look into the pleading eyes of my five-year-old sister. Surely I should shield her from the realities of pubic hair while I can? After all, at seventeen, I’m barely prepared to accept them as part of my life.
‘Marie, honey, can we talk in five minutes maybe? I’m about to do something really important.’
‘But, Sophie, she says it burns!’
The deep breathing is no longer working. Panic is setting in. I’m forgetting what I want to say. I sink to the floor so I’m face to face with my favourite little person, and brush her fringe away from her face.
‘Baby, it’s nothing you need to worry about, I swear to you. Did you run away from Angela?’ I’d asked Angela, my thirteen-year-old sister, to keep the little ones distracted while I psyched myself up for my speech. ‘I just really need some time alone to talk to Daddy because there’s a party at Dora’s house, and I was meant to be there, like, five minutes ago.’
The door swings open and my father looms in the doorway.
‘Daddy! Sophie wants to go to a party at Dora’s tonight,’ Marie pipes up. ‘If she gets to watch the fireworks, then I want to stay up too!’
I listen in despair. This isn’t how it was supposed to happen.
‘Is that so?’ Dad says, ruffling Marie’s hair but looking at me.
I nod pleadingly, cursing the fact that all the logical arguments I’d prepared for going out tonight have come down to one nod.
‘Sophie knows that we’re going out tonight and we need someone to babysit,’ Dad tells Marie. ‘And there’s no one more responsible to look after our little baby than our biggest baby.’
Marie squeals in delight as he tickles her, then runs out of the room.
I find my voice. ‘Dad, please. This is the first time I’ve ever asked to go to a New Year’s party. Dora’s parents and her entire family will be there so there’s nothing for you to worry about.’
‘That may be the case, Sophie, but I can’t leave the girls home alone. Break and enters are at their worst on nights like this. What if someone comes in while the girls are watching TV? They wouldn’t even hear them.’
‘What about Andrew?’ I ask, desperate. ‘He’s old enough, and it’s not like they’re really babies. He just has to be here, doesn’t he?’
Dad looks at me like I’ve just suggested the big bad wolf should babysit his daughters. ‘Oh, Sophie, boys don’t babysit, you know that. Now give Dora a call and apologise to her from me personally. It’s no big deal, I’m sure you girls can catch up tomorrow.’
I close my eyes in frustration at the blatant sexism. When I open them Mum is emerging from the ensuite brandishing a curling iron.
‘What’s going on?’ she asks cheerfully.
I look from her to Dad and roll my eyes. ‘I’m finishing off another scintillating year at home, babysitting. Because apparently I skipped adolescence altogether and am now a mother of four.’
I take my phone out onto the veranda, where I can watch the sun set over Bankstown, the area I’ve lived in since I was born. Although it’s still daylight, boys are setting off illegal fireworks despite their mothers’ fearful warnings. Older girls are heading out to parties, all dressed up, while their fathers lament their daughters’ short childhoods and even shorter skirts. And I lament the fact that I won’t be attending the globe’s biggest party tonight – even in the limited way I’ve come to expect as a social nobody.
I can’t decide which is worse: being sick of always missing out, or constantly having to explain why I’m missing out, which, trust me, is just as humiliating.
I call my best friend, Dora Maloor, to deliver the verdict.
‘Nawwwww,’ she wails. ‘Why does he always limit your socialising to people who share your DNA?’
‘I dunno,’ I mumble, trying to keep myself from crying. I’m ashamed to admit that I care so much, even to her. ‘Have fun on my behalf.’
‘I’m sick of having fun on your behalf, Skaz,’ she says. ‘You’ve got an unhealthy attitude for a seventeen-year-old. You need to build up the courage to express yourself. It’s the only way you’re going to have the fulfilling life experience you subconsciously desire.’
I roll my eyes. ‘What new-age hoo-ha have you been reading? That doesn’t even make any sense.’
‘Well, neither does a seventeen-year-old who can’t stand up to her father.’
‘Seriously, what am I supposed to do?’
‘Um, stand up for your right to enjoy your youth,’ she says, stating the obvious. ‘His Stone Age 1950s Lebanese village rules have got to go. What’s the reason this time? He’s usually okay with you coming over.’
‘One of their friends is holding a dinner at his restaurant tonight. Mum doesn’t really want to go, but she is, so I have to babysit.’
‘A dinner beats the little backyard soirée that my brother and sister are throwing. Although at least at my house there’ll be hot boys to perve at, even if my brother’s friends smile patronisingly at me.’
‘At least someone’s smiling at you,’ I point out.
We chat for a bit longer, then I hang up and lie sprawled on the veranda floor, resisting the urge to strangle myself with the cord of my pink mobile extension handset, something Mum bought me after seeing a daytime TV segment on the effects of mobile phone radiation on the brain.
I know no one will hassle me out here, but I also find it ironic that my safe haven represents everything that bothers me. Hiding on the veranda allows me to see the outside world, but there’s no way I can touch it. It just stretches out before me, while the ties of my upbringing keep my feet firmly rooted in my father’s house.
I turn to look through the glass sliding doors at what’s holding me back. Mum is eyeing herself in her bedroom mirror as she applies a particularly unflattering shade of red lipstick. I hear her complaining about her wrinkles, and how a new year is only going to age her. Dad is watching the LBC news direct from Lebanon, totally unaware that Mum’s ramblings are his cue to say something loving or supportive.
She focuses her attention on me instead, muttering something to herself before yelling, ‘Sophie, stop wiping the floor with your clothes and come here and help me.’
I scramble inside.
‘God give me patience,’ she wails in Arabic, raising both hands in the air. ‘God give me patience to endure the torment of watching my practically adult daughter lying on the floor and catching dust that I’ll have to handwash out of her clothes.’
‘Mum, your floor’s cleaner than the plates of most restaurants because of your incessant need to clean it!’
She gives me a look and I decide to drop the attitude. I don’t want her giving me a job to do when I just want to whinge. I stand there for what seems like ages while she fiddles with her hair, her shirt, her jewellery.
‘Sophie, do I look fat?’ she asks eventually.
I wince, hoping she doesn’t see. ‘No, Mama. You look lovely.’
My white lie doesn’t convince her. She looks in the mirror, eyeing the body her children have given her.
A career woman might pass my mum in the street, see her wide hips, lined face and tired movements, and pity her because of the choices she’s clearly made in life – to live for others. But Mum doesn’t see it that way.
‘A housewife is a career woman, Sophie,’ she often tells me. ‘She work every day, but she doesn’t make money, she makes people. She turns a lazy man into a hard-working husband, and together they grow smart, strong babies like you. Well, until the baby is seventeen and tells me she’s not hungry and won’t eat the shish barak I make for her.’
I used to love my mother’s shish barak. The little dumplings of mincemeat smothered in warm yoghurt sauce were just the cure after a tough day in primary school when I’d worn the wrong uniform and she’d have to come and save me from detention. Nowadays, she knows I won’t let her save me. Hell, I don’t even tell her what’s wrong any more.
But where do I start with what’s wrong? Not going anywhere on New Year’s is the tip of the iceberg. I feel like I don’t have a say in my own life. It’s as though I’m invisible, defined only in the relative: dependable daughter, sister, student and friend. Is it so wrong that I want a little more?
‘Sophieeeeee!’ Marie’s screeching echoes through the house the moment my parents leave.
I find her standing with folded arms outside the study. ‘Angela won’t let me in. She’s watching something that’s M-rated!’ She stamps her foot and gives me a look that implies she’s a victim of great injustice.
I calm her down and open the study door. ‘Seriously, Ang, you’re going to let the kid scream the house down? And I’m not even going to point out that Pretty Little Liars isn’t appropriate viewing for a thirteen-year-old.’
‘Sophie, we can’t keep letting her have her way because she’s little,’ Angela says.
‘No, but we can let her have her way tonight because my sanity can’t take any more. Please, Ang, I’m a seventeen-year-old loser. Let me be at peace with my misery.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Okay, but I don’t want to be your therapist. You’re making me scared of growing up. Go let it all out in a journal or something.’
I don’t budge and she sees my desperation.
‘I’ll go watch TV in Mum and Dad’s bedroom,’ she says finally, relenting. ‘But I’m taking some chips with me so you’ll have to bail me out if Mum finds out I’ve been eating upstairs.’
I give her a hug in thanks and go up to my room to avoid any more screaming matches. I figure I might as well let them sort it out themselves since they aren’t going to listen to me anyway.
I change into my pyjamas, sit on my bed and open my laptop. Then I realise I don’t want to go onto Facebook out of fear of what I’ll see there: pictures of my classmates having fun at the kinds of parties I’m not allowed to attend. Perhaps Angela’s suggestion to start a journal is a good idea, after all.
After shuffling around in my drawers, I pull out a beautiful powder-blue notebook that my Aunty Leila gave me for Christmas. Maybe this could be my sounding board. A place where I can rant about having the world’s strictest dad and living by a cultural code that’s at odds with my time and place. Where I can express myself without the fear of being accused of shaming my community, my family and the traditions of a heritage I’m not sure I fully grasp. A place where I can divulge my innermost thoughts, agony by agony, worry by worry, hate by hate.
Hours pass until the midnight sky is suddenly illuminated by bursts of colour, and I hear boys in the street yelling and laughing. In houses all around me, people are sharing hugs, kisses and good wishes, while I’m alone with my journal. As the firecrackers subside and a quiet darkness returns, I sit upright in my bed and write the opening words of my first entry:
I hate spending New Year’s Eve alone.
2
I hate that the actions of a minority can influence the opinions of the majority
I call Dora the next day to wish her Happy New Year and find out how the party went.
‘The Sophie-watch vigilance has gone up ten thousand notches,’ I tell her, ‘and for once, my dad’s ideas on how good Lebanese girls should behave has nothing to do with it.’
‘Huh?’ she says, yawning loudly. ‘What are you talking about? And why do you always have so much energy in the morning?’
‘Dude, it’s twelve fifteen. No longer morning. I assume that you haven’t read the news then?’
‘Skaz, when do I ever read the news?’
‘Okay, checked Facebook?’
‘Nope, your call literally woke me up.’
‘See, this is why you never get your assignments done,’ I say. ‘You sleep for half the day whenever you don’t have school. You even sleep in school if it’s a boring lesson. But I’m getting sidetracked. There’s been a race riot. Well, sort of. A fight, I think. Last night. It was bad.’
‘Where, how, what happened?’ she asks, suddenly sounding wide awake.
‘I’m not sure. From what I’ve read, there was some party at a house in Brighton and a few Aussie guys were out the front drinking when a group of young Lebanese guys walked past on their way to the beach. One of the Aussies made some racist joke, and the Leb boys decided it would be a good opportunity to start a punch-up.’
‘No way, just there on the street? That’s dramatic.’
‘Trust me, it gets better,’ I say sarcastically. ‘The
Leb guys called their friends and then the whole thing escalated until, like, half the street was involved. It was chaos until the cops came to break it up.’
‘And did they?’
‘Well, it took a lot of them, but yeah, they sorted it out,’ I say. ‘And you’ll never believe who was there. Zayden’s cousin in Year Ten. He got injured.’
‘No freaking way! That little shit from Year Ten was in a big brawl that made it onto the news? Are you kidding me?’
‘He wasn’t there at the start,’ I tell her. ‘But apparently word got around fast and he managed to get there in time to join in. And, of course, my parents saw him – out of all the people they don’t know – on the news, bruised and bleeding and flanked by two cops.’
‘Whoa, that’s bad,’ she says. ‘You reckon it’ll get worse?’
‘It did, this morning! People in that street woke up to find their bins turned over, their car windows smashed, fences vandalised, mailboxes broken and God knows what else. Some of it was captured on CCTV. It looks really bad.’
Dora sighs. ‘It sounds bad. I mean, I get the first part – our guys ought to defend themselves if people are insulting them. But I don’t get why they had to go back for more. Like, why go back and make it worse?’
‘Beats me,’ I say. ‘I can’t believe we actually know someone who was involved. I wonder if George is okay. Andrew’s still in his room so I haven’t had a chance to ask him.’
The doorbell rings and Mum calls out my name.
‘Aaaannd that’s my signal to go,’ I tell Dora. ‘We’ve got a big family lunch here today, with all my little cousins and aunties and uncles. I’d be hiding in my room if Leila wasn’t coming. Talk to you later, I guess.’
‘Ciao, bella,’ she says, hanging up.
After we’ve eaten our body weight in food, we sit in the backyard to have dessert. I’m next to my Aunty Leila, Dad’s only sister (and the thorn in his side) and the closest thing I have to an older sister.
Dad has a love/hate relationship with Leila, mainly because she’s the kind of person who never listens to anyone else’s opinion. She’s always reminding Dad that she isn’t his problem and he should leave her alone, but because their parents are dead he thinks it’s his duty to make sure she behaves according to his standards.