by Sarah Ayoub
I’ve had a crush on Zayden since Year Eight, when he nudged me in history and asked to borrow a pencil, then admitted that he was struggling with our writing task: a diary entry from the perspective of a bushranger. I couldn’t resist his call for help back then, and these days I’m even worse around him. That said, I doubt he ever thinks about me, not when there are girls like Vanessa Saade around, being flirtatious and fun and gorgeous – three things I’m certainly not.
Vanessa Saade is super confident, super sassy and super gorgeous: the cheerleading captain in the American teen movie. She’s the youngest daughter of one of the local councillors, and even though her family packed up and moved to the waterfront suburb of Cabarita last year, she stayed on at our school because she’s Queen Bee. She likes to lord it over a group of girls who think they’re seventeen going on thirty-one – including my ex-best friend Rita Malkoun.
Rita and I used to be inseparable, but then in Year Seven she pashed a guy I liked at our swimming carnival and told me about it just to suss out my reaction. I remember being so hurt. I’ve never understood why she did it because she used to say she hated his guts. I tried calling her during the school holidays, but when we came back in Year Eight she pretended she didn’t know me. I’ve been able to see right through her ever since, and what I’ve seen isn’t pretty.
I start typing again:
I can’t help that I’m shy. And that I don’t believe in girls chasing boys! I like to be romanced.
Dora
Sometimes I think you’re living in your dad’s Stone Age as well, you know? Whatever. Back to the agenda, because my sister’s nagging for the iPad. Clearly the computer upstairs is too far away for her lazy ass. So, are we gonna go to the ‘par-tay’?
Sophie
Yeah, right. My dad has to call something akin to a UN Conference to decide if I can go Thursday-night shopping at Westfield. There’s no way in hell he’s letting me go to a party at Brighton, or any beach right now. He’s still worried about Cronulla all those years ago! In fact, he’s milking the ‘racism’ for all it’s worth and using it as his own personal justification for keeping me home. And loving it, no doubt.
Dora
You need to stop being a wuss and just ask your dad! Talk to him, Sophie! You’re going into Year Twelve, for God’s sake. There’s gonna be a whole lot more of this crappy social stuff. My sister says it’s all part of the experience of high school and we don’t wanna miss out. I know I don’t want to, I want this year to be different for me too. So PLEEEAASSSE try! At least so your dork of a friend isn’t there on her lonesome. And call me as soon as you’ve asked him. Geez, gtg, Jade’s killing me to get on the iPad. I wonder if we’re going to be old and love online shopping more than Facebook chat one day? Toodles xx
I laugh out loud. Miss the experiences of high school? I’ve been doing that for the past five years; I’ve become a pro at it. I walk the school corridors more invisible than the cleaner, blending so far into the background that it feels like I belong there.
I go downstairs to ask Dad permission, wondering if this time is going to be any different. I have to be strategic. On the one hand, I’ve been the epitome of teenage daughter perfection the past few weeks, pouting only a little when I feel I’ve suffered yet another injustice, and helping out around the house and with my sisters as much as possible. On the other, as the eldest child, and a female at that, I’m used to a level of security similar to that of presidents and royals. I’ve spent most of my adolescence accepting the fact that I’m not allowed to go to parties or school get-togethers. But Dora’s right, this year is different. I’m almost eighteen, and in a matter of months I’ll be done with school and moving into the real world, and there’s nothing Dad can do to stop it.
I start psyching myself up, bummed that this time I can’t use Andrew as leverage. At fifteen, he’s usually allowed to go out with no questions asked, purely because he’s male and therefore less likely to be judged by our conservative Lebanese society. But lately he hasn’t been going out; he’s just been hanging at home staring at the ceiling.
I call out to my parents before I enter the living room. ‘Mum, Dad?’
‘Eh, habibi,’ Mum says, without glancing up from her zucchini stuffing. She’s sitting on the floor, a giant bowl of rice and meat in front of her, a tray piled high with zucchinis on the coffee table beside her. ‘What can I do you for?’ she asks.
She’s just learnt that phrase from one of the older ladies down the street and loves it. Dad presses mute on the Arabic news. Good sign: he’s willing to forego the dramas of Beirut and the latest stuff-up of another politician to hear me out.
‘As you know,’ I begin, ‘I’m starting Year Twelve properly this year. My first term of the HSC last year went pretty well and I got pretty good grades. I’m very focused on what I want out of this year academically, but at school they’re also encouraging us to participate in non-academic things, to strengthen our friendship as a class and to better equip us socially when we leave school.’
Dad shifts, a curious look on his face. Oh boy. Meanwhile Mum looks like she doesn’t understand half the words that are coming out of my mouth. I throw in a bit of Arabic for good measure.
‘Next Friday night my class is having a get-together, just a hangout really, a way of having some fun before we settle down for the term. Dora’s mum can take us and bring us back, so you won’t have to do anything at all. And I’ll be back home at midnight, so it won’t be a late night.’
‘Is this held at the school, Sophie?’
‘Um, no, Dad. Vanessa Saade, the school’s vice-captain, is throwing it. There won’t be any teachers there.’
‘Ah, okay, I see. And her parents, do I know them? Which village do these Saades come from? What does her father do?’
Knowing which village in Lebanon someone’s from is the equivalent of doing a police background check on them. People from certain villages who’ve been in Australia for ages are more liberal in their lifestyles (their daughters can go on holiday with a group of friends, even if males are present), while others are so traditional they expect their daughters to marry distant cousins over ‘outsiders’ from other villages.
‘I’m not sure of the village, Baba. But her dad’s on the local council. They live in Cabarita or something.’
‘Do you know him, Elias?’ Mum asks.
Dad fancies himself a bit of a socialite, and the Saades’ wealth makes them fair game.
‘La, Theresa. No, I don’t know him personally, but I know of him. As long as the parents will be there, it is okay. Sophie is becoming a big girl, after all.’
Ooh, the clincher. I wait for the inevitable.
‘Will they be there, Sophie?’
‘I’m not sure, Dad. I can’t say either way.’
‘You didn’t ask the girl? Ask her. It makes a big difference, this supervision.’
I shift uncomfortably. ‘Dad, sorry, but I feel weird asking. We’re not that close. I don’t even have her mobile.’
This is a lie. Everyone has Vanessa Saade’s mobile. Even me, despite my blending-into-the-background status. But I know that if I ring to ask that particular question, she’ll belittle me for the rest of the school year.
‘Well, then, you’re not close. You don’t need to go to her party. Stay at home and do something with us. You can see all your friends at school.’ He unmutes the news. ‘Next week you start, eh? The big Year Twelve, my little baby.’
‘But, Dad, please! Everyone will be there, and I promise I’ll be home at a decent hour. You know that I’m responsible and well-behaved.’
He responds without even looking at me, his eyes fixed on the screen. ‘I know that, habibi. But it’s everyone else’s behaviour I worry about, not yours. Besides, those house parties are always an occasion for trouble. I don’t like the way these kids dance so close together like Leanna and Nicki Mirage on the TV that Vee is always watching. Their closes are the size of your sister Marie’s!’
; ‘It’s Rihanna, Dad,’ I say, on the brink of tears. ‘And Minaj. And clothes, not closes. But, Dad, I’m not one of those girls, and you know that.’
‘Is it at her house?’ asks Mum.
Ohh, so close.
‘Err, no. It’s at the beach.’
I don’t need to tell them which one, because if the look they’ve just exchanged is anything to go by, they already know.
‘I don’t know why you bothered to ask, Sophie. That’s ten times worse and it’s an absolute no. No, no, no, no, no.’
I quickly spin around and head for my room, not wanting Dad to see the tears streaming down my face.
Cursing Vanessa Saade for her desire to stand out, I climb into bed wondering if things are ever going to change. At this point, it seems like my resurrection from Miss Prim and Nerdy to something a little more acceptable is never going to happen.
Dora had asked me to call her with Dad’s response, but I’m too upset to chat so I write a quick email.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: The Answer
Surprise, surprise – he said no! It started off really well too, but as soon as he found out it was at a beach, he skitzed it. I can so tell you what he was thinking:
* Sex trap – on account of the fact that it’s at some beach where there’ll no doubt be dim light, boys with no shirts on and zero adult supervision.
* Recently infamous public place – plenty of hoodlums, bums and drunk racists who’ll attract the attention of news crews.
* Not fit for good Lebanese girls, who belong at home with their loving and nurturing (read: oppressive) fathers. Because a girl who goes to parties at the beach will never ensnare a respectable Lebanese husband.
Oh well, that’s life. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up to begin with.
You know the drill: GO, HAVE FUN, DOCUMENT EVERYTHING, FORGET NOTHING. First thing at school on Monday, I want a dramatic play-by-play that makes me feel as though I was there.
Adios amiga xx
Dad comes into my room early on the morning of the party. I’m hoping he’s going to tell me he’s had a change of heart, but really I know for that to happen I’d have to be still asleep and dreaming.
I pretend I’m asleep, but peek at him as he hovers around my bookshelf and picks up a picture of him and me dancing at a wedding when I was nine. He holds the frame with both hands, staring at me in a frilly pink party dress and mary-janes, my hair in braids, standing on his toes.
I stir, and he turns to me and smiles. ‘You are growing up too fast for my liking, baby Soph,’ he says in Arabic.
‘Hey, Dad,’ I say flatly.
‘The big party tonight, ay?’
‘Dad, please don’t remind me. I don’t want to talk about it.’ Especially to you.
‘Sophie, you can’t hide in your room every time something doesn’t go your way. That is not fair. You need to negotiate with me.’
I roll my eyes, but luckily he doesn’t see.
‘I want to know why a party in a faraway public place, where there have been problems recently, and where there is no adult supervision, is so important to you. You said it yourself – you are a responsible girl. At least at a party at a house we can ring the parents, or know where to go if something goes wrong. Don’t you understand that we worry? I don’t see why they had to have it so far away, after everything that’s happened this summer. It’s just asking for trouble.’
I want to tell him that I would’ve preferred the party to be in Vanessa’s backyard too so I could’ve left early when I inevitably realised I’m no match for the girls there. But I don’t want to agree with him on anything right now, so I stay silent.
I don’t tell him the real reason I’m bummed is because I’d been hoping that after seventeen years of being the perfect Lebanese daughter he’d give me a little free rein during my last year of school. A year in which I might hopefully change my status to something other than the resident Plain Jane of Cedar Saints College. A year in which I might do something to be remembered by.
I want to tell him a lot of things, but they are things he wouldn’t understand because he doesn’t really know me or the reality of the world I live in, and I don’t really know him. All I want to do is grow up and move on with my life, while he wants to keep me glued to the couch watching Today Tonight with him and not offering any opinions different from his own.
‘Dad,’ I say finally, ‘I just want to be like all my friends – I want to have fun like other people my age. It’s not fair that I’m always missing out. Is that too much to ask?’
But apparently it is, because he shakes his head in frustration and walks out muttering something about how he can never win, the ingratitude of children raised in this country, and how the parties back in his village in Lebanon were all about trustworthy friendships instead of invitations to strip ourselves of virtue or get into fighting matches that will appear on the evening news.
And people wonder where I get my drama queen traits from!
I sigh and flop back on my pillows. It isn’t anything that I haven’t heard before. The excuses are always the same, so much so that I’ve come to know them by heart.
I spend pretty much the rest of the weekend lying on my bed listening to songs by The Temper Trap over and over and purposely avoiding Facebook and gossip about Vanessa’s party. I even avoid calling Dora, frightened that the party will have been fantastic and I’ll be unable to keep the jealousy from my voice.
Before I know it, it’s the night before the first day of school and I’m wondering what the year will bring.
Please, God, I pray, help me get out of my square before it kills me. Help me see the bigger world. Help me to stand up for myself. Let me experience life on the outside for a change. Let me live. Let me love. Just let me breathe, because I’m sick of holding my breath and waiting for life to start.
But God is all knowing and He’s known my predicament for a while now, and still my prayers remain unanswered.
And then I have a horrible thought. What if I’m invisible to God too?
4
I hate that I don’t belong at my school, and I hate the fact that sometimes I really, really want to
The first day back at school is usually a relief for the kids in our family. We like the routine and everything that comes with it; being busy with homework and projects gives us a little bit of independence in our big, close-knit household.
My parents’ concern about our safety and wellbeing extends to us walking the few blocks to school, so Mum always drives us, which makes weekday mornings chaotic as we work around Viola’s desire to be super early and Andrew’s extreme lateness. For as long as I can remember, we’ve prayed together on the drive to school (‘God, keep me from harm and evil, protect me and those I love, let your light shine in my interactions with others …’). It’s sweet but ironic, because one of us usually loses our temper as soon as we’re held up by someone illegally stopping to drop off their kids.
This is Marie’s first year at school so I take her into the kindy area, feeling nostalgic for the innocent fun I’ve had in this playground. I reach the high school grounds ten minutes before the bell for assembly – perfect timing to meet Dora just inside the school gate. I sit on a bench and watch people filing through the gate, wondering if they’re filled with the same anticipation I am that things might change this year.
By five to, Dora still hasn’t arrived and I find myself torn between wanting to be a good friend and a punctual student. Maybe she’s sick today. I hitch my bag over my shoulder and start walking through the quadrangle, then stop in my tracks when I spot Dora sitting with Rita Malkoun and Vanessa Saade. Perhaps things are changing. I shuffle my feet a little, undecided about what to do. I don’t want to hang out with girls I don’t like, even though I know they have the power to pull me up the school social ladder. That would make me a hypocrite.
Thankfully Dora sees me. She grabs her backp
ack and comes running over. We link arms and she squeals in my ear, ‘Yay! Three terms to go and we’re outies!’
‘Tell me about it, Maloorkus. Three terms and we finally get to make headway in the real world. You as a speech therapy student, me surrounded by other bores in an accounting course I don’t want to do. Exciting!’
She looks at me pointedly. ‘Stop being a pessimist. At least when you’re at uni you might have more freedom. You can tell your dad you have night classes and go drink cocktails in a swanky bar instead. Maybe you’ll get so drunk you’ll be able to figure out what you want to do instead of just going along with your dad’s wishes.’
I sigh loudly, knowing she’s right. As we line up for assembly, I spot her fingernails and give her an incredulous look.
‘Really, Dora? Nail polish on the first day of school? You know that Magdalena’s going to punish you hard – it’s not like you didn’t have time to take it off over the last seven weeks.’
‘Puh-lease,’ she says, ignoring my warning about our super-strict headmistress. ‘Miss Gerges is our homeroom teacher this year. She doesn’t even check nails.’
‘I guess we’re lucky she’s always too busy trying not to get busted herself for sneaking late into school.’
We both crack up. Miss Gerges is an ex-student who wound up with a job at Cedar Saints College in her first year out of uni. It’s worked in her favour career-wise, but she’s still young at heart and doesn’t bother too much with discipline. She knows the students see her as one of them and she doesn’t want to ruin the relationship.
The school bell rings before I get a chance to ask Dora why she was hanging out with Vanessa and Co, and before I know it we’re standing in line singing the national anthem, then listening to a bunch of announcements. I wander off into philosophical-musing territory, but then my eyes rest on Zayden and I shift into teenage-girl trance instead.