by Sarah Ayoub
He’s got taller over the summer holidays – not huge, but enough to show he’s leaving boyhood. His hair is shorter and it suits him; he looks older, more grown-up. He pulls a mobile out of his pocket and checks it briefly before slipping it back and whispering something into Simon Abu-Hayek’s ear. They grin at each other and I turn away, ashamed of my pining.
Dora nudges me, then subtly tilts her head towards the back of the boys’ line. I follow her gaze and see a guy who could pass for nineteen dressed in our school’s uniform but carrying a Country Road bag. Dora raises her eyebrows at me as if saying she likes what she sees. Admittedly, there is something there worth looking at. New Boy is tall and broad-shouldered with a hint of muscle definition, not too obvious. His darkish hair and fair skin, both tinted lightly by the sun, add to his physical charm, but it’s the way that he carries himself that makes him attractive: he has an air of confidence that suggests he’s at ease with himself. Like the world needs another one of those.
He gives me a half-smile, half-smirk, and I turn away.
‘He has gorgeous eyes!’ squeals Dora.
‘Shhh, don’t get in trouble on your first day. And how can you see anyway? He’s wearing glasses.’
‘I have a radar,’ she replies.
Mr Trebold gives her a look and we’re quiet again, joining the hundreds of other students bemoaning the end of the summer holidays.
My first two classes – History and Maths – go by without much excitement. At recess I wait for Dora under the tree that’s been our hang-out since we became friends in Year Nine.
She bounds up to me and grabs my hand. ‘Okay, I have details!’
‘You’re a fount of information for pathetic, bored people like myself,’ I say. ‘Shoot.’
She waves her hand at me dismissively. ‘I don’t want to have to repeat it, so hang on.’
Before I can ask her what she means, I see Vanessa, Rita and a few of their friends coming towards us.
‘I think you need to tell me what’s going on,’ I hiss. ‘Why are they coming to hang out with us? Have you forgotten how bitchy they’ve been to us the past few years?’
‘Evidently they have,’ she says, giving me a death stare. ‘Look, I ran into Rita at a wedding, we were sitting at the same table. And then at the beach party thing … Well, basically she’s not so bad, so deal with it and don’t embarrass me.’
I glare at her.
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘Look, you said it yourself – you don’t want to be a nobody in your last year, right?’ She nods in their direction. ‘Well, they’re your ticket out.’
Vanessa, Rita and the others put their bags down and sit on the grass, complaining the whole time about insects, how difficult it is to sit gracefully and the possibility of bird poo landing on their blow-dried hair. I want to point out that if their skirts weren’t so short, sitting gracefully wouldn’t be an issue. It’s not like my skirt is ankle-length or anything, but at least I don’t have to plan around it as I go about my day.
‘So tell us what you’ve got, Dors,’ Rita says. ‘Who’s the cutie pie in our class and how long do we have him for?’
I choke on my apple when she says Dors, but no one seems to notice.
‘Well,’ Dora says, looking around, ‘you’re not going to believe this. Turns out the new boy isn’t even Leb! Well, he’s half-Leb. His name’s Shehadie Goldsmith.’
When we look puzzled, she adds, ‘His mum gave him her maiden name as his first name when he was born. Weird, huh?’
I actually think it’s kind of cool, but don’t say so.
‘His mum died about a year ago, and ever since he’s been a bit of a problem for his dad. He was expelled from his last school, even though he’s supposedly really smart and stuff.’
‘So why’d he come here?’ one of the girls asks.
‘Apparently his mum was from Bankstown and her parents still live here, so his dad decided to send him to live with his grandparents. And maybe learn about his mum’s culture in the process, I guess. He doesn’t really know anything about Lebanon or the language or anything.’
‘How do you know all this?’ I ask, impressed. Dora would zone out of her own life if she could.
‘Sister told Daniel Abboud to look out for him. It’s kind of public knowledge now. Everyone was talking about it in Senior Science this morning.’
‘Wow,’ Rita says, looking at Vanessa. ‘Forget cutie pie’s life story, what are they doing bringing an Aussie here after what happened to Zayden’s cousin?’
‘What, George Saab?’ I ask. ‘That has nothing to do with anything. It happened in Brighton. What are the odds that the new guy even knows those boys? Just because he’s Aussie – sorry, half-Aussie – it doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be welcome here.’
‘He’s not just a half-Aussie,’ Dora says, sounding scandalised. ‘He’s from Cronulla! A Shire boy born and bred. Can you believe it? A full-blown Anglo gets accepted into our school in our final year?’
‘Maybe they’re trying to build bridges,’ I say. ‘Get a little flexible with the intake, open our minds up a bit. Besides, he’s half-Lebanese, not full-blown Anglo. He might blend in just fine.’
Vanessa laughs. ‘As if. No one’s going to want to build bridges, Sophie. The fight on New Year’s Eve only proves that what happened in Cronulla can happen again. Those people have no respect for our culture. And judging by the reaction of Zayden and his group, the new guy might as well be a full-on Anglo.’
‘She’s right,’ Dora says. ‘He was in my class in Standard Maths 1, and Zayden and a bunch of his friends started calling out all this stuff – go back to where you came from or whatever. He went up to Zayden and was all like, “What’s your problem?” and then Zayden and his friends got all over him. It got so loud that a bunch of teachers came in from other classrooms.’
‘And now the whole school knows?’ I ask.
She nods. ‘This guy’s got no chance. Apparently during the argument someone went up and wrote, “Do they have to own the whole country and our school?” on the whiteboard.’
There’s a murmur of agreement among the girls, but I’m shocked by the overt racism. Then again, I’ve seen people yelling ‘You Lebs aren’t welcome here’ on national TV, so it’s naive to think there wouldn’t be backlash from our community.
‘I reckon the new guy’s going to hang out in the staffroom pretty much all day today,’ Dora says. ‘The teachers want us to adjust to having an outsider in our classes, but things are going to be rough for a while, I guess.’
She says the word ‘outsider’ like it’s part of a big conspiracy.
The bell rings and I stand up, dusting the grass off my uniform. I grab Dora’s hand to help her up and we make our way to the building, leaving Vanessa and the others to go to their classes.
‘Wow,’ I say, thankful they’re gone. ‘A new Aussie boy in school and hanging out with Vanessa and Co at recess. Looks like things are getting a little more exciting around here.’
On day three, New Guy sits next to me in English. I can feel myself sweating through my school shirt in the heat, but he’s wearing a navy jumper with a bulldog on it, the most revolting thing I’ve ever seen. It’s old and ugly and looks completely out of place with his uniform. I assume he’s trying to fit in with the footy fanatics who follow the Canterbury Bulldogs, and I want to tell him that he’s got it all wrong and that isn’t the way to get people to like him. But I don’t say anything in case Zayden sees me talking to him and labels me a low-life. That’d make me even less popular than I currently am.
I have to give him points though: even in the February heat and humidity, and even though he’s swathed in fleece, New Boy manages to smell good. Remarkably good, in fact. I notice that the Country Road bag has been replaced by a school backpack, which he’s tried to mess up so it doesn’t look so damn new.
He slides a glance at me and I nod in recognition. I’m trying for nonchalance, but even I fi
nd it ironic that I’m trying so hard to look as though I’m not trying at all.
He attempts to start a conversation, but I give him one word answers and eventually he gives up. ‘All the same,’ he mutters, fiddling with the zippers on his school bag.
‘Excuse me?’ I say, incredulous, even though I haven’t been exactly friendly.
‘Not one for talking, huh?’ he says. ‘Why am I not surprised?’
If there’s one thing I hate in the world, it’s being lumped into a category. ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You come to a school where the Catholic faith is supposedly so important, and you can’t get a single person to acknowledge your existence. What a joke.’ He shakes his head.
‘Dude, what the hell is your problem? You just got here. Don’t start causing trouble, because you’ll get nowhere.’
Although I sound confident, inside I’m freaking out. I’m not the type to clash with people.
‘Dude, my mere presence here is obviously a problem. All you need to do is say, “Hey, how are you? How are things going? Settling in okay?” Even if it’s just a facade and, like the rest of the people in this school, you don’t actually give a sh—’
Mr Trebold’s loud voice interrupts us. ‘Mr Goldsmith, Ms Kazzi, do you think you could resume your conversation a little later so I can get on with our English class? Unless, of course, you’re talking about Shakespeare?’
‘Sorry, sir,’ I say, red-faced as the entire class turns around to see me fraternising with the enemy.
Like my high school life could get any worse. So much for building bridges.
5
I hate feeling like I can never win
‘How come we’re not waiting for Andrew?’ I ask Mum as she pulls away from the kerb.
‘He’s going to George Saab’s house,’ Viola answers from the back seat. ‘The boy that was bashed by the Aussies.’
I twist around from the front seat to look at her. ‘I don’t think that’s how we should be describing it, sweetie. We shouldn’t put the blame on anyone before we know what happened.’
‘Whatever. Sister Mary told us that racism has no place in our classroom,’ she says, talking about her new fourth grade teacher. ‘But that’s because she’s Chinese and people have been racist to her. She said she ignores it.’
Mum glances at her in the rear-view mirror. ‘Well, Vee, you’re lucky you don’t experience racism in your school because everyone’s the same. But when you’re older and at university or in a job, you should remember what your teacher told you. We should treat everyone in the way we want to be treated. There’s no point going to church and calling ourselves Christian if we can’t do that.’
When we get home, I help Mum unpack some groceries from the car and spot Andrew’s school bag in the boot.
‘How did Andrew get to George’s?’ I ask.
Mum pulls a face. ‘Don’t hate me,’ she begs, ‘but I let him walk.’
‘Aww, Mum! That’s so unfair. Why can’t I walk? We don’t live that far away. I could use the time to myself.’
She laughs. ‘I had no idea we were such a burden to your wellbeing, Sophie.’
I don’t laugh with her and she sighs.
‘You know how your father feels – he just wants to protect you and keep you safe. He worries a lot. So do I. The world is a dangerous place for a young woman.’
‘Oh, and I suppose nothing ever happens to boys?’ I argue. ‘Andrew’s fifteen! I’m light years ahead of him in maturity. I don’t know why you think he can take care of himself and I can’t.’
‘Sophie, I let you walk to meet Dora at the shops the other week.’
‘I’m talking about school. I’ve been asking to walk to school for two years now. No one else gets questioned. Why me?’
‘These are the rules for now, okay?’ she says in an angry tone. ‘If it makes you feel better, I’ll change my mind about Andrew walking too.’
‘That’s not what I’m asking,’ I say as I storm inside.
Later, when I am sitting on my bed doing homework, Andrew walks in.
‘It’s polite to knock,’ I tell him.
He shrugs and points a finger at me. ‘Don’t you ever go questioning Mum or Dad about what I do and whether or not it’s okay. They’re fine with me walking, so it’s none of your business. You don’t need to get involved.’
I sigh. ‘Sorry. I’m frustrated. I’m two years older than you and they freak out if I go to the corner shop. I don’t get why you get to be different.’
He looks at me like I’m stupid. ‘I’m a guy. It’s just how it is.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s bullshit. When I have kids, my son and daughter are going to be equal. None of this girls stay at home and boys go out crap. I wouldn’t want my daughter thinking she’s not marriage material if she has a social life.’
‘Whatever. You think too much.’
‘Let me guess,’ I say. ‘It’s bad for me to have a brain, right? I should just focus on housework.’
He gives me a half-smile. ‘I’m not the one who said it.’
I smile back. It feels good to be talking again.
‘Hey, I need to ask you about something,’ I say after a moment. I pat the end of the bed, inviting him to sit down.
‘Nah, I have to have a shower,’ he says. ‘So yalla, make it fast. Did someone say something to you? You want me to bash a guy? You need money?’
‘No,’ I scoff. ‘And you should think twice before offering to punch people out. It’s no wonder the media’s blaming Lebanese guys for violence.’
‘Oooft, Sophie! Tell me what you want without using your Year Twelve analysis on me.’
‘Geez, sorry,’ I say, putting my hands up in mock self-defence. ‘It’s just that you’ve been acting a bit strange lately. Different. Like there’s something on your mind all the time that makes you worried and angry. Is everything okay at school?’
‘Yeah,’ he drawls.
‘What about George?’ I ask.
‘He’s fine. He’s getting heaps better. No more bruising – only his right eye’s still a little swollen.’
‘What about Anton and Eddie?’ I ask. They’re Andrew’s other close friends at school.
‘They’re good too. They came with me to visit George today. He’s back at school next week, but I think it’s going to be weird. His cousin Zayden’s really angry about the Aussie boy in your class. George is worried about it.’
‘If anything, the Aussie boy should be worried,’ I say. ‘At least George has people who know and support him. No one talks to the new guy.’
Andrew shrugs. ‘Whatever. As long as he stays away from George. And you stay away from him. Avoid any trouble.’
I shoot him a look as he walks out the door. At least I tried.
I can’t concentrate on school work after that so I call Dora.
The Optus lady answers. ‘The person you have called is unavailable. To notify them of your call, please hang up after the tone.’
I hang up and send a text instead.
Hey – what r u doing? It’s been a while since we had a chance 2 talk at school. Call me, I miss chatting 2 u
I lie by the phone for five minutes waiting for a reply, then go back to reading World War I sources for my History essay. At least homework is a distraction from my depressing life.
Dora doesn’t call me back on Friday night, or all day Saturday. When I get back from church on Sunday morning, there’s a missed call and a reply to my SMS on my phone.
hey lady bird, call me. i’m home all day and need help with business essay
I laugh because she can’t make it through an assignment without me, then grab the phone and dial her.
‘Heya,’ she says when she picks up. ‘How’s my favourite homework saviour going?’
‘I’m a lot more than your homework saviour, you cow,’ I say, only half-joking. ‘Where have you been?’
‘You’ll hate me if I tell you.’
‘T
ell me anyway. I insist.’
‘Okay, but don’t laugh. I hung out with Rita Malkoun for a bit yesterday. She called me to meet up so I went along. I never knew we had that much in common, to be honest.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say incredulously. ‘You what?’
‘Yeah, I know. It’s so strange, ay? But she’s pretty cool if you get to know her.’
‘Dora, you do know who you’re talking to? She used to be my best mate, remember?’
‘I know, but that was ages ago! You’ve both grown up and changed since then.’
‘Doubt it,’ I mumble.
‘Well, maybe she has and you haven’t. Come on, Soph, get over it! We’re in Year Twelve! Everyone’s gonna end up being our best friends by the time we finish.’
She has a point. Well, maybe. History (okay, TV) has shown me that people sometimes find friends in the most unexpected places. Maybe this is part of our Year Twelve bonding and growing-up process.
‘I guess,’ I say. ‘I was just a bit concerned because you haven’t had much for time for us lately. Don’t forget me now that you’re down with the cool chicks, okay?’
‘Correction. Now that we’re down. And in slightly more fabulous news, it means that we get to go to the Easter Dance in style in whatever ultra-suave transportation Vanessa’s dad is arranging for us. No more wallflowers this year, baby!’ she squeals.
‘All right!’ I say, mustering as much enthusiasm as I can.
Despite Dora’s optimism, I can’t shake the thought that things are slowly changing for the worse. Sure, we’ve always craved the chance to remove our invisibility cloaks, but hanging with the likes of Vanessa Saade and Rita Malkoun is bound to end in disaster. On the other hand, it could bring me closer to Zayden …
I hang up the phone, feeling anxious and confused. I know I should be excited that I’ll no longer be a social outcast in my final year at school, but I’m torn between a desire to fit in and a desire to be true to myself. And if I’m being true to myself, I just don’t feel comfortable hanging out with girls who are so different from me. I can’t trust Rita Malkoun – she’s a two-faced bitch who should come with a warning.