Hate Is Such a Strong Word...

by Sarah Ayoub

  ‘Never spend the night anywhere but their father’s house until they get married,’ she says, finishing the sentence for me. ‘Soph, honestly, nobody cares any more. Tonnes of Lebanese girls travel interstate for work these days, or go to hotels for hen’s nights or go away on their own. It doesn’t mean they’re skanky or slutty or whatever that generation think. Your dad needs to get over it – don’t worry, I’ll talk to him.’ She extends her arm to pull me up off the floor. ‘Trust me, little one, all will be fine.’

  Leila drives me home, muttering under her breath as she psyches herself up to face my dad. Despite the fact that she’s his little sister, Leila’s probably the only person apart from Mum he’ll actually listen to.

  I think back to the time Leila got engaged to Peter. She’d argued her case with Dad without any of the wussy crying that usually accompanies my campaigns. I was seven years old at the time, and I’d hidden upstairs when I heard him bellowing about how she was throwing away her culture and history to marry an Asian. He would only accept a Lebanese guy, because it would guarantee that our traditions, ‘the safeguards of our lifestyles’, would stay intact.

  ‘You see how easy it is for these people to divorce, ya Leila?’ he’d yelled. ‘What makes you think he won’t wake up one day and decide to leave you? By then you might have three kids and you’ll have to come crawling back to me, all alone.’

  But Leila had been defiant, and I’d decided then and there that she was my hero.

  ‘Don’t you get it, Elias?’ she’d argued. ‘My life would be more comfortable than Mama’s ever was! I won’t have to hang on his every word because he’s the man and gets to run everything.’

  Leila meant that she wouldn’t have to be a Stepford wife, washing and ironing her husband’s clothes, having his dinner warm on his plate when he came home. She’d never have to do the dishes alone after every meal, or spend her time mopping and dusting and cleaning toilets while her husband lay on the couch because that’s how it had been done in his family for generations. She hadn’t said any of that to Dad, though. Instead, she’d given him a date, a time and a venue and warned him that he’d die of shame if people talked about how he hadn’t given her away. And she’d won, because he knew she was right and because he could never say no to her. The wedding didn’t happen in the end, but if it had, he’d have walked her down the aisle to make her happy.

  Despite Leila’s previous successes, I’m not convinced Dad will agree to me working so far away. And when she tells him that it would be a good idea for me to get a job, he just stares at me like she’s told him I have a strange genetic mutation that can only be cured by spreading a paste of ground-up goats’ horns all over my body.

  ‘Is this true, Sophie?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply softly.

  He turns to Leila. ‘Did you put this idea in her head?’

  ‘No, Dad, it’s –’ I start.

  ‘I’m talking to my sister, Sophie.’

  Mum motions for me to be quiet. I make a face at her to indicate she should say something.

  ‘Elias, it’s not a big deal, it’ll be good for her,’ Leila says. ‘A lot of people have jobs, you know.’

  ‘Please, Leila, do not insult my intelligence in my own home.’ Dad waves his hands at her accusingly.

  She folds her arms. ‘Well then, why don’t you think about it at least? And be realistic. The girl needs to socialise with people who aren’t blood relatives. Imagine sending her off to university on her own when she’s had zero exposure to the world around her?’

  ‘You and Sophie are constantly making out that I am a prison guard and our heritage is a gaol,’ he says, nodding in my direction. ‘I make these rules for her own protection. People stab their mothers and rape their daughters in that outside world she wants to be a part of. I am trying to protect her from people who might influence her negatively or harm her.’

  Leila starts to argue again, but he cuts her off. ‘You of all people should know that, sister,’ he says in a low voice.

  Mum tugs at his jacket and I wonder what the gesture means.

  Dad sighs. ‘I don’t want Sophie to be miserable, but I know what is acceptable in our community. I know how people think. I can make one phone call to find out if a friend comes from a good family. Once she starts socialising outside, I have no idea who she is with, what effect they might have on her.’

  Leila shakes her head. ‘It’s just a job. Thursday nights and some weekends. I can even help. I’ll take her back to mine on Friday nights after dinner, and you can pick her up Saturday afternoons before your cab run.’

  He is silent and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. My stomach clenches in anticipation.

  ‘I don’t want her working mid-week,’ he concedes finally. ‘It might affect her schooling. Sunday should be a family day, but Saturdays should be no problem.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad!’ I say, jumping up and clapping my hands.

  ‘I change my mind if I notice your marks are slipping,’ he says, pointing a finger at me in warning.

  I spend the next few days relishing the prospect of having a job and a chance to get out of the house on weekends. I’m so grateful to Leila for trying to save me; she’s even managed to convince Dad that no store will hire me if I can only work Saturdays and the only solution is to apply to Big W in Miranda, where a good friend of hers is manager.

  On Wednesday Leila calls to tell me I’ll be starting work in two Saturdays’ time – no interview required.

  I’m stoked that my barriers are finally coming down and I’m getting a chance to do something different. But something still gnaws at me, undermining my happiness. As I lie awake in bed that night it hits me: I’m seventeen years old and fighting for my freedom, but I’ve let my aunty do most of the fighting for me. How can I expect to stop being invisible if I’m not brave enough to make myself heard?

  8

  I hate it when the universe plays tricks on me

  I’m a nervous wreck as Leila drives me to Big W for my first shift. I already know I’m going to make a bad first impression because I’m wearing the ugliest white shirt in the history of humanity. Mum found it for $4.79 on the clearance rack at Best & Less and insisted I wear it, refusing to let me pay $70 for a nicer one from Sportsgirl or Cue. Admittedly, it’s not so much hideous as a hideous fit. What I really wanted was something preppy: a fitted shirt with rolled-up sleeves. My lapse in style makes me thankful there’s no chance of seeing anyone I know while I’m at work.

  Leila parks the car and switches off the ignition. ‘Okay, kiddo, time to face the music. Off you go.’

  She gestures towards the shopping centre’s giant automatic doors. I remain fixed in my seat.

  ‘Geez, what’s the matter with you, Soph? You were so excited about this a week ago.’

  ‘Errr, maybe I’m not cut out for this yet. Heaps of people don’t get jobs until after school. Maybe I’ll just wait,’ I say, my eyes pleading with her to turn around and drive us back to her house.

  ‘Are you serious? We spent ages negotiating with Dictator Dad for this! It’s settled. We’re not going back to him with our tails between our legs.’

  ‘Why can’t I just hang out with you every Saturday? We could have fun, talk, do stuff …’ My voice trails off; even I don’t know why I’m so scared.

  ‘What about all the money you’re supposed to be earning? Or the experience that’s going to add value to your education?’ she asks. ‘I don’t do all the solving; you gotta work with me, baby girl. And please don’t ever assume I have nothing better to do with my time other than wait around for the likes of you.’ She nudges me playfully, but I notice an edge to her voice. ‘Now, scoot.’

  I know when I’m beaten, so I kiss her on the cheek and climb out of the car. I’m meant to meet with a man named Andre at the front desk at 8.30 am … in exactly three minutes.

  I hurry through the centre to the rolled-down grille over Big W’s front doors. I can’t find a handle to tug it up
with. I must look like an idiot as I pace back and forth staring at the grille, until a blond guy with messy longish hair and pale skin comes up.

  ‘I’m Jordan,’ he says. ‘Are you new?’

  I nod, then find my voice. ‘Sophie – first day. Nervous wreck.’

  He laughs lightly. ‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing. You’ll come to hate it.’ He rolls the grille up and motions ‘After you’, then walks in behind me and closes the door. ‘Let me guess – meeting Andre?’

  I nod again.

  ‘He’s nice, don’t worry,’ he says, his face relaxing into a smile. ‘And even if he wasn’t, he delegates everything anyway. You’ll probably have someone else doing your intro.’

  A few minutes later, I’m standing in a small storeroom that doubles as an office and being asked a load of questions. It’s a waste of breath answering them because two minutes later I’m doing it all over again, on forms this time. Andre buzzes for someone to take me around the store and give me the lowdown on staff numbers, trading hours, lunch breaks, and storeroom and delivery locations.

  ‘It’s a lot to take in,’ Anita, my guide, explains. ‘Especially on the first day. The training manager’s on leave for a couple of weeks, but we recently appointed an assistant to work with him. The assistant’s a casual too and is responsible for babysitting new staff on Saturdays. He’ll spend the first three shifts with you until you get the hang of everything. He’s really nice and extremely patient. He used to be on the registers, but we figured he’d be better off training newbies because he has a way of making them feel comfortable despite all the overwhelming things they have to learn.’

  Forget the first three shifts, I think. I’m having trouble taking in the information that’s been fed to me over the last hour, especially now that the store is open and slowly filling with customers.

  Anita leads me to another door, and I figure this is the place where I’ll meet the assistant training guy. She puts her ear against the door and I look at her questioningly.

  ‘Sorry, that must look weird,’ she says. ‘He told me earlier that he needed to make a call, so I wanted to see if I could hear whether or not he’s done.’

  I nod.

  ‘Let’s play it safe,’ she says. ‘Knock on the door in a couple of minutes, he should be done by then. He can start you off with the basics, and before you know it you’ll be a pro.’ She winks at me and walks off.

  ‘But wait,’ I call to her retreating figure. ‘I don’t even know his name.’

  After what feels like ages, I knock and a voice calls out, ‘Come in.’ I open the door, and the guy inside turns around. To my horror, I find myself face to face with Shehadie Goldsmith.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he says, not bothering to hide his contempt.

  ‘I’m your new trainee,’ I say, wishing I could crawl into a hole.

  Shehadie and I stare at each other with a mixture of distress, confusion and dismay.

  ‘Well, we’d better get to it then,’ he mumbles, pulling an orientation booklet out of a drawer and placing it on the table in front of me. ‘Welcome to Big W.’

  I smile sarcastically and roll my eyes. How is it that fate can render a person completely and utterly powerless? Like I didn’t feel powerless enough as it was.

  All morning I feel tortured by Shehadie’s presence. Admittedly, after his initial frostiness he’s nothing other than polite to me. At lunchtime, he takes me back to the little staffroom.

  ‘You get a half-hour,’ he says. ‘I recommend you take it here, because if you leave the store you’re going to be stopped by customers as you walk in and out, which eats, like, eight minutes of your break time. If you have a book to read, you should go outside – there’s a shortcut to avoid the store. Go down this long corridor, take a left and then the second right past the bathrooms.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say awkwardly. I feel bad because I’ve been so rude to him at school, but he’s acting like it’s water under the bridge.

  ‘If you need anything from me, just ask,’ he says. ‘Most of the people you’ll be rostered on with are young and really cool, so don’t be worried or nervous. I’m sure you’ll fit right in. I’ll introduce you to some people later, when we’re doing end of day.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘See how much better that makes a new person feel?’

  He winks at me as he leaves the room, and I bury my head in my hands.

  The day gets worse when I’m put on a register.

  After my first few goes with Shehadie supervising, he smiles. ‘You’re a natural.’

  ‘Gee, thanks. My life is complete – I can successfully scan some barcodes. Round up some awards.’

  ‘Don’t use that tone with me, young lady,’ he says, as I bag a customer’s products and wish her a lovely day. I make a face at him and he laughs. ‘Reckon you can do it on your own now?’

  ‘Ummm …’

  ‘Oh, not so confident now, are we?’ he says, poking fun at me. ‘Or do you just want me to stick around?’

  I shake my head, just as two female staff members walk by holding a large box between them and giggling.

  ‘What are you guys doing?’ Shehadie calls out to them.

  ‘Trying to get this over to cosmetics, but someone keeps dropping the box,’ one calls back, tilting her head at her friend.

  ‘It’s heavy,’ the other girl says. ‘Plus I got a manicure this morning.’

  ‘Couldn’t you get a trolley?’ Shehadie asks.

  ‘You know us,’ the first girl replies. ‘Low on logic, high on fun.’

  ‘Yeah, I bet.’ He grins. ‘Hold on a sec, I’ll be right over.’ He puts his hand on my back. ‘You okay on your own?’

  I shrug. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Two minutes ago you were as cocky as hell with your barcode scanning comment, and now there’s two damsels in distress waiting for me and you don’t want me to go? I never pictured you as the jealous type.’

  I sigh.

  ‘Too early for jokes, huh? Trust me, the days go on forever if you don’t have a little fun.’

  I smile reluctantly.

  ‘And speaking of fun,’ he bows with a flourish, ‘duty calls.’

  I watch him carry the box effortlessly while the girls fall in alongside him, laughing and flirting, and wonder if it would kill me to be a little less uptight. It’s almost like I go out of my way to avoid fun.

  My thoughts are interrupted when a woman places her items down on the conveyor belt.

  ‘Hi, how are you today?’ I ask as I scan and bag her products.

  She ignores me and picks up a magazine, so I raise my eyebrows and continue to scan in silence.

  ‘That’ll be $86.50,’ I say.

  She puts the New Idea back in the stand and looks at me like I’m stupid. ‘Ah, no, that’s not right. Did you scan something twice?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You’re wearing a trainee badge,’ she snaps. ‘Of course you did something wrong. I calculated how much it was all going to cost and you’ve added about $30 extra.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but it’s all automatic,’ I say. ‘Whatever the price is, even if it’s on sale, it’s calculated automatically at checkout.’

  She puts her hands on her hips. ‘I don’t care. I’m not going to pay that. Why don’t you run through every item and we’ll see where you’ve made the mistake?’

  I ignore the comment and start checking each item and its cost.

  Her hand comes up in front of my face. ‘There you go, the sheets,’ she says, looking like she’s just disproved climate change.

  ‘What about them?’ I ask, confused.

  ‘You’ve charged me $30 extra for the sheets,’ she says very slowly, making me want to punch her. ‘They’re supposed to be $25.’

  I flip the pack over and check the price underneath the barcode. It says $55. I scan it: $55.

  ‘Ma’am, they’re labelled and scanning as $55,’
I say. ‘I can’t charge you $25 for them. Where did you see them for $25?’

  ‘Are you insinuating something?’ she asks, raising her voice.

  ‘Not at all. I just don’t understand why you thought they were $25. Just trying to help.’

  ‘You’re not trying to help,’ she says, death-staring me. ‘You’re calling me a liar. I saw them for $25.’

  ‘No,’ I stammer. ‘I’m just trying to work out this misunderstanding.’

  ‘I’ll tell you where the misunderstanding is. Legally, you’re obliged to give them to me for the price I saw – $25.’

  I feel cornered. I take a deep breath. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ll just have to confirm that. As you said, I’m new, and I need to make sure I take the appropriate measures.’

  The customers behind her wander off to other registers and I start to panic.

  ‘Look, I really don’t appreciate you trying to rip me off,’ she says angrily.

  ‘Ma’am, I’m not trying to rip you off. Let me call a supervisor and sort this out for you.’

  ‘You do that,’ she says, making a face at me. ‘Your kind are all about cheating the system, but there’s no way in hell that I’m going to let you cheat me.’

  Shehadie looks over from the cosmetics department and senses my panic. He’s with us in seconds. ‘Hi,’ he says, smiling at the customer. ‘Is there a problem here?’

  ‘Your trainee is making things difficult for me,’ the woman says, glaring at me.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not her intention,’ he says. ‘She’s just new.’

  I explain the situation to him without repeating her racist remark.

  ‘How about I send someone over to check it out?’ he asks, attempting to placate her.

  He pages the manchester department, and a woman in her mid-twenties comes over. They have a chat, and she leaves and returns with an identical pack of sheets.

  ‘I’m sorry, madam, but there’s been a misunderstanding,’ Shehadie says. ‘Someone’s placed those sheets with the cheaper ones. They’re a different pattern and thread count, and further down the aisle you can see that they’re shelved where they’re supposed to be.’