by Sarah Ayoub
‘I bet. You must have been really disciplined.’
He slides a look at me. ‘Yeah, well, when I really want something, I’m not the type of person to let anything get in my way.’
I laugh, and realise how safe and comfortable I feel for someone who ought to be freaking out about breaking her strict father’s rules. That is until we start fighting over the stereo. For a Shire guy, Shehadie’s taste in music is surprisingly Bankstown. He raps along (really badly) to a hip-hop playlist on his iPod while I attempt to turn the radio to something like Triple J or 2DAY FM in the hope of finding some soft rock.
‘Look, there’s nothing black, ghetto or gangsta about you,’ I say. ‘So stop pretending to be something you’re not, and stop rapping to Kanye before you permanently damage my ears.’
‘For the love of God!’ he says, gripping the steering wheel tighter. ‘Now I can’t listen to rap and hip hop because I’m too white? Is there anything I’m allowed to do around you people? Half of me is Lebanese, you know?’
I pull my hand off the stereo control. ‘Geez, no need to get so haughty.’
‘Why are you into all that pop rock alternative shit anyway?’ he asks. ‘How come you’re not into the same music as all your little friends?’
‘I like angsty and melodramatic music,’ I say. ‘It’s good for all the soap-opera issues I have going on inside my head.’
He laughs. ‘And doesn’t that say a lot?’
I smirk at him, and we drive the rest of the way in a comfortable silence.
He pulls up three doors down from my house. I’m relieved to see that the light in the downstairs living room isn’t on, which means Dad has decided not to wait up for me. I say thank you to Shehadie and tiptoe into the house. Despite how bad I was feeling just an hour ago, I have to admit the night hasn’t been a total disappointment.
‘Sophie, who did you come home with last night?’ Dad asks at the breakfast table the next morning.
Oh, shit.
‘Elias, it’s 7 am. Do you really need to have this conversation with her now?’ Mum asks. ‘She looks half-asleep and she has to work all day.’
Listen to your wife! the voice in my head yells. Listen to your wife!
But Dictator Dad is still waiting for an answer.
‘My friends, Dad,’ I say, trying to keep my cool. ‘Like I said I would.’
‘Are you friends with boys now?’ he asks. ‘Riding with them all alone in the dark, then getting them to drop you off a few houses down so I can’t see you? As if you have something to hide?’
‘The lights were off and so I assumed everyone was asleep.’ Including you. ‘I didn’t want the car headlights to shine into the house and wake everyone up.’
‘But you said you were coming home with the girls,’ he persists.
‘Well, it didn’t work out, Dad. In the end there were too many of us, so we took lifts with other people. But we all drove behind each other so that if something happened we’d be close by.’
‘Why didn’t Dora come home with you?’ he asks. ‘Did you especially want to be alone with that boy? And how come he has such a big new car for such a young boy?’
‘Bayii,’ I say through gritted teeth, ‘I’m home safe, okay? That’s all that matters. I didn’t fit in the car with the girls, so I was offered a lift with my friend Shehadie. I don’t know why he drives that car. I’m not nosey, unlike every other member of the Lebanese population here in Sydney.’
‘Sophie, don’t talk about your people like that,’ Angela says, walking into the room and giving me a mocking smile.
‘I’m going to clobber you, you know that?’ I say. But Dad is still waiting for an answer. I sigh. ‘What were you doing spying on me anyway? I thought you were asleep.’
‘No, I was awake. I was watching through the downstairs window for you to come home.’
‘With the lights off?’ I ask, incredulous. ‘Why can’t you just trust me? I’m not going to do anything wrong. I know your rules and I’ve never broken them.’
‘Well, obviously last night you didn’t deserve to be trusted.’
Mum shoots him a look. ‘That’s not what your father’s saying. He’s just worried because if you’re not dropped off in the driveway, it looks suspicious. People in the street will think that we don’t know you’re going to be home late, or who you’re coming home with. We’re just trying to protect your reputation.’
‘I can’t believe this,’ I say. ‘Any other daughter would have lied. Some girls even went out after the cruise. Why can’t you be grateful that I came home and didn’t lie to you? Why can’t you get that I’m a good girl and give me a chance?’
‘Because good girls would ring and ask their father first!’ Dad exclaims. ‘And good girls would not have been out to begin with. And good girls don’t get dropped off around the corner so that the neighbours think they have something to hide and start gossiping about them.’
‘Bayii, I thought I was doing a good thing,’ I plead. ‘Especially because it was a school function, not any ordinary event. Plus, every girl I know is allowed to go out more than I am. Lebanese boys must be getting pretty desperate, because by your standards none of the girls my age will be marriage material. All those boys will have to learn how to iron because it’s going to be a long lonely life for them!’
I figure I’ve gone a little over the top because even Mum gives me a warning look.
‘They’ll just go to Lebanon and marry a girl there,’ Angela says, earning death stares from all three of us.
‘Dad,’ I say, sighing, ‘I don’t care about the neighbours, they’re going to gossip anyway –’
‘Yes, Sophie, they are. I would just rather they did not talk about us. I have had enough to deal with in this life.’
‘Okay, Dad, next time I’m out at three in the morning, I’ll call and ask you to come pick me up. And next time –’
‘I am not finished, Sophie. What you did was wrong. And you won’t be out at three in the morning ever if I have anything to do with it. These streets are no place for a girl like you. Or any girls. The world out there is dangerous, and not everyone understands the sanctity of the woman like we do. This is the end of the discussion. It is done, we are finished.’
Tears well in my eyes and I get up from the table. I stuff my lunch into my bag with as much attitude as I can muster, taking out my frustrations on it. Outside I wait for Dad to unlock the doors of his taxi so that I can get in and be driven to Leila’s house in time for my 11 am shift.
In the past two days, I’ve managed to lose my best friend and even more of my right to enjoy my adolescence. I wonder what joys life has in store for me next.
12
I hate that there’s no reliable map for finding my place in the world
I arrive at Leila’s with red-rimmed eyes and the weight of the world on my shoulders. But she doesn’t seem to notice and is strangely quiet on the drive to work.
‘Soph, just a heads-up,’ she says after a while. ‘Next Friday night I’m not coming to dinner, and I won’t be home Saturday either so I won’t be able to hang out or do a sleepover.’
‘Aww, that sucks,’ I say. ‘That’ll make it two Fridays without me.’
She doesn’t say anything. Her hands are gripping the steering wheel tight, as if she’s holding the car together.
‘Is there anything wrong? Anything I can help with?’ I ask.
‘Nope, sorry, kid,’ she says, giving me a half-smile. ‘Just some personal stuff.’
‘Oh, okay,’ I say quietly.
‘Sorry, babe. I have a lot on at the moment.’
‘Nothing I can help out with?’ I ask again, hopefully.
‘Nah, not really, just … something with Lisa.’
‘Can’t I stay at your house anyway?’
‘Sophie, come on, it’s just one time. You don’t have to act like a child.’
‘I’m not acting like a child. I would’ve liked a little more notice, that’s all.’
/> ‘Well, I said I was sorry. Things come up at the last minute when you’re an adult.’
I don’t respond, but the scowl on my face says everything. The exchange when she drops me off at work is terse and I get out of the car in a hurry, my eyes brimming with tears again. The one person I thought I could rely on doesn’t have time for me anymore.
I check my phone for a message from Dora before I put my bag into my locker. Nothing. Clearly she isn’t interested in whether or not I got home safely. Big winner of a friendship there!
I pack stock in silence until it’s time for my break. I’m thankful that I’m not on registers today – the interaction would kill me. I go to grab my bag from my locker and run into Casey in the staffroom.
‘Hey, lady,’ she says, smacking her locker door shut. ‘Long time no see. Are you coming to my party or what?’
I shake my head. She looks disappointed and I feel ashamed, even though it isn’t my fault.
‘What could be more important than my coming of age?’ she asks, cocking her head at me. ‘A wedding with four hundred and fifty people? No one will miss you if there’s that many, even if you’re faaabulous.’
‘It’s complicated,’ I say. And then I come out with it. ‘My parents are really strict. Well, my dad is. He’s extremely traditional, plus he worries a lot. I’m only allowed to go to functions if the person is from school or if my parents know the family. Not personally, necessarily, but like their village or something. Or if they’re friends of friends or whatever.’
‘A village?’ she asks, looking at me curiously. ‘Tell your dad he’s in Australia now – we call them suburbs here. Anyway, it’s no biggie. I understand.’
She starts to walk out then stops at the door. ‘Sophie?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Try not to be too hard on them, okay? You’re lucky that you have parents who really care about what you do and who you hang out with. Trust me on that.’
I give her a half-smile and watch her walk away, then make my own way outside via the shortcut. Shehadie is sitting on a bench near the bus stop outside the centre. He glances up from the book he’s reading, then puts it down, watching me. I can tell from the look on his face that we’re both in the same headspace at that moment. If we were at school I wouldn’t even consider hanging out with him, but at work it’s different. So I risk the irritation that his company will no doubt bring and walk over.
‘I got in trouble from my dad,’ I say, putting my bag down. I’m surprised by my honesty, but there’s something about him that makes me feel really comfortable.
‘I’m sorry, Soph. How come?’
I shrug. ‘Because I got a lift from a guy.’
‘I don’t get it,’ he says.
‘I don’t expect you to.’
‘Are you gonna let me try? Who knows, it might be more interesting than the adventures of Tatiana and Alexander.’ He nods towards his book.
‘You’re reading The Bronze Horseman?’ I ask, shocked.
He laughs, a genuine, open laugh that lights up his face.
I find myself staring at him, surprised by my longing.
‘Why are you so stunned?’ he says.
‘It’s kind of a chick’s book. No wonder you don’t play footy with the boys at lunch.’
‘A friend from my old school is making me read it. She’s in love with the series. She read the first two in a week – the bags under her eyes were huge,’ he says, laughing again. ‘I quite like the historical stuff. It’s set in World War II. Have you read it?’
‘Yeah, my aunty recommended it to me. She loved the whole trilogy, but I’ve only read the first one. The sex scenes freaked me out a bit,’ I say, then regret being so open. Heat flames my cheeks.
‘Well, I am an eighteen-year-old boy,’ he says, smiling knowingly.
I bite my lip awkwardly and look away.
‘So, tell me why you’re in trouble,’ he says. ‘You seem like you’re carrying the world on your shoulders.’
‘Long story,’ I say, groaning and burying my head in my hands.
‘I got time.’
‘It’s “I have time”,’ I point out.
‘You’re a know-it-all pain in the arse, Sophie. I don’t know why I want to help you.’
He picks up his book and pretends to ignore me, dramatically turning his back to me, but then he glances over and smiles.
I smile too, but it’s sad and pathetic. ‘I can’t win. And I’m tired of trying,’ I say.
‘Not a lot of information there, but I’ll try to work with it,’ he says. ‘So, knowing your tendency for melodrama, I have to ask, are you really trying to win whatever it is that needs winning?’ He raises an eyebrow, waiting for my answer.
‘I’m just over everything,’ I say. ‘The curfews, the rules, the drama, the difference between my brother and me – why he gets to have a life and I don’t, just because I’m a girl.’
He’s about to say something but I keep going.
‘I’m over the people at school too. It’s like they’re content to live in a square and it irritates the hell out of me. It’s like they have the smallest minds and they want to keep them that way. Do you know how much Vanessa and her friends make fun of me because my Society and Culture methodology is on asylum seekers? Or because I ask questions in class? Heaven forbid anyone might want to learn something at school as opposed to showcase her new lip gloss.’
He raises his arms in surrender. ‘You’re preaching to the converted here. Look at the guys at CSC. I made the rugby league team and I’ve played three matches already – you’d think they’d invite me to play at lunchtime with them, if only for the sake of improving our skills, but no. They’d rather lose to other schools than invite the Aussie to join in for a bit of extra practice.’
‘Yeah, it’s pretty bullshit,’ I say. ‘They’re still so narrow-minded about you.’
‘Life is bullshit,’ he says, scuffing the ground with the toe of his big black boot. He’s worn them to school a few times and the nuns have gone ballistic – they think they’re too ‘goth’. ‘You can’t let it get you down. And you have to remember that Vanessa and her friends aren’t an accurate representation of people at our school. Just like ethnic gangs aren’t an accurate representation of an entire cultural community. I think people let them get away with that crap because, like you, they don’t want to deal with their narrow-mindedness.’
I nod, thinking it over.
‘But can I ask,’ he goes on, ‘why the hell is your dad so old-fashioned? You’d think he’d have gotten over it by now.’
I sigh. ‘I think part of it comes from living in the area we do. Having so many Lebanese around means that he doesn’t have to mix with other people. The people he knows are all migrants like him, people who remember Lebanon like it was in the seventies. They don’t get that Lebanon’s moved with the times and is probably more modern now than a small town in the American Midwest. And he’s especially strict with me because he doesn’t want me getting caught up in a more Australianised world, where girls move out of home before they get married or spend the night at their boyfriend’s house. It’s not just about giving gossipers the ammo to talk, but about breaking certain traditions, like a girl only moving out of home on her wedding day. It’s the reason why there’s always a massive pre-wedding celebration in Lebanese families, to say farewell.’
‘That’s nice, though,’ he says.
‘Yeah, there are some really nice things about tradition. But they’re not the things that get me down. I still want my culture and traditions to be part of my life – I’m not chucking that away. I just want them to be more realistic, more in keeping with the time and place we live in, more equal.’
‘Which is where your brother comes in?’ he asks.
‘Exactly! He has different rules because he’s male. Because he’s the one who asks for a girl’s hand in marriage, his prospects can’t be ruined. A girl’s reputation is a lot more fragile in our culture. According to my b
rother, my marriage prospects are hanging by a thread because I believe in equal rights and I’d expect my husband to help me around the house and stuff. Apparently, being feisty or feminist makes me too Australianised, which translates to rejecting the traditional Lebanese notion of marriage.’
‘But you are Australian.’
‘By birth, yes, but I still practise a lot of my Lebanese customs. Which means I don’t just get hassled by Lebanese people unwilling to understand Australian values, but also by ignorant Australians. I hate that we get stereotyped so much as Lebanese people. We’re either all in gangs, or we’re drug dealers who shoot at each other in the street. They assume that we’re all Muslim, and that all Muslim people must be terrorists. A few months ago, I was talking to an old lady and eating hot chips at the same time and she asked me why I wasn’t fasting for Ramadan. Dora once overheard a boy telling his friend that their Greek classmate had converted to Lebanese, but what he was trying to say was that the guy had converted to Islam.’
Shehadie cracks up laughing.
‘It’s not funny!’ I say, shoving him. ‘We stereotype Aussies and they stereotype us, and that means there’s never going to be any hope for either of us, because neither group really knows what the other group’s about.’
‘Yeah, but people aren’t as racist as you think. I mean, they all care about boat people,’ he points out.
I sigh. ‘Shehadie, please tell me you’re not that ignorant. It’s all well and good to march through the streets calling for better treatment of refugees, but seriously, how many people even care what happens after the boat people have landed in Australia? They march, and then they go back to their comfortable lives in the eastern suburbs or the north shore or whatever. It’s the rest of us who see the real face of migration, what happens when we just forget about the refugees. They move into the same areas, because of course that’s where they feel comfortable, surrounded by their own people, but then the wider population starts to question why they don’t work, or why they don’t interact, or learn Australian values, or speak the language, or whatever else comes up in some “letters to the editor” section in a newspaper. People don’t get that some of them really want to be here, to function in society, but there isn’t enough support to help them set up their lives. We need more education and assimilation – not to the extent that migrants have to forget who they are, but enough to bring them into the wider community rather than living on the fringe.