by E. Lily Yu
Soccer, then! Someday!
Mo was taller than Atay. Firuzeh stifled a laugh.
Abay came to the doorway. We’re going now.
On the bus, Abay said, What a wonderful painting. Omid, didn’t you promise me a garden, once?
Yes, it’s pretty. That’s nice, Firuzeh.
Nour said, But—
Firuzeh tweaked his ear.
Did Nour paint one?
Firuzeh said, He was busy.
I was thinking we could plant a garden in the yard.
Atay said, I don’t know. There are rules about it.
But a garden, Omid.
Someday. That man we met, Ali Reza—
He seems like a decent man.
His cousin owns a garage. He’ll ask about a job for me.
Nour said: I would have won. If I dropped the ball. But you mucked it up.
Did not.
Did too.
Abay said, That would be very kind. We’ll have to ask him over. Ali Reza and his wife.
Firuzeh said, Make mantu, please.
No, aush, Nour said. A lot of it.
Mantu.
Aush.
We’ll make both, Abay said. If Ali Reza finds Atay a job.
Chapter Five
By August, when frost glittered grey on lawns, Atay was working in Ali Reza’s cousin’s Richmond garage.
There was never extra money, and after Abay saw their first electricity bill, the space heater Sister Margaret had found for them stayed on for only one hour each day. But there was enough.
Gradually, the steam of Abay’s meals laid down warm layers throughout the flat. Each oil-hissing or white-billowing pan turned a fraction more of here to home.
Then one day at school, in the gossiping interval between bells, when the surf of students crashed against hallways and bubblers, rolling in every direction toward their next classrooms, Shirin slapped a card into Firuzeh’s hand.
Birthday party, she said. You better come.
I’ll ask.
The fuchsia paper was thick and smooth. Firuzeh rubbed her thumb over the foil letters.
Know what we’ll have? Ice cream cake. Fairy bread. Tim Tams. Gosh-e-fil. Ab-e-dandan. Pavlova. Lamingtons. My parents promised. The sugar high will last for days.
No wonder your name is Shirin.
Very funny. Original. I’ve only heard that from my dad, oh, fifty times. So you’re coming, right? Oh, oops, sorry, your parents. I forgot. I hope they’ll let you out of detention for some fun.
Abay, wiping her fingers and taking up the card, said: Absolutely not.
You didn’t even look at it!
I don’t have to. We don’t know her parents. What kind of people they are.
All we’re doing is eating biscuits and cake. That’s what a birthday party is.
O friend, what is better? Sugar or the One who created it?
Mum!
Abay dropped the card on the counter and stirred the pot of rice.
Firuzeh, what would people think?
So that was that.
In the long and colourless days between the invitation and Shirin’s rainbow-sprinkle party, it seemed that no girl in Year 5 could think, talk, or dream about anything else.
What are you wearing?
Purple velvet dress, silver belt, a scarf—
Hands traced neckline and necklace over the school’s white and blue.
Bringing as a gift?
Six bottles of nail polish.
Strawberry lip gloss. Or passionfruit. Unless I buy both.
This beaded bag I saw at the mall—
Here she comes.
Hi Shirin!
We weren’t talking about your—
Shh! Be quiet!
Queenly, round-faced, and supremely content, Shirin glided past muffled giggles of conspiracy. The whole school was in on it. Even Gulalai.
What about you, Firuzeh?
Yeah, what will you wear?
But why not? Shirin had said in surprise. Your marks are fine. I mean, not great, but—sorry, I peeked over your shoulder once. Are they very traditional? Your parents? Oh well. Maybe next year.
And Shirin whirled away.
There was a hole in Firuzeh’s chest where she had been scooped out with a silver spoon. The hole was shaped like ice cream and lamingtons. Overnight, she had been severed from the communal life of the school, exiled, banished, disenfranchised; for wherever two or more girls gathered, the party was there also.
Twenty times a day, Firuzeh bit her knuckles to keep the tears in, until they were swollen, red, and bruised.
Oh, Mia said, Firuzeh’s here, we should talk about something different—
We should, Shirin said. But do you think I should wear the green dress or the orange one?
None of them truly meant to be cruel: not Abay, not Mia, and not Shirin. And that only made it doubly unfair.
At night, Firuzeh punched her pillow and muttered until Nour threw his at her and said: Go to sleep!
The day of Shirin’s party, Firuzeh’s nerves sparked and snapped. Every class, one girl or another was reprimanded for loud whispering, or passing notes scribbled in pink glitter pen.
Please, Gulalai, Mr Early said. Why can’t you be more like Firuzeh here?
Gulalai gawked, then laughed until her eyes sparkled with tears.
The last bell was a mercy.
Goodbye, Shirin sang on the school steps, goodbye, I’ll see you all soon. In an hour, remember!
It was a long and windy walk home from school. Nour skipped alongside Firuzeh, noisy as a cockatoo.
He said: Jake fell out of a tree and broke his leg.
That’s nice, Nour . . .
Which means he can’t play sevens now. Which means they need a substitute. Which means—
Nour. I don’t care. Be quiet.
Atay, Nour said over dinner, I have to. Please. Or they’ll ask Aaron, and he runs like a goat.
How much does it cost?
The league is seven dollars.
Only seven dollars?
. . . every week. And the shirt is twenty dollars. And I need soccer boots.
In Parwan, Atay said, we played soccer barefoot.
Yes, Atay, but—
And without twenty-dollar shirts. Twenty dollars! You could live for a year on that.
But Atay, this is Australia.
Ask your mother if we can afford it.
Maman, madar jan, mum darling, Abay—
Mum darling, Firuzeh echoed, smirking.
That’s a lot of money, Nour. I don’t know.
I’ll do all my homework and prayers for a week. Without you asking. I promise.
Atay said, Nour should be playing with other boys. Running around. It’s good for him. You should hear my brother Hassan’s little ones. They never stop.
Abay said, Last I checked, running and playing were free.
Nour said, It’s only five weeks.
I can ask my boss for a loan. It’s not that much. I’ll pay him back.
Nour, can you borrow your friend Jake’s shirt?
He’s huge! It’s like a dress on me!
You wear that dress, Atay said, and you can play in this league.
While washing up, Firuzeh broke a plate in the sink.
Go on, Abay said, break more plates. Why else do I bother buying them?
Firuzeh burst into hot and furious tears.
Abay sighed. What a reaction. Just go.
Firuzeh slunk into her room, plopped onto her mattress, and stared at the darkness in the high window. Somewhere, girls were licking frosting off their glossy pink lips, admiring their sequinned and ruffled finery, and laughing together until their sides hurt.
Once there was and once there wasn’t a girl who couldn’t go to a party. As a result, she turned invisible.
That sounds like a drippy girl story, Nour said.
Go away if you want. You don’t have to listen.
Nour dropped his schoolbag and laid his he
ad in his hands.
Whenever she talked, people looked around, but they didn’t see her. So they stopped looking and listening. People tripped on her. It was hard for her to stay out of their way. But she could wag school whenever she wanted to, take candy from a milk bar without getting caught, eat hot pies with out paying, and sneak into cinemas.
Okay, so she was happy.
Except for the loneliness.
Who needs friends when you have all that?
She had friends, but they stopped seeing her. Like everyone else. She tried to write, but they couldn’t or wouldn’t see.
Friends do that, Nour said.
Her family worried until she said, I’m right here! Then they stopped worrying and forgot she was there. Talk about modesty—even her own family never saw her hair! Every now and then her mother said, Please do the dishes. If she wanted to, she did, and if she didn’t want to, well, that was too bad. I didn’t hear you, she could say. I wasn’t nearby.
The girl decided to get a job. I could work for you, she told the police, or I could work for a thief. The commissioner said, the job is yours. She worked when she wanted to and solved many cases, because no criminals could tell if she was listening.
Then one day, she met an invisible man—
I knew it, Nour said. They got married. The End.
But he was a thief. She was guarding the most precious vault in a bank when she saw the locks trying to turn themselves. No you don’t, she said. He jumped in fear, but she didn’t see that. She chased him and almost caught him many times, but it’s hard to catch an invisible thief. Finally she did, and they locked him up and threw a big party for her, because she was old and famous by then. They hit the stick with the drum and the drum with the stick, and they gave the criminals raw food, and the constables cooked, and I didn’t get one nibble from the bottom of the pot.
Okay, Nour said grudgingly. That wasn’t too bad. If you wag school, though, can I come with?
Of course not, donkey.
I’ll tell Abay if you don’t take me.
When did I ever say I would skip class?
In your story.
Forget it.
Remember, I’ll tell.
How are you still such a pain in the arse?
Practice, Nour said with a giant grin.
Lugging her schoolbag and lagging behind Nour, Firuzeh glared vinegar and sour milk at the rust-freckled car parked in front of their flat. Visitors meant salaams and doroods to everyone, no eating until the guests were done, and a mountain of dishes to wash before dinner.
But there were no strangers taking tea in the flat.
That car? Abay glanced out distractedly. It was the colour of eggplant and equally ugly. Atay bought it.
He what?
Abay was filling a bucket at the sink, a tall mop leaning against her side.
Someone came by the garage with that thing. It was so old and broken it wasn’t worth fixing. Your father bought it on the spot.
Abay set the bucket down and attacked the kitchen floor with the rag end of the mop. Firuzeh danced backwards to avoid the suds.
Where’s Atay? Nour said.
He went back to work. Drove that wreck here on his lunch break. A colleague came with him to drive him back.
I’ve seen worse, Firuzeh offered.
Yeah, in Afghanistan.
Wow, helpful. Do your homework, Nour.
Why don’t you do yours?
Don’t have any.
Me neither.
How lucky you are, Abay said. In that case, Firuzeh, you can finish this floor. And Nour—
I have maths! he yelped, flinging himself down on the rug.
Grumbling, Firuzeh took the mop and swabbed the kitchen’s brown-printed vinyl tiles.
Abay plunged her arms up to her elbows in the dish-filled sink.
Ya Firuzeh, what will we do with this car?
Take it out back and shoot it, Firuzeh said, her voice too low for Abay to hear.
Your father says he needs it for his job, three buses and one-and-a-half hours is too much—
That car is too much, Nour opined from the floor.
He says we can go shopping in it at night, it’s safer. But look at that thing. We’ll break our necks. We’ll lose control and crash into a tree. And how do we find money for repairs?
Wet plates and glasses squeaked in Abay’s hands. Dishwater slopped over the sides of the sink. Extending the mop, Firuzeh wiped the floor on either side of her mother’s feet.
Am I a magician, to magick money out of thin air?
No, Abay, Nour and Firuzeh chorused.
We can’t afford that car. Six hundred dollars and a failing transmission! Am I being unreasonable?
No, Abay.
Not at all, Firuzeh said. Besides, when people see him driving that thing—what will they think?
A pause at the sink, as tiny soap bubbles ascended and popped.
Ai, my daughter is mocking me.
Nour said, Firuzeh mocks everyone.
I don’t! He can’t drive me to school. My friends would laugh. I’d die, she said.
You won’t die, Abay said. This is not Kabul. You will ride in that car and be grateful, or else.
But you just said—
Padarnalat, this is your father we’re talking about. Show some respect.
Hang on— Nour said.
It’s not fair, Firuzeh said.
Good, you’re done with the floor. You can mop the bathroom now, if you’re sure you don’t have any homework.
I have homework, Firuzeh muttered.
I thought you might.
Chapter Six
Grace Nguyen shut the car door and gazed, perplexed, at the tower of plastic containers in the passenger seat. The names had escaped her—osh something, pillow?—but the rich smells saturated her car. The woman she was tutoring had insisted. She had sized up Grace’s beer-and-ramen frame and made a beeline for the fridge, issuing directions as she went. Her kids plied Grace with tea, almonds, and raisins. The husband, Omid, had watched in silence while Bahar Daizangi packed meal after meal. Grace blushed at all the fuss.
She had signed up for the program because it was the right thing to do, no matter how the politicians ranted, and because the experience would look good on her résumé. She had not needed the flyers on the Tampa and SIEV X handed to her by unwashed socialists who showed up after talks; she had thoroughly educated herself. But what she had not expected was immediately becoming the object of her clients’ charity.
Mrs Daizangi’s cooking would last her a week.
Humming along to the radio, Grace drove through the soft dark of early spring back to her flat. She shared the place with two other students, Hannah and Olivia, and Kylie, an eremitic mol-bio postdoc.
Hannah and Olivia were ensconced on the couch per usual, textbooks on their knees, the TV on. As Grace staggered in with her armful of food and kicked off her boots, two noses rose inquiringly.
“What’s that?” Hannah said. “You get Indian?”
“Nah,” Olivia said, “she was out giving refugees a fair go.”
“Then where’s the food from?”
“My students,” Grace said, setting the containers down.
As one unit, her roommates abandoned the couch to hover over the kitchen counter.
“Some students,” Hannah said. “Sign me up for that.”
“Need a hand?” Olivia said.
“I’m all right.”
“I mean, maybe they want to poison you. You never know with refugees. I could try a bit, and if I don’t die, you know it’s safe.”
“Olivia.”
“Okay, okay, but what if their kitchen is unhygienic? You wouldn’t know until you’re doubled up and chundering into the loo.”
Hannah said, “I’ll trade you a sixer of Carlton.”
“Done. Grab a plate.”
Olivia made puppy eyes at Grace. “What about me?”
“Take over dish duty for the rest of t
he week?”
“You’re a monster, Gracie, really you are. Was yesterday’s date that terrible?”
Grace tumbled a forkful of rice rich with sultanas and meat out of its container and into a bowl.
“Oh, fine. I’m on dishes. Now pass that over.”
Each of them put a bite of aush or palao in her mouth.
After a while, Hannah said, “I’ll sign up as a tutor tomorrow.”
“You can’t. Our last training sesh finished last week. There won’t be another until the spring.”
“Who knows,” Olivia said. “We might run out of refugees by then.”
Grace said: “Or we might find a heart, wake up, and end this Pacific Final Solution—”
“Oh, no. Don’t you start.”
Hannah said, “What are they like, your students?”
Grace thought. There was plenty she could say. Their address was not in the worst neighbourhood, though the rust bucket out front did them no favours.
There was no table in their flat, only pillows, rugs, and those plush red blankets favoured by aunties of a prior generation.
The children were exquisitely polite, quiet and invisible when they weren’t helping out. It boggled the mind. At their age Grace had picked fights at school and come home with split lips, shiners, and the long brown hair of one opponent scrunched up in her fist.
Omid Daizangi had merely nodded when Grace stuck out her hand to him. Bahar had enveloped her in a hug. Your face! she had said. Like my face! You are Afghan? Vietnamese, Grace said, smiling. Here are the books we’ll use.
“Normal,” Grace said, “but different.”
“That’s very detailed, Grace.”
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.”
“Maybe tutors have confidentiality agreements,” Olivia said. “Like counsellors. Like Catholic priests.”
Hannah said, “Olivia. Don’t be so blonde.”
“They live in a pretty ordinary place. No shoes in the house, like civilized people.”
“Hmph,” said Olivia. “How’s their English?”
“It’ll get better. My parents didn’t know English when they came. Now their daughter can swear the parrot off a sailor’s shoulder. That’s the Australian Dream, isn’t it?”
A door opened elsewhere in the flat. Someone shuffled down the hall.
“I don’t believe it,” Hannah said. “We’re going to have a Kylie sighting.”