Does My Head Look Big in This?

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  I fall into a daydream, imagining the whole school ignoring me for weeks and months. And I imagine that one morning at school assembly, while Ms Walsh attacks the microphone with a lecture on the evils of chewing gum, she gets a message that I’ve been hit by a bus, no make it a tram, and I’m in intensive care. Ms Walsh starts sobbing and drops the microphone in a dramatic crash, then storms to the hospital with a troop of my class, showering me with flowers and apologies. Adam approaches the bed and takes my hand, whispering that he wants me to wake up from my coma because he loves me and thinks I look beautiful in hijab because it accentuates my eyes. I get so caught up in my daydream that pretty soon my eyes start to go fuzzy and my skin all prickly. It’s only when I feel my throat choking up that I snap back to reality.

  Soon it’s five thirty. And then it’s five forty-five. Then I start to panic. The librarian, Mr Thompson, approaches me and tells me they’re closing at six. So I pack up my things and wait outside on a bench in the quadrangle, wondering, as my teeth are chattering and my nose is turning into a Rudolph, if it would have been the same if I’d waited for them at home.

  And then my mobile rings and my mum tells me to meet them at the car park. And I run, which is hard with a backpack filled with textbooks and folders, but I don’t care and just run, my scarf lifting up in the wind.

  At the car, my parents are looking out for me. I bolt up to them and my mum tells me off for running with a heavy backpack and asks if I want to be a hunchback when I’m older. My dad gives me a hug and then I stand in front of them, panting and sticky, the cold wind rushing against me.

  “Well? What did she say? Can I wear it?” And I don’t know why but I burst into tears and then my mum is hugging me and telling me it will be OK and my dad is having his Mr Brady moment and telling me it’s been sorted out. And I cry and I cry because until this moment I’ve never felt so sure about what I wanted.

  We go out to a Japanese restaurant on Brunswick Road. We have to take our shoes off and my dad’s embarrassed because he’s got a massive hole in his right sock and his big toe is sticking out. He dashes past our waitress and plonks himself down on the cushion in case anybody notices.

  “So what happened?” I ask after the waitress has taken our order. We didn’t speak about it on our way here. All they told me was that I am allowed. And that was enough to send me into a happy trance all the way, my window rolled down, my face being cut by the icy breeze, my scarf blowing in the wind. It felt beautiful.

  “Well, it was strange,” my dad says, “but she seemed to be under the impression that we disapproved of your decision. Any idea where that came from?”

  “She kept insinuating you guys had held a gun to my head and I explained to her that you were actually concerned for me, if anything.”

  “When we walked in she wanted to talk about how the three of us could talk you out of it.”

  I look at my mum in shock.

  “She didn’t?”

  “Yes,” my mum continues. “She said she understood our concerns completely and had called us to a meeting to discuss a way to convince you not to go ahead. Your mouth is still hanging down, Amal. Close it.”

  “So what did you tell her?”

  My parents look at each other and grin.

  “Well,” my dad takes a sip of his Coke, “let’s just say we cleared that up.”

  “And?”

  “None of your business, Amal,” my mum says.

  “What? We don’t have the Fifth Amendment here. You can tell me.” I start pleading but they refuse to give me the details because they think it “might affect my relationship with Ms Walsh”. Affect my relationship? What do they think? That we even had one to begin with?

  “She’s your principal and you must be on good terms with her,” my dad says.

  “And don’t worry,” my mum says, “she was only trying to make sense of your decision, Amal. It’s OK, now, we explained everything to her.”

  “That it was entirely your decision and a part of your religious identity,” my dad adds.

  “That you would wear whatever colour they thought most suitably matched the uniform—”

  “What colour did she agree to?” I ask, hoping it isn’t the awful maroon or yellow of our official colours.

  “Maroon,” my mum answers. “And don’t scrunch your face like that. You should be—”

  “– grateful, yes I know,” I groan.

  The food arrives and we dig in to our prawn tempura and steamed rice.

  “You’ve got until next Monday to get hijab in that colour,” my mum says. “We’ll go shopping for material on Saturday.”

  “OK . . . so what did you think of her?”

  But they don’t answer. Instead they look at each other and then give me an ahem.

  I’m called to the office over the loudspeaker during Maths the next day. Everybody always gets the “are you in trouble?” look when that happens. Mr Loafer excuses me and five minutes later I’m sitting on the hard pine chair in Ms Walsh’s office, watching her squeeze her temples again.

  “I assume your parents have spoken to you?” she begins.

  “Yeah. Last night.”

  “I’ve decided to allow you to wear your veil.”

  “Yes, I know! Thanks, Ms Walsh.”

  “Now, I’ve decided on maroon. That will at least blend in with the rest of your uniform. Amal, I need to ask you, so that there are no further unexpected announcements, to please advise me whether this is the only religious symbol you intend to display.”

  For a moment I feel like I’m in a witness box and start to get a little annoyed by her cross-examination. But then I try to put myself in her high heels and think of it from her perspective.

  “Um, yes it is, Ms Walsh.”

  “Ahem . . . right. I’m glad that’s sorted out. I’ve put you down as an agenda item in tonight’s staff meeting so that your situation can be explained to the teachers. You have nothing to worry about. It will simply serve to allay their curiosity and also give them an opportunity to discuss how to deal with it.”

  “Deal with what?”

  “Amal, I hope you appreciate that this is something . . . rather novel. I respect your decision and your right to practise your faith, but you do look different now, dear. I don’t want you to interpret this incorrectly but I hope you realize that I am going out of my way to accommodate you. I’m sure that there are grammar schools in Australia which would forbid you from wearing the hijab because of strict uniform codes.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize . . . I . . . um . . . appreciate your support, Ms Walsh.”

  “I know you do, Amal. I hope you also appreciate that I have to think of the broader scheme of things. Anything can happen in today’s climate. If the media get word of it, I’m sure they’ll be interested. McCleans Grammar School is one of Melbourne’s most prestigious institutions and it is renowned for its very strict discipline.”

  “Yeah, I know. . .”

  “Anyway, I’m sure there will be no problems. But I do need to advise you, Amal, that you are now under an even greater responsibility to represent this institution faithfully. With your veil, all eyes will be on you outside of school, so I trust you will not do our reputation any disservice. Understood, Amal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. You may return to your class now. Have a good day.”

  “Thanks.”

  I don’t go back to my class straightaway. I go to the toilets and sit on a toilet seat, taking deep breaths.

  Breathe.

  I’m an agenda item? The media? What have I got myself into?

  Breathe.

  It’s OK. She seems to be on my side. She’s not as bad as I thought.

  Breathe.

  Except, seriously, what’s the deal with her and the word institution?

  It’s Wednesday. T
he only people who haven’t freaked out about my hijab have been Simone and Eileen. Oh, and Josh Goldberg. Josh’s Jewish. He’s got orthodox Jewish cousins but, from what I can tell, he’s a secular Jew. I don’t think my hijab’s really strange to him, though. Orthodox Jewish women also cover their hair and there are tons more things that are similar with our faiths. We kind of hit it off from my first week at McCleans.

  As for the rest of my class, it’s been two whole days since the start of term and there’s still an uncomfortable politeness between me and everybody else. Well, I wouldn’t call it politeness with Tia, Claire and Rita, who are still into their sniggering routine, which is fine. That I can handle. At least they’re acknowledging I exist. But everyone else is acting way too civil with me.

  When it comes to the guys, well, some of them are kind of acting almost scared of me. As though they’re not allowed to talk to me, or I’ll bark at them if they say something. One of the guys, Tim Manne, accidentally bumped into me while we were walking out of class and then fumbled and apologized and moved on quickly, like he didn’t want me to think he’d given me an invitation to talk. Since my first day here, I’ve never heard a guy apologize to a girl for bumping into her. I was about to make a joke about it, to ease the tension, but he was already halfway down the hallway.

  And then there’s Adam. He hasn’t spoken a word to me since the start of term. He just smiles awkwardly if our eyes meet and quickly turns his head away. It’s gruesome. When he ignores me like this it feels as though somebody has a potato peeler and is torturously peeling away the layers of my skin. This morning I’m in the hallway when I overhear some girls talking about me next to the lockers. One of them says the word “oppressed” and the other one is saying something about me looking like a dag. I can’t go up to them, because then they’ll know I’ve been eavesdropping. So I walk slowly away, feeling like a boiling kettle of water about to whistle and screech.

  I’d like to say that I walked back to the lockers and planted myself in front of those girls. I’d like to say that I looked them in the eye and gave them a pulverizing comeback line that left them shocked and speechless. But don’t you just hate yourself when you always think of the killer line when it’s too late? Anyway, by the time I’ve got the guts to even think about turning back, the bell has rung and the moment has gone.

  So I just keep walking.

  At lunch time Simone, Eileen and I hang around in the Year Eleven common room. We’ve got the place to ourselves because it’s a gorgeous sunny day and everybody’s outside. But Eileen’s got stomach cramps and is refusing to move from the wall heater. Simone and I are in a severe mucking-around mood and are taking turns imitating teachers we love to hate. I absolutely suck at mimicking voices but Simone’s a pro. She gets the tone and accent to perfection. She can jump from impersonating Ms Walsh to Michael Jackson to Austin Powers. She can do any accent or facial expression. Simone’s usually reserved and quiet. You get the feeling that she wishes she had a curtain to hide herself behind. But whenever she gets in this mood, this amazingly confident side flows out of her, blowing Eileen and me away.

  Today we’re in hysterics as Simone does an absolutely brilliant impersonation of Mr Taylor, our Legal Studies teacher, talking to us about how the entire course of our lives depends upon us appreciating the Australian Constitution. Mr Taylor has this habit of emphasizing his point by using three adjectives or verbs in a row.

  “Class, you must know,” Simone begins in a droning voice, flinging her arms around at every syllable, “that should you fail to understand, to comprehend, to feel the power of the Constitution’s words you will lose, forfeit, surrender your ability to master the meaning of this most important document. You must read with an open mind in order to nurture, care for and foster your citizenship. Do I make myself clear, succinct and comprehensible?”

  The three of us fall over the tables laughing when all of a sudden we hear somebody in the background. Simone is instantly silent and we turn around to see Josh standing at the door, a wide grin on his face.

  “Josh! Where’d you come from?!” I ask.

  “I was coming in to pick up a book. Didn’t want to interrupt Simone’s performance. Bloody awesome impersonation, Sim.”

  She looks down at her hands, a horrified expression on her reddening face. “Thanks,” she mutters, turning away quickly as she pretends to be packing up her books.

  Josh doesn’t seem to notice her embarrassment. “Man, you had him spot on! He so does that triple word thing. You got talent!”

  Simone looks up for a seond and smiles shyly, quickly turning her eyes away from his grinning face.

  “Later,” he says, casually waving a hand and walking out.

  Eileen and I turn to Simone with wide-eyed expressions.

  “He called me Sim. . .”

  “I know!” I cry. “How cute was that!”

  “What a spunk!” Eileen says. “He’s so sweet! I reckon he’s got the hots for you, Sim.”

  Simone looks at us in mortification. “Are you kidding? As if he’d even look twice! He was just being . . . nice . . . how embarrassing . . . oh my God he saw me up there jumping around like an idiot . . . my arms were probably all wobbly and . . . ugh.” She looks down at her body in disgust and shakes her head. Eileen and I go ballistic.

  “Oh for God’s sake, Simone!” Eileen snaps. “You’re not fat! Stop acting like you’re the size of a Toorak mansion. I’ve seen the way guys check you out as you walk down the street.”

  “You think that’s my dream? To get checked out by guys? Guys would check out a street lamp if it had boobs.”

  “Simone, just chill out,” I say. “Give yourself a break will you?”

  “Are you trying to imply I need a break and that I should therefore have a Kit-Kat?”

  “Yeah, that was it,” I say, laughing. “I was implying you’re a fat cow and should go hold up a Cadbury store.”

  “Good, because the last thing I need from either of you is pity.”

  “Well you don’t have it because there’s nothing to pity you for,” Eileen says, “except your failure to exercise some intelligence and realize that you’re not—”

  “OK, OK!” she groans. “Point taken! I love myself. Happy? I’m just so excited! I’m over the moon because that hunk of a guy just walked in and saw me jumping around like a roast Christmas turkey doing a rap dance!”

  “Hmm, a little bit of perspective would be nice round about now.” Eileen raises her eyebrows at me. “Wouldn’t you agree, Amal?”

  “Nah, I disagree.”

  “Thank you!” Simone says triumphantly.

  “I mean, sure Simone, you do look like a stuffed chicken. A Thanksgiving turkey, even. Man, the meat off you could keep Red Rooster in stock for months.”

  “Why don’t you both just go and inject some calories into your poverty-stricken fat cells?”

  Eileen and I giggle and Simone sticks her tongue out at us.

  I walk to the milk bar on Saturday morning to buy the weekend paper for my parents and the latest edition of Cosmo. I’m a real Cosmo fanatic. A Cosmo quiz guru. According to Cosmo, Adam and I are perfectly matched, although June’s edition gave us a low score on physical compatibility so I threw that issue out.

  All my Cosmos are stacked under my bed because my mum hates me reading such “filthy magazines with nothing but sex and skinny girls”. She thinks that if I read them I’m going to spend my Saturday nights bouncing away in cars and throwing up my lunch. OK, so last month she busted Simone and me glued to a sealed section on male body parts. Boy was that embarrassing. And man did she go nuts. She sat me down for a massive mother-to-daughter on sex and intimacy and how magazines and movies corrupt the precious relationship between men and women and blah blah blah. It was excruciating. Anyway, if she finds out I’m buying this month’s edition (which has an article on what guys really like in a girl),
I’ll be hung out to dry with the washing.

  On my way back from the milk bar, with the Cosmo stuffed in my coat, I see Mrs Vaselli standing outside watering her roses. She’s wearing her all-year-round thick black stockings, pleated skirt, woollen jumper and schoolgirl shoes. She dresses like that in the peak of summer too.

  “Hi, Mrs Vaselli,” I call out. Another avoiding-a-lecture defence mechanism.

  She pauses with the hose mid-air, scowls at me, and turns her back to water another plant. As I turn in to our drive she suddenly storms over to our fence and starts yelling at me.

  “You tell newspaper people no trow paper on my grass!”

  She stomps away back to her house.

  “What a grumpy old fart!” I yell, slamming our front door and storming into the kitchen, where my mum is preparing breakfast.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  “That old grouch is psychotic. I was walking up the driveway and she comes up to the fence and starts yelling at me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Why are parents always so quick to assume it’s their children who must have done something wrong?”

  “Easy. Because I’m your mum and I can assume anything I want to.”

  “Nice,” I mutter. “Her latest big fat whinge is that when our newspapers get delivered in the week, they sometimes get thrown on to her lawn. The injustice of it must burn her. Boy, do I wish I had her problems. Newspapers touching her precious grass.”

  “Don’t say that, ya Amal. You have no idea what her problems are.”

  “Yeah, I do. She’s an anal, cranky, miserable woman who wants to take out her bad mood on everybody else.”

  “Really? Only person I hear that sounds like she’s got a bad case of PMS is you.”

  I flounce out of the room, stomping my feet as hard as I can as I walk up the stairs.

  7

  Monday morning. And my class has finally decided to confront me about my hijab. I almost want to jump up and down with relief. I can handle an insult or an interrogation. I can’t handle going from getting along with everybody (with the obvious exception of Tia and her Mini-Mes) to being a social outcast.