Does My Head Look Big in This?

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  Somehow, in between classes after lunch on Monday everybody suddenly finds the guts to approach me, wanting to know what’s going on with my new look.

  “Did your parents force you?” Kristy asks, all wide-eyed and appalled.

  “My dad told me if I don’t wear it he’ll marry me off to a sixty-five-year-old camel owner in Egypt.”

  “No!” She’s actually horrified.

  “I was invited to the wedding,” Eileen adds.

  “Really?” This is definitely a case of dropped from the cradle.

  “Hey! Amal!” Tim Manne calls out. “What’s the deal with that thing on your head?”

  “I’ve gone bald.”

  “Get out!”

  “I’m on the Advanced Hair Programme.”

  For a second his eyes flicker with shock. Then Josh punches him on the shoulder. “Rocked!”

  “Like I believed her,” Tim says, looking sheepish.

  “Doesn’t it get hot?” someone asks.

  “Can I touch it?”

  “Can you swim?”

  “Do you wear it in the shower?”

  “So is it like nuns? Are you married to Jesus now?”

  It’s unreal. Everybody’s asking me about my decision and seems genuinely interested in hearing what I have to say. They’re all huddled around me and I’m having the best time explaining to them how I put it on and when I have to wear it. Then Adam plants himself in front of me and starts joining in with the rest of them and I want to plant a massive kiss on his face except that really would be defeating the purpose of my entire spiritual roadtrip now, wouldn’t it?

  “So it’s your choice then?” he asks.

  “Oh yeah!” I answer. “One hundred per cent.”

  “Wow . . . so how come it looks different on you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like you see some women covering their faces and other women wearing really bright material with that red paint on their hand. Are they all Islamic too?”

  “You mean Muslim.”

  “Huh?”

  “What she means,” Josh says, “is that the religion is Islam and the followers are Muslim. Like you can’t say to somebody you’re a Judaism or a Catholicism. Get it?”

  “Right.” Adam nods his head. “So are they Muslim, like you?”

  “Yeah they are. But, every girl is going to interpret the hijab differently. It depends on their culture or their fashion sense, you know? There’s no one uniform for it.”

  “I get you,” Adam says.

  “A lot of Africans wear those really colourful wrap-around dresses and veils,” I continue. “Um, stricter women cover their face, but it’s not required in Islam. It’s their choice to go to that extent.”

  “Will you ever cover yours?” Adam asks.

  “Nah! No way.”

  “OK . . . cool.”

  We all keep talking until our Chemistry teacher, Ms Samuels, walks in and announces she’s going to test us to see if we studied over the holidays. We get stuck with an impromptu quiz and Kristy passes me a note with exclamation marks and smiley faces all over.

  I’m really glad your dad didn’t go through with the wedding!! : ) : )

  Sweet of her. But cradle theory confirmed.

  “OK, personal question time, Simone,” I say during recess as Simone, Eileen and I are sitting outside on the lawn. “What do you think of Josh?”

  “Unbelievably dreamy!” she moans, taking a bite out of her carrot.

  “You make him laugh,” Eileen says. “Always a good sign. I reckon he’s got the hots for you.”

  “Josh? Having the hots for me? There’s more chance of Ms Walsh waxing her upper lip than that happening.”

  “Oh puh-lease!” I groan.

  “While we’re on the subject of saliva-inducing crushes,” Simone says, “what’s the latest on Adam? Did you see how cool he was when the class was asking you about your veil? Usually he’s so quiet and serious.”

  “I know!” Eileen exclaims. “He seemed really interested.”

  I give them a lopsided grin. “He is so cute.”

  “Somebody get me a paper bag,” Eileen says, “my two best friends have gone beyond corny on me!”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll try to find some crush material for you too,” Simone says.

  “No thanks. You two took the best. What am I supposed to admire about the rest of the guys in our class? That they can pick their noses? Have farting competitions? Or maybe it’s the fact that they can burp the alphabet? Ooh, I’m on fire.”

  We all laugh and have a whinge about the disgusting habits of the male species in our classroom. Then Simone leans over to me. “OK, my hypothetical question for Amal.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Let’s say he asks you out. Would you be his girlfriend?”

  I lean back on my hands and smile at them. “Nah, you know I don’t do the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing.”

  “Not even with Adam?” Simone asks. “Surely God would understand! I mean he’s your high-school crush. The crush. The one you’ll be talking about for years to come, when you’re old and saggy and grey and telling your hubby and kids about your good old school days and how Adam Keane was your oxygen through Year Eleven!”

  “That’s right, Amal!” Eileen adds. “Are you telling us you wouldn’t contemplate bending the rules?”

  “Honestly, I think about it all the time. Like I imagine us being a couple and Tia being institutionalized from grief that I got Mr Popular.”

  “She’d need shock treatment,” Simone says, giggling.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not frigid or anything! Boy do I sometimes wish Adam was my boyfriend, and if he was dating anybody I swear I’d have a hernia and probably start plotting death traps for his girl. But deep down I know I wouldn’t cross the line with him, no matter how tempting it would be. OK, OK, you’re thinking I qualify for nerdy geek?”

  “Big time,” Eileen jokes and I hit her on the shoulder.

  “But you know I can’t in Islam. You know the whole thing about no sex and physical intimacy before marriage.”

  “Yeah, we know, you’ve told us,” Simone says.

  “And it’s not just in Islam, you know,” I say. “Christianity, Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism.”

  “OK, we get it,” Eileen groans. “You’ve told us before. You don’t have to keep on trying to prove yourself against other religions for some sort of legitimacy. Sheez.”

  “Do I do that? Simone?”

  Simone nods her head.

  “Well, OK then. Just don’t think it’s because of my parents. If I wanted to have a boyfriend, I could easily get away with it behind my parents’ back. They trust me heaps so if I spoke to a guy for ages on the phone every night and said he’s just a friend they’d believe me, no questions asked. I could get away with telling them I’m going out with my girlfriends and meet up with my boyfriend without any problem. But it has nothing to do with them.”

  “My parents would probably freak out if I told them I was going out with a guy,” Eileen says. “They can be pretty strict about things like that. I suppose, though, if he was a good Japanese boy with plenty of culture and the brains of a nuclear scientist they’d welcome him with open arms.”

  “My mum would be happy if I went out with anyone, period,” Simone says. “She’s just dying for me to have a boyfriend and be normal, at least that’s how she puts it.”

  “So, Amal, are you happy just being friends with Adam, then?” Eileen asks.

  “Oh yeah! But this is the tricky part. See, I’m happy just being close friends and drooling over him without anything actually happening. But I want to be his best female friend. Do you get me? I want to know he confides in me and talks to me and looks out for my opinion more than any other girl. That would be the best.
The physical stuff I’ll imagine!”

  They giggle at me for being a nerd on the outside and a devil on the inside. Simone and I are discussing whether Josh should use less hair gel when Eileen hisses at us to shut up as Adam is approaching. Before Simone has time to push her carrots under her bag (she hates people knowing she’s on a diet), Adam is in front of us carrying three textbooks, as usual.

  “Amal, what’s going on with this question about determining a molecular formula for a hydrocarbon?”

  “Do you ever not study?” I say, as I get up off the ground and have a look at the page he’s referring to.

  “Yeah, don’t you take a break?” Eileen adds. “Food? Sport? Fresh air? It’s extremely unhealthy to subject your mind and body to round-the-clock academia.”

  “I don’t have time for breaks.”

  “That’s the whole point of a break. When you’ve got no time, you need a break.”

  He pauses and looks at her slowly. “You should do a chocolate commercial with that line.”

  Eileen and Simone look at each other and let out startled laughs.

  “So you do joke?” Simone says.

  “No,” he answers, his mouth twitching as he turns to look at the page.

  “Oof! This book is heavy! How about you sit down with us? At least we’ll be comfortable while you waste my lunch time on chem.” I hold my breath for his answer and avoid eye contact with Eileen and Simone.

  “OK,” he says. “Just as long as Eileen stops with the counsellor advice and Simone offers me a carrot.”

  “Ugh! I feel like a disgusting slob!” Tia groans, clutching her non-existent stomach and sneaking a look at Simone as we stand around class waiting for our Biology teacher to arrive. “I ate a whole sandwich. I feel so bloated. I could just kill myself from guilt!”

  “You don’t look fat!” Claire reassures her.

  “Yeah, you look gorgeous,” Rita gushes.

  Tia flips her long, shiny jet-black hair to the side and flashes them a Colgate smile.

  “No, honest, girls. Feel this pot. Look.” She lifts up her shirt to reveal a stomach as flat as a cutting board. “What do you think, Simone?”

  Simone looks horrified and stands with her mouth gaping open, her eyes fixed on Tia’s stomach. The absence of even one millimetre of fat has taken the wind out of her.

  “You’re right, Tia,” I say in a sickly-sweet tone. She darts a lethal look at me, her eyes narrowing as they scan me up and down.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’ve put on weight. You should watch your figure. Have you been eating a lot of salt lately? Your face is all puffed up. My pregnant aunt has a good water-retention remedy. Would you like me to get the name for you?”

  She sneers at me and I turn away to take a seat.

  Later in class, she gets me back.

  “I just don’t know what I’d do without my long hair!” she says to Claire and Rita, loud enough for us to hear. “I mean, what’s a woman without hair? You have to have a model’s face to get away with covering up. Don’t you think so?”

  They nod like obedient puppies and I let out an exaggerated sigh.

  “I just don’t know what I’d do without a brain, Simone!” I say. “I mean, what’s a person without one?”

  “Coffee at the Lounge Room, tonight?” Simone whispers to Eileen and me during History on Friday.

  Eileen’s on. I don’t know whether to go. The Lounge Room is a trendy café on Burke Road: long coffee tables centred between big suede lounge chairs and sofas, dim lamps and television screens with MTV and Friends reruns. It was our hang-out joint in the mid-year break. Where we’d go to goss and eat strawberry tart and talk school and parents and top five chick flicks and the rest. Because I’d rather eat decomposed meat than be thought of as a chicken, I fake a big smile and tell them I’m all for it.

  *

  I chicken out.

  I’m ashamed to admit it but after dinner I ring Simone and Eileen and tell them I can’t make it because we have visitors. They believe me. And why wouldn’t they? I’m supposed to be pious and God-fearing. Not a lying, hypocritical, pathetic coward. I’m lying on my bed listening to Craig David’s “I’m walking away”. On repeat.

  What’s happened to me? Haven’t I decided to wear the hijab because I feel proud of who I am? Suddenly I’m too chicken to go to a café? I don’t recognize myself. I’m the one who put her head out the school bus window last year and yelled at a group of boys who threw a can of Coke at our “wog” school bus. It was me who stood up during a Year Nine interschool debate and told the audience that my team didn’t appreciate the other team’s whispers about competing against “terrorists”. When we were at the medical clinic and the secretary asked Leila if she could cope with filling out a form in English, it was me who pointed out that Leila’s never set foot out of Australia and can manage an A+ average in Eng Lit, and then some.

  So if that’s all me, then who’s this girl who’s making up excuses to avoid going out to a café?

  8

  “I’m starving!” Simone moans on our way home on the school bus.

  “I think I have an apple in my bag,” I say. “Do you want it?”

  “Thanks, I’ll pass. I’m so sick of fruit and vegetables. Aren’t you hungry, Amal?”

  “Nah, I had a big sandwich at lunch.”

  “I don’t get the skinny world!”

  I nudge her in the side. “Don’t be silly.”

  “But you skinny people eat two slices of bread filled with rabbit food at midday, and you’re all ‘I’m about to explode’ until dinner. I’m always hungry. Honestly, Amal.” Her voice goes down to a whisper. “Don’t laugh. But sometimes I can be eating my lunch and thinking about what I’m going to have for dinner!”

  “That’s normal,” I say.

  “Won’t Allah punish you for lying?”

  I jab her again.

  We sit in silence for a while, staring out the window. After some time Simone turns to me: “My mum and I had a massive fight last night.”

  “What happened?”

  “She’s been hassling me to join the gym with her. She’s going through a Pilates craze. She’s constantly on my back about losing weight and how she was a size six when she was my age and how she can’t believe I’ve turned out like this. Am I really that bad, Amal?”

  “What is she on about? You’re only about one size bigger than me and Eileen and you’ve got certain assets most girls would kill for!”

  “My mum says that they’re the only thing going for me and that I need to work on making the rest of my body more attractive.”

  “She wouldn’t say that!”

  “She’s said worse, believe me. She says it’s because she loves and cares for me – spew – that it’s only for my own good – spew.”

  “Simone, you’re gorgeous. You’re a natural blonde, just about the most sought-after hair colour in the world, you’ve got amazing eyes, you never have a pimple and you fill out a shirt. So your ribcage isn’t on display – big deal.”

  “Amal, best friends are supposed to say things like that. It’s like compliments from parents – well, not mine – they don’t count. I mean, we wouldn’t be best friends if you thought I was ugly and boring, would we? How you feel about me has nothing to do with how other people see me. I’m always going to be fat Simone. Like Tia said the other day, I probably spend more on Big Macs than she does on her annual gym membership.”

  “Bullshit she said that! The BITCH!”

  Simone shrugs her shoulders. “Yeah, well, it’s probably true. . . Sometimes I start a diet and then I open a Cosmo or a Cleo and there are these articles about pregnant superstars losing thirty kilos in two or three months and here I am struggling to lose a kilo. So I give up and demolish a Mars bar. Or I see all these model shoots of gorgeous beach babes with
their bones poking into my hand when I turn the pages and I think, what’s the point? Even if I lost ten kilos and was in my weight–height ratio, people would still consider me fat. I wish I could become anorexic. How sick is that, huh? But I don’t have the self-control to live off a lettuce leaf a day. And I’ve tried the whole bulimia thing but I can’t even throw up. I’m just pathetic! Abnormal!”

  “You know what? Who cares what normal is, Simone. Let’s protest. From now on we’re the anti-normal, anti-average, anti-standard. You can eat when you want to, I’ll wear what I want, and we’ll die with a packet of chips in our hand and a tablecloth on our head.”

  “So, can you make it for coffee tonight?” Eileen asks me on the telephone the following Thursday.

  I can’t bear to sit through another night manicuring my nails with Craig David, so I say yes.

  My dad drops me off and I beg him to turn down his Greatest Hits of Jerusalem album when we turn the corner into Burke Road.

  “You used to love this music when you were young,” he says, pinching my cheek.

  “Dad! Far out, I’m like sixteen. Get over it.”

  Instead he starts to sing a song about meeting his secret darling love under a tree in the olive groves.

  “Just remember,” he says as I get out of the car, “before Kylie, Ricky Martin and these blond boys singing like parrots, you were singing songs about olive groves and mountains too.”

  I roll my eyes at him.

  “Have fun, ya Amal. And don’t be late. It’s a school night. You get dropped off not one second later than ten thirty or else I dial triple zero. Not your mobile. TRIPLE ZERO.”

  Like I’m really going to be kidnapped when most people are looking at me and wondering whether I’ve got an AK-47 assault rifle inside my jean jacket.

  Simone and Eileen are waiting for me in the front of the café. We say hi and wait in line. There’s a big crowd tonight. Panic sets in. A deep flush begins on my neck. At least my veil hides it. Who gets this worked up over a café? During the mid-year holidays Simone, Eileen and I would hang out here, laughing with Pedro, the old Italian owner, or chatting with Ray, the spunky waiter. Now my hands are sweaty, I’m worrying about whether my scarf matches my jeans and I’m convinced my make-up has smudged.