Promising Azra

by Helen Thurloe

  ‘Aren’t you going to show me your scar first?’ I said.

  ‘As if,’ she said. ‘Here in the library?’ She crossed her arms. ‘Don’t change the subject. I can tell from your face that something big’s going down.’

  She was right. She took my hands and looked at them closely for a minute. And she wasn’t examining my fingernails either.

  ‘Az, I’m on your side here. You can tell me. Maybe I can even help?’

  I nodded. ‘Thanks, B. It’s all a bit hectic.’

  ‘So, what happened after you went home from the chem camp? With your uncle? That all sounded pretty dramatic.’

  It sure was. I winced at the memory. No one who was there would ever forget that day.

  ‘Well, I was in a lot of trouble. Uncle thought I stood too close to Pratik in the lab. Thought it meant something worse. And I was in trouble for even going to camp. So was Mama for letting me go. Uncle made them lock me in my bedroom for six days. I could only come out to use the bathroom.’

  ‘What!?’

  ‘That’s why I couldn’t text you or anything. They took away my phone and my laptop. And kept me in my room. As punishment.’

  ‘Swear to God, Azra. That’s terrible. Probably illegal too.’

  Maybe it was. I didn’t know. But they were my family, and I was still under eighteen. Didn’t you have to be obedient until then?

  ‘Anything else?’ asked Bassima. ‘Sounds like a massive overreaction.’

  ‘I wasn’t allowed to come back to school until after we put in our passport applications.’

  ‘And have you?’

  I nodded. ‘Yesterday.’

  Thoughts moved across her face. A burst of rain splattered the window. The blind slapped on the wall.

  ‘What for, exactly?’

  ‘No one’s saying it plain, but what would you think? A holiday in Pakistan?’

  Bassima looked serious. ‘Have they mentioned a guy? Shown you photos or anything?’

  I shook my head. ‘Nothing. But I know there’s a wedding. To a cousin called Tarik. Just not one hundred per cent sure it’s mine. But I’m about ninety per cent suspicious.’

  ‘In Pakistan, right? When’re you going, d’you reckon?’

  ‘After Eid. September.’

  Bassima sighed deeply. ‘So soon. That sucks. Fully. Not telling you. Not asking you. It’s not right. We have to do something.’

  ‘Like run away?’ I asked. ‘Seriously, what can I do? They’re my family!’

  Bassima slumped. ‘Well, I know, but it’s like a kidnapping with permission. It must be against the law. It’s not like Layla, who got to check out a bunch of guys and decide which one to choose. Arranged marriages are fine, but not random weddings to strangers.’

  She was right. I couldn’t believe this might be happening to me. A husband and a wedding lined up without giving me a say.

  ‘I know. But how do I announce I don’t want to go with them? Especially if they’ve already chosen a husband. It’d be so awkward for everyone.’

  Sheets of rain washed down the glass and I shuddered. A husband. I’d said it out loud. My stomach clenched, and I could’ve vomited, if breakfast hadn’t been so long ago.

  ‘More than awkward for you, but. And whoever he is, good or bad, then you’re pretty much stuck with him. It’s your whole life changed. For better or worse.’ Bassima took my hand and stroked it. ‘We must be able to do something. What about the school counsellor?’

  ‘Mrs Canturi? Seriously? I don’t think she’d understand.’

  Mrs Canturi seemed nice enough, but what would she know about families like mine? She had spiky bleached hair and always wore boots, even in summer. Seemed to me she helped girls who wagged school or did drugs or got pregnant. My situation was way more complicated.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘If she talks to my family, I’ll be in even worse trouble. They’ll probably pull me out of school again.’

  Bassima pursed her lips and tapped her short fingernails on the desk. ‘There must be something,’ she said, looking out at the rain. ‘There must be something we can find out. And fix things before it’s too late.’

  Suddenly, her eyes sparkled. ‘I’ve got an idea. But I’ve got to check with Alesha. Leave it with me. I’ll sort something. I promise.’

  ‘Thanks, B. I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘I don’t wonder. But if anything suspicious happens, let me know. Okay? Listen to everything.’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘And don’t be afraid to ask questions. Carefully.’

  I nodded. I’d try. There was so much to be careful about. It didn’t help that I already had a headache, and dinner was ages away yet.

  XXI

  Reduction

  any chemical reaction where electrons are gained

  I didn’t see Bassima for the rest of the day, even though I looked out for her. Vanessa sat next to me in biology.

  ‘Everything okay?’ she asked, like she was determined to look after me after all that drama at camp. ‘Have you been sick? You don’t need extra stress with exams in seven weeks.’

  I gave a thin smile. ‘Kind of. And you’re right,’ I said, ‘I don’t need extra stress.’

  Year Eleven final exams. She was already worrying about passing them, while I was worrying that I wouldn’t get to do them. Ever. It would be kind of funny if it wasn’t turning out to be so possible.

  She leaned in close and whispered. ‘I told B about Tom. And Kate. She wasn’t impressed.’

  I nodded. ‘Thanks. Someone had to.’ I was grateful I hadn’t needed to deal with that as well.

  After school, I walked to the train station alone, my stomach rumbling. At least it would be dark soon and we could eat. I wandered up the platform, looking for Bassima. She wasn’t there. I stood by the wall near the drinks machine, hiding from the wind.

  ‘Hi, Azra,’ said a voice at my shoulder.

  I turned and Pratik was there, smiling at me. I flicked my eyes around to check I wasn’t being watched. By Uncle. By Rashid. By anyone who might think I shouldn’t speak to him.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, trying to look relaxed. Though the memory of the walk up the hill merged with the scene in the lab, and I had no idea what he felt about me now, or about what had happened. I felt giddy, like I could even faint. ‘Ummm. How’s things?’

  Pratik coughed. ‘Better than they were. And you?’ His eyebrows pulled together in concern.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘It was totally awful.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry. It was my fault. I’m sorry. I was just excited. I dunno. Stupid. An idiot. I didn’t know he was watching. If I hadn’t got close to you like that in the lab, then . . .’

  His voice cracked. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t look at him.

  Vanessa wandered up the platform. ‘Hey, Pratik! Hey, Az! Nearly a camp reunion.’

  ‘Hey,’ I said. A sudden headache burst behind my eye. Pratik turned away and walked up the platform.

  ‘Awkward, huh?’ asked Vanessa.

  I shrugged. ‘Kind of.’

  She tore open a packet of salt and vinegar chips. ‘Want one?’

  I raised my hand like it was a stop sign. ‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘Ramadan.’

  ‘Of course; sorry, Az.’ Crunching on her chips, she looked sorry for me. And as I tasted the savoury dust diffusing through the air, I felt sorry for me too.

  It was better after dinner, my belly full of lamb curry. I lay on the divan near the heater, and wrestled with sine and cosine calculations. Soraya coloured in on the floor. Mama sat directly under the ceiling light, mending holes in Baba’s socks. She held them up close to her face, to see better. I hoped they didn’t stink. At least she hadn’t offered them up as a sewing lesson for me tonight. So that I could darn Tarik’s socks one day. I shuddered at the thought.

  I had nearly finished question eight when Baba came down the hall with a red box, the size of a cigarette packet, tied with a yellow bow.
/>
  Mama put down her sewing. ‘What’s that?’

  Baba smiled. ‘A special surprise for Azra from Auntie Fatima in Lahore.’

  At the mention of her name, my heart jolted. Tarik’s mother. Don’t tell me this was for the wedding? I had a bad feeling already. I glanced up. ‘Me? Why? I barely remember her.’

  Baba chuckled. ‘Ah yes, but she remembers you, my dear.’

  He put the box on my lap. I stared at it, expecting it to explode without warning. Like thermite.

  ‘Is there a present for me too, Baba?’ asked Soraya, clutching an orange texta.

  ‘Not this time, petal. Only for your big sister.’

  ‘Awww,’ said Soraya. ‘No fair.’

  Mama called her over. ‘Come sit on my lap,’ she said. ‘Let’s see what it is! You’ll get your turn when you’re bigger.’

  I put down my calculator and untied the yellow ribbon. I eased off the lid. Inside there was a pair of gold pendant earrings, finely wrought. I lifted one up to the light.

  ‘Oh my,’ said Mama. ‘They’re beautiful!’

  ‘Mmmm,’ agreed Baba. ‘Very nice. Why don’t you try them on?’

  Light glinted on the polished curves.

  ‘Must be from Haniz!’ said Mama. ‘No one else makes that quality.’

  I faked a smile, alarm bells going off inside. I knew why Auntie Fatima was sending expensive jewellery. I swallowed, to cover the sudden dryness in my throat.

  ‘Wow!’ I said. ‘Amazing. Too generous.’

  Baba nodded. ‘You’re a very lucky girl. Isn’t she, Nadira?’

  ‘But,’ I said, ‘why me, why now?’ I looked Mama in the eye, daring her to tell me what was really going on.

  She looked at Baba instead.

  He pulled at his collar. ‘Um. No special reason. She knows you’re growing into a fine young lady and she has no daughters of her own.’

  That was a big fat lie, but Baba looked pleased with himself. ‘I expect she wants you to look your best for the wedding next month.’

  ‘What wedding next month?’ I pretended not to understand. I wanted more details. Badly.

  Mama interrupted, ‘You know, the cousin’s wedding. We already talked about it, remember?’

  ‘Oh, the cousin’s wedding,’ I said. ‘Tarik and someone or other?’

  Baba’s eyes narrowed, and flicked over to Mama.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘All the family will be there, and most of them haven’t seen you for twelve years! They won’t believe how you’ve grown.’

  Seriously. Did they think I’d fall for a lame story like that? Why wouldn’t they tell me the truth? It was strange, and perplexing, and not like Baba and Mama. I knew in my gut I needed to be careful. Not make a scene. Not yet. Not until I understood.

  ‘Sure. Shall I put them on?’

  Mama nodded. ‘Yes, yes; off you go.’

  I carried the red box into the bathroom and closed the door. Even then, I could hear the low hiss of Baba whispering to Mama. I looped in the hooks and looked at myself in the mirror, the polished gold dangling near my neck. Expensive, said the earrings. For a good-quality bride.

  A good-quality bride who knew the atomic number for gold was 79. But who didn’t know nearly enough about her own wedding.

  XXII

  Flash point

  the temperature at which a liquid produces enough flammable vapour to ignite

  Two weeks later, the passports arrived.

  ‘Great!’ said Baba, tearing open the envelope and pulling out the dark blue books, stiff in their plastic sleeves.

  ‘Just the visas and we’re good to go!’ he said.

  Rashid grunted, chewing on a piece of bread.

  ‘Except yours,’ said Baba. ‘We can’t apply until after the hearing.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Rashid. ‘I’ll stay here. I’m not going to cry about missing a Paki wedding with too many relatives trying to impress each other.’

  Baba winced. ‘Poor attitude, Rashid. Not that I expect better. When we can, I’ve a mind to send you back to Pakistan to straighten you out. I’m sure Uncle could arrange it.’

  ‘Fine!’ said Rashid, tossing his plate onto the kitchen bench. ‘Uncle can arrange anything he likes. He always does.’

  ‘Rashid,’ said Mama, ‘don’t speak to your father like that!’

  ‘Why should I listen to him, anyway?’ asked Rashid. ‘He’s so useless, he can’t even get himself a good job! Or drive a car! Maybe we’d all be better off back in Pakistan.’

  He stomped down the hall and slammed his bedroom door. The bang shook the photo on the wall, the one that was taken when we first arrived in Australia. The frame slipped and bounced on the floor. Mama rushed over to pick it up. A long crack jagged across the glass. She sighed loudly. ‘Rashid! Always making trouble.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Nadira,’ said Baba, ‘we’ll fix it.’

  I couldn’t help thinking it was a sign. That the planning for this trip was already breaking things. And that our family might not be able to be fixed again, even if the picture frame could be.

  For the rest of the week, Mrs Kaminski was away on a course. Our chemistry lessons were relocated to the library, where we were supposed to do a research assignment on the chemistry of paints and pigments.

  ‘Come on, you,’ said Bassima, pulling up a chair at one of the library computers. ‘We’ve got research to do.’

  ‘Yeah. I was going to finish the section on titanium oxides today.’

  ‘Not that research; this research into avoiding marrying an import. Alesha told me some sites to show you.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘that.’ I shook my head at the keyboard. I already had the earrings. What more research did I need to do? I practically had proof.

  ‘Look,’ she said, grabbing the mouse. She clicked into the search field and typed illegal marriage Australia. And there it was.

  ‘See!’ said Bassima. ‘Here. Attorney-General’s Department. Crime and corruption. Forced marriage. This is you. When a marriage is entered into without the free and full consent of one or both parties to the marriage. It can occur as a result of coercion, threat or deception.’

  We clicked through a bunch of stories about girls like me. Stories of fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds going to Lebanon for weddings they didn’t want. Or to Egypt. Or to India. Or to Pakistan.

  Bassima’s eyes blazed. ‘I knew it! Unless your family tells you what they’re really up to, you’re being deceived. And if they do tell you, and you don’t want it, then it’s coercion. And look here—this is what you need. A Federal Court order. That way, they can’t take you out of the country.’

  ‘What is that?’ I asked. ‘And how do you get one?’

  Bassima frowned. ‘Doesn’t say. But, look, this girl rang the police—like this?’

  ‘Rang the police? I couldn’t do that. What would I say?’ I thought of Mama and Baba. They would be devastated if they knew I’d called the police.

  Bassima rolled the edge of her scarf between her fingers. ‘You could try explaining that your parents are trying to marry you off against your will?’ She looked uncertain. Like she understood it would be difficult to say. And that it would lead to even more trouble.

  ‘Right. So the police come and interrogate my parents. My uncle will go crazy. He’s already mental about Rashid and his trouble with the police; he’ll completely explode if I bring them in as well.’

  ‘Like a synergistic reaction.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I know,’ said Bassima kindly. ‘It could be bad. Almost as bad as getting married this year.’

  I sighed. ‘Probably not quite as bad as that. Differently bad.’

  I wished I could just sidestep the wedding. But now I doubted that was possible. I told Bassima about the earrings.

  ‘Dear Lord, Az. That sounds like it’s definitely on. And pretty soon. Have they booked plane tickets yet?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not sure. But they might not tell me. Rashid’s g
ot his court hearing next week. They’re waiting to see what happens. He could go to jail. Or not be allowed to travel.’

  ‘What difference does that make? He’s not the one getting married! He doesn’t even have to go.’

  She was right. He didn’t.

  ‘What’s happening with him, anyway?’ she asked.

  ‘I tried asking Rashid about it, but he swore at me. Said it was none of my business. Mama cried when I asked her. She said he’d been caught by the police at a party, with marijuana for sale in his bag. Twenty-two little packets. He said it was his friend Cameron’s stuff, but everything was in Rashid’s bag.’

  Bassima looked grim. ‘They’re not going to wait for him. Maybe he’s part of the reason the wedding’s so secret. You might not be the only one in the dark.’

  I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe what Uncle said in the taxi about spoiling our family reputation was pushing everything along. Before it was too late.

  ‘I’ll tell Alesha what’s happening, tonight. We don’t want to miss your best chance to get out of this.’

  ‘Thanks, B,’ I said. ‘We sure don’t.’

  The next morning, Bassima ran up behind me on the path to school.

  ‘Az, Az, stop!’ she called, her face pink.

  ‘Hey, B,’ I said, turning around, ‘don’t self-combust.’

  She panted, her hand on my shoulder for half a minute, catching her breath.

  ‘That warmed me up!’ she said, threading her arm through mine and walking towards the gate.

  ‘Well?’ I said. ‘What did Alesha say?’

  A gust of wind blew dried leaves into our faces.

  ‘Uurgh. Let’s get inside!’ she said. ‘Library.’

  We pushed open the door and walked down the corridor.

  ‘She said you should stop it,’ said Bassima.

  ‘Hmmm,’ I said. ‘Helpful. But how, exactly?’

  We dropped our bags and pushed through the swinging doors into the warm breath of the library. Mr Peterson waved at us through his glass wall.

  ‘That’s better!’ she said. ‘Best way is to ring the federal police and tell them.’