by Amra Pajalic
I’d never been to mejtef, the Bosnian religious school. Mum hadn’t followed any of that religious stuff, until now.
‘Some vlasi know more about Islam than Bosnian children,’ Dido spat out. Vlah was the worst insult a Muslim could give another Muslim. It denoted all non-believers.
‘The parents are to blame. They accepted communism as their salvation and neglected their children’s religious education,’ the hodja said. ‘Now they expect their children to become perfect Muslims overnight.’
Dido stared at the ground. Mum told me that during Dido’s communist phase he’d once caught my grandmother teaching Mum and Auntie Zehra how to pray and beat them for embracing superstition.
‘I will make sure my grandchildren attend,’ Dido said, putting his arm around Adnan and me.
‘I look forward to seeing you in mejtef.’ The hodja shook Adnan’s hand and nodded at me before leaving.
When we reached the car park Uncle Hakija and Dido began arguing. Hakija was furious that Dido said Adnan would attend mejtef. ‘I will decide how my children are brought up!’
‘I believed all the communist propaganda and look where it got me,’ Dido implored. ‘I will be judged by my sins on judgment day.’
‘Superstition,’ Uncle Hakija roared. ‘There is no heaven or hell.’
Dido stared up at the sky. ‘Allah protect him.’
‘There is no almighty God that protects and punishes humans. We are the controllers and destroyers of the Earth.’
‘Blasphemy!’ Dido yelled. ‘God will punish you!’
‘Don’t talk rubbish around my children,’ Uncle Hakija warned.
‘They’re my grandchildren!’ Dido yelled back.
‘Stop it both of you!’ Auntie Zehra got between them.
‘Zehra, tell him that Adnan needs to go to mejtef and learn to be a good Muslim,’ Dido urged.
‘Zehra is my wife and she’ll do as I say,’ Uncle Hakija barked.
‘Zehra,’ Dido begged.
This was my aunt’s fate. She was always used in the tug of war between my uncle and grandfather. Whichever way she decided there would be hell to pay. ‘Hakija is my husband and he’s the head of our family,’ Auntie Zehra said.
Dido seemed to collapse as his bluster deflated. ‘Then you’re not my daughter any longer,’ he said, walking away.
‘Babo!’ Auntie Zehra called.
‘Leave him.’ Uncle Hakija took her arm. ‘He needs to calm down.’
‘Another fun family reunion,’ I grumbled as I followed Mum to our car.
Dido spent the rest of the weekend in a dark depression, muttering under his breath about ungrateful daughters. I hid out in my bedroom and avoided him.
On Monday at school when I walked out of History, Gemma and Dina were waiting for me. ‘What’s up?’ I asked. It was the first time they’d ever sought me out.
‘Nothing much,’ Dina put her arm around my waist and turned me to walk towards the back of the school.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘To the oval,’ Dina said, a rare smile on her face.
‘Yeah, to the oval,’ Gemma repeated, giggling like a moron.
‘I’ll meet you there.’ I stopped walking. ‘I have to buy lunch first.’
‘No!’ Dina exclaimed. ‘You can have my lunch.’ She held up her lunch box. ‘I have zeljanica.’
My mouth watered. Pita was the Bosnian national meal and was made with pastry filling that was rolled into a cannelloni shape. Then the roll was formed into a spiral and baked. Cheese and spinach pita, what Dina was offering me, was my absolute favourite.
‘I need something to drink, too,’ I said, testing Dina’s resolve.
‘Gemma will give you her juice.’ Dina grabbed Gemma’s backpack and pulled out her apple juice.
‘Hey,’ Gemma protested, snatching the juice back.
‘Give it to her,’ Dina said.
Gemma hesitated, before buckling under Dina’s glower. ‘Here.’ Gemma threw the juice at me.
‘Now can we go?’ Dina demanded.
‘Okay.’ I shrugged and walked on. I poked the straw through the juice box, hiding my grin as I sipped. They were so pathetic.
As we walked there was a dacking underway. Dacking and knackering were the two great traditions of my new school. Two boys grabbed an ankle each and knackered the victim’s balls against one of the poles holding up the walkways. The worst was when a third boy held the arms, so that the victim couldn’t cup his balls to protect them.
Dacking was the reason that tracky pants were only ever worn to Phys Ed. Unfortunately for him the target hadn’t received the memo. The bully went behind him and yanked his dacks and undies to his ankles. The guy in tracky dacks stood frozen, his cock and balls visible to the world, his pale face turning tomato red. When laughter broke out he lurched to pull his pants up, at the same time trying to run, and nearly did a Jerry Lewis tumble.
‘You should Pull the Dragon!’ Gemma yelled as the target ran.
‘What’s Pull the Dragon?’ I asked.
‘Dragon was the nickname of Dragan Blazic,’ Dina said.
‘He was so hot,’ Gemma said dreamily.
‘He graduated last year,’ Dina continued. ‘Someone dacked him and he stood with his pants around his ankles, letting the world see his equipment.’
‘So what?’ I demanded.
‘He had the goods.’ Gemma held out her hands a ruler length apart. ‘And he always wore tracky dacks.’
‘Yeah,’ Dina agreed. ‘He was never short of girlfriends.’
‘But that guy there didn’t have what it takes to Pull the Dragon,’ Gemma giggled, and held her index finger and thumb a centimetre apart.
‘Let’s sit here.’ Dina pointed at a patch of grass beside the railing, on the other side of which Adnan was playing soccer with a bunch of guys.
‘Yum,’ I murmured as I swallowed the pita. ‘Your mum is a great cook,’ I told Dina. Her stomach rumbled as I ate. Gemma ate her sandwich on the other side of me. She looked longingly at the juice.
Dina yelled out to Adnan when there was a break in play. A few minutes later he ran over and sat next to me. ‘Yum, pita.’ He snatched some from me.
‘Cut it out!’ I pushed his hand away and shoved the rest of the pita in my mouth.
‘You’re a pretty good soccer player,’ Dina said.
‘Thanks.’
‘I always wanted to play.’ She leaned towards Adnan so that she was halfway across my lap.
‘It’s not that hard,’ Adnan scoffed. I made a gagging face only he could see. He laughed.
‘What’s funny?’ Dina demanded.
Adnan pointed to one of his mates messing with the ball. When Dina peered at the boys, he wagged his finger at me. After a while Dina turned to Gemma.
‘You’re such a love-me-do,’ I said quietly.
‘I can’t help it if I’m stunningly handsome,’ he preened, smoothing his hair with his hand.
‘Vomit.’ I put my fingers down my throat.
As word got around about my family connection I wasn’t short of company. Whenever girls met me, their first words were: ‘You’re Adnan’s cousin.’ Every girl wanted to be my friend, any excuse to hang around Adnan. When he came over to talk to me they’d drool while I rolled my eyes. By Friday I was sick of being the Adnan-Love-Boat-Link and hid in the library.
I was in the fiction shelves when I bumped into Brian, who was in my General Maths class. We nodded at each other and I turned back to the shelf.
‘So,’ he said. ‘You’re Adnan’s cousin.’
‘What’s it to you?’ I retorted.
He blushed.
‘I’m sorry,’ I spluttered. ‘Did you do your Maths homework?’
‘It’s bloody hard and we’re only doing General Maths,’ Brian said.
‘No matter how much I try, I don’t get it,’ I agreed. He was really cute. His eyes were like dark chocolate and his brown hair was wavy.
‘There y
ou are.’ Dina stood to my left. She gave Brian a once-over like he was old gum stuck to her shoe. ‘Come outside.’ She tugged on my arm.
I pulled away from her. ‘Sorry, I’m busy.’
‘See ya.’ She flicked her hair and walked off, her anger following her like a smell.
‘Another member of the Adnan fan club?’ Brian asked.
I returned a book to the shelf. ‘Yeah, I’m over it.’
‘He’s really funny.’ Brian reached around me and handed me the Shane Maloney novel I was looking at. He stood close and I breathed in his aftershave. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. As I took the book it slipped between my fingers. He ducked and caught it at my knees. He straightened slowly, his face moving up my body as he did.
‘Thanks.’ I took the book from him. He was the first boy I’d met who read books and it made him so much cuter.
‘Did you want help with your homework?’ He looked straight at me, smiling. ‘I’ve got my Maths book here.’ He nodded to his backpack.
My heart sped up and I blushed. ‘Okay.’ I followed him to the study area, checking out his butt on the way. As Brian showed me how he’d worked out the answers, his shoulder bumped mine and I fought to concentrate on what he was saying.
A boy dropped to his knees in front of our desk. ‘Joshua King,’ the boy said. ‘I’m putting him on my hit list.’ The boy pulled out his notebook and took Brian’s pen.
I read the page upside down. ‘People to kill.’ I blinked. Did I read that right?
‘Why?’ Brian asked.
‘He tripped me in the hall,’ the boy said.
Brian read out the next answer, but I widened my eyes and nodded at the freak.
‘Sabiha, this is my best friend, Jesse.’
Jesse’s blue eyes were curious. He didn’t look like he was touched in the head. ‘We’re in Phys Ed together,’ he said.
‘Right,’ I said, remembering him. The day before, when our teacher, Mr Robinson, had left the gym to go to his office, all the boys in class decided to play dodgeball with Jesse as the target. As Jesse tried to protect himself from the basketballs bouncing off his body, everyone laughed. Jesse looked like he was going to cry. When Mr Robinson returned and saw the balls on the floor around Jesse, he asked him what had happened. When Jesse didn’t say anything, Mr Robinson ordered him to put the balls away. The Phys Ed students had got away with laughing at Jesse and treating him like a wind-up toy whose only purpose was their entertainment.
‘That one’s great,’ Jesse took the Shane Maloney novel, Stiff, that Brian had recommended.
‘You’ve read it too?’ My voice sounded overly surprised.
‘I can read.’ Jesse threw the book on the table.
He blushed and his eyes brimmed with tears, just like in the gym. What had I done? I’d just pissed off the guy who was probably voted most likely to go on a high school killing spree.
a friend in need
I grabbed Jesse’s hand before he could run off and add me to his kill list. ‘I haven’t met any boys who read,’ I lied. Jesse’s face cleared and my heartbeat returned to normal.
Since we’d moved to the western suburbs, whenever Mum dragged me visiting, I’d been on the lookout for something to read to pass the time, but I hadn’t seen any books in people’s houses. It was so different from Thornbury where most homes had overflowing bookshelves and it seemed like there was a bookshop on almost every corner. The only bookshops in the west were the chain variety in shopping centres.
‘I was just surprised to find someone who shared my passion,’ I explained.
‘Jesse’s the book-lover,’ Brian said. ‘I just read what he tells me to.’
Just what the world needed. A book-loving psychopath.
Jesse glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got to stock up on my rations.’
Seeing my confusion Brian translated. ‘He needs to get reading material for the weekend.’
‘How long have you two known each other?’ I asked after Jesse went to gather his books.
‘Since primary school.’ Brian put his Maths book away.
‘Has he always wanted to kill people?’
‘Jesse’s not a weirdo or anything. He uses fantasy to deal with the bullying. He couldn’t hurt anyone.’
‘Good to know,’ I said.
I was putting my books in my backpack when Jesse placed his books on the counter. ‘This is a new title,’ the librarian said as she scanned it. ‘You have to write a recommendation since you’re the first borrower.’
Jealousy cut through me. At my old school I’d been the librarian’s favourite and got all the perks. I’d been allowed to borrow over my limit and got let off fines. It sucked being the new kid.
At the end of the day, on my way to the library to type up a story, I heard Dina calling me. ‘Do you want a lift?’ She pointed to her mum waiting in the car.
‘No thanks.’ I waved to her mum and walked on.
‘I’ll see you on Monday at the front?’ she yelled.
I kept walking, a smile on my face. Instead of the oval, I planned on hanging around in the library with Brian again.
When I got home Mum’s bedroom door was open. She was kneeling on her woven prayer mat with little pieces of paper spread around her. She’d only been praying for a few months; with five different prayers a day, she had a lot to learn, so she used the cheat method and read the prayers instead of reciting them.
She wore dimiye (think harem pants except three times as much fabric, so they billow like a kite as you walk), a loose shirt and her head was covered with a scarf. Women were supposed to be modest while praying: they shouldn’t show any flesh above the wrist or ankle, and only their face was uncovered.
I went to my bedroom and closed the door. I’d accessed my email at the school library and read an ambiguous message from Kathleen. When we lived with Dave I used his computer, but since we’d moved out I had to rely on the school or public library, or internet cafés, to type up all my work, or to email.
I’d been sending Kathleen SMS messages every night since the zabava, but hadn’t received a response. Whenever I called her mobile I got an out-of-service message, and her land-line rang out. Her parents were cheapskates and wouldn’t get broadband, so most of the time the phone was busy because they were on the internet.
After agonising for another day, I’d finally sent her an email from school at recess. ‘Haven’t heard from you. Are we still on tomorrow?’ Her reply when I checked after school: ‘Yes. Usual time, usual place.’
Was she ditching me? Had Shelley finally won? I hated Shelley. She was supposed to be our friend, but I still couldn’t stand her. Back in Year 7 Mum and Dave broke up for a few months. So Mum moved us out of Thornbury and I changed schools for six months. When Mum and Dave made up again and I returned to my old school, I found that Kathleen, my best friend, had made a new best friend and we were supposed to be one happy triangle. I’d been on Kathleen’s back for years to ditch the bitch, but so far my entreaties had fallen on deaf ears. I always suspected that Shelley was out to steal Kathleen from me. What if she’d finally succeeded? I’d have to wait until tomorrow to ask Kathleen what was going on.
Mum poked her head into my room. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Ever heard of knocking?’
‘Come with me,’ Mum commanded.
She was standing behind the kitchen table. ‘Today we’re making pita.’ She handed me a pen and paper.
‘What’s this for?’
‘To make notes.’ She put on her apron.
‘Will you test me?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is a waste of time. I don’t need to cook.’ I put the pen down.
‘What will you do when you get married and have children?’ Mum asked.
‘Takeaway,’ I snarled.
‘Let’s hope you make enough money to buy takeaway,’ Mum said.
‘Maybe I’ll marry a chef.’
Mum let out a bark of laughter. ‘As if a man who
cooks all day for a living will come home and cook for you.’
‘I know how to make pita.’ I slouched in the chair. ‘I’ve seen you do it enough times over the years.’
‘Okay,’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Tell me how you make the dough?’
I drew a blank. Of course I’d never paid attention. ‘Flour and milk,’ I said decisively.
Mum’s eyebrows rose. ‘Not quite.’ She placed a bowl on the table. ‘To make dough you need one tablespoon of salt, four cups of flour and two cups of warm water.’ She waited for me to take down the recipe. I started writing. It wouldn’t hurt to learn. I mean, I loved pita.
‘Place the flour into a bowl.’ Mum counted with her plastic measuring cup. ‘Then add the salt and stir.’ She held the jug of water with her right hand and poured it into the bowl while stirring with her left hand. ‘Have a look.’ She tipped the bowl. ‘You knead until it forms into a ball of dough and leave it to rise for twenty minutes.’
I stood. ‘I’ll come back in half an hour.’
‘Nice try.’ She took a plate off the bench-top. ‘This is dough I prepared earlier.’
I smiled at her television-chef imitation. Remembering myself, I formed my mouth into a straight line. There was no way I’d let her think I was enjoying this.
‘As you can see, I kneaded this dough, then flattened it onto the plate and rubbed oil onto the top.’ Peeling off the Gladwrap, she placed the pancake dough on the table, in the middle of the white tablecloth.
She smoothed the dough using the Bosnian version of a rolling pin, a long stick the length of a broom handle, called an oklagiya. The oklagiya holds a special place in Bosnian life. Apart from cooking, it’s also used to measure kids and to beat kids. Whenever Mum told me stories about her childhood she’d inevitably end it with, ‘And then Mum chased us with an oklagiya.’
Thankfully she’d never shared that tradition with me. Mum’s idea of discipline was talking to me until I buckled under the weight of her emotional blackmail.
Mum placed her fingers in the middle of the stick and rolled her hands onto it, while maintaining even pressure over the whole expanse of dough. After each roll she jerked the dough in another direction, flattening it evenly. ‘Have a go.’ She held out the stick.