Ten Things I Hate About Me

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  I’m screwed.

  “Very well, Jamie. It’s your call. I’m going to go to the nurse’s office to remove this thing from my hand. I’ll see you in after-school detention all week.”

  A voice sounds from across the room. “You don’t have any proof, sir.”

  “Excuse me, Timothy?”

  “You’re being unfair. You don’t have any proof that Jamie did it.”

  I stare at Timothy in shock.

  “This is none of your business!” Mr. Anderson cries. “Jamie was outside this classroom door at lunchtime and I doubt it was because she was admiring the woodwork on the frames.”

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t prove a thing.”

  “That’s right, sir,” I say. “I was just passing through the hall.”

  “Absurd,” he says. “You were glued to the door.” There is an eruption of giggles.

  “This is NOT a laughing matter!”

  “It’s just that you used the word glued, sir,” Timothy says.

  “RIGHT! I’ll see you in detention after school today too, Timothy.”

  Timothy shrugs. “Fine.”

  “I will not have cocky students in my classroom! Open chapter five and complete the entire exercise. Anybody who hasn’t finished by the time I return will join Jamie and Timothy this afternoon!”

  He turns on his heels and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

  “Did you do it?”

  “Was it you?”

  “It was so cool!”

  “It wasn’t me,” I tell the class.

  “So do you know who did it?”

  “Nah, I don’t.”

  There are murmurs about my punishment being a travesty of justice and Mr. Anderson being an ogre. I look at Peter and he has the audacity to smile and wink at me.

  “Thanks for defending me,” I say to Timothy.

  “No prob. You shouldn’t have to take the rap for something you didn’t do.”

  I could swear that he glances at Peter when he says this. Peter doesn’t notice. He’s too busy laughing victoriously with Chris and Sam.

  Peter approaches me after class. “Hey, thanks for not turning me in! You’re a champ. You know what? You’re a cool chick. A really cool chick.”

  Am I supposed to feel all warm and fuzzy now? The whole situation stinks like garden fertilizer.

  Detention is being held in the science lab. That’s just an overexcited description for a detached portable classroom planted in the middle of a slab of asphalt next to the staff parking lot. It’s hard to see how the classroom could be classified as a laboratory. It basically consists of desks, chairs, a whiteboard, a sink, and three gas mains. I hate it when detention is held here because the classroom has no views of the fields and is fairly secluded. You can’t while your time away staring at the guys playing soccer or basketball. The only thing worthy of entertainment (and this is getting desperate) is counting the colors of the teachers’ cars and trying to work out a statistical equation to explain the dominance of red Ford Falcons.

  There are a couple of kids from other classes who are also in trouble for various things: clogging the toilets with tissues, graffiti, getting into a fight at the school store.

  The librarian, Mrs. Baxter, is supervising today since Mr. Anderson is busy. Now that’s power. Punish us with detention but get another teacher to endure the two hours on your behalf. If Mr. Anderson was on duty, we wouldn’t be allowed to blow our noses without first raising our hands and asking for permission. But Mrs. Baxter is on the edge of retiring and isn’t really interested in discipline. Every body’s huddled into groups and talking. She’s told us she has no problem with us talking as long as we keep our voices down and she can comfortably read her book, The Passion of Love.

  I steal a glance at Timothy. He looks bored. His head is low and his chin is touching the table. I’m biting my nails and playing with my bangs.

  Timothy notices me looking at him and I roll my eyes at Mrs. Baxter. He grins at me. Then I lean my chair close to his desk and say: “Thanks again. It was really nice of you to stick up for me.”

  “I was principle-of-the-matter motivated. I’m not in love with you.” His grin is flirty and I can’t help but giggle.

  “So what makes you so sure I didn’t do it?” I ask.

  “A bit of telepathic ability here, a bit of logical deduction there…”

  “And that led you to figure out that it was Peter?”

  “How do you know that I know it was Peter?”

  “Oh, just a bit of telepathic ability here, a bit of logical deduction there…”

  You know the saying that the eyes are the window to the soul? Well, I think that’s crap. I don’t think it’s your eyes; it’s your smile.

  Timothy has a smile on him. Oh yes. He’s got one dazzling smile. His smile creases the skin around his eyes and sucks up a bit of right cheek into a big, happy dimple.

  “He was bragging about it by the lockers,” Timothy says. “He’s singing your praises too. Of course, he hasn’t shown any guilt about the fact that you’re in detention. He probably thinks you feel privileged.”

  I’m ashamed of myself and stare down at the desk.

  “So why did you take the blame?”

  “Because I’m deeply disturbed. Because I’m craving the approval of a guy who has the brains of ricotta cheese and probably keeps Mein Kampf as bedtime reading material.”

  He bursts out laughing. “Now that’s a side of you we don’t hear enough.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s reserved for special occasions.”

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “What was I supposed to do? Stand up and announce to the world that it was Peter? Do I look like I want a short lifespan?”

  “I admit that Mr. Anderson was a real jerk to put you under that kind of pressure. But you could have taken the rap and then gone up to Peter afterward and demanded he confess or you’d spill the beans.”

  I look at him as though he’s growing mangoes out of his ears. “You’re living in a parallel universe.”

  He shrugs. “Your universe, or mine—either way he’s scum and not worth it.”

  “It’s worth it if I can avoid being known as the resident whistle-blower.”

  He looks at me thoughtfully. “I stuck up for you because I thought that deep down there was a bit of spunk in you, despite the fact that you so obviously try to hide it.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” I say sarcastically.

  “Hey, you don’t have to prove yourself to me.”

  “I wasn’t trying to.”

  “It might get in the way of proving yourself to Peter, right?”

  “Hey! That’s not fair. You’re not under the same sort of pressure as the rest of us normal people. You don’t care if people find you dorky or weird or stuck-up.”

  “I’m not worried about other people’s adjectives for me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if I’m in detention, I want to know it was because I did something out of my own free will.”

  I pretend to find my desk interesting.

  “So are you excited about the formal?” I ask.

  “It’s not really my scene.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Everybody standing around with way too much hairspray and gel and aftershave, taking cheesy photos, dancing to a stack of loser songs and generally making idiots of themselves.”

  “How about a news flash: You don’t have to be a non-conformist all the time.”

  “You don’t have to be a conformist all the time either.”

  “You’re just conforming to a nonconformist ideology. So you know what? You’re a conformist too.”

  He holds my gaze for a moment and then we burst out laughing.

  “I think that’s probably enough behavioral analysis for one afternoon, eh?” he says.

  “I agree. Let’s stick to Gandhi, reality TV, and The Worst of Mr. Anderson stories.”

  20

  BILAL COME
S INTO my room on Saturday morning and throws himself onto my bed as I’m straightening my hair.

  “Why don’t you leave it curly?” he asks.

  “Because I don’t want to knock people over when they walk past me.”

  “You’re such an idiot. It looks great curly.”

  “This is coming from someone with bleached spikes?”

  He rolls his eyes at me. “So what are you doing today?”

  “I managed to convince Dad to let me go to Amy’s house to do homework. I had to pretend the visit is linked to my educational enlightenment in order to get permission. So what are you doing?”

  “Playing tennis with the boys and then we’re off to Home at Darling Harbour. It’s Italian night.”

  I raise my eyebrows at him. “Oh, I see, and that means what? Hot chicks?”

  He grins and nods his head. “Oh yeah, that’s for sure. Plus the music rocks!”

  “Like you could pick up anyone anyway,” I say, throwing my brush at him. “And I suppose you’ll be home at four in the morning and give Dad a heart attack?”

  “I get so sick of him bossing me around. I’m eighteen years old. When’s he going to let me be a man and make my own decisions about my life?”

  I snort. “What decisions are they? Clubbing? Drinking? Very impressive, Bilal.”

  He rolls his eyes again and leans back against my headboard, his hands behind his head.

  “OK, I don’t expect the green light from him about my social life. And I know it’s wrong in Islam, blah, blah, blah. But do you know what annoys me most, Jam?”

  “What?”

  “Dad still goes on and on about me being a dropout. So I didn’t inherit his brains. I just don’t have that academic side to me. I’ve never been good at school. I’m good with my hands. Engines, I understand. Trigonometry, Shakespeare, all that stuff goes into my head and comes out as sawdust.”

  “I know what you mean. He has these high expectations for all of us. But he sets them without consulting us or thinking about what we want or how we feel.”

  “Sometimes I feel like telling him to butt out.”

  “Tell Dad to butt out?” I look at him incredulously. “Do you think this is an episode of a soap opera or something? Don’t you remember the taste of Dove soap? Remember the time you came home from school and Dad told you to clean your room or you wouldn’t be allowed to go to your basketball game? I distinctly remember what you said: Do you want a knuckle sandwich, old man?”

  He slowly breaks out into a grin as he remembers the incident. “I didn’t realize what it meant! I was a kid! Man, that soap killed me! I was burping soapsuds for days!”

  “You could have stacked a dishwasher in your mouth, that’s how sparkling clean it was.”

  We collapse into giggles.

  “So telling Dad to butt out isn’t really advisable.”

  He laughs. “I’m not that stupid. It still pisses me off, though. I want to be a mechanic and he gives me no respect for that.”

  “Things would have been different if Mom was alive.”

  He sighs. “She would have understood.”

  I give him a sly grin. “But she would have roasted you alive if she knew you drink and go out with girls!”

  “I would have given up anything for her,” he says softly. “I miss her like crazy.”

  “Me too.”

  “Dad just doesn’t understand me. He wants us all to be professionals. He’s the one who’s been behind a taxi wheel for years. If he regrets not using his PhD he shouldn’t take it out on us. That’s just hypocriticism!”

  “The word is hypocritical, Bilal. Maybe Dad does have a point about you dropping out.”

  He lunges forward and puts me in a headlock. I laugh and splutter, begging him to release me.

  “Say that I’m the best-looking, most intelligent guy in the world!” he says.

  “Let me go, you idiot!” I cry.

  He keeps me down, grinning in my face. “Say it, Jam!”

  “OK, OK, you’re the best.”

  He releases me and we burst out laughing again.

  Today is the first time I have visited Amy. It feels strange because I’m not used to seeing her outside of school. When I arrive I feel slightly awkward. I sit on the edge of the couch wondering if we’ll run out of things to say to each other. With so many topics off limits, I wonder what’s left to talk about. I seem to constantly hide behind the superficial with Amy. I can discuss movies, celebrities, music, but I can’t talk about what’s really going on in my life.

  Amy has a bowl of popcorn ready and bags of chips and chocolate.

  “I borrowed The Ring,” she says. “I’ve heard it’s really scary.”

  “That sounds great,” I say as I stuff my mouth with a handful of popcorn.

  We’re watching the movie when Amy’s mother walks into the room. “Hello,” she says.

  “Hi, I’m Jamie,” I say.

  “Yes, I know,” she says, smiling at me. “Amy’s told me all about you.”

  I almost want to let out a hoot. There wouldn’t exactly be much to say.

  We chat for a couple of minutes and then she turns to Amy. “Is your father having dinner here tonight?”

  “How am I supposed to know?” Amy says tensely, staring at the television screen.

  “Well, can you please go and ask him? He’s in the study.”

  I steal a glance at Amy and notice the mortified expression on her face. I pretend to be oblivious to their conversation and concentrate on extracting a popcorn kernel that’s stuck in my teeth.

  “Why can’t you ask him yourself?”

  Amy’s mother gives her a stern look. “Amy, I am not in the mood for this conversation. You know very well why I’m not going into that study.”

  Amy lets out an exaggerated sigh.

  “Fine!” Amy’s mother cries and storms out of the room.

  I don’t want to intrude but I can’t pretend that nothing is wrong either. So I tread delicately. “Is everything OK?” I ask her gently.

  She looks at me and in a huffy voice says: “I really don’t want to talk about it, if you don’t mind.”

  She’s throwing my words back in my face. They sting like a paper cut.

  “I didn’t mean to shut you out before,” I say slowly.

  “That’s fine. And I don’t mean to shut you out now.”

  I fumble with my skirt, averting my eyes from her gaze.

  “Your door is closed and so is mine. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  My throat is burning with the anticipation of tears. But I swallow hard and manage to control myself.

  I catch the bus before it gets dark and meet Shereen at a café in Parramatta, where she spent the afternoon with her friends. I didn’t want Shereen to pick me up from Amy’s house, all dressed up in her Yin Yang hijab.

  “It was awesome, Jamilah,” she says as we’re driving home. “We really made progress. We’re organizing a petition to protest against the torture of Falun Gong practitioners in China. A Chinese diplomat is visiting Sydney next week and we plan to work with a local human-rights group and hold a massive vigil in the center of the city. You should come along.”

  “Sorry, I think I’m getting a massage with a chain saw that day. Maybe next time.”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “Don’t be such a bimbo.”

  “I don’t know how you have the energy. All that protesting makes no difference whatsoever. The world still sucks. It doesn’t matter how loud you scream or how big your placards are.”

  “Don’t be so cynical, Jamilah. We can make a difference.”

  “The last time I checked, the war in Iraq is still going, prisoners are being abused, asylum seekers are still getting locked up, indigenous Australians are dying in prison, and African children are still starving. Effective track record.”

  “Silence is consent, Jamilah!”

  “I know you’re passionate, Shereen, and I can’t believe I’m going to admit this, but Dad has
a point. If you want to do something about all the injustice, do something that works.”

  She purses her lips and grips the steering wheel. “None of you understand. Don’t you care about anything besides watching TV?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes, I do.” I turn my body toward her and give her an intense look.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I need help. I need to draw on your infinite wisdom. I need to rely on your expertise and brilliance and—”

  She chuckles. “Enough already, what do you want?”

  “I need you to help me persuade Dad to let me go to my tenth-grade formal. It’s the most important event of the year. And if I don’t go I will personally call the UN Secretary General and tell him that you refused to provide humanitarian assistance to a person in desperate need.”

  She bursts out laughing. “You need the entire United Nations to help you convince Dad.”

  I slam my head against the dashboard. “I have to go, Shereen! I’ll be the only one left out. My class is planning the whole night. Dresses, hair, cars, where they’ll go afterward. It will be the topic on everybody’s lips for the next two years. I will be excluded from the private jokes and ‘do you remember what happened when’ stories. My life will be OVER.”

  “Note to Jamilah: Do not overreact.”

  “Note to Miss-Goody-Two-Shoes-I-Pray-Five-Times- a-Day: I guess Allah would be pretty unimpressed if you ignored the desperate plea of a family member—of your own sister!”

  “Look, Jamilah, I’ll try my best but I don’t hold much hope that he’ll let you. He’s not dumb. He knows what goes on at these things. He’ll hear the word formal and think of all those Hollywood ‘I lost my virginity on my prom night’ movies.”

  I groan. “Tell me about it! Look, Miss Tree-Hugger, just try. Please.”

  She glances sidelong at me and scrunches up her nose. “‘Tree-hugger’? Do you think I hug trees?”

  I grin at her. “No. I think you’re way more wacko than that. Hugging is mild. You probably talk to them and celebrate their birthdays too.”

  She takes one hand off the steering wheel and pinches me playfully in the side. “How on earth are we related?”