by Rawah Arja
I sat on our comfy bright blue and gold couch and waited for my mum to set the table. In our small three-bedroom house, everywhere you looked there were either fake flowers, pot plants or baby photos. Our red and green Persian rugs were even decorated with flowers and vine leaves. We had two living rooms, one for guests and important people and the other for – well, for everybody else. That living room had a leaky roof and we each had our own buckets and bowls strategically placed to catch the rain. We’re pretty competitive, and the person with the most water in their bowl won the rights to the TV remote. We also had one bathroom to share between the eight of us and a hot water system that shut off anytime you turned on any other tap in the house.
‘Habibi, if you want more, I save more in oven,’ my mum said cutting up some cucumbers and tomatoes picked fresh from our garden.
Feda came out of her room and stared at my mum.
‘Why is it that because he’s a guy, you leave him food, but I’ve been working all day, and I don’t get anything? No wonder women are leaving their husbands now.’
‘How would you know?’ I said taking off my shoes and getting ready to eat. ‘No one’s come to marry you.’
She threw a couple of cushions at me. ‘At least I don’t piss my pants during the night.’
Okay, let me explain. It was one time. I was twelve and I had drunk heaps of water the night before.
‘Khalas,’ my mum interrupted before things could escalate any further. ‘There’s food in oven for you, Feda. No more trouble. Baba will be home soon.’
‘She started it,’ I protested.
Feda shook her head. ‘Can’t wait to see the day someone twice your size bursts your big head.’
I ignored her empty threat when I heard keys rattle. The front door opened, followed by a loud ‘As-Salaam-Alaikum’.
I felt my throat tighten as I watched my dad kiss my mum on her forehead, then Feda and finally me. He sat on his massage chair, unbuckled his belt and turned on the TV, ready for his daily hit of the evening news. The belt wasn’t a good sign – now he had a weapon right beside him. He flicked through a few channels until he stopped on Channel Nine. The intro music began to play just as Abdul and Saff, the epic shit-stirrers, came home from work. They sat on either side of Dad and didn’t waste any time demolishing my food. I tried to sneak out, but it was too late. The anchor launched into the opening story.
‘An all-boys high school in Sydney’s South West has once again made headlines after footage has emerged of the ongoing violence and chaos sweeping the school. Their disgraced former principal is currently under investigation for allegedly funding Islamic extremism overseas. Now it appears the students are out of control. Many have described the school as an easy target to recruit terrorists with Sharia Law allegedly being implemented. A woman, who wishes to remain anonymous, has described the fear of leaving her home and claims the school’s teachers are afraid for their lives. Jane Mitchell was there earlier today and brings us this report. A warning to our viewers: the following images may be disturbing. Viewer discretion is advised.’
Really? Couldn’t have been more dramatic?
The report cut and paste a few clips together and we looked like a bunch of angry hooligans, jumping on each other’s backs, yelling and screaming. It looked like we were part of a riot.
They even ran some mobile phone footage of the fight, which pissed me right off because that meant some snitch from our school had sent their videos in.
Feda ran to the TV and pointed to my face. ‘Oh. My. God. Is that you, Tariq?’
Mum rushed from the kitchen with soap all over her hands. ‘La. La. It can’t be my habibi, Tariq.’
‘Are you serious?’ Saff said hitting me over the back of my head. ‘You part of ISIS now?’
Abdul followed. ‘Dad has worked so hard to give you a good life and you throw it away.’
I wanted to laugh because I knew he was mocking Dad’s whole Lebanon-sacrifice speech, but I held it in. ‘Piss off. I wasn’t in the fight. I was trying to stop it!’
I could smell the smoke from Dad’s ears. He loved Australia more than anything, and to see his son on the news in a segment about terrorism was his worst nightmare. Abdul and Saff spent the next five minutes pausing and rewinding parts of the story until Dad turned off the TV. That was the signal that everyone needed to leave.
He put his glasses on and dialled a number on his phone. It was one of those moments when everything went quiet and you’re unsure if you’re going to live or die.
‘Salaam, Mr Ahmed. How are you?’ Oh shit. He rang Mr Ahmed. ‘It’s Mr Nader…yes good. Good…I want to ask question.’ A short pause. ‘So this story on news. I see my son. What did he do? Yes… yes…Ohhh, okay.’
A long pause.
‘Sank you so much, Mr Ahmed. Yes. Sank you. Sank you. Salaam.’
He hung up, gently packed his glasses away and rested his hands on his belly. He was calm, which only gave me more anxiety. ‘Mr Ahmed told me everything. You very lucky you weren’t in fight.’
I smiled, relieved. ‘See, I told you.’
He stood in front of me. ‘I’m no finished. He also tell me that you throw eggs at girls high school. Is this true?’
Damn it! Mr Ahmed was getting me back for arguing in his office today.
I sank into the couch. ‘Maybe.’
Quick as a flash, Dad smacked me across the head. He spent the next half an hour lecturing me on respecting women. I pictured Feda covered in eggs, which only made me snigger.
‘You think this funny?’ Dad said, with another thump to my head, this time a little harder. ‘That’s it! Tomorrow you coming with me to say sorry to girls from high school.’
I jumped up. ‘Wallah, Dad, no! Please! Wallah, I’ll never do it again! Don’t embarrass me like that.’
‘No. No. No.’ He put his hand out for me to help him out of his seat. ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you about your rude behaviour for long time. Enough is enough. My son is not going to throw eggs at girls. You coming with me tomorrow.’
Amira rushed out of her room with paint all over her face and crumpled cardboard. ‘Tariq, I think I broke my project.’
I closed my eyes and tried to disappear. It didn’t work. ‘When Dad finishes, I’ll come and fix it for you.’
She bounced around like she needed to go to the toilet. ‘Please. Hurry. Now.’
I turned back to Dad who gave me the green light to leave. ‘Don’t forget tomorrow.’
Tomorrow was going to suck.
Chapter 4
‘Tariq! Help!’
I tried to drown out the voice but it only got louder. It was too early for this.
‘Tariq! I’m going to fall!’
I tumbled out of bed and dragged my feet to the kitchen. My eyes were still half shut, but I could see Amira hanging by her Batman shirt from the top cabinet.
‘What the hell, Bob? What were you doing up there?’ I unhooked her shirt and saw that her face was covered in Nutella. ‘Bob, you know you can’t have dairy.’
About two years ago, she kept complaining of her bones aching and stomach cramps. The doctor ran a couple of tests to find out she was highly intolerant to dairy.
Amira looked up at me now and tried to do the whole big-innocent-eyes apology. Even though I knew she was playing me, I gave in.
‘Go wash your face and get dressed for school before Mum wakes up. Don’t forget your diorama.’
I wiped the kitchen of all evidence and threw away the Nutella. I packed her lunchbox with her favourite, a plain lettuce sandwich and a container full of sliced watermelon. Trying to scam Nutella was becoming part of Amira’s routine.
My own morning routine went something like this:
• Wash face, brush teeth and do wudu.
• Style hair.
• Pray Fajr.
• Get dressed.
• Style hair again.
Amira walked into my room as I finished up, dressed and ready for me to wa
lk her to school. She always wore rainbow knee-high socks and her hair in two uneven braids. My phone dinged with a message from Huss.
Huss: Yallah. We’re outside
Tariq: Gimme 2
As we headed out, I heard my parents’ bedroom door open. Dad emerged, all dressed and ready to go. Any day he had off, he’d wear his white abaya and his Aussie green and gold thongs.
He was an Arab’s version of Santa Claus.
‘You sink I forgot,’ he laughed.
He patted his pockets. ‘Where are my keys?’
Please don’t find them. Please don’t find them. Please don’t find them.
Dad stopped patting his chest. ‘Oh, yes, yes. Saff took car to service it.’
Yes! That meant I didn’t need to go to the girls’ high school today and make an idiot of myself.
Dad laughed and pointed like he’d had a genius idea. ‘We have something even better. Amira, go wake up Khorloo from the shed. Tell him we need truck.’
No. Please, no.
Anything but that.
I could feel the room spinning and my eyes started to tear up. I begged Dad and even promised him that I would marry whoever he wanted me to – even someone from Lebanon! Dad barely listened. He looked into the hallway mirror and brushed his fluffy beard one last time. ‘No, no, no. You need to learn lesson.’
I slid down the wall and sat on the cold tiles. It was official. My life was over.
Uncle Charlie came running along the corridor with his fly undone. Someone needed to buy the man some new pants.
‘Who’s ready to go?’ he yelled, excited that he could drive us to school in his truck.
I prayed a bus would fall from the sky and hit me. We walked out to see PJ, Huss and Ibby waiting, each with a can of V and a manoush. They gave the zaatar one to Amira before Huss looked at me, trying to figure out why my uncle and dad were with us.
‘Yallah, boys, I take you to school today,’ Dad said, shaking their hands.
We had walked a couple of houses down when the boys stopped in their tracks.
‘Why are we walking to that?’ Ibby asked, taking a few steps back.
‘I never asked for a lift,’ PJ said quickly. ‘I’m out. I can walk to school.’
Dad gave him the death stare that all Arab dads have. One eyebrow slowly lifted and his head tilted down towards his chest.
We had no choice.
Uncle Charlie pulled the tarpaulin from the truck with a flourish, and there she was. The famous white and pink ice-cream truck that he supposedly found abandoned on the side of the road. It still had the pictures of ice cream all over it and a stupid red light on the roof. He opened the back doors and a puff of dust hit us straight in the face. There were no seats back there. Instead, my uncle had a bunch of milk crates, covered in cobwebs.
I could feel PJ breathing down my neck. ‘I’m going to drink your blood.’
Huss didn’t make the situation better by laughing his head off at PJ and Ibby as they squeezed their bodies in through the door.
‘Wallah, keep laughing and watch what’s going to happen, dumbo,’ Ibby said, kicking Huss a few times as Uncle Charlie started the engine.
Just when we thought it couldn’t get worse, deafening Arabic music blasted through the speakers. I stared at the ground, trying to ignore the death stares sent my way.
We drove around the block and dropped Amira off at her school with her diorama. Some of the kids pointed and laughed at us as we shut the door behind her. We gave them the finger through the back window as we drove off.
I knew I should tell the boys where we were going.
‘So, guys, we might be a little late to school because –’
‘Okay boys,’ Dad interrupted, poking his head through the sheet Uncle Charlie had hung between the driver’s seat and the back of the truck. ‘When we get to girls’ high school, each of you need to say sorry and why.’
‘Girls’ high school?’ Ibby repeated, confused.
‘Why are we going there?’ PJ asked me inching closer. I didn’t like that his body took up most of my space.
Huss was the only one with any idea, not because I had told him, but because we were the only two who had egged the girls. He stayed quiet.
I cleared my throat. ‘Um. You know how –’
‘Because you throw eggs on girls,’ Dad interrupted once more.
Before the boys could kill me, my uncle made a sharp left turn, which toppled us off our crates and onto one another. I was squashed between PJ and Ibby, who jabbed me a few times before we got back upright.
‘Uncle, it wasn’t even me or Ibby,’ PJ pleaded hoping Dad would set them free. ‘It was only Huss and Tariq. Wallah. I promise.’
Just then, I noticed a bee hovering above Ibby’s head. I think it must have followed Uncle Charlie to the truck.
‘Ibby, don’t move,’ I said, trying to slowly slide away. ‘There’s a bee above your head.’
His body stiffened; his googly eyes widened with fear. ‘Please, Tariq, move it away. Ya Allah, help me.’
Huss and PJ were now sitting close to the back doors and held their bags over their heads. It was too risky for any of us to help Ibby in the confined space, so we watched him sweat it out until the bee casually landed on his nose.
‘Watch and see, ya dogs! Watch and see what I’m going to do when we get out of this truck,’ he threatened, now cross-eyed.
BANG!
My uncle slammed the brakes hard, and a loud, girlish scream rang out. At first, we thought that Uncle Charlie had run someone over. But it was Ibby.
He’d been stung.
Dad opened the back doors and we all jumped out. Ibby held his nose in pain and screamed out for some water. PJ opened his backpack and pulled out an ice-cold two-litre Pepsi bottle. ‘Tariq, use this.’
Before I could do anything, Huss snatched the bottle and poured it over Ibby’s face. He fell to the ground, rolling left to right, still in pain and now covered in Pepsi.
‘Uh…’ PJ stared at Ibby in his Pepsi puddle.
‘I think you were meant to put the cold bottle on the sting, bro,’ I said to Huss while Ibby screamed.
He shrugged. ‘How was I supposed to know that?’
A loud cheer echoed around us. We turned, and there were the girls from the high school, standing behind their school fence, pointing and laughing at the defunct ice-cream truck, at Ibby and his Pepsi puddle, at us.
‘I can be any flavour you want,’ one girl shouted.
‘Ooh. Take me for a ride,’ another said.
Kill. Me. Now.
The bell chimed as we were escorted to the front office. Ibby was receiving medical assistance from the school nurse, and PJ sat outside under a tree, too angry to speak to us.
Huss and I each had to apologise to the principal separately. I went first. This was such a waste of time. Not only was the principal half asleep, but I’m pretty sure he was rolling a ball of snot between his fingers the whole time I was talking. I walked back to the reception desk and waited for Huss to finish. My dad stood outside like he was a bouncer.
I rested my back against the wall and closed my eyes.
‘Okay darling. So you’re a new student here?’ the office lady said. I almost missed the quiet reply.
I opened my eyes and leaned forward, but I couldn’t see much. There was a big leafy plant and a few armchairs in the way.
‘And what’s your name?’
‘Jamila May.’
As she finished filling out whatever forms the office lady gave her, she turned her head and our gazes met. I could see her golden hazel eyes through her thick lashes as she tucked her wavy brown hair behind her ears and smiled. Her dimples flashed. She walked past me and the smell of coconut almost lifted me off my seat. My eyes followed her until I saw Dad staring at me with one eyebrow raised. I casually turned the other way, praying that he didn’t make a scene.
Jamila May, I repeated silently.
We arrived at school where Mr A
hmed waited at the front gate. He had the biggest grin on his face and didn’t bother to hide his satisfaction. ‘Nice ride, boys.’ He looked at Ibby, whose nose was as big as a balloon and his eyes so swollen that he could barely see. ‘I’m not going to even ask.’ Ibby sniffed pitifully.
Mr Ahmed pointed towards the hall. ‘Yallah boys, the new principal wants to see you.’
We all turned around. ‘New principal?’
‘Yeah. I don’t have time to explain. Just go now. He’s waiting for you.’
There was an eerie silence as we made our way to the hall. The long hallway which connected to the main office usually had boys bouncing off the walls or swinging from the fans, but not today.
‘It’s way too quiet,’ PJ said, looking around the empty hallway. ‘I feel like something’s about to go down and we gonna die.’
‘Shut up, man,’ Huss retorted. ‘Who’s going to kill a wahash like you?’
Ibby held onto my shirt. ‘Wallah, if something does go down and you don’t help me, watch and see what’s gonna happen.’
We opened the doors to find four lonely chairs facing the stage beside boxes of paper. It was dark – all the window blinds were now permanently closed just in case we made the news again. We sat and waited and waited but no one showed up.
‘I’m out,’ Huss eventually said, picking up his things. ‘This new principal is already wasting my time.’
‘Your time belongs to me now,’ we heard a deep voice echo.
‘Is that the shaytaan?’ Ibby whispered, squeezing my arm.
PJ’s afro puffed up a little higher as he looked to me for answers.
The stage curtains moved and a shadowy figure walked our way.
Huss slowly sat down and whispered. ‘Is that him?’
I shrugged, confused.
A tall, muscular man stopped in front of us. ‘You leave when I tell you to leave. Is that clear?’
If someone had a photo of all our faces, you’d see four boys with their jaws on the ground. We were expecting one of those textbook old principals with a wrinkled face. Not this guy. He wore a blue Ralph Lauren polo and had a tattoo sleeve on his right arm. His closely-cropped blond hair and shiny Rolex weren’t anything we were used to. He spoke with an odd accent.