by Rawah Arja
Mr Ahmed blew the whistle. ‘Game over, boys. Congratulations, Mr Archie’s team.’
Huss and I sat on the ground and tried to catch our breath while the whole school ran onto the field and cheered around Mr Archie and his team. I looked up to the sky and prayed that it had all been a nightmare. I hadn’t really lost to Mr Archie in front of the whole school right?
Apparently, I had.
‘Alright, lads. Great game,’ he said, shaking our hands. ‘You made this old man work up a sweat. But a deal is a deal, and so the hall is yours all week. And Tariq, you remain stripped of your captaincy.’
Chapter 6
‘Tariq, make sure Amoora has no chocolate in bag,’ Mum shouted from the kitchen. ‘The Nutella missing again.’
Mum had been up since four in the morning preparing food because her sister Salma – the rich uptight one – was visiting from Lebanon in a couple of days. She was married to a big-timer politician and expected a grand reception upon her arrival. I’d only ever spoken to my aunt on the phone. Not voluntarily – by force. Actually, my whole family was forced to talk to her, though we’d all try to avoid it. Abdul always pretended he was praying, Saff locked himself in the toilet, Feda would be studying for an imaginary test, and Amira and Uncle Charlie would hole up in the shed. Which left me with no places to hide.
‘Don’t be rude,’ Mum would say. ‘Just say anything.’
‘Um, how’s the weather?’
Mum would shake her head then whisper things to say in my ear. I would save myself by claiming that Feda was dying to speak to Aunty Salma. Then I’d leave the phone on Feda’s desk and run away, which made Abdul laugh in his supposed prayers and made him the next target. Everyone would run around the house trying to offload the phone until Uncle Charlie ‘accidentally’ hung it up.
‘Yeee, how did this happen?’ he’d say with a sneaky smile.
Aunty Salma always reminded Uncle Charlie about everything he didn’t have – a marriage, extravagant houses, a stamped passport and the endless ‘Sri Lankan’ servants who worked for her. They weren’t actually from Sri Lanka – they were usually from Ethiopia – but everyone in Lebanon called them Sri Lankan.
I only ever asked my uncle once why he never got married. Tears welled in his eyes and he quickly changed the subject and joked that he was married to his bees. I knew there was more to the story but left it alone, since I’d never seen Uncle Charlie so upset.
Mum was now frantically running between our oven inside the house and the oven in our garage. We had two kitchens. The indoor clean kitchen was used only when judgemental guests came over. Mum would neatly sort all the expensive cups, plates and cutlery so when a judgey guest opened the cupboards, they’d be impressed and spread the news on the Arab Gossip Women Hotline.
The outdoor kitchen was used for our barbecue cousins – my uncles and aunties and their kids and my random cousins who just so happened to be in the neighbourhood. It was stocked with plastic cups and plates from Linda’s Discount Store, the place in Punchbowl that sold everything you needed.
I kissed Mum goodbye and walked to where Amira sat on the cold tiles by the front door. She slid her bag towards my feet, which meant that she was too tired to walk. I straightened her glasses and put her on my shoulders. She wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed my cheeks. ‘You’re the best brother ever.’
‘I bet you say that to all your brothers.’
I walked her to the school gates and then watched her run through. The ride over on my shoulders had restored her energy. A teacher wearing a hi-vis vest stopped her. Amira pointed back to me and called me over.
‘Sorry, but she’s not allowed to stay on her own unsupervised before 8:30 a.m.,’ the teacher explained. ‘We have a teacher on duty after that.’
Amira grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the play equipment. Apparently, she had been practising to finish the monkey bars and today was the day. My genius sister could tell you anything you wanted to know about the world, but finishing the bars was a mission, and she wasn’t going to fail.
Amira jumped up on the step and got ready to tackle the yellow bars. She squinted her eyes and rubbed her hands together like she was competing in the Olympics. I stood beside her and watched every move. She pushed her glasses back against her face, took a deep breath and jumped onto her first yellow bar. She placed one hand on the second then quickly moved to the third.
‘You only have three bars left, Bob.’ I tried to encourage her. ‘I’m right here.’
She tried to keep her grip as I noticed her arms begin to shake and the sweat drip down her face. She was struggling now. It didn’t help that a small crowd had gathered around her. Some laughed and pointed while others watched and whispered.
‘It’s so easy. Kindergarten can do it,’ one boy mocked.
I turned back and gave him the eye until he shut up. Amira placed her hand on the fourth bar but her fingers began to slip. Tears began to well in her eyes and her lips trembled. I felt sick to my stomach seeing my sister up there like that.
‘Don’t worry about them. I’m right here.’
I moved closer just as she reached out to grab the next bar but missed and fell to the ground. The kids broke into laughter. I picked her up and brushed her clothes clean. She buried her head in my chest and covered her face behind her hair.
‘They’re laughing at me,’ she whispered.
I wanted to throw those little shits over the fence but more teachers had come onto the playground now. I hugged my little sister tightly instead.
I arrived at school to see Mr Archie and Mr Ahmed at the front gates, greeting the boys as more construction workers filled the school. A new electronic sign had been installed, streaming key dates and events happening around our school.
YEAR 10 FOOTBALL CAMP
WEEK 3, MONDAY–FRIDAY
Great. Now we’d be getting daily reminders about Mr Archie’s plans.
They each shook my hand before Mr Archie launched into a ten-minute lecture about my uniform.
I couldn’t catch a break with this guy.
Our uniform policy had just been updated to something like this: black shoes every day except for Friday sport. No Adidas or Nike hoodies, which pissed Huss off, and no basketball jerseys and loose pants, which pissed PJ off. Ibby’s taqiyah was still acceptable because it was his right to express his religious freedom. If we didn’t abide by these rules, we’d cop a detention with a ban on representative sport until we looked the part.
Ever since Mr Archie arrived, Mr Ahmed had changed. He’d become strict to the point that he didn’t let us jump the fence to get El Jannah, play cards or use our phones during class. He didn’t even let the boys smoke shisha during Friday lunch. Right now, Mr Ahmed was clearly enjoying every minute of my frustration as Mr Archie’s lecture finally ground to an end.
The school bell rang.
‘Tariq, see me in my office after roll call,’ Mr Archie said.
I was waiting outside his office when Huss and Ibby arrived. We had no idea what we’d done now or which building needed to be cleaned. PJ, with his eyes still half closed, flopped onto the couch next to us and leaned his head against the wall.
‘You alright?’ I asked waving my hand in front of his face.
He ignored me and continued to breathe loudly through his nose. Ibby pulled at PJ’s eyelids, as though he was a doctor. ‘Did you take some of your mum’s stash?’
PJ’s eyes shot open. Ibby quickly jumped back, shouting ‘Bismillah!’ like he’d risen from the dead. They went back and forth, swearing and kicking each other as Huss and I tried to drown out their bickering.
Mr Archie finally walked out of his office.
NO PAIN, NO GAIN, a poster read on the door. That didn’t make us feel safe at all. ‘Lads, come in and take a seat. I’ll be with you soon.’
His office was unlike that of any other principal we’d had. Those had been filled with teacher quotes and crappy student artwork that everyone pretende
d to like. Just above Mr Archie’s head, he had framed an EPL Liverpool jersey, a Bulldogs jersey and the Irish National soccer team jersey. The wall beside us was covered in pictures of himself with different sporting champions.
He had a picture with LeBron James!
‘It has to be Photoshop,’ I said, watching Ibby and PJ try to contain their excitement.
‘Bro, you’re such a hater,’ Ibby said. ‘You’re just pissed because Mr Archie doesn’t like you.’
‘Shut up, Ibby,’ Huss retorted. ‘Archie doesn’t like any of us.’ ‘That’s Mr Archie to you.’ The man himself came in and shut the door behind him. Huss had been caught out yet again.
Mr Archie sat, sorting through some papers like we weren’t even there. He did that a lot – making you feel as though you didn’t exist.
He finally looked up and handed us each a sheet of paper.
Student Contract
I, ________________________________, understand the following expectations and rules of this school. If I break any of these rules, I know my position at this school may be jeopardised and I could be at risk of expulsion. I will:
• follow the school rules both in the classroom and on the playground.
• wear full school uniform and make sure I arrive to school on time.
• represent the school to the best of my ability by showing sportsmanship and respect both on and off the field.
• not use violence to intimidate any student or staff member.
• attend the correct classroom and participate in all activities.
• not skip classes without permission.
• listen to and respect all teachers, including casual and student teachers, and extend that respect to community members.
Signed: ___________ Date: _________
He gave us a few minutes to read over it before handing us each a pen. ‘I think it’s pretty straightforward, lads.’
Ibby and PJ signed the contract, but Huss and I held back. Mr Archie walked out from behind his desk and pulled up a chair in front of us.
‘Let me remind you that my job is to make sure this school has the best chance of staying open in the shortest time possible,’ he said. ‘I know things are moving fast, but we have no choice. This contract will let me and all the staff know that you lads are serious about your future.’
Every cell in my body fought against signing the contract, but I knew I had no choice. Mr Archie packed our signed contracts in a filing drawer labelled ‘Contracts 2020’.
‘You know, only four boys have refused to sign this contract.’ He snapped the drawer closed. ‘They’re now out. Let’s talk about the Rugby League program,’ he continued. ‘It starts next Monday, with our camp, then training sessions and Friday games which start the following week.’ He handed us another sheet of paper.
Rugby League Buddy School Program
Dear Principals and students,
Your school has been selected to participate in the inaugural Year Ten Rugby League Sydney Schools Program implemented by the NSW Department of Education, in partnership with the National Rugby League. The aim of this program is for students to work with a buddy school to help improve and better develop their social and personal skills in a team environment.
Participating students will have prior experience in their school teams and will be selected according to skill and potential in leadership. The first game in the tournament will be played on Friday, Week 4, Term 2, with a grand final scheduled to take place Week 3, Term 3. The winning team will receive a scholarship with their local NRL Team and $10,000 dollars towards their Physical Education programs.
Good luck and we look forward to hearing about your journey.
Adam Svenski, NRL Chief Executive Officer
Shelly McField, NSW Department of Education
Teams were supposed to be made of eight players – four from one school and four from a buddy school. Lucky us, our buddy school was in Cronulla. We argued loudly that we should change our buddy school, but Mr Archie wouldn’t budge, claiming that we’d learn a lot from different people and that the challenge would only make us better men.
The only thing I’d learnt about Cronulla was from my brothers and cousins who told me about the riots there and how ugly they’d been. Something about Arabs going swimming and checking out some chicks which somehow turned into an altercation with lifeguards which then turned into a mini civil war. I even Googled it and those images of angry faces with the Australian flag and sprays of alcohol was enough for me to know that it was always going to be Us vs Them, not Us with Them.
‘Why can’t the other half be from Greenacre?’ I argued. ‘They’re more like us and they have a good footy team, too. We know nothing about this Cronulla team.’
‘Everyone chosen in the program has some skill they can add to the team,’ Mr Archie assured us. ‘I know you’ll be able to play with the lads from Greenacre, but the real challenge is not only playing with a new team, but also to learn and grow and hopefully form new bonds.’
I knew this footy comp wasn’t just us kicking a ball around for fun. It was about showing the rest of Sydney that we could act like humans, even around our new white friends from the Shire.
‘We don’t need any more bonds,’ I said, bluntly. ‘Everyone at this school is enough and –’
‘I want new bonds,’ Ibby called out with his hand up. ‘If it means I miss Mr Sullivan’s science class, then give me all the bonds in the world, sir.’
Mr Archie stood up and opened the door. ‘Be ready on Monday morning or consider yourselves off the team and out of the school.’
‘How are we gonna get out of it?’ Huss asked me as we walked up the stairs. ‘He’s a bit psycho, hey?’
‘I don’t know, man,’ I answered, shaking my head. ‘We’ll just have to fake it and see what happens.’
‘Yeah, alright. We’ll just pretend to care and then eventually he’ll give up on us and leave. That’s what they all do anyway.’
I wasn’t too sure. All the other principals we’d had had been easy to read. Either they had wanted credit for being the one that could tame us or they wanted to use our ‘problem school’ to make their resumés more impressive. If they could handle us, that meant they could handle any school in Australia.
I headed over to English only to see Miss K standing outside with the rest of my class – the three other boys in Advanced English. There was Anwar, who called himself Hot Chocolate, and claimed he had a romance with a girl every summer when his family visited Pakistan. He had a hard time filling his clothes and his small frame only made him an easy target in the hallway. Rajiv, who had only one eyebrow and a thick moustache, always tried to convince me to join his Saturday cricket team because he once saw me swing a bat at a boy. He thought it would be good to have a non-Indian on the team. It didn’t matter that I thought cricket was the most boring thing ever. Abdullah’s family migrated to Australia from Somalia in the nineties. He was almost two metres tall and looked about forty-five years old with a full-grown beard. Someone seriously needed to check his birth certificate.
‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ Miss K said, handing me a name tag. ‘We need to leave now.’
‘Wait, what?’ I said, trying to keep up with her. ‘Where are we going, Miss?’
‘The Poetry Slam Comp,’ Anwar answered from behind. ‘You know it starts today right?’
I stopped and stared at him for a good minute as I tried to remember when I had signed up for a poetry slam.
‘The one Miss told you about yesterday before lunch?’ Anwar continued. ‘Before the footy game?’
He always answered my question with another question, which meant he could never give me a straight answer. This only made me want to punch him.
I caught up to her and made up excuse after excuse but she ignored me. I felt the walls closing in. I was being pulled and pushed into too many different things I didn’t want to do.
‘C’mon, Miss, please,’ I begged. ‘I hate thi
s stuff. You know I’m just going to sit there and do nothing.’
She stopped. ‘Tariq, you know I always listen to you whenever you come to me for help. I’ve done favour after favour for you. Now it’s my turn to cash them in. You owe me this.’
‘Cash them in for something else, Miss. Wallah it’s not fair.’
‘Stop being such a child. Haven’t you signed Mr Archie’s contract?’
She turned around and walked away with the other boys. I looked up at the sky and prayed that by some miracle it would fall on me.
We arrived at a place that was all too familiar – the girls’ high school up the road. Anwar brushed his shiny black hair one more time in his pocket mirror.
‘Hey, Uber. Do you think that hairdo is going to help you pick up any girls? Maybe you should bench a few before you try.’
‘Just wait and see,’ he said, smoothing his eyebrows.
I laughed. ‘For what? For you to get rejected in front of everyone?’
‘You know what, Tariq, get over yourself.’ He walked over to Miss K. ‘Can you please tell him to stop calling me Uber?’
‘Tariq,’ she called out. ‘Show some respect.’
We walked across to the library where some of the other schools had already gathered. Everyone chatted beside a table of small sandwiches and a fruit platter. Anwar, Rajiv and Abdullah got in with the other nerds while I leaned against the wall, scrolling through my phone.
Huss: Heard you got stuck at a poetry thing with Miss K?
Tariq: Bro, I’m with Anwar and Rajiv too.
I hate my life.
Huss: Suck tin. Wallah I’d pay to see you with them.
Tariq: Get stuffed. At least I’m at the girls school.
Huss: What? Da boys told me it was at some
centre thing. Shit. Now, I wish I was there.
Have you seen Mariam yet?
Tariq: Shiiiiit. I forgot about her. Bro, she’s psycho.
Huss: Deaddddd. Bro I hope she finds you.