The F Team

by Rawah Arja

  Tariq: Wallah you’re a dog.

  Mariam was a girl who I’d talked to for like thirty seconds before I may or may not have ghosted her. She was what you’d call a stage-five clinger and had trouble getting over the fact that I wasn’t really into her.

  Huss: Gotta go. This Archie guy is coming.

  ‘Tariq?’ I heard a familiar voice call.

  I didn’t think things could get any worse.

  ‘Don’t act like you can’t hear me.’

  I looked up to see Mariam standing with her group. She walked closer twirling her bright pink fingernails in her long black hair. ‘You stalking me, Tariq?’

  ‘Stalking you? Relax, I’m here for a poetry thing,’ I said, moving away. ‘I’m being forced to be here.’

  She smiled and stepped closer. ‘A poetry thing? How funny! So am I.’

  I shuffled sideways until I saw Miss K walk in my direction. ‘Yes, Miss. I’m coming now.’

  Miss K knew about the history between Mariam and me, and now she thought it would be funny to ignore my emergency call.

  ‘I didn’t call you, Tariq,’ she said with an evil grin. ‘It’s okay, we have about ten minutes before we head in.’ She looked at Mariam. ‘He’s all yours.’

  I wanted to jump into the thorny bushes and save myself from listening to Mariam go on and on about how ‘every guy would die to be with her’ and that I was ‘lucky she didn’t call her brothers on me’.

  Just then, behind the sandwich table, a familiar smile caught my attention.

  Jamila May.

  Her hair tied up perfectly, with a red ribbon falling to one side of her shoulder. Her eyes caught mine between the noise and chatter before she looked away.

  If there was something to help ease the pain of being in this poetry slam, it was her.

  I edged my way over. It was my chance to speak to this new girl – until Miss K popped back up in my face.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ she said ushering me away. ‘You owe me, and you’re here for poetry.’

  ‘Don’t think about what, Miss?’ I asked innocently. ‘You said I should get to know fellow students.’

  ‘Tariq, I’m serious. We’ve spoken about how poorly you treated Mariam.’

  Okay, so Miss K knew most things about me because when I finished my work early, we’d talk about stuff like girls or what my goals were after I finished school. I asked her once about how to leave a girl who was like superglue. She told me to be up-front and honest with Mariam. I didn’t think I could do both, so I opted for honest rather than upfront, and then disappeared with no explanation.

  I know, I know, it was a shitty move, but it wasn’t my fault she couldn’t read the signs. I mostly zoned out when she talked, I wouldn’t answer her calls and never wanted to hang out. She finally got the point and stopped calling, but she still messaged here and there.

  ‘Miss, that was like ages ago,’ I said now. ‘Why are you still punishing me?’

  ‘It was two months ago, Tariq, and you still haven’t apologised properly to Mariam.’ Miss K confiscated my phone. ‘This is mine until you man up.’

  I looked at Mariam and then at Jamila. My phone was too important to me. I walked back over to Mariam.

  ‘Look, Mariam, I know I ghosted you when we were hanging out, but I just didn’t know how to tell you that I didn’t like you. I’m sorry.’

  Mariam shook her head disbelievingly. ‘You’re the one who asked me out. You’re the one who asked for my number.’

  Mariam was that girl who didn’t care if anyone was around – if she had something to say, she’d say it. ‘You think I want to spend time with someone who can’t be bothered to pick up the phone?’

  I felt flustered and just wanted her to stop talking. She was attracting attention from everyone around us. ‘Maybe you should stop texting me, then?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Get over yourself, Tariq. I was trying to get you to own up to being a shithead. I don’t need you to like me.’

  ‘Okay, okay, that’s enough,’ a teacher said walking out from the library. ‘Show’s over, we have enough pregnancies. Praise the lord, we just saved another one.’

  With that stupid smile on his face, it was like someone had given Anwar a million dollars. ‘Look who got rejected in front of everyone?’

  ‘Shut up, Uber. Don’t you have some deliveries to do?’

  Miss K tapped me on the shoulder. ‘I know that was hard, but you deserved it. Do better next time. And you’ll get your phone back at the end of the session.’

  I sat in the library and watched Anwar chatting up Jamila. They’d been paired together, while Miss K paired me with – surprise, surprise – Mariam. Even though she was still pissed at me, we were both forced to pretend we were working so that detention didn’t become our second home.

  ‘Did you have to yell that loud?’ I asked, flipping through some books. ‘Like, relax, yeah? I friggin said sorry, and you ate me.’

  ‘Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t get what you deserved,’ she said, then took a deep breath. ‘It’s okay, we can start over now.’

  Wait, what? Start over?

  Miss K popped her head up and gave me a look to stay on task.

  I nodded at her a few times before a woman came to stand in front of me. It was Mrs Pepper, the coordinator of the program. Her long white hair, streaked with green and blue, reached her hips. She wore a shirt with the word feminist af in bold, and had a dragon tattoo wrapped around her neck. I noticed that she was barefoot, and was rubbing her feet on the carpet.

  ‘Is this the boy?’ Mrs Pepper asked, tapping her pen on my head like I was her pet.

  ‘Yes,’ Mariam said.

  ‘Do you believe women only serve for your entertainment and pleasure?’ she asked.

  ‘Huh? Um, maybe?’ I answered, unsure whether I’d answered badly.

  She stared at me for a while then a smile appeared on her face. ‘Come right this way. I need to reshuffle some pairs and I have just the perfect partner for you.’

  I would rather work with anyone than Mariam and so I gladly stood up. She blew me a kiss and began twirling her hair again while she waited for her new partner.

  Mrs Pepper stopped in front of Anwar and Jamila. ‘There’s been a change in plans, kids.’ She looked at the clipboard. ‘Anwar, you’ll be working with Mariam now.’ His jaw dropped and his eyes darted back to me.

  ‘But Miss, I don’t understand why I have to change partners? I didn’t even do anything. Can’t you pick someone else?’

  ‘Anwar, it’s not about you doing something wrong. It’s about partners who will challenge you. I think you and Jamila are both well-rounded students,’ Mrs Pepper said, before looking me up and down. ‘Some students need extra help.’

  ‘Yes, Miss. I need heaps of help,’ I said sarcastically.

  Anwar walked off with Mrs Pepper and I was finally alone with Jamila. She continued to type and take notes while I sat there and tapped my fingers on the table. Everyone else talked about their ideas except us. I still didn’t know what a poetry slam was, let alone what I was supposed to be doing in one.

  ‘Are you going to just sit there or actually contribute?’ she finally asked, her eyes still on her screen.

  ‘I’m Tariq, by the way.’

  She looked up from her screen and down to my name tag. ‘You don’t say.’

  Okay, so she was going to play hard to get.

  A few more moments of silence passed before I tried to strike up conversation again. ‘So you from the area?’

  She completely ignored the question and slid a sheet of paper towards me.

  You and your partner are to come up with a three-minute slam performance about the concept of PLACE. Examples may include your home, school, country or places from your childhood memories. You will use our weekly Wednesday meetings to work on your project. You may also meet in your own time. Any questions, see your teacher.

  ‘I still don’t get it,’ I said sliding th
e paper back towards her. ‘If I were to talk about my home, I might as well describe Taronga Zoo.’ Jamila finally cracked a smile. ‘Tell the truth, aren’t you happy that Uber isn’t your partner anymore?’

  ‘Anwar and I actually came up with some good ideas,’ she said. ‘But now, since you don’t seem to know what you’re doing, I have to start all over again.’

  Jamila turned her computer screen towards me and went through her notes. She talked with her hands and every so often her dimples flashed when she’d mention her home. She sat closer, and her knees sometimes touched mine. I could see three freckles on her thigh between the hem of her dress and her white socks.

  ‘So that’s basically it,’ she said. ‘That’s what we have to do.’

  Shit. I’d totally zoned out while trying to check her out.

  ‘So, you know what to do?’ she asked, turning the screen back. ‘Or do I have to say it again because you couldn’t keep your eyes off my dress?’

  ‘Wait, what? What are you talking about?’ I straightened righteously in my chair.

  She smiled sweetly, not buying it for a second. ‘My mistake. So, you know what to do for next week?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I said, obviously lying. She kind of scared me a little.

  Mrs Pepper came round and sat with us. ‘How we going here? Have you brainstormed some ideas for your slam?’

  ‘Well, I have,’ Jamila said. ‘But Tariq’s been too interested in staring at my dress.’

  My face burned. ‘We’re men and sometimes we look. What’s the big deal?’

  Mrs Pepper patted my knee like I was a puppy. ‘Real men can grow beards, honey. You’re just a boy trying to get the attention of a beautiful young girl who will run circles around you.

  Chapter 7

  The best part of any weekend should be sleeping in, right?

  Yeah, not at my house and not with my family.

  All my aunties and their friends were helping Mum with the food for Aunty Salma’s arrival. I tried to ignore the banging pots and pans and the singing, burying my head deeper into my pillow.

  My brothers and I all slept in the same room and shared one closet. Abdul’s bed was in the middle, under the window, where he often copped pillows from the both of us when he snored too loudly. As the eldest, Saff had the prime location – in front of the TV, against the wall with his very own snot collection.

  The singing got louder. I rolled over and cracked open my eyes to see a circus of women in my room. Aunty Heba – actually Dad’s aunt – had the loudest voice in the world, and sang some Arabic song as the rest of them hammered pots in our doorway to get us up. Aunty Heba was partially deaf, so any conversation with her always set our ears ringing. We only saw her on special occasions or when someone was coming from overseas so she could collect the packages that had been sent with them to her. Then there was Em Youssef and Em George, our neighbours down the road who did that lilililili thing in their high-pitched voices like they were going to a wedding. Em Khaled and Em Adam were Mum’s cousins from Liverpool, who worked full-time at Channel Even-Though-It’s-None-Of-Our-Business-We’re-Still-Going-To-Spread-Your-Secrets. Their friends randomly popped in as well, along with our neighbours, Mr and Mrs Wallace, with their platters of cheese and crackers.

  White-neighbour-food.

  It was a full-on Arab orchestra raging in our tiny bedroom. They thumped their wooden spoons on the pots right above our heads and yelled at us for staying up late, playing cards.

  That was our typical Friday night. We’d sit outside under the pergola, fill the table with snacks and drinks, and play cards. Huss and I were usually partners against my brothers, while Ibby and PJ ate and kept score. Huss and I always secretly cheated, bribing Ibby with food to change the score.

  Mum now stood at the edge of our beds with a bucket of water, threatening to soak us if we didn’t get up to help around the house. We shot out of bed, still in our boxers, which made the women scream and cover their faces with their hijabs – all except for Em George, who peeked a little. We sprinted to use the bathroom like we were in the Olympics.

  We tackled each other to the ground, in front of the door, then Saff finally freed himself and made a break for it. I heard him fiddle around the bathroom, opening and closing the cupboards before he opened the door a crack. ‘Bob? Get me toilet paper!’

  See, whoever had the toilet roll was the one with the power to bargain.

  Amira walked past holding the toilet roll in her hand. Abdul ran towards her, knocking the roll out of her hands before he tripped and face-planted onto the tiles. I saw Feda’s foot poking out of her doorway. The roll was now in her hands.

  ‘Come on, man, I’m busting!’ Saff squawked from the bathroom.

  Feda stepped over Abdul’s body and waved the roll in Saff’s face. ‘Fix my car and it’s yours.’

  ‘Deal.’

  I turned to Abdul who was groaning and clutching his face. ‘If you were taller, this wouldn’t have happened.’

  We’d finished getting dressed when Dad and Uncle Charlie called us to join them in midday prayer under our mulberry tree. My brothers and I always tried not to pray together with Dad because he took way too long, one of us always tried to make the others laugh and Uncle Charlie always did something stupid.

  Uncle Charlie finished making wudu and his face was still wet. He squeezed water from his beard and flicked it in Abdul’s eyes. ‘Real men don’t use towels.’

  ‘What does that even mean?’ I demanded.

  ‘He only does that to me because I’m short,’ Abdul complained.

  We’d lived with my uncle long enough not to question the random things he did and usually put it down to too many bee stings messing with his head.

  Dad made me call the adhan before we began prayer. Everything was going fine – and then Uncle Charlie’s phone began to ring.

  ‘Alo,’ he answered it, halfway through our prayer.

  Saff’s chin was now held against his chest as he tried his hardest to keep it together. Abdul was about to explode. I closed my eyes and tried to go to my happy place. Prayer was supposed to be a time to be closer to God, not to make business deals and sell honey. Dad cleared his throat loudly.

  ‘Yes, yes. This is Bee My Honey business,’ my uncle said proudly. ‘Yes, I have pure honey. Best honey that make you strong like man. Okay, okay. I come later cause I pray now. Sank you.’

  He hung up and continued to pray like nothing had happened. Abdul let out a massive snort and Saff’s shoulders were moving like he was holding a jackhammer. Dad raised his voice louder, trying to remind us that we were in prayer until finally we finished and shook each other’s hands.

  Amira stood behind my uncle with her arms folded. She was not impressed.

  ‘Ya Allah!’ Uncle Charlie jumped back, startled. ‘Where you come from?’

  ‘Khorloo? Did you just say “my business”?’ she said. ‘Don’t you remember our contract?’

  Uncle Charlie stood up and hugged her tightly, laughing nervously. ‘You know what I mean. I mean for you…and little bit me? Okay?’

  She smiled. ‘Okay.’

  He looked back at us with his eyes wide. ‘She very scary.’

  We packed the hasira away, but just before my brothers and I could make our getaway and play some Mario Kart, Dad called us over.

  ‘Today we pick your aunty from airport. So, no games and go help clean so we not late.’

  Picking up a relative from the airport was a big deal for us. Instead of a handful of people going, like most normal people, every cousin in the area came along for the ride.

  ‘Yallah Abdul and Saff go help Khorloo fix chairs,’ Dad ordered. ‘Tariq, come with me, I want to talk to you.’ My brothers moaned and groaned before Uncle Charlie put them both in a chokehold and dragged them away.

  Dad walked around the mulberry tree and picked a few for Mum. ‘She working very hard today.’

  I nodded, unsure why I’d been summoned, until he began talking abo
ut Mr Archie.

  ‘I like this man,’ he says picking more mulberries. ‘He tough and strong and knows what you boys need.’

  ‘He’s also made us join a footy team with some racists from Cronulla,’ I retorted, tearing the ends of the leaves. ‘So clearly he knows nothing about us.’

  Dad’s hands were pink and purple, stained with mulberry juice, as he gestured for me to sit beside him on the garden bench. ‘I never raise you like this. I never raise you to stereo other people.’

  ‘I’m not stereotyping, Dad. He could’ve chosen the boys from Greenacre, but he chose to put us with white people who hate us.’

  ‘You see what I mean when I say you smart but dumb?’ He shook his head, unaware that his white beard had blotches of purple. ‘First, you never met these people and already you say they racist. You are racist.’

  ‘What? No, I’m not.’

  He turned to me and tapped my face a couple of times. ‘You make a judge before you know people. I work with lots of different cultures and they show respect to me and my religion. Just because some are racist does not mean everybody racist.’

  ‘Have you seen the videos online and on Instagram?’ I asked. ‘They’re always saying to go back to our country and that Muslims are like cockroaches or like mozzies.’

  He tapped my head again. ‘Use brain that Allah gave you. Ya Tariq, didn’t I raise you to be more respect?’

  ‘Alright, alright, Dad. But wallah if they say anything, you know I’m not gonna shut up. I’ll fight back.’

  ‘Stop acting like baby,’ he said. ‘They probably make you like donut.’

  I thought our heart-to-heart would get me out of mowing the lawn, but no such luck. Our lawnmower was really old, and when you used it for too long, it sounded like an army tank. Without fail, every few weeks, our mower was in repairs either because Abdul tried to run Saff over or Dad sucked up one of Amira’s tools she’d left on the ground. We usually ended up borrowing Mr Wallace’s from next door.

  My brothers set up the tables and chairs for the night’s feast under our vine-leaf pergola and all three barbecues were now lined up, ready to go. We had a couple of plum and zaroor trees across our back fence that Amira picked for guests. Dad barricaded the part of the yard where he grew cucumbers, tomatoes, mint and parsley with a thin wired fence. If I wanted to stay alive, this section was not to be touched by the mower.