The Lines We Cross

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  “How’d you know?” I ask.

  He points to my laptop screen, open on the band’s website page.

  “Oh. So are you a fan too?”

  “Love them,” he says.

  “Album drop soon.”

  “I know. I can’t wait.” A pause. “They’re not mainstream.” He looks at me like he’s trying to figure me out.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Are you wondering how somebody who lives in Western Sydney could be into indie pop?”

  He tries to backpedal but it’s crash and fall.

  And then, as a sudden afterthought, he says: “Lived.”

  “Huh?”

  “You said lives in Western Sydney.”

  “Oh. Okay … lived.”

  “You say that word almost mournfully. Do you miss the place?”

  “Every day.”

  “What do you miss?”

  “Tacky clothing shops, cops chasing cars with defects, the smell of Adana kebabs, the zillion different accents and languages and, best of all, wog warmth.”

  “Wog warmth?”

  “Yeah.” I smile.

  “What does that even mean?”

  “Everyone’s darling, up in people’s business, ready to help and talk and get in your face with their opinions and overdosed aftershave and loud voices. It’s quiet here. Stiff. People are ironed crisp and unruffled.”

  “Aren’t you generalizing?”

  “Shamelessly.”

  “Anyway, I thought wog was a derogatory word.”

  “Yeah, it is. If you use it.”

  He raises an eyebrow.

  “So …” He drums his fingers on the table. “The xx …” I’ve impressed him.

  “Well, if we’re talking preconceived notions, I would have had you down as a Bieber fan myself.”

  He makes a gesture of a knife stabbing his heart.

  I chuckle. “Any other assumptions about me you need to sort out, here’s your chance.”

  He shakes his head. “Nah, it’s okay.”

  “Come on. I’m curious. I promise I won’t take offense.”

  “You think I’m falling for that line?” He laughs, and I feel an unexpected wave of attraction to him. I look away, focusing my attention on my laptop screen.

  “I take my promises seriously.”

  “Maybe. Probably. But the promise part isn’t the problem. It’s how you define offense.”

  I can’t help but laugh.

  He fixes his eyes on me. “Okay, fine. We’ll start easy. Favorite food?”

  I lean back in my chair and raise an eyebrow at him. “Oh, is this one of those lame twenty questions?”

  “Yeah. Why not.”

  “Okay. That’s easy. Pizza.”

  “Pet peeve?”

  I think for a moment. “Well, you know what I find annoying? When you’re at the movies, gorging on popcorn, and there’s that one couple who aren’t eating anything. Who does that?”

  “Weird people.”

  “Exactly! It’s just common courtesy to join in. Because when everybody else is shoving the popcorn in, I feel safe to munch on mine. But that couple sucks all the joy out of it because I’m sitting there thinking, Can they hear me? Are they annoyed? Have I just ruined that scene because they can hear me cracking a corn kernel?”

  “Wow. I was expecting maybe something along the lines of close talkers, or people who take a sip of their drink while there’s still food in their mouth. But that was about as thorough and considered a reply as I’ve ever gotten.”

  “I take my movie experiences seriously. So what’s your pet peeve then?”

  “People on public transport clipping nails, or eating something smelly. Or worse, putting their bags on seats.”

  “And then they give you a filthy look if you ask them to move their bag so you can sit down.”

  “Just sit on the bag. Works every time. So, favorite movie?”

  “The Lord of the Rings trilogy.”

  “You’re a Tolkien geek?” He grins.

  “Yep. I’m holding out for a Lord of the Rings/Hobbit movie marathon one day. I’ve got it all figured out too. Everybody dresses up—you know, just to increase the geek factor—and we rent out a community hall or some such place from the morning. Everyone brings a beanbag, cushions, junk food.”

  “And you march people out and subject them to some form of public humiliation if their phone rings or they take selfies mid-movie.”

  We keep on talking and when the bell rings it takes us by surprise. Michael leaves, and I pack my bag. As I stand up, I notice Zoe and Clara staring at me, slight smirks on their faces. It irks me, and before I have a chance to even think twice I walk up to them, stop, and say, “Better luck next time on the essay, Zoe,” and saunter off, head high.

  Mum is slipping into paranoid fantasies about Dad being killed by a suicide bomber, or else appearing in a scratchy YouTube video with an unruly beard and a gun pointed at his temple as he’s forced to read out demands for the withdrawal of infidels from Muslim lands.

  There’s no contact allowed. When the phone rings, she panics, thinking we’re going to be sucked into a hostage crisis. We get daily calls from an SBS producer reassuring us that everyone is fine. But Mum ends up wondering if she’s in fact been speaking to a terrorist putting on a good Aussie accent.

  She’s convinced Dad’s politics might have landed him on some international terrorist hit list.

  “How could we have agreed?” she wails over dinner one night.

  “Mum, I hate to break it to you,” I joke, “but it’s highly unlikely that Dad has a political profile that’s actually extended beyond the lower North Shore of Sydney.”

  “Well, thank God for that,” she says to herself.

  “You know, Mum,” Nathan says, taking a noisy slurp of his juice. “If Dad is killed, the organization will become even more popular.”

  “Do you want Dad to die?” Mum suddenly snaps, but then her face is awash with guilt and she quickly apologizes.

  She sometimes has moments when she forgets to self-censor around Nathan. They’re usually entertaining (well, in hindsight anyway), but if they go too far the consequences can be disastrous (like the time Nathan was seven and she’d had enough in the shops and told him to just get out of her way and so he did. For an hour. Westfield security was very supportive).

  “Everybody dies,” Nathan helpfully offers. “I don’t want Dad to die. Or you. Or Michael. Or me, although I’d rather you die first because you’ve lived longer and it’s only fair. But you will die, you know. You could kiss me good night tonight and die in your sleep and Dad could be alive and okay in Baghdad as bombs detonate around him.” He shrugs as though Mum is an idiot for not working out something so logical.

  “Thank you, Nathan,” Mum says wearily.

  “Any time, Mum. Can I have more juice, please?”

  Paula’s coming over for dinner tonight. I’ve been buzzing all day, like a kid waiting for her birthday party to start. The house is sparkling and smells of lemon bleach, frangipani, and lamb biryani. Mum and I have been cleaning and cooking for hours because according to my mum’s logic, adolescent friendships are made or broken by the orderliness of one’s linen closet.

  I’m putting the last touches to the table for two that I’ve set on the veranda, and Mum is checking the stove.

  “So her parents are both lawyers?” Mum asks.

  “Yep.”

  “And they go on vacation overseas every year?”

  “That’s what I’ve picked up from our conversations.”

  “And she has a car?”

  “Well, not exactly. She’s only sixteen, Mum, I told you that.”

  “But you mentioned she has a car.”

  “It’s her sister’s car. But she’s overseas so she’s left her car here and Paula’s taking driving lessons in the car.”

  “And the car is a Saab?”

  “Mum, quit it, will you? I know what you’re thinking and she’s not like that, and no, she’
s not going to judge us because we’re living in a shoe box.”

  Mum pauses, then draws a breath. “I just want to make a good impression. For your sake.”

  Mercifully, the front buzzer rings. I leap from the couch and run to answer and let Paula in. Within seconds she’s at the front door. She sees Mum and launches at her, giving her a big hug and a lopsided, utterly endearing grin.

  It doesn’t take long for Paula to be inducted into the Hall of Acceptable Friends.

  Mum insists on leaving the two of us alone to eat dinner and hang out. Because the apartment is so small, she retreats to her bedroom with a cup of tea, bowl of salted pumpkin seeds, and the second half of a Bollywood movie.

  “I’ve always wanted to watch a Bollywood movie,” Paula says as we eat dinner.

  “If you ever end up watching one, just expect to watch it over a few days, because who has three straight hours free?”

  After we’ve eaten and washed up, we balance a junk food stash between us and go to my room. We settle onto my bed, spread the food around us, take out my laptop, and start watching funny YouTube clips of models tripping on runways, people falling off bikes, and other Fail compilations that send us into fits of hysteria.

  “So you think my Lord of the Rings movie marathon is a good idea?” I ask Paula after we finally catch our breath.

  “Definitely! Morello’s a big fan, by the way. So, you know, we have Middle-earth in common. Bet you his wife doesn’t even know the difference between an orc and troll.”

  “Easy. Just think of the difference between Terrence and Fred.”

  She laughs.

  “So where will we hold the marathon?” I ask. “If we get enough people we could all chip in and rent the community hall here.”

  “How about we do it at my place? We’ve got a cinema room.”

  “A cinema room?”

  Paula looks momentarily embarrassed. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

  Despite my misgivings, Paula insists that her parents won’t mind an invasion of teenagers.

  She waves a hand dismissively. “It’s called emotional blackmail. Let me demonstrate.” She sits up, grins at me. “Pay attention,” she tells me. “Unleashing my finest acting skills here.

  “Mum, can my friends and I have the house all day and can you supply all the food and drink and make sure you’re out until the last person’s gone?”

  She clears her throat, then puts on a breezy voice. “Make sure we’re out of the house? Why, Paula, we had no intention of being home in the first place. We’ll be in the office that weekend.

  “But you don’t know which weekend yet.

  “Minor detail, darling. Here’s my credit card. Buy as much food and drink as you need. Have a wonderful time!”

  Paula bows, lets out a bitter laugh, and then falls back onto the pillow. “So in other words, venue and sustenance are taken care of. We just need to figure out who to invite.”

  “So they work long hours?”

  “Yep.”

  “My stepfather does too.”

  “Does your mum?”

  “She’s in and out of the restaurant.”

  “I’m a feminist; I don’t care which of them cuts back their hours, I only wish one of them would. Meanwhile, my sister, Nancy, abandoned me and is spending her gap year in the States. So I’m basically an orphan with a one-email-a-week sibling.” She shakes her head. “So hopefully I’ve made you feel sorry for me now, which is why you have to get into slam poetry with me!”

  “Slam poetry?”

  She grabs the laptop and goes back to YouTube.

  “Check this channel out: Def Poetry Jam. It’s an old HBO show. I’ve died and gone to heaven. It features all these spoken word artists. Prepare to lose your breath.”

  It’s like nothing I’ve seen or heard before. The words pierce me. The beat, the intensity, the rhythm. Some performers’ voices are soft melodies, lulling you into a false sense of security until wham, they’ve pulled the ground from under your feet. Others puncture your heart with every word.

  “Wow.”

  “I want to perform one day. I’ve been going to a poetry slam event in the city. I’ve made some friends there, but I don’t have the courage to get up on stage yet. Would you come with me to the next one? I might have worked up the courage by then.”

  “Sure! I’d love to.”

  She grabs my hand dramatically. “Thank you! Okay, let’s do a Facebook invite for our movie marathon!”

  One does not simply receive a LOTR movie marathon/costume party invitation and decline. Dress up as your favorite LOTR character.

  We decide to send the invite to Adrian (because he’s smart and laid-back), Jane (because Paula will feel guilty if she doesn’t), Leica and Cameron (because they’re joined at the hip). Paula’s going to ask a couple of friends from her slam poetry group too. I tell Paula about Maha and a couple of my other friends from Auburn Grove Girls High and ask her if I can invite them too.

  “Of course!”

  “You’ll love Maha,” I tell her with a laugh. “Or not … It could go either way.”

  “Hey, I have an uncanny knack for memorizing book and film quotes and a crush on a dead gay writer and a teacher. I’m not one to judge.”

  Paula’s text comes through as I enter the school gates.

  We file into the school hall for a special assembly. The entire campus of Auburn Grove Girls High would fit inside this hall. Ms. Ham stands in front of the podium on a stage I’m sure rivals anything on Broadway. She announces that the tenth graders have put on a Global Citizen Photography Reflections Exhibition following their two-week trip to Ghana. She encourages us—well, orders us would be more accurate—to visit the Middle School Atrium to have a look before the exhibition moves to the foyer of the local council building.

  “I am so proud of our tenth-grade students, who have demonstrated a real commitment to understanding the responsibilities that come with their privileges. You are all this country’s future leaders and that is both an immense privilege and a burden.”

  As I listen to Ms. Ham drone on and on about how Victoria College graduates will run the country one day, two thoughts dawn on me. The first is that all the teachers here just assume that the guys and girls sitting around me have the world at their fingertips. And the second is that despite wearing the same uniform as everybody else, I feel like an imposter. Like I’m in the wrong manufacturing plant, only seconds away from a tap on the shoulder and a gentle but firm, You belong in the people-who-will-be-led production line, not this one.

  At Auburn Grove Girls High, when teachers stood up to address us in assemblies, it was to urge us to study hard, stay focused, remain resilient, set goals, seek support. If there was a “leader,” she was the exception, not the norm.

  Listening to Ms. Ham, I wonder if things would be different if we spent thirteen years being told that we were born to lead, and that the only thing that would ever hold us back would be a limited imagination.

  I’m starting to realize that being born into this social world is a little like being born into clean air. You take it in as soon as you breathe, and pretty soon you don’t even realize that while you can walk around with clear lungs, other people are wearing oxygen masks just to survive.

  Mr. Morello decides to hold our Society and Culture class in the Middle School Atrium so we can see the tenth grade photography exhibition.

  The photos have been blown up and mounted on canvases. There are shots of Victoria College students posing with young children. Photos of Ghanaian kids staring into the camera lens. Or just sitting. Or standing.

  Zoe and Clara are standing near us, and I hear them gushing to each other about how beautiful the children are. “Oh my God, they’re just gorgeous!”

  Something about the whole exhibition unsettles me, but I’m struggling to put it into words, even to myself.

  I stand in front of a photograph of a young Ghanaian kid. Barefoot, in an undershirt and faded oversized jeans, he has a solemn
expression on his face. There’s something almost rehearsed in his pose and demeanor. A tenth-grade girl named Sandra is crouched down on her knees, one arm around him, grinning at the camera. The whole photograph feels staged, as if he’s just playing out a role for her benefit, like some kind of third-world kid mascot helping people from the first world find themselves. I don’t know why it disturbs me, because it’s a good thing that they’re helping these kids, isn’t it? But still, there’s a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “These photos are so much better than the ones we took when we went to Botswana for our trip,” Paula says, as we stop and look at a photo of a group of the tenth-grade students digging a veggie patch.

  “It’s all a bit too National Geographic for me,” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hard to explain,” I murmur.

  There are some things so deeply sedimented that the slightest excavation and the walls will start to fall in on themselves.

  “Do all the tenth graders go on these trips?” I ask Paula.

  “Yeah, pretty much most of them.”

  “How much does it cost?”

  “Hmm, several grand I think. I’m not sure exactly.”

  We keep moving, and then there’s Michael, standing in our path.

  “They’re good photos, hey?” he says cheerfully.

  “Mina doesn’t think so,” Paula says with a smile and shrug.

  “Have you gone on one of these trips?” I ask him.

  “Yeah, with Paula too, in tenth grade. We went to Botswana. It was amazing. We trekked through the Kalahari Desert—”

  “I liked it when we tracked rhinos in the Khama Rhino Sanctuary,” Paula says excitedly.

  “Yeah, that was brilliant. We fixed up run-down buildings and built a sports field at an orphanage too.”

  “That’s nice,” I tell them.

  Michael gives me a quizzical look. “What’s wrong?”

  I shrug. “The world’s one big wide adventure playground for some people, I guess.”

  Paula and Michael both look at me but choose not to reply.

  Michael appears at the library during second period of my double free period.