The Lines We Cross

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  He says hi, throws his bag down, and takes out his MacBook. He starts working, no fuss. I don’t comment. Maybe all his friends are in class and he’s a bit of a loner for this period too. But then, why me?

  We settle into a quiet rhythm, each of us doing our own thing. I’ve got my iPod hooked up to my earphones, as does he.

  “Are you always so cynical?” he suddenly asks.

  “Pardon?”

  “Cynical. I thought rich kids going to poor countries would be the last thing to feel offended by.” He quickly raises the palm of his hand. “Wait, I’m not trying to provoke you. I’m genuinely interested in why that exhibition annoyed you.”

  “It didn’t annoy me,” I say hesitantly.

  “Yeah. It did. I could tell.”

  “Things can be more complicated than just being annoyed. Anyway, let’s just leave it, hey?”

  He shrugs. “Suit yourself. Do you know Grouplove?”

  I smile and hold up my screen so he can see my favorite albums playlist. He scans it and grins.

  “I have ‘Tongue Tied’ on repeat so much even my mum can practically sing it,” I say. “She hates it of course.”

  “Every respectable teenager should love the kind of music their parents hate.”

  “Definitely.”

  Smiling his approval, he adds, “Impressive playlist.”

  “Yeah, the Taliban gave me a solid education in indie music.”

  He laughs uncertainly.

  “It’s okay,” I reassure him. “You can laugh.”

  “Hard to tell when every joke manages to offend somebody.”

  “Oh, give me a break. People only pretend they don’t know the difference between being a dumbass racist jerk and, yeah, er, not being one.”

  “You better polish that one before using it as your next Facebook status.”

  I make a face at him and he gives me a mischievous smile.

  “Wait a second.” He feigns a look of offense. “So are you saying I’m a dumbass racist jerk?”

  “Not necessarily.” I snort.

  “Wow, thanks.”

  “I’d say we’d pretty much disagree with each other on most things—”

  “—except music and the pitfalls of public transport and movies.”

  “You keeping tabs?” There’s more grinning.

  “Anyway, you don’t know anything else about me. And I don’t know anything else about you.”

  That just sits in the air as I contemplate a response. Have we upgraded from classroom screaming match, to Sunday coffee for an assignment, to needing to get to know more about each other?

  Saved by the phone. It’s Baba. He never calls me during school hours. Worried, I answer. He tells me a man came into the restaurant throwing around accusations about halal food funding terrorism. Baba is upset and I apologize to him, tell him that the man came in last week but things got so busy it slipped my mind. I calm him down, tell him it’s probably just some stupid prank. He’s going to call the police if the man shows up again.

  “Is that Farsi you were speaking?”

  “Yeah,” I say, distracted. Who is that man and what does he want?

  He cocks his head to the side and grins at me. “Talking about the brilliant company you keep?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, but I can’t help but laugh.

  I get a job at a call center. I’m working two afternoon shifts a week and the money’s not bad.

  I go through training first. How to answer calls, how long to speak, clocking in and out, monitored toilet breaks (what the?), how to deal with complaints (otherwise known as Don’t Say the F-Word).

  Then Anh, the manager, plants me down at a cubicle, hands me my headset, and says: “Don’t screw this up.”

  My first day’s charity is the Salvation Army. I open up the document with the list of people I have to contact in my shift. I have a target to meet. It seems easy enough. Everybody loves the Salvos.

  I dial the first number. A man answers. He sounds groggy, like I’ve woken him up.

  “Um, hi, sir, my name is Michael and I’m calling on behalf of the Salvation Army—”

  “Are you a telemarketer?”

  “Um, no, sir.” I read out the script, trying to sound natural. “With winter approaching, more and more people at risk are finding it difficult to make ends—”

  “Then they should bloody get a job like the rest of us and maybe I’ll be able to do mine properly if I get some sleep before my shift starts. Don’t call again!”

  He hangs up on me. The rejection is hard.

  But I get over it. Fast.

  Twenty calls later I’ve been called a dick and a nuisance and a liar. When people agree to donate, they spend most of the call yakking on about their personal lives. I know I have to cut the calls short because there are strict time limits. I try to tell one woman that I don’t have the time to hear her out about her husband’s affair with the next-door neighbor and she gives me the wrong credit card number as punishment. Every time I hang up, convinced I’ve spoken to the rudest person on the planet, the next call proves me wrong.

  I make twenty dollars in total.

  My target was one thousand.

  Anh shakes his head at me. “You’re not here to play counselor. Get the money, cut back on the small talk, and move on to the next call.”

  “Okay. Sorry.”

  “Next charity will be guide dogs. If you can’t get money for guide dogs, do yourself a favor and get a job selling Big Macs.”

  Such an encouraging mentor, Anh is.

  I’m ravenous. I charge through the front door and straight to the fridge. Nothing appeals to me and I call out in desperation to Mum. She emerges from the family room.

  “I’m starving,” I moan.

  “Let’s order pizza.”

  Half an hour later, Nathan, Mum, and I are stuffing our faces with pizza and garlic bread and watching a couple who are planning to turn an old wool mill into a modern mansion on Grand Designs. Mum’s in multitask mode, watching as she works on her laptop.

  “Grading essays?” I ask her.

  “Nope. Editing our Who We Are page on the website.”

  Ten minutes into Grand Designs, Nathan airily blurts out: “Why are we watching this show? Dad’s not here, and Michael doesn’t want to be an architect anymore.”

  I stiffen, slowly swallow the piece of pizza that’s threatening to lodge in my throat.

  Mum looks up sharply from her laptop. The woman misses nothing. “What was that?”

  Nathan jumps up on the couch and lands on his knees. “Why are we watching this show? Dad’s not—”

  “Yes, I heard you, Nathan,” Mum says, her voice strained. She turns to face me, dabbing a bit of sauce on the corner of her mouth with a tissue. “What’s Nathan talking about?”

  There’s a long pause. Caught off guard, I have no game plan for this discussion. I haven’t rehearsed my lines and I certainly would have preferred the chance to break it to her gently.

  “Well?” she presses me.

  “Jesus, Nathan,” I mutter. “How’d you know?”

  “I heard you talking to Terrence.”

  Mum stares at me, confused. I heave an exhausted sigh.

  “I want to go to UTS Design School.”

  She sucks in her breath. “What do you mean? Instead of architecture or alongside architecture?”

  “Instead.”

  She purses her lips. She’s silent. Half a minute passes.

  “Obviously it’s your life, Michael,” she finally says, so slowly and carefully I can practically picture her selecting each word with the attention and care you would apply to the task of picking apples at the grocer’s. “But you’ve always wanted to do architecture. You have everything it takes and all the support you need to make a promising career of it. It’s a prestigious profession, Michael.”

  “Prestige is overrated, Mum.”

  She scoffs. “Don’t be silly. Is it anxiety? Are you worried your test
results won’t be high enough? Your last report card was excellent. Why would you begin to doubt yourself now?”

  “I’m not doubting myself.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “But I want to do graphic design. I want to create things, be part of something that’s changing all the time. I mean, who knows what designs will be possible by the time I go to university? Do you know that medical students can use AR to examine cross sections of human anatomy?”

  “AR?”

  I give her a mini lesson on augmented reality. But I can tell by the look in her eyes that she thinks I’m proposing to go on welfare and play Minecraft for the rest of my life.

  “Architecture is solid and reliable,” she says. “Life isn’t all about sitting in front of a computer, Michael. Gaming doesn’t pay bills. Art doesn’t even pay bills. Those aren’t careers. They’re hobbies you pursue on the side of a career.”

  “It’s my life. I’m sorry, but I don’t want what you and Dad want for me.”

  We go back and forth. Mum wants me to understand how lucky I am. She pleads with me to not decide on anything yet. To just get the highest test scores I can and then make a decision.

  We fight. I’m bringing this up at the wrong time. I’m being impetuous and ungrateful for an opportunity other people could only dream about. Dad has enough on his plate with Aussie Values and this would seriously demoralize him.

  I hear enough and storm upstairs to my room.

  The restaurant doors swing open and the guy who questioned me about halal food the other night walks in. He strides up to the counter and asks Baba if he can talk to him privately, suggesting they step outside.

  “Why?” I say, standing close to Baba.

  “We can do this in front of all your customers,” the man says, “or outside. Your pick.”

  “What’s this about?” Baba asks.

  “We don’t have to speak to you,” I say. “Get out of here or I’m calling the police.”

  The man smirks, and then turns around and walks out.

  Baba’s feeling stressed and I insist he go home early and leave me and the other staff to handle things tonight. He’s stubborn but no match for me. Finally he relents, puts his jacket on, lists a string of instructions, and leaves. But just as soon as he’s closed the door behind him he’s back, calling me outside. The restaurant is full so nobody’s really paying attention. But I can see the panic in his face. I rush outside.

  There’s a guy in a suit, a man with a handheld camera with a News Tonight insignia, standing with the man I’d kicked out earlier. Baba is yelling at them to step away from the restaurant, but the sidewalk is a public area and the reporter’s not about to leave.

  “With reports of halal food funding terrorism overseas, can you confirm whether you know where the money you spend on halal food is actually going?”

  Baba looks utterly stricken. I run over to him, blocking him from the camera.

  “You have no right,” I cry. “We don’t have to answer your questions.”

  “If you’ve got nothing to hide then why won’t you talk to us?” the reporter says.

  “I’m calling the police,” I say.

  “We’re well within our rights here,” the reporter says.

  The doors to Pizza Hub open and a couple steps out. They take in the scene and raise their eyebrows at us. Tim steps out behind them.

  “Piss off with your trashy program,” he shouts at the reporter.

  “Do you have any concerns about where halal funds go?”

  “Mate, you’re scaring customers away. Piss off or I’ll call the cops on you.”

  Tim meets Baba’s eye and Baba mouths a thank-you to him. I grab Baba’s hand and quickly lead him back into the restaurant, out to the back.

  We’re both shaking. I call the police. They arrive in half an hour and take a report. But there’s nothing they can do because it all happened off our premises.

  It airs that night. With the editing job they’ve done, it just sounds like we have something to hide. The report ends with the reporter outside a mosque, telling the audience about some people’s fears of “creeping sharia.” There’s a shot of the man who harassed us in the restaurant. He’s a member of a new organization that wants to stop the “Islamization of Australia.” There’s a shot of the founder, Alan Blainey. Then there’s some file footage of a group of people at an anti-asylum-seeker rally.

  “But is all this just fear-mongering?” the journalist asks in the end.

  A bit too late for that.

  I feel like vomiting.

  It’s Hasan’s tenth birthday and it’s time to cut the cake. I’ve been looking for him all afternoon but he’s been too busy running around with his friends and only offered me a wave whenever I called his name. I’m grinning as I chase him now. He’s laughing so hard that he has to stop to catch his breath. I grab him from behind. “Got you!” I cry, and spin him around. I stumble back in horror. His face is featureless. Its anonymity taunts me: the sister who survived; the sister who cannot even remember what her own brother looked like. Guilt plagues me even in sleep.

  Mum’s standing at the kitchen bench swigging down her morning cup of coffee as she makes Nathan’s lunch and tests him on his spelling words. I go to the pantry, take out a box of cornflakes, and pour some straight into my mouth.

  “Michael!” Mum yells. “Use a bowl.”

  My mouth full, I shake my head and point to my watch. I grab a banana from the fruit bowl, wave to them both, and head to the front door. Mum rushes after me.

  “Wait,” she calls out.

  I turn to face her, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “Is your decision really final? I mean, don’t you want to at least wait until you finish high school and receive your grades?”

  “It’s final, Mum. Pretty much the one thing I’m certain of in my life is that I want to do graphic design. I’m going to break it to Dad when he gets back and finally I can stop pretending.”

  Mum’s eyes widen. “At least wait.”

  “Mum!”

  “I don’t want him to return and have to deal with the disappointment straight up. Let’s give him time to settle in and then you can tell him.”

  I exhale loudly. “Okay, fine.”

  I’m playing with Nathan on the Xbox in the early evening. Mum is in the next room watching an inane current affairs program. She suddenly calls out to me.

  I ignore her at first. FIFA, or segment on neighborhood feud/restaurant health scare/exploding breast implants? Hardly a difficult choice.

  “It’s about Aussie Values! Quick! It’s coming on after the commercials!”

  Nathan and I jump up and run to the family room.

  It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion. I’m glued to the spot, a wave of nausea rushing through me as I see Mina on the screen, her face racked with panic.

  “What’s it about?”

  “I’m not sure.” She looks slightly disturbed. “Nobody should be doing media without your father’s authorization. Oh!” Her tone is now one of relief. “It’s Andrew!”

  Andrew’s ranting to a reporter. “How do we know halal certification money isn’t being used to fund terrorism? People don’t have a choice. Halal is taking over. The new Afghan restaurant in the neighborhood has forced out an old fish and chip shop, a fixture among locals for years.”

  Mum beams. “Good work, Andrew! We got some national coverage.”

  All I can think about is Mina’s face. Weren’t there other ways to draw attention to halal scams without dragging her into it?

  The report continues and I do a quick Google search. To my surprise, a federal government inquiry found no links between halal certification and funding terrorism. I ask Mum if she knows about it.

  “Obviously they won’t find any evidence,” she scoffs. “That just proves how deep the funding scheme is.”

  I frown. “So no evidence is evidence?”

  Mum, distracted by the TV, nods absentmindedly.

 
; I feel the urge to be outside, alone. “Mum, can I go for a drive?”

  Mum now looks tormented. Her standard response since I got my license three months ago.

  “If you didn’t want me to be seventeen at the end of tenth grade, you shouldn’t have held me back at school,” I say.

  She gives me a death stare but gives in.

  “Stick to the speed limit. And no phone.”

  “Thanks, Mum.”

  I go into the hall, grab my car keys, yell out that I’ll be back in an hour, and leave. I hear the front door open and slam shut behind me, Nathan on my heels.

  “I’m coming too!” he says. “Mum said it’ll force you to drive more carefully. Because you love me more than yourself.”

  “She needs a meme generator of her own,” I say with a groan. “I was kind of hoping to be alone …”

  “Okay!” he cries back cheerfully, opening the passenger door and climbing in.

  I sigh and get in.

  “Why do you want to be alone?”

  “To contemplate life.”

  I stop at a McDonald’s on the way, pick up some meals for us, and then head to the national park. I pump the music loud the whole way, ignoring the frowning faces of people in the cars at traffic lights.

  “Does this music help you contemplate life?”

  “Yes.”

  My phone vibrates. Nathan grabs it first.

  “You shouldn’t use a cell phone when driving. We might have an accident and you could kill me and then you would deprive Mum of the pleasure of grounding you for life. So I’ll read it to you?”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s from Fred. Saw your dad’s organization on TV. And Mina from school. Looks like her dad’s into some dodgy shit big-time. How do you want me to reply?”

  “I don’t know,” I say distractedly, thinking about a response.

  After several tries I settle on: Who knows what the full story is? The response is excruciatingly lame. I dictate to Nathan, feeling piss weak and slightly confused. Why should I even care?

  “Okay, sent,” Nathan announces. “You can contemplate life now. I’m going to play Minecraft.”