My mind is in overdrive, wondering if Mina will connect my last name to Dad’s. And then Aussie Values to me.
Baba drops me off early at school this morning. I’m drinking a coffee at my usual spot under one of the large fig trees on the school grounds. I see Mrs. Robinson in the near distance, carrying an expensive-looking briefcase, ambling up the path as if she might be trying to delay the beginning of another day.
My stomach plunges. Will Mrs. Robinson mention the program? Will this be the moment I’m going to be tapped on the shoulder and told I’m in the wrong production line?
She’s close now and notices me as she approaches.
She stops and makes small talk with me and it’s soon clear that she hasn’t seen the program. I try not to do a fist pump.
“How’s school, Mina?” “How are you fitting in?” “What’s your favorite part of Victoria College?” “Yes, I think the student café is a great idea too. Fabulous for building math skills.” She goes on in this vein for a few minutes, and then asks, “So you like this tree too, hey?”
I nod. “It’s pretty spectacular.”
“When I got the job as principal here, I gave up the water views from the North Sydney school I was teaching at for the leafy North Shore. I love the tree change.” She smiles warmly at me. “This tree’s been a sentry over generations of graduates.”
“Full of secrets,” I say. “And history. That’s why I like it.”
Paula rushes up to me fifteen minutes before the first bell is due to ring. She throws her bag on the ground, sits down to face me, legs crossed, and stares intently into my eyes.
“Oscar Wilde wants you to know that there is only one thing in life worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.”
“Oscar Wilde could say that. He had excellent taste in clothes.”
“Nobody with even half a brain takes that show seriously. They’ll be back to real estate crooks and crazy fad diets tomorrow. I say we have fun with this. I’m thinking a halal kebab van outside the café. A huge banner: One Bite and You’re Converted. What do you think?”
She grins at me.
I grin back at her. “I love you. The end.”
She seems genuinely touched.
“Okay. Cheesy, sentimental moments quota for the week reached,” I joke.
“Totally.” She laughs.
“You know what the trick is?” she says when we hear the bell ring and reluctantly rise and make our way to homeroom. “Learning that it can’t always be about them. Sometimes, maybe even most times, you fight back. But sometimes you can end up dignifying their arguments when you defend yourself. And even if you’re in the right, it’s exhausting to live your life in constant resistance. You have to keep a space to yourself, Mina, a space where they don’t exist. And doing that will piss them off more, anyway.”
“How?”
She shrugs. “I think some people just can’t handle people who go about their life genuinely not caring about what other people think.”
“This is from personal experience?”
“I’ve had years of practice.” She grins at me. “After all, you’ve only known me in my Wilde days.”
Homeroom is quiet.
Recess, not so much.
A lot of people are really sweet and sympathetic and it gives me the confidence to decide I’m not going to bother defending myself.
Hey, was that you on TV last night?
No, I’ve got a twin.
What’s going on with your dad?
Ringworm.
But why’d they single your dad out? They must have had a reason.
The producer has a thing for Afghan men.
Why do you serve halal in Lane Cove anyway? There aren’t many Muslims here, are there?
Not yet. The breeding program’s in progress and we’ll be able to take over soon.
My name is called on the loudspeaker. Trying to mask my trepidation, I get up from my desk and go to the office.
Mrs. Robinson has been informed about the program. “Did you watch it?” she asks.
“No, I didn’t,” I reply.
She smiles. “Some of the teachers were chatting about it at morning tea and were quite concerned for you and your family.”
She gives me a pep talk, advising me to ignore the tabloid media.
“Instead of bullying and harassing people like you, we should be welcoming you to our country,” she says, shaking her head in dismay. “Your parents are hardworking, decent, moderate people who have clearly made extraordinary sacrifices for you to have this opportunity.”
There’s a reason why I’m drawn to the tree in the school yard most mornings. The roots spread wide, twisted and coiled. The trunk is enormous, rough and crusty. Can you be jealous of a tree? Of its roots that dig deep into soil, staking their claim? I smile to myself as Mrs. Robinson reassures me that I should always feel welcome here.
I’m like an Afghan sapling that grew a little, only to be snatched out of the ground and planted somewhere else.
Everybody’s pruned and shaped somehow, I guess. But not everybody has to fight to stop from being torn out of the ground.
A backpack on his shoulder, Mr. Morello takes us outside for Society and Culture. He instructs us to assemble side by side to form a straight line. Then he divides the class into two.
“Everybody on the right of Zoe is able-bodied,” he says. “Team Kyle. Everybody on the left of Zoe, including you, Zoe, has a physical disability. Team Zoe.”
Paula and I are on Team Kyle. We all exchange quizzical looks and call out to Mr. Morello to explain what’s going on. He tells us to be patient. He takes a bunch of short lengths of rope from his bag and hands one to each of the students on Team Zoe. He then instructs them to quickly work together so that each of them has their hands tied in front of their bodies.
Terrence is already mouthing off as Fred ties his hands together. “Hey, sir, not all of us are into kinky, you know.”
Mr. Morello growls at him to keep a lid on it.
Michael and I are on the same team. I catch him looking at me and roll my eyes in Terrence’s direction. He feigns a suffering smile and raises his hands in resignation, the gesture reminding me of the way a parent would respond to somebody commenting on their unruly child.
Mr. Morello is helping to tie Cameron’s hands, as he’s the last person on Team Zoe. He then turns to address us all.
“Your mission is simple. I’ve planted clothespins in the gardens, café, and quadrangle areas. The team who collects the most wins. Team Kyle, you have ten minutes. Team Zoe, you have five.”
There are groans and cheers, and then Mr. Morello shouts out “start” and people instantly disperse and start running in all directions. I spot a clothespin behind a trash can and swoop down on it before Fred, who, hands tied, is hot on my heels. There’s laughter all around, but shouts of “That’s not fair!” too. I run to the quadrangle area, grab some more clothespins along the way. Michael, Paula, and Jane follow me, calling out excitedly when they pick one up.
“Quick! Over there!” Michael calls out. “Under the chair. There’s a whole stack of them! I’ll go to the café!”
Jane and I sprint to the bench, reaching it at the same time as Terrence. All three of us are frantically grabbing at the clothespins. With his hands bound, Terrence doesn’t stand much of a chance though. I grab a handful. Just as soon as Terrence picks up his first one, he drops it again. Jane and I, giggling, quickly grab at the clothespin that gets away from him before he can try again. Jane’s so caught in the moment that she doesn’t seem to have noticed that she’s competing against the guy who routinely leaves her tongue-tied. That is, until he hisses, “Bitches.”
“It’s just a game.” Jane’s voice trembles slightly.
“No shit, Sherlock,” he says scornfully. “Sheez, Morello’s an idiot. Like we need to do this shit to know that life sucks when you’re a retard.”
“That’s an appalling thing to say!” I cry.
“Yeah, well, deal with it,” he replies.
Michael jogs over to us, grinning madly as he holds up a bunch of clothespins. Terrence sees him and groans loudly.
“This is so rigged!”
“That’s the point,” Michael says.
I grin when Michael counts out thirteen. Jane is standing beside me, deflated now. “I’ll go look in the garden,” she says to nobody in particular, and walks off.
We hear a whistle, and people start to call out that time’s up for Team Zoe.
Terrence rolls his eyes. “This is such bullshit.”
“You’re such a sore loser,” I snap, fed up with his tantrums.
“If I wanted an opinion from somebody who bankrolls terrorists, I’d ask.”
I’ve never been punched in the guts before, but I reckon it might feel like the impact his words have on me. I stare at him, openmouthed, winded.
Michael flinches too.
“That’s not cool, man,” he tells Terrence. His tone is grave, and while I don’t need anybody to come to my rescue, the tameness of his words makes me feel as though I’ve been punched twice.
Terrence lifts his brows at Michael, as if confused. “It’s your dad’s organization that broke the story! Didn’t you see the bloke from Aussie Values on News Tonight last night?”
I stare at Michael but he’s refusing to look at me. When our eyes finally meet for a second, he just can’t hold my gaze and looks away.
“Aussie Values? Your dad’s organization?”
“Yeah,” Terrence says in a well duh voice.
“I can explain,” Michael says.
But I don’t want to hear another word from him.
“Nope.” I shake my head emphatically. “Don’t bother. I thought you were confused. Turns out you’re just a hypocrite.”
I throw my clothespins at their feet and storm off.
When Mina walks away, I know I’ve lost her before I’ve even had a chance.
The last bell can’t come quickly enough. I leave Terrence thinking I’ve got to rush home to make it for work. I sprint to the front gates and hop onto the bus, grateful I’ve avoided bumping into anybody I know. I find an empty seat and lean my head against the window. The glass is cold against my skin, and smudged with fingerprints. Right at my eye level somebody’s used permanent marker to scrawl a tiny message to the world: Kylie loves Paul forever. When things can fuck up in a matter of moments, that kind of long-term optimism seems silly and naive. I feel like getting in touch with this Kylie girl and telling her to step into the real world.
I want somebody to blame for everything that’s happened but I don’t know who. I want somebody to fix things but I wouldn’t know where to start.
Before Mina, my life was like a completed jigsaw puzzle. Mina’s come along and pushed the puzzle upside down onto the floor. I have to start all over again, figuring out where the pieces go. But some of the pieces to the puzzle don’t seem to fit the way they used to.
The thought terrifies me.
How can my parents be right, be good, if it means people like Mina end up getting hurt?
It’s so much easier to live in a world where everything is black and white.
I’ve never done gray before, but I suspect it’s one of those things that, tried once, you can never go back.
Mum drives me to Paula’s house on Saturday afternoon. We pull into a boulevard of contemporary architect-designed mansions, Victorian terraces, and old, grand estates. The last are the kinds of houses that aren’t content to be identified by street number but have names like Chelsea Manor and Evergreen Hall. Mum clucks her tongue in admiration as she drives under school-zone speed, gazing in awe at each house. Then, to my mortification, she grabs her phone and starts taking photos, arm stretched out of the window.
“Mum!”
She withdraws her arm and puts the phone in her lap. She juts out her chin, dismissive of my reaction. “I want to show Baba.”
I groan.
But then my phone navigator instructs us we’ve arrived at our destination and I become a little bit silly myself.
“Oh. My. God. Whoa!”
Paula’s house is like something you see in one of those home decor magazines you only ever flick through in a doctor’s waiting room. A masterpiece of glass and steel and bays and roofs at different heights. I take it all in and suddenly I feel like a kid again, playing Lego for the first time after we were released from the detention center and I’d started school. I built crazy, extravagant houses. I still remember the intense longing that came with those houses. How badly I wanted my make-believe world to be real.
“This Paula friend,” Mum says in an authoritative tone, “is very high status. Very high status,” she repeats for emphasis.
I don’t know how to break it to her that status doesn’t operate like an airborne virus.
I kiss her good-bye, jump out of the car, and run up the front steps. Before I’ve had a chance to ring the bell, the door swings open and Paula’s there, grinning at me. I start to take off my shoes. She tells me not to. I tell her my mum would have a fit if she found out. She promises she won’t tell her. I explain that I’m quite happy to make up stories to extend my curfew, or manipulate library closing times to stay out late, but not taking my shoes off would be the ultimate betrayal. She rolls her eyes and says, “You were made to be loved, not understood.”
“Don’t Wilde me at this hour. I want a tour.”
She laughs. “You’ve been studying up on famous quotes, haven’t you?”
“Obviously. How else will I understand half of what you say?”
I step in, and to my right is an elevator. A freaking glass Willy Wonka type elevator.
“I feel like I’m in a mall,” I say. “And not the Parramatta one. The one in the city.”
Her house takes my breath away: white marble floors, white walls and furnishings, with modern art pieces and family photos providing splashes of color. A sweeping staircase leads to a gallery area on the second floor with views of a sparkling blue pool in a manicured garden.
“This place is incredible,” I whisper, taking it all in as Paula leads me into a kitchen fit for a five-star hotel. There’s a television built into one of the walls in the kitchen, and a fish tank in another wall. I feel slightly overwhelmed by it all. Not by Paula’s house in particular. I saw mansions in Kabul and Pakistan too. But spending most of my life since then in Western Sydney—happy and contented—I’d forgotten about how truly uneven the world is. Some people get marble and luxury and urban chic; others get slums and open sewage and payday-to-payday.
I hear a sound from the butler’s pantry and Paula’s mother emerges. I was expecting to see an incarnation of Barbie in the Dreamhouse. Perhaps a cascade of blonde, loose curls, designer outfit hugging an impossibly slim physique, and a matching Tiffany’s set. The kind of person whose appearance leaves nothing to chance.
Instead, a woman in a simple knee-length linen dress and slip-on sandals steps out. Her face is bare of makeup, and her hair is piled up onto her head in a messy bun. If there was a TED Check Your Assumptions talk, she’d be on the promotional material.
I feel slightly sheepish and hope my face doesn’t reveal my surprise.
She sees me and gives me a warm smile. “Hi, Mina! It’s so lovely to meet you. Paula talks about you all the time.”
I smile at her. “Thanks for having me.”
“Are you kidding? It’s so good to have somebody over to keep Paula company! I’ve cooked up some pasta for you both. I made sure it’s vegetarian.”
“Oh, thanks,” I say, touched.
“There’s a banoffee pie in the fridge that I picked up from the store.”
Paula, who’s tapping food into the fish tank, cheers and does a fist pump.
“If you need me, I’m in my study. I’ve got a fifty-five-page statement of claim to finish by Monday.”
We dish up our food and take it to the cinema room. I become a kid in a pet store whe
n I enter. I make myself comfortable on one of the reclining cinema chairs, putting my hands behind my head and stretching my legs out.
“Can I move in? Please?”
She laughs, waving away my comment. “They’re just things.”
“Pretty things. Nice things. Things that make me all warm and fuzzy inside. Being materialistic is seriously underrated. You should try it sometime.”
“Meh.” She shrugs.
I notice a family portrait in a frame on the wall next to me and I chuckle. “How old were you in that photo?”
She grins. “Awful, hey? Those were my pre-hair-product, pre-GHD days. Thirteen.”
“It’s really nice,” I joke. “I love when hair looks like brown steel wool.”
She hits me on the arm. “Excuse me? That’s mahogany with a touch of sun-kissed highlights steel wool to you.”
I grin at her.
“Anyway, we can’t all be beauty queens.”
“Please,” I say, rolling my eyes at her. “At thirteen I had one eyebrow and hair on my upper lip. You discovered hair straighteners. I discovered laser.”
After we eat, I follow her through the house, as she wants to introduce me to her personal zoo.
“Sorry, my turtles are so antisocial. Come on! Let me introduce you to K4. He’s in my room.”
K4 is lying down on a large cushion in the bay window in her bedroom. As soon as he sees Paula he leaps off, ecstatic. She leans down and starts to sweet-talk and baby him.
“This little guy is my soul mate,” she says, giving him a kiss on top of his head. “I’d swap all this for him any day.”
I watch her fondly. I’ve seen all kinds of people in my life. As a kid in Kabul. Then en route to Pakistan. In the camps, the boat to Australia, in the detention center. I’ve known Paula for only a few weeks, but it’s enough. She’s one of the good ones.
We sit down on her bed and K4 jumps up beside us, hunkers down next to Paula, and closes his eyes.
It doesn’t take long before I’m opening up to her about Michael.
“I’m angry that I’m angry.” I lean back against the bottle-green suede headboard. “I’m angry that I fell for his that’s not what I meant excuses. Stupid me. Stupid, stupid, stupid!”
The Lines We Cross Page 10