The Lines We Cross

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  I wouldn’t go that far, I think to myself, but he’s definitely changed his online persona. And something about that intrigues me.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen Michael since the party. I walk into homeroom on our first day back from vacation. Mr. Morello hasn’t arrived yet. Michael is talking to Terrence and Fred. He notices me walk in and I can practically see the muscles in his neck stiffen. The awkwardness and tension between us is thick and heavy. I hold my head high, don’t acknowledge him, and walk straight past his desk.

  Terrence, who’s sitting beside him, stops me. “Hey, Mina,” he says cheerfully.

  I pause and consider him.

  “How was your vacation?”

  I roll my eyes at him.

  He pretends to look wounded. “What did I say wrong? It was a polite question.”

  “Yeah, you’re really interested in how I spent my vacation.”

  “I don’t get it. I’m just trying to be friendly.” He looks back and forth between Michael and Fred for support. Fred isn’t really interested, too busy sorting through his bag.

  “Okay, let me ask,” Michael says, meeting my eye. “How was your vacation?”

  My eyes narrow. “Fabulous,” I say in an exaggerated tone.

  “Why are girls so sensitive?” Terrence asks, all wide-eyed and innocent.

  “I don’t know what that is stuck between your teeth, Terrence, but I assume you’re saving it for later.”

  He quickly cleans between his teeth with his finger. I laugh at him and, realizing the joke, he looks momentarily duped. “Yeah, okay, good one,” he admits begrudgingly.

  I flash him a triumphant look and walk to my desk. But not before I notice the hint of a smile on Michael’s face.

  Paula and I are goofing around in the café, both of us in a laughing mood. Paula shows me a ridiculous dance move, sending me into a fit of giggles. I love these moments. The laughter takes over your body; you don’t know why but you’re having too much of a good time to care.

  We spot Jane and Leica and wave them over.

  “Too much red cordial?” Leica says, laughing.

  We shrug and then start giggling again.

  Jane sits down next to us and takes out her lunch. Five cherry tomatoes and a green apple.

  “You serious?” I ask.

  “I need to lose some weight,” she says, mournfully popping a tomato into her mouth.

  “Please don’t do this, Jane,” Paula says quietly.

  “You don’t need to lose weight!” I wail.

  “She thinks Terrence thinks she’s fat,” Leica says, rolling her eyes.

  Paula and I groan.

  “No, it’s not that,” she says defensively. “He’s never said that.”

  “But I know exactly what you’re thinking,” Leica says. “You’re thinking, Maybe if I shrink, he’ll notice me more. Do you not see the irony?”

  “Come on,” Paula says, standing and grabbing Jane’s hand. “Dance with me.”

  “Are you mental?” Jane says. “Terrence and his group are over there. They can see you, you know.” She pauses. “You know he won’t let you live it down.”

  “Oh well, we better stop then,” Paula says, but she just keeps on dancing.

  Jane looks embarrassed, picks up another cherry tomato, and pops it into her mouth.

  Andrew, Carolina, Li, and Kahn have been visiting more frequently since Dad’s return from overseas. I’ve been coming home to find them sitting around the dining table that’s been converted into “organization headquarters,” discussing strategies, media campaigns, and policies with my parents. They’re all convinced that Don’t Jump the Queue will deliver them a national profile, which could transform them from an obscure organization from the suburbs to a movement that people could take seriously—maybe even, with enough members, transform them into a political party.

  Nathan responded to their presence the way you might react to a sudden infestation of ants in your home. Unsettled and put out, he tried to get rid of the invasion with his own version of Raid. That is to say, he threw a terrific tantrum at dinner and told them all to go home.

  When they all left, Mum and Dad had a long and patient chat with Nathan. My help was enlisted. Nathan eventually came around to the idea that the house will be a flurry of activity as Aussie Values gets bigger. The compromise was that the ants would be contained to certain days of the week. And the rules around Xbox time would be relaxed. I’m pretty sure that was the clincher.

  I arrive home from work tonight and find Andrew and Carolina in the family room with Mum and Dad. I’d forgotten it was a designated Aussie Values evening. Andrew sees me walk in and asks me to help them update the organization’s Facebook page.

  “Michael’s brilliant with technology,” Dad boasts. “He’s always had a unique way of being creative and seeing things from new angles.”

  Genuinely pleased, I grin at him. “Thanks, Dad.”

  I give Mum a look as if to say, See, it might not be so bad, but she just shakes her head and signals with her eyes not to open the topic.

  I show Andrew a few tricks with the Facebook page. He wants me to upload some memes he’s taken from the English Defence League website, but as one big collage so he can use it as the background picture. I play around with one of my programs and start to insert the memes into a single image. I start to read them as I transfer them across. A sick feeling lodges in the pit of my stomach. I realize that I’m seeing the memes from the point of view of somebody like Mina.

  I feel conflicted and dirty, helping Andrew out. I fiddle around a bit more but the feeling gnaws at me. I pretend that the program crashes and lie and tell him I’ll work on it overnight.

  “As in Q for queen—sorry?” I say at work, leaning back in my chair to look up at the ceiling. “Huh? Q for cube. But cube is with a C. Yeah, it is. I’m pretty sure I know how to spell cube. Okay, right. Next. A for apple.”

  Finally. Progress.

  “Next. N for what? N for envelope?” I want to pull out my hair. “Okay, you know what, this phonetic spelling thing isn’t working. Just tell me your surname and I’ll figure it out myself.”

  I get through the call quickly. All that torment for a thirty-dollar donation.

  Anh, who’s always pacing around the call center hoping to catch one of us out, hovers near me, eavesdropping. He doesn’t even make an attempt to be discreet.

  “Yes, we’re collecting money for guide dogs. No, the money goes toward training. Oh, are you okay? Excuse me, sorry …” The woman is crying on the other end of the phone. “Sorry, have I struck a raw nerve or something? Are you blind? Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean … Yep, sure, I’ll put him on.”

  Reluctantly, I wave Anh over. “She wants to speak to my supervisor.”

  I’ve been forewarned that this is the most annoying outcome of a call. Anh’s impressive death stare confirms it.

  He takes the call.

  He calms her down and manages to get a fifty-dollar donation out of her.

  I don’t understand. He has zero people skills with his staff.

  “She wasn’t blind,” he says, giving me a cold stare. “Her dog died recently. Notice I finished the call within time. That’s because I pretended to care about her dog dying but didn’t give her a chance to tell me all the sorry-ass details. Toughen up or they’ll have you by the balls.”

  He walks off.

  I figure I’m sounding too young on the phone and that’s why nobody’s taking me seriously. So I fake a British accent (because who doesn’t take a British accent seriously?) and sure enough the money starts rolling in.

  The house buzzes with a frenetic energy. There’s something in the mood that I can’t quite put my finger on, until it hits me one night as I listen to them deep in conversation over a dinner of Thai takeout. This one time Dad took me to a house auction up the road from our place. It feels like that now. Like they’re all bidding furiously, except it’s not to buy a house but to stake a claim as the most worri
ed citizen.

  Andrew raises his worries about the economy and Carolina bids with her worries about multiculturalism gone too far. Li jumps in, worried about border protection and too many Asians buying real estate, and Kahn meets him with “Australia’s turning into an Islamic state” and “the government’s given up on the ‘battler.’” Mum’s worried that Australia is being bullied by the UN, and it all swings back to Andrew, who’s worried about Africans on welfare. As for Dad, he’s worried about recruitment numbers. In other words, I think, they want more members to worry with them.

  I can feel their anxiety, the way it travels through the room, like some kind of mobile energy, touching one person and then moving on to the next.

  I watch them, fascinated and enthralled, as I slowly eat my pad thai.

  Kahn suddenly sits up straight in his chair, drops his spring roll onto his plate, and beams out at us all. “I forgot to tell you, there’s been some gossip about a new Islamic school opening out in Jordan Springs.”

  Dad considers him carefully. “Really? Jordan Springs?” He looks surprised. “They’ve reached as far as there?” He shakes his head.

  “I’ll look into it,” Mum says.

  Andrew’s livid. “If we can get enough grassroots resistance, we might be able to wake people out of their multiculturalism coma,” he says gruffly.

  “Medically impossible,” Nathan declares in a bored tone. “You can induce a coma, but you can’t wake somebody from one.”

  The way I feel now, I’m beginning to think that maybe, just for once, he’s wrong.

  Irfan’s brother, who lives in Pakistan, is losing his battle with cancer, and so Irfan catches the first flight out. Baba hires a temporary chef in the meantime but I step in to help out too. The News Tonight program hasn’t affected business. We’re just as busy as usual. Paula was right. The program ran, talk radio picked over the scraps like vultures over a carcass, and then everybody shifted their hysterical what-is-Australia-coming-to? panic to the next target.

  Last night we finished up late at the restaurant. Baba tried to persuade me to go home early but I insisted on staying back to help out. I wake up early to finish an assignment, and go to school on three hours’ sleep. I’m paying for it now, dozing off in class, doing that embarrassing head-bopping maneuver that you better hope nobody catches on their phone. Paula nudges me in the side during first period.

  “Oi, wake up,” she hisses. “Ms. Hamish is on the move.”

  My eyelids are heavy. I yawn and shake my head to try to wake myself up. I get through class thanks to Paula, who prods and pokes me whenever I start to fade out again.

  “Don’t forget Don’t Jump the Queue tonight,” Paula tells me when the bell has rung and we’re walking to our lockers.

  I grimace. “Sadomasochism on a weekday. Just. Great.”

  I’m in a good mood when the last bell rings. Ms. Parkinson was impressed with my work in English and read it out to the class. There’s a spring in my step as I head toward the school bus zone.

  As I turn the corner of the main gates I almost collide with Michael.

  “Oh, sorry,” we automatically say at the same time.

  I continue walking in the direction of the bus stop. I can hear his steps close behind me.

  It’s painfully awkward.

  He must sense it too. “This an okay distance for you?” he calls out cheekily.

  “Yep,” I call back.

  His persistence amazes me. I remember his Facebook wall. He’s out of his mind if he thinks I can ignore it all.

  “Just a warning,” he says from behind. “I’m gaining on you, but it’s only because I’ve got longer legs.”

  “Oh, this is just ridiculous!” I stop in my tracks and face him angrily. “Do you seriously think we can be friends again? If that’s even what we were before?”

  “I’m curious. What’s your apology quota? Is there a certain number of apologies before you accept?”

  “So how’s Aussie Values coming along?” is my response. “Gaining more comrades?”

  “Yeah, great, we’ll be taking over the country soon. All fifty of us.”

  “Oh, too bad,” I say. “You need to vamp up the campaign, Michael. Go picket a halal kebab van or reclaim Vegemite or something. Oh, maybe Don’t Jump the Queue will boost your numbers! Exploit refugees for votes. Impressive.”

  Chastised, he stares at me.

  “What do you want from me?” I say, wearily. “I don’t get you. Why are you even talking to me? I represent everything and everyone you and your parents stand against.”

  “My parents aren’t bad people, Mina. There are all kinds of people in the organization. They’re not responsible for every member.”

  “Maybe not. But they’re on the ugly side of a debate. That’s enough for me.”

  “I’m not exactly the best person to explain their policies, but they’re not racists, Mina. They’re not white supremacists like some of the mob you hear about.” I stare at him blankly as he blusters on. “Just the other day they were telling me about how they believe in diversity.” He then tells me a story about asparagus soup. I don’t know whether to scream or fall over in hysterical laughter.

  “So let me get this clear, Michael. Australia is a big bowl of soup and Aussie Values is about protecting the asparagus from an overzealous pepper or cardamom pod?”

  He shifts from foot to foot, practically writhing in agony under the weight of my gaze. “Look, I’m beginning to realize I don’t necessarily feel comfortable, even agree, with everything they say.” His voice falters and he looks away. I’m about to respond but then he flashes an angry look at me. “You know, I get you’ve been through hell and back, but you could stop being so goddamn pigheaded and actually appreciate that we don’t have a choice about who we’re born to, or where. This is me, okay? I’m white and my parents started Aussie Values. I’m sorting through that, and it’s not easy, thank you very much, so it would be helpful if you quit acting so bloody condescending and superior.”

  I see red. “You want me to make it easier for you to confront your privilege because God knows even antiracism has to be done in a way that makes the majority comfortable? Sorry, Michael, I don’t have time to babysit you through your enlightenment. The first step would be for you to realize that you need to figure it out on your own!”

  I storm off and just make it to my bus, a rising pressure building in my chest. I blink back hot tears, determined not to let anybody see me like this. I feel ashamed of myself, allowing somebody like Michael to affect me so strongly.

  The nightmares return tonight. I’m trying to save Hasan from sinking in the boat. I swim toward him and make it in time. I grab him, and suddenly we’re sitting on the shore and I’m cradling him in my arms. My chest explodes with happiness and I look down at his face. But the baby I’m holding is faceless. I scream and scream.

  I play hard at our game tonight. I’m unstoppable out on the court, raging at myself and the world. Mina’s words are like blades that keep on slashing through me every time I recall them.

  I arrive home that night to a full house. Jazz music is playing from our sound system, and the usual Aussie Values devotees are over, sipping wine, nibbling on a spread of fancy appetizers.

  Mum notices me first and grins at me. “Jump into the shower quickly, honey, and then come down to watch! It starts in half an hour.”

  A wave of nausea rushes through me.

  I can’t even enjoy the escapism a long shower offers. Nathan has been sent to bang on the bathroom door and demand I hurry up and join everybody.

  “Okay!” I holler.

  I get out of the shower, dry myself off, and throw on some boxers. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, stare at my reflection. I’m fit and strong. I study hard, get good grades, can code, draw, and game with the best of them. I’m a dutiful son, a good big brother. But suddenly it all feels like a character profile of somebody else. I feel shallow. Because I have no idea who I am or what I beli
eve in anymore.

  I get dressed and trudge downstairs. Everybody’s gathered in the living room, waiting. Terrence calls my phone, but I ignore him. So he sends me a text message:

  I don’t bother replying.

  Carolina pats the space next to her on the couch and smiles at me.

  “Come on, Michael, sit down!”

  “It’s okay, thanks. I’m just going to heat up dinner. I’ll be back.”

  I heat some leftovers and return, cradling the bowl in my hands. I stand at the back of the room. Mum and Dad are cuddled up on an armchair. Andrew, looking intense as usual, has a notebook in his hands, ready to record his notes so he can write a review on the organization’s website. Nathan is sitting beside Carolina and they’re in deep conversation. The others are spread across the rest of the furniture, or on the floor, sipping their wine, munching on their miniquiches and pastry puffs, laughing among themselves. Everybody’s relaxed and happy.

  Finally the program starts. I cringe as I see a shot of myself with Mum, Dad, and Nathan in the opening credits. It will have to be ripped off like a Band-Aid. I’ll only be on there in the beginning, when they’re building the family drama element to it all, before Dad takes off.

  When I appear back on the screen, it feels like the Band-Aid is ripping off skin. I can’t stand it, but I can’t look away either. “Just because we want to protect our borders doesn’t mean we’re heartless. There are wars all over the world. More and more refugees. There has to be a limit, or we’ll be flooded … yep …” The camera zooms in on my face then. I look nervous and self-conscious. Then the camera cuts to a shot of Dad in Iraq, surrounded by a group of malnourished kids, some of them grinning up at him, some of them staring blankly at the camera. They’re grabbing at his shirt, pressed up close to him. He’s smiling down at them, trying to look cool and composed. At one point another group of kids rushes over to him and Dad looks like he’s about to lose his balance.