The Lines We Cross

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

I don’t want that to ever happen to me. I want to feel, to be affected, to get angry. Nobody changed the world by being polite. I’m going to fight with all I’ve got.

  “Baba? Is that you?”

  “Yes, Mina.”

  He’s shuffling around the kitchen, making himself some tea.

  “Want some?”

  “Thanks.”

  It’s just past one in the morning. We go out to the veranda, careful not to make too much noise as we open the sliding door. Baba sits down slowly, grimacing with pain. He lights up a cigarette, inhales deeply. I see how his body relaxes, how his face loses some of its edge.

  I know it’s his personal pain relief, his numbing agent, but I hate the fact that he chain-smokes.

  “Did you take your pills?”

  He nods slowly.

  A silence settles between us. It’s cold but we’re both wearing lots of layers and I’ve wrapped myself in a shawl. The inky night sky is like a blanket above us. The last quarter moon dazzles me, and I sit staring up at it, cradling the steaming cup of tea in my hands.

  “Baba, don’t stress,” I tell him eventually. “It’ll be okay. It’s over now. I told you there’s a guy in my school who knows someone in the organization. They’re leaving it alone.”

  “I don’t worry about them,” he says with scorn. “Do they know what I have seen? Do they think they can scare me after what I’ve been through?”

  “No, Baba.”

  “When we arrived in this country we had to learn the differences of this new place and we had to also learn that for everybody we are the difference. I think, Mina, there is something the majority wants us to do in order to be fully accepted, but they never tell us what it is.”

  “Michael?”

  Dad’s hovering at my door, peering in nervously.

  “Hmm?” I’m bent over my desk, working.

  “I picked these brochures up for you,” he says hesitantly.

  I look up from my essay.

  “There’s a graphic design expo in the city in a couple of months,” he says. “Thought you might like to go.”

  I don’t even bother to disguise the shocked expression on my face. “Mum spoke to you?”

  He sits on the edge of my bed.

  “Yes, your mum spoke to me.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “I feel like we’ve grown apart these past few months, Michael. It hurts that you would feel unable to talk to me about changing your mind about architecture.”

  “You’ve had your heart set on me following in your footsteps for as long as I can remember.” I soften my voice. “I didn’t know how to break it to you.”

  He nods slowly, and takes a long, calming breath. “To be honest, I tossed and turned all last night. And accepting your decision is not the same as feeling happy about it. You get to my age, Michael, you see the instability around you, and you know that more than half the battle is a good, solid job. And then your straight-As son says he wants to design games. Tell me how I should feel about that.”

  “I don’t just want to design games, Dad.”

  “Well, then, tell me what you want to do.”

  So I tell him, and he hears me out without interruption. We look through the UTS Design School website, and he listens to me carefully as I take him through the different subjects and career paths.

  “Tell me how your mother and I should feel about this?” Dad eventually asks me.

  “How about feeling happy that I know what I want to do with my life?”

  Dad’s jaw is tense but he doesn’t reply. He just nods slowly. It’s a start.

  Terrence and Fred ignore me throughout all our classes, which suits me fine. It’s not as though I don’t have other friends, and I have no problem sitting alone when I feel like it either.

  I go to the basketball courts at recess and join the guys who are already shooting hoops. I see Terrence and Fred approach the court, laughing together as they bounce a ball. Terrence notices me and makes a point of turning around and joining the guys assembled at the other end of the court.

  When the bell rings, I walk off the court with Cameron and Adrian. I notice Jane walking alone. She looks miserable.

  I tell the guys I need to go to the bathroom and they continue on without me. I jog over to Jane, who’s clearly in no rush to get to class. I startle her when I say hi and she looks at me quizzically.

  “Take it from me,” I say to her. “He’s not worth it.”

  I can tell she’s trying to figure out if I can be trusted.

  “We’re not friends anymore,” I tell her.

  “It’s like a drug,” she eventually says, her voice shaky. “I feel like I’m going through withdrawal. I was so close to going up to him just to say hi so I’d get a small hit of his attention.” Her voice stalls. “I’m pathetic. I hate myself.”

  “Don’t say that. We’ve all been there before.”

  Suddenly her eyes flash with anger. “I betrayed my cousin for him. Mina’s only known Paula since the start of the year, and yet she stood up for her. Even Zoe spoke up. I’m family and I stabbed her in the back.”

  “You’ll find a way to make up with her. But Terrence you have to quit. Cold turkey. He talks to you and you ignore him. That’s the only way to get him out of your system.”

  “Yeah, but how do I get the strength to do that?”

  I grin at her. “You stay angry, that’s how. Not because you’re not together. But because you nearly were.”

  We’re standing at the bus stop outside of school when Paula’s voice drops to a whisper. “Oh. My. God.”

  I look over to where she’s staring. Her mum has just parked the car and is getting out. She’s wearing a suit and big black sunglasses. She seems to be searching for Paula; she scans the bus queues and groups of students pouring out of the gates, and then takes out her phone.

  “She never picks me up,” Paula says. “I can’t even remember the last time.”

  Paula’s phone rings.

  “You better go to her. Text me to let me know everything’s okay.”

  “Yep.” She waves at her mum, trying to get her attention, and then runs across the road. Her mum sees her and practically flings herself forward, embracing her in a tight hug. They then get in the car and drive away.

  Immediately I send her a text.

  I get a response five minutes later.

  Paula’s away from school the next day. I text her and she says K4 may have cancer. They’re at the vet. She’ll speak to me at school tomorrow.

  Baba is working late tonight and Mum and I make grilled cheese sandwiches and watch an Iranian movie while I summarize an article on the League of Nations for Modern History.

  I can’t stop thinking about Paula though. I don’t want K4 to die, not when he’s her anchor at home, her get-out-of-bed reason. I don’t want Paula to confront death yet. Grief, especially when it’s still raw, is like having a thirst that no amount of water quenches. It can’t be consoled; it can’t be alleviated. It’s unrelenting and constant. I wish I could tell her that it will get easier with time.

  But if I told her that I’d also have to tell her that easier doesn’t mean it ever goes away.

  There’s no chance to talk during homeroom the next day and I have a double period of Modern History so we aren’t in class together. Finally, the bell rings for recess and I meet Paula in a quiet section behind the library.

  “We spoke to Nancy last night,” she says. “She’s a mess.”

  “I’m so sorry, Paula.” I grab her hand. “How bad is it?”

  “He’s got a skin tumor. He’ll need surgery to remove it and to do tests to see if it’s spread.” Her voice cracks and she starts to cry. “I don’t want to lose him, Mina.”

  I hold her close to me.

  Nothing happens at the restaurant tonight. Baba advised Adnan, Mustafa, and Mariam not to come to work just in case. But it seems Michael’s dad has come through after all. There’s no big rejoicing among us though; just a weary sens
e that we’ve been saved from a disaster.

  It’s like we never left the boat. Ten years on and we’re still on deck, being rocked and swayed, coming closer to the rocks and then pulling back, smashing against waves.

  Mum’s phone rings on our way home. I see Emily’s name on the screen. Mum lets it ring out.

  “I’ll call her back,” she says.

  I press Mum to reschedule her lunch with Emily and Rojin but she makes up an excuse to get me off her back.

  I have a feeling that, like me, she falls into bed tonight, exhausted.

  “K4’s booked in for surgery.” Paula fiddles with the zip of her pencil case. Her face is racked with grief but I can tell there’s something else going on too. “I’m sorry, Mina,” she says softly.

  “Sorry?” I stare at her, confused.

  Paula scrunches her nose. “Here I am falling apart because my dog is going into surgery and you’ve lost your dad, your baby brother. You’ve been through war, you’ve—”

  “You’ve got nothing to apologize for,” I say firmly.

  She shakes her head. “My pain can’t compare with—”

  I cut her off again. “It’s not a competition.” I force her to look me in the eye. “Okay?”

  Eventually she gives in and nods.

  “Okay,” I say matter-of-factly. “Vent.”

  “I never expected Mum and Dad would take it so badly,” she says quietly.

  “He’s part of your family, Paula. Of course they would.”

  “What’s the point of loving someone if the fact that you do takes them by surprise?”

  “At least they love,” I offer.

  “But isn’t that the minimum? It shouldn’t be enough. When was the last time they spent time with K4? Why do people always wait for something bad to happen before they show they care?”

  “Because that’s life, Paula. And your parents aren’t alone in that.”

  “I hope I don’t sound ungrateful,” she says. “I know I’m lucky and that from the outside we seem to have it all. And, Mina, honestly, I hope I don’t sound like a pretentious snob. Not with all you’ve been through.”

  I shake my head at her. “You are a solar system away from pretentious snob, okay? Everyone has the right to grieve. Just let it out. I’m not judging you.”

  “I know,” she says shyly. “From where I’m looking I have a big gorgeous house that’s lonely and empty and a best friend that’s a dog who might die. I’d live in a shack if it meant I had a full-time family …”

  I feel terrible that there’s no answer that will fix things for her.

  “You know, I really respect what Mum and Dad do; I know it doesn’t sound that way but I honestly do. I really do get that they’ve got important jobs. That they’re ambitious and smart and doing jobs that can never be nine to five.” She groans, puts her head in her hand. “It’s so confusing. I get mad at them, but especially my mum, and I feel like I’m shitting all over every feminist principle I believe in.”

  “Your vent is equal opportunity,” I say, playfully nudging her in the side. “You’re upset with your mum and dad. Anyway, you’re not saying you want them to quit their jobs, make you gourmet dinners, and be here at three-thirty to pick you up.”

  She bites on a nail. “Not at all. I just want them to get the balance right.”

  She pauses, thinks for a moment. “Shouldn’t parents be able to figure out when they’re needed?”

  “I think parents make it up as they go along, to be honest.”

  She smiles. Just a little. “I think you’re probably right.”

  We have a free study period at the end of the day. The bell rings and I steal a quick kiss from Mina, between the steampunk display and nineteenth-century poetry. She laughs, and then quickly ducks, her eyes darting around, checking to see if anybody has noticed.

  “Relax,” I whisper in her ear. “Zoe and Clara are near the graphic novels shelf, their eyeballs glued to their screens. And I happen to know for a fact that this particular aisle, while affording a view of the library, remains—and this is really quite poetic—hidden from view.”

  “How do you know that?” She looks at me, a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ll puke if I find out you’ve brought another girl here.”

  I grin. “This is the PG-rated library aisle, Mina. You’re my first PG-rated girlfriend.”

  “I gave you more credit than that, Michael,” she says, rolling her eyes at me. “Rating relationships by movie classifications is so juvenile.”

  Then she takes me by surprise by giving me a long, hard kiss, says good-bye, and rushes off to catch her bus.

  Dad’s home early from work, drinking a coffee at the kitchen bench while Mum prepares dinner. Nathan’s in the TV room, finishing his homework so he can earn some iPad time. I’m rummaging in the pantry for an afternoon snack. Dad gets a call and takes it outside; when he comes back he’s wearing a look of concern and guilt. Mum notices too.

  “Something wrong?”

  He throws a quick glance my way and then, clearing his throat, sits back up on the bar stool. But there’s something diversionary about his manner, and I ask him what’s wrong.

  “Jeremy and Margaret called immigration,” he says, his tone cautious. “I spoke to Andrew about leaving it all alone. I never thought Jeremy and Margaret would get involved. They’ve been so busy with the Jordan Springs campaign.”

  Mum turns her back to the stove and faces us.

  “Has something happened?” she asks.

  “Immigration?” I repeat.

  He nods. “The three people they had working at the restaurant were picked up and sent to Villawood.”

  I’m frozen, momentarily paralyzed as I try to process his words. It’s like cement’s running through my veins, choking me from the inside. My throat tightens with every thought of Mina, her parents, the asylum seekers working there.

  “I told you, Michael, this is bigger than us,” Dad tries to explain. “I’m sorry that you have a connection with the people who own the restaurant. But they’re the ones in the wrong.” His eyes plead with me to understand, and then his phone rings again. He looks down and takes the call.

  “Michael,” Mum says gently.

  I flash her a silencing look. “Don’t,” I warn her through clenched teeth.

  I don’t drop my eyes from Dad for a second. He finishes the call, hangs up, and looks at me. “A reporter’s out there,” he says slowly. “Jeremy and Margaret too.”

  “Are you serious?” I yell. “THIS is your idea of It’s under control? I told Mina you had it sorted out! She trusts me!”

  Dad snaps. “I spoke to Andrew, Michael! He was the one who took an interest in the restaurant. I can’t control people!”

  Mum interrupts, her voice strained and desperate. “Jeremy and Margaret didn’t mention they had anything to do with the restaurant, Michael. How was your dad to know?”

  “You’re actually going to tell me you’re surprised that people who spend their time opposing an Islamic school might join Andrew’s witch hunt?” I laugh bitterly.

  Nathan walks in, looking worried.

  “What’s going on?” he asks. “Why is everybody screaming?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, darling,” Mum says with affected cheeriness. “Why don’t you go and play on your iPad.”

  “Why are you fighting?”

  “We’re not fighting,” Dad says tensely, running his fingers through his hair.

  “I’m going there,” I say, and storm out. I can hear Mum urging Dad to follow me; warning that things could get ugly.

  Dad calls out to me but I ignore him. He catches up to me as I’m at the door.

  “Calm down, Michael,” he says. “Just please calm down.”

  “I don’t have the right to be calm,” I say coolly. “Not when three people are back in detention. Because of us.”

  He rubs his eyes tiredly and takes a long, shuddering breath.

  “I don’t want you driving in this state. We�
�ll go together. Okay?”

  We don’t say a word to each other in the car. Dad tries to call Andrew, Jeremy, and Margaret, but nobody’s answering. I try calling Mina, but her phone rings out. I text her, asking her to call me urgently.

  We pull into the parking lot behind the strip of shops. A reporter is standing on the footpath, talking to Jeremy and Margaret. There’s a cameraman too. Mina’s nowhere to be seen.

  The reporter looks like a rookie. It’s probably his first exposé. He keeps checking his teeth through the reflection in the camera lens. One protein-smoothie-drinking, kale-eating, foundation-junkie cliché.

  Jeremy and Margaret grin wildly when they see us approaching. But their smiles dissolve when they see Dad. He steps close to them, a tense expression on his face, and whispers that he needs to speak to them privately for a moment. The reporter’s too quick and steps between them, breaking their huddle.

  Flashing Dad a wide White Glo smile, he says, “Alan Blainey, leader of Aussie Values?”

  Dad nods. “Excuse me,” he says politely. “I just need a moment alone with Jeremy and—”

  “This is perfect!” the reporter gushes. “Can I interview you instead?” He quickly waves over the cameraman, who’s got the camera up on his shoulder and rolling before anybody knows what’s happening.

  “Look,” Dad says, firmly this time, “do you mind if we do this after I’ve had a chance to speak to my associates?”

  The reporter looks disappointed. “Fine, but can you make it quick as I have another story to get to.”

  Dad takes a confused-looking Jeremy and Margaret to the side. I take a step closer, but Dad motions at me to remain where I am.

  The reporter is using the time as an opportunity to practice his face-to-camera piece. A restaurant serving halal food taking over an Aussie fish and chip shop. Steeped in controversy ever since. Asylum seekers working illegally. Being sent back to Villawood because of a concerned citizen’s tip-off. Raises questions about halal funding.

  A few moments later, Dad, Jeremy, and Margaret return. Dad asks the reporter to adjust his story, focus on the anti-Islamic school campaign the organization is leading, and a more general story about halal food funding terrorism.