Does My Head Look Big in This? (22 page)

“Yeah, but we’re not going out. We’re friends, so why would he read into it?”

“You’re not friends like me or Simone are with him, are you? If it was us, no big deal. If we look desperate or lonely or boring in front of him we couldn’t care less. But you still want him to have the best impression of you, don’t you?”

“I’m not sending it for another half an hour.”

“That’s the way. OK, let me know what happens.”

After I hang up I listen to music for half an hour, watching the seconds on my watch until I want to throw it down the toilet bowl from frustration. Finally, forty-seven minutes after he sent me the orginal SMS, I text back the agreed message. Seconds later, he replies:
GOOD 1
.
CAN’T
TALK
NOW
,
I’M
ON
THE
PHONE
.
WHAT
TOOK
U
SO
BLOODY
LONG?
TALK 2MORROW
.

Typical.

25

W
hy oh why do guys do that? Bring something up and then ignore it until you want to grab them by their shoulders and scream at them to talk, open up, share! Eileen and I are literally two nanoseconds away from cornering Adam, tackling him to the ground and forcing him to discuss
the message
with us. But, in an act of extreme will power, we don’t. Instead, we pretend to have forgotten all about the events that transpired last night and shoot some hoops with Adam and Josh on the basketball court at lunch time. Josh is the one who makes the suggestion and Eileen and I force Simone to play along. Usually Simone is allergic to any form of sport or activity which requires her to move because she thinks it draws attention to her body and makes her look fat and clumsy. Eileen and I hint that if she doesn’t play with us Josh will think she’s lazy. It’s such a low, cheap shot but we have the ends-justify-the-means concept firmly in mind with this project.

It’s so much fun. Simone surprises herself and us and turns out to be a really good goal shooter. Josh seems impressed. After her tenth score he says, “So all the times we’ve been hanging out on our arses on the oval you’ve been a star basket player and didn’t even tell us? We could have been playing some ball!” Simone blushes and grins and of course misses the next couple of goals.

The best part of the entire hour is when I notice Tia, Claire and Rita sitting on one of the benches beside the court. Tia has her arms crossed and looks like she’s accidentally eaten a cockroach. Her face is twisted with annoyance and disgust as she looks at Simone and Josh laughing and flirting on the court. I make eye contact with her and flash her a gigantic grin. She raises her eyebrows haughtily at me and turns away.

Sweet.

Disgraceful. Torturous. Sadistic. Not a word all day. Finally, in the evening, Adam calls me at home. Before I have a chance to launch into a lengthy deconstruction of his text message, Adam tells me that his mum called him last night to ask him what size he wears in shirts so she can send him a birthday present. Adam’s not impressed.

“At least she sets her goals high. She expects to erase ten years of not being there for me by sending me some polo tops. I’d say that’s pretty ambitious thinking.”

“Was it out of the blue? Does she usually call you? I remember you said she sends you postcards.”

“Since I was about eleven she’s being calling me on my birthday and at Christmas. So what’s your opinion on world soccer?”

“Would you prefer she ignored you?”

“Why would she think I cared? I have more interest in what’s going on in the life of our school lollipop lady than my mum’s. So, answer me. Soccer?”

“Cool sport. Maybe she’s . . . trying to make amends. Say sorry in her own way. How do you feel about it all?”

“Amal! Are you trying to do a
let’s express our feelings
thing here?”

“No.”

“Yeah right! Amal,
puh-lease
do not think I am about to let myself be analysed and dissected and no, don’t try to interrupt, I’m not being
sexist
and trying to make out that I can’t talk about my feelings because I’m a boy but that you can because you’re a girl. I’d really rather talk about soccer at the moment.”

“But I’m curious. I want to know what happened. Please. I promise I won’t give you advice or anything remotely resembling a pep talk.”

“Fine. It was ten years ago. I was seven. It was a rainy day. It’d been a good day. In show and tell everybody had to bring family pictures so I brought along some happy shots of me and my parents at the zoo, at the park, feeding ducks and all the usual crap. Dad picked me up from school on his way home from work because Mum apparently couldn’t make it. He bought me a McDonald’s junior burger meal and I can still remember how it tasted. I got home and it was silent. No Mum waiting for me. No dinner cooking in the kitchen. No
Bold and the Beautiful
or some other dumb-arse soapie blasting on the television. And after that, the silence never went away. . .”

“You are such a liar!”

He roars with laughter. “You asked for it. I bet you’ve been expecting some corny, tear-jerking crappy story with some Bryan Adams sop song playing in the background.”

“Yeah! Something juicy, you know? What you just gave me is the kind of B-grade movie script that never gets a cinematic release and is screened at, like, eleven p.m. on a Saturday night some time in December.”

“Don’t bag those December late-night movies. I saw my first Sylvester Stallone movie then. . . Hey, I’ve got something juicy to divulge! But it stays between you and me, eh?”

“Swear on the Koran.”

“Deal. I saw a shrink. Can you believe it? A shrink! How tripping is that? Dad and Charlene sent me to see one a couple of years back. Because they thought it’d be so hard for me to adjust to the whole idea of Charlene and they said I needed closure or whatever stupid term they use about my mum pissing off on us.”

“What was it like?”

“The shrink kept trying to suggest that I felt guilty about my mum leaving and that I couldn’t admit to it. Far out, he couldn’t get that I’ve never felt guilty. Not once. Why should I feel guilty? I was seven! And the shrink kept saying that if I couldn’t face up to my guilt I’d find it hard to trust women and have a meaningful relationship. Who was he kidding? It was as simple as me being bloody pissed off and that’s never changed. I lasted two sessions.”

“Only two?”

“Yeah, he pissed me off. Plus, he picked his nose when he thought I wasn’t looking. Lost his credibility for ever.”

At the start of semester I wouldn’t have been able to imagine having a whole opening up/sharing secrets/D & M session with Adam Keane. But not only are we gossiping on the phone, he’s actually confiding in me about his own family secrets.

According to my extensive research based on literary articles in
Dolly
,
Cleo
and
Cosmo
,
the number one problem with the male species is their inability to communicate and share their feelings. After tonight I plan to write to all these magazines and inform them that my friendship with Adam Keane has discredited their theories and put the whole Venus/Mars philosophy to shame.

“So you didn’t tell me what you think about Josh and Simone,” Adam says. “I waited for you to bring it up at school all day but you didn’t so I take it you think it’s a bad idea?”

“No! Not at all! I was waiting for you to bring it up.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Never mind,” I sigh.

OK, I might hold off on that letter as I believe Mars and Venus might still have their merits. I might just approach a publisher instead and ask them to invest in a how-to manual for decoding guys’ text messages with a prologue written by some psychologist.

“Anyway, did Josh mention, er, is he interested in Simone?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh come off it, Adam. Why would you message me then?”

“Well, is Simone interested in Josh?”

“I don’t know . . . she’s never said anything to me.”

Ahem
.

“I reckon there’s something between them,” he says. “But she’s so shy. I mean, when she breaks out of her shell she’s funny and outgoing and Josh,
in my opinion
, I mean, he
would
be attracted to her at those times.”

“Well, so he should be! She’s smart and funny and gorgeous and caring and—”

“OK, Amal, I get it. Talk about hard-core marketing.”

“Oh yeah? And what about Josh? Haven’t you got anything to say about him?”

“Yeah, he’s the only guy I know who can beat me at Daytona.”

“That it? That’s how you promote your friend?”

He chuckles. “I was stirring you. I’m not going to sit here and do a public relations campaign for him. He’s your friend too; you know he’s a top bloke.”

“So be honest then. Is he going to ask her out?”

“How should I know? Even if I did, I know what girls are like. You’re going to call Simone and Eileen within one second of hanging up the phone and start attacking our conversation like vultures on a Colonel fillet burger.”

“We are not!”

“Oh yeah right! Every tone in my voice, every word and sentence and pause is going to be analysed to death. You’re going to delegate lines to each other and come back and brief each other about the meanings.”

“You’re so full of it!”

“OK, Amal,” he says, laughing at me. “I’ll let you go now. Be sure to tell them that when I use prepositions in my sentences it means I’m buying time to think up ways to mislead you about Josh.”

“Oh just shoosh!”

After I hang up I sit on my hands for fifteen minutes, wondering if I should call Eileen.

Oh stuff it!
I think, reaching for the phone. He’s probably calling Josh anyhow.

As I go to dial her number my phone beeps an incoming message:
MAKE
SURE 2
SAY
HI 2
THEM 4
ME
.

26

O
n my way to prayer I go to see Mr Pearse for help on an assignment. After we’ve finished I stand up to leave and he asks me to remain seated. He wants to “talk”. Teachers don’t talk. They either lecture or advise or recite a rhyme or an analogy. They do not simply “talk”.

He leans back in his chair, scratching the bald patch on his head. I wonder if he’s married or has children. There’s a ring on his finger but you can never be too sure. I’ve heard some guys wear rings just so they can pick up (
Girlfriend
, Edition no. 56).

“Amal, let’s have a chat about how you’re coping.”

“Er . . . coping with what?”

“School, class,
Tia
.” He smiles at me and I shrug my shoulders.

“I’m fine. School work’s making me age prematurely, but that’s called education.”

“Oh, I completely agree.”

“I’ve also started taping myself reading out my essays and I go to sleep listening to an essay on the Cold War, thinking it will sink in. Like I’m some smoking addict listening to a Quit tape.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Impressive. You’re capable of getting top marks in VCE. You can be anything you want to be.”

Oh my goodness he’s going all
To Sir with Love
on me
.

“You think?”

“Of course I do. Why? Don’t you?”

“Yeah I guess. . .”

“How are you coping with other things? Have people been giving you a hard time . . . about your veil?”

Don’t tell me we’re doing the counselling thing!

“No. Everything’s fine.”

I avoid eye contact and stare down at my shoes. There is no way I’m getting sucked into a one-on-one “tell me how you feel” session.

“If you experience an iota of prejudice I want you to inform me immediately, Amal. Got it?”

“Yep.”

“As I said, I have every faith that you will achieve your goals if you work hard and stand up for yourself when challenges arise.”

“Thanks, Mr Pearse.”

“OK, well, you can go now.”

“Thanks.”

I drop off to sleep that night thinking about what Mr Pearse said to me. About achieving my goals and being anything I want to be. Ever since I wore the hijab I’ve been feeling pretty scared.