Ten Things I Hate About Me (4 page)
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT
I start writing.
From: [email protected]
OK, John, before I bother adding you to my address book, let’s swap our VS (vital stats—in case you’re one of those people who doesn’t understand net talk).
And don’t go telling me that you have a six-pack and hazel-green eyes, are going to become a professional soccer player, and are a leading champion of feminist causes. I am just so fed up with false identities (I’ve clearly got some CRB—chat-room baggage—which I can e-mail you about some other time).
OK, in a nutshell, here’s my intro. If you don’t like it, we can simply delete each other’s e-mails and move on, no hard feelings.
Right. Here goes.
My birthday is September 3rd and I like handbags and dangly earrings.
My mom died of a heart attack when I was nine and, no, I don’t want to do a deep-and-meaningful about it.
I live with the following:
- Surround-sound electric blue stereo system
- The DVD collection of The Godfather trilogy
- A 2500 horsepower hair dryer and diffuser
- My dad
- A brother and sister:
a)
Shereen
: Twenty-two years old. Majoring in politics
at Sydney University.
Used to have dreadlocks, now wears the hijab. She
buys her T-shirts online to avoid manufacturers who
use sweatshops—in other words, total weirdo.
b)
Bilal
: He just turned eighteen. He bleaches his hair
and wears baggy pants. Firmly believes he’s a chick
magnet. Nearly gave my father a heart attack when he
arrived home last week with freshly bleached spiky hair
and a tattoo on his shoulder with all our names written
inside the body of an anaconda.
PS (as in Physical Stats): I have big brown eyes and long eyelashes that need Maybelline X-Factor mascara to curl. I’ve got a bit of acne but it’s not enough to warrant total high-school annihilation. I have curly hair that I often straighten into submission.
That’s all for now.
PS (as in postscript): Since we’re totally anonymous I might as well tell you that I’m Lebanese-Muslim. I attend madrasa (Arabic school) once a week and I’m part of an Arabic band.
From: [email protected]
The first thing I would like to do is to congratulate you on your acquisition of The Godfather trilogy. It says a lot about a person’s character (particularly a girl’s) if they are a fan of the greatest trilogy on earth.
So, well done.
The second thing is that I like garlic on my kebabs; Petra in Jordan is on my Places to Travel list; and I know how to say “son of a donkey” and “move your car” in Arabic due to overhearing the constant arguing between my neighbors (two brothers).
The third thing I would like to point out is that we will never discuss hair or mascara again.
And please, I am begging you in the interests of human rights and world peace, would you kindly refrain from using chat-room vocabulary with me? Abbreviations, secret codes—I am sixteen years old and one month, not eleven.
So can you tell me the Ten Things now?
From: [email protected]
Ahem. Where are your VS??? (I abbreviate. Deal with it or use your cursor and send me off to deleted items.)
From: [email protected]
Only child. Anglo background. Grew up on the North Shore. I love peanut M&M’S. I hate reality TV shows. I’ve been to Thailand and Darwin. I hate most sports (except table tennis) but have an unblemished record of masculinity and heterosexuality. I’m addicted to cheese-flavored rice crackers. I think seaweed-flavored rice crackers are just wrong.
Is that enough?
I’ll have to continue the e-mail exchange another time as Amy has just sent me five text messages in a row. She urgently needs help understanding an assignment we have due tomorrow on
To Kill a Mockingbird.
So I log off (it’s good to play hard to get with guys, even if it’s in cyber world) and spend the rest of the night on the phone with Amy discussing Boo Radley and Atticus Finch.
I NOTICE AMY
and Liz sitting outside a classroom. Liz has her arm slung over Amy’s shoulder and Amy’s head is down. I walk up to them and feel myself bump into an invisible wall. It knocks me straight in the face and I shrink back. There seems to be a hidden aura surrounding the two of them, repelling me, turning me away. They look at me and Amy smiles self-consciously. Her eyes are glistening wet and she quickly avoids my gaze. Then Liz laughs out loud. It’s an awkward, unmistakably false sound. She’s trying to slice a tiny space in the wall with her laugh, allowing me to peek in for just a moment.
“We were looking for you before,” she says. We both know she’s lying. “We were just talking about the…assignment that’s due for English.”
“Oh, yeah, um…the one on
To Kill a Mockingbird?”
“Yeah, that one.”
I’ve clearly interrupted something. Something I’m not supposed to be a part of. I thought I was making progress with
Amy. Who am I kidding? With Liz gaining a boyfriend, the only thing I’ve earned is a permanent lab partner, that’s all.
I tell them that I’ve got to pick up a book from the library and we smile at one another. Clumsy, self-conscious smiles. Our friendship isn’t designed for serious conversations. I’m not a part of arms-over-shoulders-and-advice sessions. I know my place and walk away.
Timothy drops a book titled
Mysteries of the Great Barrier Reef
as he tries to negotiate his way through the row of desks during homeroom. It’s his unlucky day. Peter happens to be beside him and he sweeps down and scoops the book up.
“Ooh! Let’s see what the centerfold looks like!” he exclaims, holding up a double-page photograph of a coral reef. Some of the class bursts out laughing, and Peter, finding an audience, presses on.
“Are these the kind of centerfolds that make you drool, Goldfish? This bit of coral is
sexy,
is it?
Playboy
too boring for you, eh?”
“The fish turn him on!” Chris cries.
“So what’s your ideal fantasy then, eh, Goldfish?” Peter says. “If you’re with a girl, do you get her to dress up as Nemo?”
There’s an eruption of laughter and I sit in my seat, burning with shame at my lack of courage to say something.
And yet Timothy doesn’t blush. He doesn’t look agitated or offended.
He looks Peter directly in the eye and says, in a voice as cool as ice cubes, “Wow, Peter, you never cease to amaze me.”
“Oh yeah?” Peter says, jutting his chin out arrogantly. “And why is that, Goldfish?”
“Because you keep talking to me, making all these comments, and you just don’t seem to have worked out that I value your opinion about as much as I value contracting a fungal skin disease.”
He grabs the book out of Peter’s hands and sits down at a desk, ignoring the insulting voice calling out after him as though it was an irritating mosquito buzz. And then, without any hint of embarrassment or self-consciousness, he opens the book and studies its pages.
Amy calls me again tonight and I do my best to hide my surprise. We’ve never been phone friends. I immediately notice that her voice is as flat and deflated as a punctured tire.
“What’s wrong? You sound down.”
“Nothing…just bored…What are you doing?”
“We’ve got people over. My dad’s friends. They’re in the living room playing cards and acting like it’s a Saturday night. I can’t hear the TV properly.”
“Your dad sounds so cool. I can’t imagine my dad playing cards or having a good time with his friends.”
There’s a long pause and she sighs heavily.
Something’s going on but I don’t know how to break down the barrier.
It’s uncharacteristic for Amy to be moody or depressed. In the time I’ve been friends with her, she’s always been one of those people who’s generally upbeat. In stark contrast, I’m an emotional roller coaster. If I receive a poor grade on an assignment or I’ve had an argument with my dad, I need a couch and a psychologist with a good threshold for pain. Amy, on the other hand, has a run-in with a teacher or misses the ball in gym and starts lecturing me about the “move on with your life” theory.
As it turns out, I don’t get to find out. She abruptly ends the call and I’m left with the phone receiver in my hand, realizing, not for the first time, that I don’t have a proper relationship with my so-called closest friend. We’re like the two sides of a train track, each comfortable in our parallel existence. We don’t intersect or touch each other. But sometimes you need to collide. You need to crash and make an impact just to feel your friendship is alive. To feel that it’s more than passing notes to each other in class and sharing fries at lunchtime. I don’t have any collision scars from this friendship. And as deliberate as that is, it’s not something I’m proud of.
“I CAN’T MAKE
it to the party,” I tell Amy on the phone on Friday night.
“Why not?”
“We’ve got visitors.” Stomach flu’s too sticky a lie. A stab of guilt slices through me.
“Oh.”
“Sorry to cancel on you like this. Why don’t you ask Liz to meet Sam there? I’m sure she will if she knows you’re on your own.”
“Yeah, maybe I will.”
I feel awful lying to Amy but I’m too embarrassed to tell her that my dad won’t let me go. I don’t want her to pigeonhole me as a poor, pitiful, repressed Lebanese girl. I know that my dad’s strictness is cultural and religious, but I also know it has a lot to do with my mother’s death as well, and the fact that he’s bringing us up alone. I don’t understand him. I don’t always agree with him. But I know that I’m not a stereotype and I’ll do
everything in my power to protect myself from being seen as one, even if that means lying to my closest friend.
Another Saturday night stuck at home while Amy and the rest of my class live it up at a party. I wonder what Peter will say on Monday morning. Whether he’ll think I’m lame for not going.
I’m slumped on the couch trying to convince my dad not to go out and rent an Arabic DVD for an “educational movie night,” when Bilal walks into the living room.
“Hey, Jam, do you think I should wear the blue shirt or the striped shirt?”
“I think you should stop putting on ten gallons of aftershave. I need a resuscitator now.”
He grins at me. “Appeals to the chicks.”
“Don’t be rude, Bilal,” my dad scolds.
“So which shirt?”
“Take me with you and I’ll tell you.”
“Some other night, OK?”
“You can go out with Bilal’s friends when I wake up with a full head of hair,” my dad says.
“If you disapprove of his friends, why do you still let him go out with them? Why is it so different for me?” I cry.
“One weekend,” my dad says, looking up at the ceiling. “One weekend in which my daughter and I do not argue.”
I groan. “Why do you treat us differently? I’m just as responsible as Bilal!”
“Because, my dear, he is older than you. And he is a boy. A very silly boy, I admit, but nonetheless a boy, and the rules of life are different for boys and girls.”
“Hey! I’m not silly,” Bilal cries.
“You dropped out of high school, and for what? To fix your friends’ cars? There is no respectable future under the hood of a car!”
“Give me a break, Dad.”
“So what you’re telling me, Dad,” I say, “is that Bilal can get away with anything just because he’s a boy?”
“That’s right!” Bilal says, laughing and ruffling my hair. “You belong in the kitchen.”
I hit his hand away. “Shut up, Bilal; you’re such a sexist pig! It’s all right for you, you’re not the one who has to sit in homeroom on Monday and listen to all the stories. The only exciting thing I get to do on a weekend is channel-surf.”
I jump out of my seat and storm off to my room.
“Hey!” Bilal calls out. “Which shirt?”
“Figure it out yourself,” I shout and slam my door.
I wonder if I’ll ever have a normal relationship with my dad. If we’ll ever be able to understand each other, reason with one another. With family friends he’s a different man. We went to my aunt’s house for New Year’s Eve. I wasn’t allowed to go out with my friends because the city would be filled with drunks, syringes, and testosterone. The adults set up the backyard with a big tent and tables full of food. There were three spits of lamb and about ten farms’ worth of chicken. There was
a stereo system blasting out Arabic music and everybody was dancing and going wild. Especially the dads after they’d had a bit too much to drink. Dad doesn’t need a drink to get him dancing. When an old Lebanese folk song started playing, we had to make room for him and the other men or we would have been crushed alive. And there was my dad, this normally brooding, serious man, kicking up his legs, dancing around the backyard, making jokes, entertaining guests.
I came home that night with the hope that the dad I knew before my mom died had returned. But as soon as we entered the front door I received a lecture about talking to Rami, Uncle Hishan’s son. Rami is reputedly “wild” and “indecent” because he owns a motorcycle, smokes in front of the adults, and has an eyebrow ring. The fact that I had a two-minute conversation with him about his law degree was beside the point.
I went to sleep wondering where that dancing, laughing man had gone.
From: [email protected]
Thanks for the VS.
I’m so bored. I know you’re probably out raving somewhere but I have to complain. I’m stuck at home decomposing from boredom. Saturday night TV sux. It sux even more when you know your friends are going to arrive at school on Monday morning with a whole bunch of exciting stories to tell about their weekend.
My dad won’t let me go to a party tonight. I ditched my friend. I was supposed to go to her house and we were going to go together. I lied. I told her I had family stuff to do.
The night is productive so far. I’ve managed to do the following:
- Scratch Bilal’s favorite CD (it serves him right for not taking me out with him).
- Eat a package of cookies with a cup of hot chocolate.
- Read and reread all my girlie magazines. I’ve redone all the quizzes, too (although I had to ignore my previous answers, which were recorded in pen).
- Give my dad lots of super-filthy death stares.
- Make a compilation of songs for my MP3 player.
Oh. And a mosquito just bit me through my sock. Joy.
From: [email protected]
Boredom! Boredom is when you enter your name into dictionaries on the Internet in different languages to see if you mean anything in another nationality. Boredom is when you read the instruction manual to your TV remote control. Boredom is when you sharpen all your eyeliner pencils and lip liners and tie them up with elastic bands and rearrange your dressing table.
By the way, I also hate seaweed-flavored rice crackers.
From: [email protected]
So what’s the deal with your dad? Why aren’t you allowed to go to the party?
From: [email protected]
Oh hi there! So you’re home tonight, too? I don’t feel like such a geek now, ha-ha.
My dad’s the paranoid type. He has certain curfew rules and Saturday night parties don’t fit into them.
From: [email protected]
Saturday night parties don’t fit into most parents’ curfews. My mom has issues if I ride my bike at night. She thinks I’ll be mugged. They’re all paranoid. It’s a parental prerequisite.
From: [email protected]
Trust me. Nobody comes close to my dad. He has a Charter of Curfew Rights that hangs on our fridge door. He made me type it up and sign it. It’s saved in Word as “COCR.” When things are abbreviated you know they’re serious.
From: [email protected]
Sounds interesting. What does it say?
From: [email protected]
Will you laugh?
From: [email protected]
Of course I will. But I promise you it won’t be a condescending
laugh. It will be a “what a freak of a dad, poor girl, ha-ha” kind of laugh.
From: [email protected]
I’m basically subject to a sunset rule. I have to be home before it gets dark. And if I go out during the day, it’s strictly females only. The only excuse I have to talk to a boy outside of the “education context” is if he’s scanning my groceries at a supermarket checkout.
From: [email protected]
That’s rough. Is your dad in the military or something?
From: [email protected]
No, although come to think of it, he did do compulsory military service when he was eighteen, back in Lebanon. That’s where he was born.
There you go! You’ve solved the mystery for me! A year in an army barracks as a teenager sowed the seeds for my dad’s obsession with rules on fridge doors.
When Dad immigrated to Australia he worked different factory jobs, even though he has a PhD. He’s been a taxi driver ever since I can remember. I wish he was more ambitious and got a job that allowed people to call him Doctor. I wish he’d pursue a career
that enabled him to work in an office with a harbor view and bring home sophisticated stationery I could take to school and show off. Ha-ha. It’s just that I hate that he fits the stereotype of the ethnic guy driving a taxi when I know he’s so highly educated. I want people to give him the respect he deserves.
Look at me gushing like this. You must think I’m a weirdo. Sorry. It’s just that I don’t get to open up much.
So what does your dad do?
From: [email protected]
He’s a lawyer. And if you want stereotypes, I’ll give them to you. I’m the son of a rich, successful lawyer, who is resisting his father’s efforts to get him following in his footsteps.
It’s enough to put you into a coma.
A couple of nights ago my dad invited a judge over for dinner. In a pistachio shell, here’s how it went:
Dad
: Son, you know His Honor. Say hello to His Honor.
Me
: Hello, His Honor.
His Honor
(looks bored): That’s funny, son.
Dad
(gritting teeth): My son, the comedian.
His Honor
: Son, comedy will get you far in life. But a strong academic record, a law degree, and persistence, that will take you to the moon.
Me
: So what you’re saying is that I should become an astronaut?
My obvious enthusiasm didn’t go down too well with my dad.
From: [email protected]
Judges visit you?? Your dad is a hotshot lawyer? I want to collect a visa to your world. I can imagine what your mom looks like. She wears designer clothes and her hair is always up in an exotic French twist and she smells of Chanel No. 5 and drives a BMW. You probably live in an amazing mansion and you’ll get a car when you turn eighteen and your dad will use his connections and get you a job in a top-tier firm.
I am officially jealous.
From: [email protected]
Judicial dinners, lectures about legislative reform, and sterile mansions are about as exciting as toe warts.
