Ten Things I Hate About Me (9 page)

BILAL COMES INTO
my room on Saturday morning and throws himself onto my bed as I’m straightening my hair.

“Why don’t you leave it curly?” he asks.

“Because I don’t want to knock people over when they walk past me.”

“You’re such an idiot. It looks great curly.”

“This is coming from someone with bleached spikes?”

He rolls his eyes at me. “So what are you doing today?”

“I managed to convince Dad to let me go to Amy’s house to do
homework.
I had to pretend the visit is linked to my educational enlightenment in order to get permission. So what are you doing?”

“Playing tennis with the boys and then we’re off to Home at Darling Harbour. It’s Italian night.”

I raise my eyebrows at him. “Oh, I see, and that means what? Hot
chicks?”

He grins and nods his head. “Oh yeah, that’s for sure. Plus the music rocks!”

“Like you could pick up anyone anyway,” I say, throwing my brush at him. “And I suppose you’ll be home at four in the morning and give Dad a heart attack?”

“I get so sick of him bossing me around. I’m eighteen years old. When’s he going to let me be a man and make my own decisions about my life?”

I snort. “What decisions are they? Clubbing? Drinking? Very impressive, Bilal.”

He rolls his eyes again and leans back against my headboard, his hands behind his head.

“OK, I don’t expect the green light from him about my social life. And I know it’s wrong in Islam, blah, blah, blah. But do you know what annoys me most, Jam?”

“What?”

“Dad still goes on and on about me being a dropout. So I didn’t inherit his brains. I just don’t have that academic side to me. I’ve never been good at school. I’m good with my hands. Engines, I understand. Trigonometry, Shakespeare, all that stuff goes into my head and comes out as sawdust.”

“I know what you mean. He has these high expectations for all of us. But he sets them without consulting us or thinking about what we want or how we feel.”

“Sometimes I feel like telling him to butt out.”

“
Tell Dad to butt out?”
I look at him incredulously. “Do you think this is an episode of a soap opera or something? Don’t
you remember the taste of Dove soap? Remember the time you came home from school and Dad told you to clean your room or you wouldn’t be allowed to go to your basketball game? I distinctly remember what you said:
Do you want a knuckle sandwich, old man?”

He slowly breaks out into a grin as he remembers the incident. “I didn’t realize what it meant! I was a kid! Man, that soap killed me! I was burping soapsuds for days!”

“You could have stacked a dishwasher in your mouth, that’s how sparkling clean it was.”

We collapse into giggles.

“So telling Dad to butt out isn’t really advisable.”

He laughs. “I’m not that stupid. It still pisses me off, though. I want to be a mechanic and he gives me no respect for that.”

“Things would have been different if Mom was alive.”

He sighs. “She would have understood.”

I give him a sly grin. “But she would have roasted you alive if she knew you drink and go out with girls!”

“I would have given up anything for her,” he says softly. “I miss her like crazy.”

“Me too.”

“Dad just doesn’t understand me. He wants us all to be
professionals.
He’s the one who’s been behind a taxi wheel for years. If he regrets not using his PhD he shouldn’t take it out on us. That’s just hypocriticism!”

“The word is
hypocritical,
Bilal. Maybe Dad does have a point about you dropping out.”

He lunges forward and puts me in a headlock. I laugh and splutter, begging him to release me.

“Say that I’m the best-looking, most intelligent guy in the world!” he says.

“Let me go, you idiot!” I cry.

He keeps me down, grinning in my face. “Say it, Jam!”

“OK, OK, you’re the best.”

He releases me and we burst out laughing again.

Today is the first time I have visited Amy. It feels strange because I’m not used to seeing her outside of school. When I arrive I feel slightly awkward. I sit on the edge of the couch wondering if we’ll run out of things to say to each other. With so many topics off limits, I wonder what’s left to talk about. I seem to constantly hide behind the superficial with Amy. I can discuss movies, celebrities, music, but I can’t talk about what’s really going on in my life.

Amy has a bowl of popcorn ready and bags of chips and chocolate.

“I borrowed
The Ring,”
she says. “I’ve heard it’s really scary.”

“That sounds great,” I say as I stuff my mouth with a handful of popcorn.

We’re watching the movie when Amy’s mother walks into the room. “Hello,” she says.

“Hi, I’m Jamie,” I say.

“Yes, I know,” she says, smiling at me. “Amy’s told me all about you.”

I almost want to let out a hoot. There wouldn’t exactly be much to say.

We chat for a couple of minutes and then she turns to Amy. “Is your father having dinner here tonight?”

“How am I supposed to know?” Amy says tensely, staring at the television screen.

“Well, can you please go and ask him? He’s in the study.”

I steal a glance at Amy and notice the mortified expression on her face. I pretend to be oblivious to their conversation and concentrate on extracting a popcorn kernel that’s stuck in my teeth.

“Why can’t you ask him yourself?”

Amy’s mother gives her a stern look. “Amy, I am not in the mood for this conversation. You know very well why I’m not going into that study.”

Amy lets out an exaggerated sigh.

“Fine!” Amy’s mother cries and storms out of the room.

I don’t want to intrude but I can’t pretend that nothing is wrong either. So I tread delicately. “Is everything OK?” I ask her gently.

She looks at me and in a huffy voice says: “I really don’t want to talk about it, if you don’t mind.”

She’s throwing my words back in my face. They sting like a paper cut.

“I didn’t mean to shut you out before,” I say slowly.

“That’s fine. And I don’t mean to shut you out now.”

I fumble with my skirt, averting my eyes from her gaze.

“Your door is closed and so is mine. Let’s just leave it at that.”

My throat is burning with the anticipation of tears. But I swallow hard and manage to control myself.

I catch the bus before it gets dark and meet Shereen at a café in Parramatta, where she spent the afternoon with her friends. I didn’t want Shereen to pick me up from Amy’s house, all dressed up in her Yin Yang hijab.

“It was awesome, Jamilah,” she says as we’re driving home. “We really made progress. We’re organizing a petition to protest against the torture of Falun Gong practitioners in China. A Chinese diplomat is visiting Sydney next week and we plan to work with a local human-rights group and hold a massive vigil in the center of the city. You should come along.”

“Sorry, I think I’m getting a massage with a chain saw that day. Maybe next time.”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Don’t be such a bimbo.”

“I don’t know how you have the energy. All that protesting makes no difference whatsoever. The world still sucks. It doesn’t matter how loud you scream or how big your placards are.”

“Don’t be so cynical, Jamilah. We can make a difference.”

“The last time I checked, the war in Iraq is still going, prisoners are being abused, asylum seekers are still getting locked up, indigenous Australians are dying in prison, and African children are still starving. Effective track record.”

“Silence is consent, Jamilah!”

“I know you’re passionate, Shereen, and I can’t believe I’m going to admit this, but Dad has a point. If you want to do something about all the injustice, do something that works.”

She purses her lips and grips the steering wheel. “None of you understand. Don’t you care about anything besides watching TV?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, I do.” I turn my body toward her and give her an intense look.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I need help. I need to draw on your infinite wisdom. I need to rely on your expertise and brilliance and—”

She chuckles. “Enough already, what do you want?”

“I need you to help me persuade Dad to let me go to my tenth-grade formal. It’s the most important event of the year. And if I don’t go I will personally call the UN Secretary General and tell him that you refused to provide humanitarian assistance to a person in desperate need.”

She bursts out laughing. “You need the entire United Nations to help you convince Dad.”

I slam my head against the dashboard. “I have to go, Shereen! I’ll be the only one left out. My class is planning the whole night. Dresses, hair, cars, where they’ll go afterward. It will be the topic on everybody’s lips for the next two years. I will be excluded from the private jokes and ‘do you remember what happened when’ stories. My life will be OVER.”

“Note to Jamilah: Do not overreact.”

“Note to Miss-Goody-Two-Shoes-I-Pray-Five-Times- a-Day:
I guess Allah would be pretty unimpressed if you ignored the desperate plea of a family member—of your own sister!”

“Look, Jamilah, I’ll try my best but I don’t hold much hope that he’ll let you. He’s not dumb. He knows what goes on at these things. He’ll hear the word
formal
and think of all those Hollywood ‘I lost my virginity on my prom night’ movies.”

I groan. “Tell me about it! Look, Miss Tree-Hugger, just try. Please.”

She glances sidelong at me and scrunches up her nose. “‘Tree-hugger’? Do you think I hug trees?”

I grin at her. “No. I think you’re way more wacko than that. Hugging is mild. You probably talk to them and celebrate their birthdays too.”

She takes one hand off the steering wheel and pinches me playfully in the side. “How on earth are we related?”

“See? All that hippie stuff has made you forget the birds and the bees. You see, one day Mom and Dad conceived you and then…”

She shudders and yells out to me to shut up.

“So you’ll talk to him?”

She looks at me and then nods.

“You’re not so bad after all!”

Shereen peeks her head around my door later that evening.

“I tried.”

“And?”

She casts her eyes down. “Sorry, Jam.”

YOU MIGHT AS WELL
hook me onto a fishing line and throw me into the harbor. My life is well and truly over.

Miss Sajda rushes into our classroom at madrasa this evening, her face exploding into a wide grin. Mustafa, Samira, Hasan, and I are sitting around a table. They’ve been telling me about a CD of rap “ballads” titled
Whassup With That?
that they have produced. They say “produced” as though they’ve struck a record deal, when all they did was hang out at a café in Leichhardt writing out a rap song on loose napkins about racism, pride, and baggy hipster jeans.

“Whassup, Miss Sajda?” Mustafa asks.

“Your band is wanted!”

“Where?”

“Who?”

“No way!”

We sit up in our seats, fidgeting with excited anticipation as we wait for her response.

“I sent out flyers about the band to all the local schools. Guildford High is holding their tenth-grade formal in June and they want to hire a band with, and I quote, ‘Middle Eastern music.’ Apparently the teachers have noticed quite a bit of racial tension among some of the students and feel that they need a reminder about the importance of multiculturalism. Isn’t it fantastic?”

It’s all I can do to stop myself from passing out.

“Did you say Guildford High?” I whisper in a strained voice.

She nods but then, noticing my pale face, says: “Is something wrong, Jamilah?”

I gulp down hard. “That’s my school. And my formal.”

“Wow! What a nice coincidence!” Samira says.

“You’ll be famous!” Hasan says. “That’s so cool.”

“It’s a disaster,” I say.

“Why?” Miss Sajda asks.

I slump down into my chair and groan, hiding my face in my hands. “An absolute disaster,” I repeat miserably.

Mustafa sits up in his chair. “It’s an amazing opportunity, Jamilah! Don’t tell me you’re going to back out! Are you worried about your dad? I’m sure he’ll agree. It’s your formal. You’re going anyway, so what’s the big deal?”

I let out a short, cynical laugh. “Who said I’m going?”

“Oh,” he says quietly.

“Would you like me to talk to him?” Miss Sajda asks.

I look up at her. “No, thanks. I’m going to have to fight for this on my own.”

I arrive home from madrasa and find my dad watching the news. I sit next to him.

“How was madrasa?”

“Great.”

“You’re enjoying playing in the band, aren’t you?”

“I love it. We’re good too. You’d be proud of us.”

“That’s my girl. Maybe you’ll get to perform at some weddings or the Arabic Festival. But only once in a while. I don’t want it to become a regular thing.”

“Speaking of performing, Dad,” I venture, my voice shaking slightly, “we’ve already received our first offer.”

He turns down the volume on the television and looks at me with delight. “Really? That’s wonderful. Where?”

“Actually, Dad,” I stammer, “it’s the strangest coincidence. My tenth-grade formal is being held in June and the teachers have requested that our band perform.”

“Formal?”

“Yes, my formal.” I nervously clear my throat.

He leans back in his chair and sighs. “Ahh, the one you sent Shereen to talk to me about.”

I avert my eyes. “Can I go?”

“Is it mixed?”

“What do you mean?”

“Mixed between boys and girls?”

“Well, yes, the male gender will be present.”

“I won’t allow it, Jamilah.”

“But, Dad! Everyone’s going!”

“Jamilah, we’re different. These formals are not proper environments for respectable girls and boys. There will be alcohol, dancing.”

“Of course they won’t serve alcohol.”

“I’m sure the kids will somehow manage to get their hands on alcohol either before or after the party. Jamilah, dating and dancing with boys are not for you.”

“I’ll be the biggest loser in my class.”

“Only if you allow people to think that you feel deprived. If you’re proud of your beliefs then nobody will dare to say anything. People are guided by your attitude. You need to learn that.”

“Can’t you just back down for once? Please, Dad? How can I let the band down? They’re all so excited!”

“Look, Jamilah, I have certain principles and rules and I won’t compromise on them. For you to go to the formal is out of the question. I do not trust these sorts of events. As for the band, I’ll let you play with them but you have to leave when they leave.”

“But, Dad!”

“Enough, Jamilah!” he cries. “All you do is argue with me! Why can’t you ever respect my will?”

“Why can’t you ever give any consideration to mine?” I run to my room, throw myself onto my bed, and burst into tears.