‘So vox pop the public on Aussie culture.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Morello, with his sense of humour, paired us together because we clearly have so much in common.’
‘Clearly,’ I say, grinning.
The beginnings of a smile stir on the edges of her mouth as she busies herself with her bag.
We are worlds apart in every sense and I want to know everything there is to know about her.
So that smile she gives me? It’s a first step – in my mind anyway.
*
On Saturday we say goodbye to Dad. He makes me promise to look after the family, and then Joe ushers him away, reassuring us he’s in good hands. I feel queasy just thinking about him in war zones. It sounded exciting at first. Now it seems like a stupid thing for him to have agreed to do.
Seeing my mum cry is tough. She’s a strong woman and it takes a lot for her to break. I give her a big bear hug. She’s short and plump and her head comes to my chest. She looks up at me, wiping the tears from her eyes.
‘When did you get so tall?’ she says sentimentally, taking a step back and blowing her nose.
Nathan is taking it all in his stride. ‘Why are you sad, Mum?’ he asks.
‘Because I’ll miss your dad.’
Nathan proceeds to recite statistics on road accidents in Australia, and how we should be more worried about people falling off ladders and dying than being killed in a terrorist act.
‘Hmm,’ is Mum’s simple response.
Nathan is not satisfied he’s convinced her. ‘Mum, we have a bigger chance of dying in an accident on our way home than Dad has of being shot in Iraq,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘Be more worried about us getting in our car now than Dad going to Baghdad.’
‘Oh, Nathan,’ Mum says and blows her nose.
I spend Saturday night at Terrence’s place. Fred is there too. We interrupt a game of COD to surf the net to trace Dad’s route and find out as much as we can about Iraq and Indonesia.
‘It’s bloody information overload,’ Terrence mutters.
‘Your dad could get killed, you know,’ Fred says.
‘Gee, thanks man. That’s just what I needed to hear. Although, Nathan would challenge you on that.’
Fred pulls a face. ‘Yeah, sorry. Just telling it as I see it.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m stressed. Happy? This won’t be MasterChef. Undercook a roast and you’re kicked out. The program’s going to try to get the ratings.’
‘Yep,’ Terrence says. ‘The more drama and danger, the better. They’ll push them all to their limits. Imagine if they make them watch a beheading.’
‘He won’t crack,’ I say, but I’m terrified about how he’s going to cope. How do you go from North Shore Sydney to a war zone? How can you go in and out and still be the same person?
Mina
‘This lady. White shirt, jeans, coffee.’
‘Okay.’
‘Quick!’
‘Okay.’
‘Now.’
‘Okay!’
‘What happened?’
Michael scrunches up his face. ‘I really hate this. I mean, why should they stop to talk to us? I’d be annoyed if I was them. Maybe you should do the vox pop. I’ll do the editing.’
‘We have to do it together,’ I say. ‘Morello warned us all, remember? The trick is eye contact. Find someone who isn’t looking down at their phone.’
‘So we’re left with old people.’
‘That is so ageist, Michael.’
‘It was a joke.’
‘Ha. Ha.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Come on. Let’s get this over with. If we get a no, we move on to the next person. Your ego will survive. It’s not as though you’re asking people out on a date.’
Michael’s eyes flash cheekily. ‘What makes you think I’ve experienced rejection in that department?’
‘My God, judging from this assignment you’d be an emotional mess if you did. Okay pass the recorder to me. I’ll do the next one. And then it’s your turn, no ifs or buts.’
We somehow manage to find five people who will talk to us, and then we go to a café to debrief.
‘Barbecues, beer, the beach and the bush,’ I say and smile. ‘We hit cliché central.’
‘I mean, really, the bush?’ Michael says, and we both laugh.
He surveys the café and snorts. ‘I nearly laughed in that woman’s face. She’s going on about the bush and then gets into her BMW convertible.’ He rolls his eyes.
I sip my iced coffee. I want to tell him that when we were in the camps waiting for a boat we spoke about what we imagined Australia would be like. Kangaroos, koalas, wide open spaces. Then, when we arrived, we were locked up and the images we had shrank smaller and smaller until Australia became tiny patches of sky beyond the barbed wire.
I want to tell him this and more. But I don’t.
‘So are you a beach person?’ Michael asks. His eyes are fixed on me again. There’s an intensity in the way he stares at me sometimes, as though he’s trying to read my mind, figure me out.
‘Not really.’
Just then my phone vibrates. I look down. Mum’s left me a voicemail message. That’s when I realise there’s a missed call from her too. I listen to the message. She tells me to come home early from the library (my cover for today) because they need me at the restaurant. I text her back and put my phone away. I can sense Michael’s eyes following me as I take a sip of my drink.
‘So what do you want to do when you finish school?’ I ask him.
He sighs. ‘Architecture. UNSW. My dad’s old uni. Part-time job at a boutique firm while I study. A prestigious career, following in my father’s footsteps. Nothing left to chance.’
‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic about it.’
His voice drops a few tones, but his eyes are lively, his face mobile. ‘Yeah. It’s kind of complicated.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s actually the last thing I want to do.’
‘Hmm. That is complicated.’
‘Told you.’
‘So what do you want to do?’
Now, a torrent of words. His eyes light up as he talks to me about wanting to go to UTS Design School. About wanting to do Graphic Design, but not traditional graphic design, the cutting-edge stuff: augmented reality. Virtual reality. A completely different way of thinking about branding, marketing, gaming.
‘Let me guess,’ I say when he takes a breath, ‘your dad’s against it?’
‘Worse. He has no idea.’ He looks at me helplessly and then exhales. ‘So anyway, what are your plans?’
‘I have absolutely no idea. I just need to get the best grades so that my parents don’t die of disappointment.’
‘No pressure or anything for you either, hey?’
I smile. ‘I’m at Victoria College on a scholarship. We’ve moved to the other side of Sydney to make the next two years possible for me. Moved from the one place in Sydney where my parents felt completely at home. If that wasn’t enough, they’ve invested in a partnership to open an Afghan restaurant, when the restaurant they were running in Auburn was doing really well. They’ve turned their lives upside down for me. So getting average grades is not an option.’
‘Yep. That’s pressure.’
‘Will your parents melt into puddles of abject depression if you don’t do architecture?’
Leaning his chin on his hand, he thinks for a moment. ‘Yep. I think that just about summarises my current situation.’
‘Welcome to the parents-overly-invested-in-our-future club.’
He suddenly bursts into laughter.
‘What’s so funny?’
There’s a look of triumph in his eyes. ‘Looks like we have something in common after all.’
*
I send a text message to Paula.
> Me:
So. It seems Michael might not be so bad after all.
Paula:
The Terrence friendship thing though?
Me:
Still confused about that.
Paula:
All hope lies with u now Mina.
Me:
What do u mean?
Paula:
Rehabilitation.
Me:
LOL. Reckon I can get him delivering food packs with me to Villawood?
Paula:
Keep batting those criminally long eyelashes of yours & u just might.
Me:
Gee it’s nice to know I’m worth respecting for my mind.
Michael
I need a new job. Last year I worked as a casual at a juice bar at the local shops but my shifts were cut and I couldn’t find anything else over the summer holidays. My Macbook Pro is on its last legs, and I want to pre-order the Occulus Rift and HoloLens, because you can never have enough virtual reality headsets. My parents could easily fund my addiction to gadgets with big fat weekly direct deposits to my bank account, like Terrence. But they pride themselves on old-fashioned ‘stand-on-your-own-two-feet’ values. That means no silver platter. We might be upper middle class, they constantly tell me, but things are tough in the real world and you need to be prepared.
Tough is relative I guess. They’ve basically lined up a job for me at the end of uni thanks to Dad’s friend, Kyle (a job I have no intention of taking). Then there’s the fact that I already have my own car, a Jeep Wrangler. It came as a surprise, not a birthday present like some kids at school. When my granddad passed away last year he left Nathan and me each a chunk of money in his will so that we could buy a car when we got our licence. The only thing I’d ever won before was a Mother’s Day raffle in year three which consisted of a tacky basket with plastic flowers and floral soap that ended up giving Mum a rash. So when Dad told me about the will I kind of fell apart – in a good way and still respecting my alpha male credentials (no I didn’t cry). I’d been close to my granddad and he’d only had us because my grandma had passed away when I was a kid and Dad was an only child. Mum had wanted to delay me getting the car until I finished school, but Dad and I convinced her in the end. It made life easier for them if I could get myself to school and basketball games. The rule was I had to stick to local.
On Sunday Terrence, Fred and I go to Chatswood so that I can submit my CV to different shops. It feels positively Jurassic having to hand in a hard copy, but I’ve had no luck with my online applications.
When we’re done, we go to the food court for lunch.
‘I told you I can lend you money,’ Terrence says. ‘What’s the point of being friends with a spoilt rich kid if you don’t use me?’
I laugh. ‘Nah, man, I’m good. Thanks anyway.’
‘He’s got too much pride,’ Fred says. ‘Me? I’ve got none. Can you get a guy another burrito?’
Terrence throws Fred a ten and Fred kisses the note, laughs, and gets up to buy round two.
‘I’m serious,’ Terrence continues. ‘I know you’re into all that geeky hardware stuff. I can get it for you.’
‘Quit it, you bastard. You’re getting soppy.’
He grins.
Fred comes back with a burrito and hot chips.
‘Keep the change,’ he says, throwing ten cents on the table. We all laugh.
‘So did you meet up with Mina yesterday for that dumb assignment?’ Terrence asks.
‘Yeah,’ I say, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. I don’t want to talk about Mina with him.
‘She’s smart,’ he says. ‘Good-looking too. But a stuck-up cow.’
‘Nah, she’s all right actually.’
‘It was fun stirring her up like that,’ Terrence laughs.
‘So did you meet up with Jane?’ I ask, trying to change the topic. ‘Morello paired you together, didn’t he? Has that guy got no clue about the torture he’s putting her through, assigning the two of you together?’
Terrence is too busy chewing to bother responding.
‘She’s got the hots for you bad,’ Fred says.
Terrence swallows and then grins. ‘Yeah I know.’
‘You’re messing with her, aren’t you?’ I say, frowning. ‘Don’t do that, man.’
‘That kind of attitude is the reason you’ve had girlfriends and I’ve had fun.’
Fred bursts out laughing.
‘You guys are such Neanderthals,’ I say, rolling my eyes at them.
Terrence shrugs, taking my comment as a compliment. ‘Just because you’ve always been a sensitive new-age geek doesn’t mean we have to as well.’
I shoot Fred a look. ‘I don’t know why you’re laughing, you moron. The one and only time you’ve kissed a girl was when the lifeguard gave you CPR at Coogee.’ Terrence roars with laughter. Fred is easy-going and in no denial about his abysmal record with girls, so he laughs along too.
Mina
Mum’s on her phone, checking out Facebook.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘I’m just looking at the photos of the kids at Jolly’s After-School Care.’ She smiles. ‘I miss them.’
‘Why don’t you apply to work at an after-school care centre around here? You’re a natural.’
Mum eyes me. ‘I have been applying,’ she says slowly.
I grin at her, impressed. ‘Really?’
‘I sent my résumé to fifteen places in the area. I got one response. When she heard me speak she was surprised. Said she expected me to speak English fluently.’ Mum gives me a reproachful look. ‘Didn’t I warn you that polishing my résumé too much would create false expectations?’
I shrug my shoulders. ‘I just fixed the spelling and grammar.’
‘Well, I don’t know what to do. Someone with my name and background isn’t going to find work here, whether I can structure a sentence or not.’
‘So it’s not my fault then,’ I say, trying to distract her so that neither of us has to contemplate the weight of her words.
I just manage to dodge the cushion she throws at me.
‘I miss Auburn,’ she says.
‘Yep. I hear you.’ I pause. ‘But, Mum? Don’t give up.’
She shrugs, and it’s as though she’s flicking my comment onto the ground. ‘Sometimes the apartments here feel like graves,’ she says. ‘They’re not places where people come out and speak to each other.’
I smile coyly. ‘You really want creepy bifocals with staring problem in number twenty-five to socialise with you?’
She waves her hand in my direction and shooshes me. But I’m just getting started.
‘You don’t even like the couple next door because they have a dog.’
She pulls a face. ‘That’s not why I don’t like them. Stand in the lift with them one day. It’s as though any eye contact will kill them. I’m lucky if they grunt hello. People here are just cold.’
She throws her phone to the side and stretches her arms above.
‘Better than people being in everyone’s business.’
‘But at least people care about each other.’
‘Excuse me, but Aunty Tashima didn’t care about anybody but herself when she busted me for skipping school in year seven and had to tell everybody. The news probably reached Kabul.’
‘Oh, you are a drama queen, Mina.’ Mum lets out a faint chuckle. ‘That was years ago. Anyway, being a nosy gossip is different. I want people to talk to me, not gossip.’
‘What kind of lift small talk are you so desperate for anyway?’
‘I want big talk. I want to know people and for them to know me. But it’s all on the surface here. Nothing personal. I stick to good morning and, maybe if they smile long enough, the weather. But we’re strangers and that’s how people want it.’ r />
‘Shake things up and talk then.’
She rolls her eyes at me. ‘Ten years in Auburn and I felt finally that I could just be. Here, I have to try to learn to be all over again. Who I am in Auburn cannot exist here.’
Her words ring true but I worry that agreeing with her will only exacerbate her feelings.
‘Just be yourself and things will sort themselves out,’ I try.
‘Your advice is terrible, Mina,’ she says, practically wincing. ‘Just terrible.’
I have to admit she has a point.
She shakes her head at me and we grin at each other. ‘Please just fix me a cup of tea, will you?’
‘How many weeks pregnant again?’ I ask, getting up.
‘Enough to be pampered day and night.’
‘Does the self-pity routine get worse?’
‘Oh yes, definitely. That, and haemorrhoids.’
‘Ew!’ I splutter. ‘Too much information.’
‘See. Nothing personal. I’ve lost you to them already.’
I laugh and make her tea.
‘Sorry, Mum.’
‘For what?’
‘For making you leave Auburn.’
‘Oh don’t be ridiculous, Mina,’ she scoffs. ‘All I care about is securing the best future for you. And we have the restaurant here too. So it’s a move for us as a family.’
‘But you sound so upset.’
She waves my words away like a pesky fly. ‘Ignore my silly whining. We don’t have the luxury to do grass is greener. We’ve got to make this work. And we will. I don’t want you to worry about anything except your grades. Every now and then I might carry on, but just ignore me. Who wants to try to get kids to do art and craft when all they want to do is run around after a long day of school anyway?’
*
It’s Thursday and we’re busy tonight. Baba and Irfan are out back running the kitchen. We’re a couple of staff down, so I’ve stepped in to help, along with Mum, who’s steering clear of the meat.
I’m behind the front counter chatting with a couple as they settle the bill, when the restaurant door is flung wide open and a man with a huge birthmark on his face walks purposefully towards me. He stops and waits, eyes darting around the restaurant as I finalise the bill. I sense a nervous energy about him. He’s tapping one leg impatiently; his arms are folded tightly over his chest. When the couple leaves, I turn my attention to him.