‘Can I help you?’
‘Yeah. Yeah you can.’
I stand tall, waiting for him to continue.
‘Yes?’ I press him.
‘Is your meat halal?’
I look at him, dumbfounded. His question takes me completely by surprise.
‘I said is your meat halal?’
‘Yes.’ I wonder if he’s been hired to check certification and point to the halal certificate behind the counter. ‘We’re certified, as you can see.’
‘Pretty obscure place to put the certificate, isn’t it? The customers can’t see it there.’
I study his face closely, trying to make sense of what’s happening. ‘It’s right behind me in plain view.’
‘It doesn’t say where the money’s going.’
I don’t know who he is or what he wants, so I hold my tongue, not daring to provoke him until I know more.
‘And who are you, sorry?’ I ask. ‘I didn’t catch your name.’
‘I didn’t offer it.’ He looks around the restaurant again and then whips out a phone and scrolls through the screen. He looks up at me. ‘Is the manager here?’
‘Yes. Both of them. Why?’
‘I just need to talk to them.’
‘Well they’re in the kitchen now and we’re low on staff tonight. So unless you’re ordering, I’ll have to ask you to leave please.’
He takes a long breath and let’s it out. He looks like he has a whole lot more to say but must think twice because he barks that he’ll be back soon, turns swiftly on his heels and marches out the door.
It gets manically busy after that and by the time we close up I’ve forgotten all about him.
*
The best part about year eleven is the free study periods. The worst part is that Paula’s don’t coincide with mine.
I’m in the library with Jane, Leica and Cameron. Leica and Cameron are nestled up close to each other doing work, but not close enough for the librarian to give them a hands-off warning. Jane’s giving me a brain freeze, sparing me no details about her hour with Terrence for their assignment. I can think of better things to do than try to decode Terrence’s feelings for her. Things like, say, pouring salt into an infected blister. That Jane’s not getting the message that I’m bored has me seriously doubting her credibility when it comes to interpreting Terrence’s mixed signals.
I’m saved when Sienna, from History, comes up to the table and invites us to her birthday party.
I panic inside. Parties are nightmare territory for me. I’ll have to spin a story to my mum about studying at a friend’s place. But even if that works, because of my early curfew, I’ll probably have to leave before most people have even arrived.
My head isn’t coping with trying to summarise the chronology of World War I while listening to Jane go on and on about Terrence. So I close Word, knowing this means a late night tonight, and open the website of one of my favourite bands, The XX.
Not long to go for their album drop. I’m counting down.
The bell rings, to my relief, and I’m left alone.
Then I notice Zoe and Clara enter the library. They can see that there’s plenty of space next to me and, given we’re in the same class, avoiding my table isn’t a neutral decision. They make eye contact with me, then sit down at another table, close enough to me to make the point. A short while later Zoe gets up, making a beeline to a bookshelf near me. On her return, balancing a pile of books in her arms, she stops to talk to me.
‘How’d you go with the essay?’ Her tone is off balance. Here is a girl who’s trying desperately hard to suppress her anxiety about coming second. I feel a wave of pity for her.
‘Nineteen.’
Her face crumbles for a split second. She quickly regains her composure. ‘Do you have a tutor?’
‘No,’ I snap, irritated. ‘Why would you ask that?’
‘It’s just a question.’ I have to hand it to her. She seems to think I’m the impolite one.
I throw the question back at her. ‘Do you have a tutor?’
Now it’s her turn to be indignant. ‘I don’t need one!’
‘So what did you get –’
She doesn’t give me a chance and quickly turns on her heels.
Weary of her antics, I plug my earphones into my ears.
Bliss.
I’m in the moment but outside of it. The people and things around me don’t exist. It’s just me and the music and a swell of joy and sorrow and memory courses through my veins. It was Christy Bonnaci from year nine who first put me on to indie music. She took me aside after a particularly vigorous free-dance class in Drama and said, very seriously, very sage-like, ‘There’s nothing wrong with liking the playlist of a Just Dance Wii game, but I think you can do better than that.’ One recess with a pair of earplugs and I was converted.
I should be studying but Zoe’s put me right off. I just feel like chilling out, except that word is all wrong because the music doesn’t cool me down, it warms me.
But then somebody plonks a bag on the table and sits down opposite me.
‘You like The XX?’ A bewildered tone. I force an eye open to check who the voice belongs to.
Michael stares at me, a look of surprise on his face.
I slowly raise my head. ‘Yeah. I do.’
He smiles.
‘How’d you know?’ I ask.
He points to my laptop screen, open on the band’s website page.
‘Oh. So are you a fan too?’
‘Love them,’ he says.
‘Album drop soon.’
‘I know. I can’t wait.’ A pause. ‘They’re not mainstream.’ He looks at me like he’s trying to figure me out.
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Are you wondering how somebody who lives in Western Sydney could be into indie pop?’
He tries to back pedal but it’s crash and fall.
And then, as a sudden afterthought, he says: ‘Lived.’
‘Huh?’
‘You said lives in Western Sydney.’
‘Oh. Okay . . . lived.’
‘You say that word almost mournfully. Do you miss the place?’
‘Every day.’
‘What do you miss?’
‘Tacky clothing shops, cops chasing cars with defects, the smell of Adana, the zillion different accents and languages and, best of all, wog warmth.’
‘Wog warmth?’
‘Yeah.’ I smile.
‘What does that even mean?’
‘Everyone’s darling, up in people’s business, ready to help and talk and get in your face with their opinions and overdosed aftershave and loud voices. It’s quiet here. Stiff. People are ironed crisp and unruffled.’
‘Aren’t you generalising?’
‘Shamelessly.’
‘Anyway, I thought wog was a derogatory word.’
‘Yeah it is. If you use it.’
He raises an eyebrow.
‘So . . .’ He drums his fingers on the table. ‘The XX . . .’ I’ve impressed him.
‘Well if we’re talking preconceived notions, I would have had you down as a Bieber fan myself.’
He makes a gesture of a knife stabbing his heart.
I chuckle. ‘Any other assumptions about me you need to sort out, here’s your chance.’
He shakes his head. ‘Nah, it’s okay.’
‘Come on. I’m curious. I promise I won’t take offence.’
‘You think I’m falling for that line?’ He laughs and I feel an unexpected wave of attraction to him. I look away, focusing my attention on my laptop screen.
‘I take my promises seriously.’
‘Maybe. Probably. But the promise part isn’t the problem. It’s how you define offence.’
I can’t help but laugh.
&nbs
p; He fixes his eyes on me. ‘Okay, fine. We’ll start easy. Favourite food?’
I lean back in my chair and raise an eyebrow at him. ‘Oh, is this one of those lame twenty questions?’
‘Yeah. Why not.’
‘Okay. That’s easy. Pizza.’
‘Pet hate?’
I think for a moment. ‘Well, you know what I find annoying? When you’re at the movies, gorging on popcorn and there’s that one couple who aren’t eating anything. Who does that?’
‘Weird people.’
‘Exactly! It’s just common courtesy to join in. Because when everybody else is shoving the popcorn in, I feel safe to munch on mine. But that couple sucks all the joy out of it because I’m sitting there thinking, can they hear me? Are they annoyed? Have I just ruined that scene because they can hear me cracking a corn kernel?’
‘Wow. I was expecting maybe something along the lines of close talkers, or people who take a sip of their drink while there’s still food in their mouth. But that was about as thorough and considered a reply as I’ve ever gotten.’
‘I take my movie experiences seriously. So what’s your pet hate then?’
‘People on public transport clipping nails, or eating something smelly. Or worse, putting their bags on seats.’
‘And then they give you a filthy look if you ask them to move their bag so you can sit down.’
‘Just sit on the bag. Works every time. So, favourite movie?’
‘The Lord of the Rings trilogy.’
‘You’re a Tolkien geek?’ He grins.
‘Yep. I’m holding out for a Lord of the Rings/Hobbit movie marathon one day. I’ve got it all figured out too. Everybody dresses up – you know, just to increase the geek factor – and we hire out a community hall or some such place from the morning. Everyone brings a beanbag, cushions, junk food.’
‘And you march people out and subject them to some form of public humiliation if their phone rings or they take selfies mid-movie.’
We keep on talking and when the bell rings it takes us by surprise. Michael leaves, and I pack my bag. As I stand up, I notice Zoe and Clara staring at me, slight smirks on their faces. It irks me and before I have a chance to even think twice I walk up to them, stop and say, ‘Better luck next time on the essay, Zoe,’ and saunter off, head high.
Michael
Mum is slipping into paranoid fantasies about Dad being killed by a suicide bomber, or else appearing in a scratchy YouTube video with an unruly beard and a gun pointed at his temple as he’s forced to read out demands for the withdrawal of infidels from Muslim lands.
There’s no contact allowed. When the phone rings, she panics, thinking we’re going to be sucked into a hostage crisis. We get daily calls from an SBS producer reassuring us that everyone is fine. But Mum ends up wondering if she’s in fact been speaking to a terrorist putting on a good Aussie accent.
She’s convinced Dad’s politics might have landed him on some international terrorist hit list.
‘How could we have agreed?’ she wails over dinner one night.
‘Mum, I hate to break it to you,’ I joke, ‘but it’s highly unlikely that Dad has a political profile that’s actually extended beyond the lower North Shore of Sydney.’
‘Well, thank God for that,’ she says to herself.
‘You know, Mum,’ Nathan says, taking a noisy slurp of his juice. ‘If Dad is killed, the organisation will become even more popular.’
‘Do you want Dad to die?’ Mum suddenly snaps, but then her face is awash with guilt and she quickly apologises.
She sometimes has moments when she forgets to self-censor around Nathan. They’re usually entertaining (well, in hindsight anyway), but if they go too far the consequences can be disastrous (like the time Nathan was seven and she’d had enough in the shops and told him to just get out of her way and so he did. For an hour. Westfield security was very supportive).
‘Everybody dies,’ Nathan helpfully offers. ‘I don’t want Dad to die. Or you. Or Michael. Or me, although I’d rather you die first because you’ve lived longer and it’s only fair. But you will die, you know. You could kiss me goodnight tonight and die in your sleep and Dad could be alive and okay in Baghdad as bombs detonate around him.’ He shrugs as though Mum is an idiot for not working out something so logical.
‘Thank you, Nathan,’ Mum says wearily.
‘Any time, Mum. Can I have more juice please?’
Mina
Paula’s coming over for dinner tonight. I’ve been buzzing all day, like a kid waiting for her birthday party to start. The house is sparkling and smells of lemon bleach, frangipani and lamb biryani. Mum and I have been cleaning and cooking for hours because according to my mum’s logic, adolescent friendships are made or broken by the orderliness of one’s linen closet.
I’m putting the last touches to the table for two that I’ve set on the verandah, and Mum is checking the stove.
‘So her parents are both lawyers?’ Mum asks.
‘Yep.’
‘And they go on holidays overseas every year?’
‘Well that’s what I’ve picked up from our conversations.’
‘And she has a car?’
‘Well, not exactly. She’s only sixteen, Mum, I told you that.’
‘But you mentioned she has a car.’
‘It’s her sister’s car. But she’s overseas so she’s left her car here and Paula’s taking driving lessons in the car.’
‘And the car is a Saab?’
‘Mum, quit it will you? I know what you’re thinking and she’s not like that, and no, she’s not going to judge us because we’re living in a shoebox.’
Mum pauses, then draws a breath. ‘I just want to make a good impression. For your sake.’
Mercifully, the front buzzer rings. I leap from the couch and run to answer and let Paula in. Within seconds she’s at the front door. She sees Mum and launches at her, giving her a big hug and a lopsided, utterly endearing grin.
It doesn’t take long for Paula to be inducted into the Hall of Acceptable Friends.
Mum insists on leaving the two of us alone to eat dinner and hang out. Because the apartment is so small, she retreats to her bedroom with a cup of tea, bowl of salted pumpkin seeds and the second half of a Bollywood movie.
‘I’ve always wanted to watch a Bollywood movie,’ Paula says as we eat dinner.
‘If you ever end up watching one, just expect to watch it over a few days because who has three straight hours free?’
After we’ve eaten and washed up, we balance a junk food stash between us and go to my room. We settle onto my bed, spread the food around us, take out my laptop, and start watching funny YouTube clips of models tripping on runways, people falling off bikes and other Fail compilations that send us into fits of hysteria.
‘So you think my Lord of the Rings movie marathon is a good idea?’ I ask Paula after we finally catch our breath.
‘Definitely! Morello’s a big fan by the way. So, you know, we have Middle Earth in common. Bet you his wife doesn’t even know the difference between an orc and troll.’
‘Easy. Just think of the difference between Terrence and Fred.’
She laughs.
‘So where will we hold the marathon?’ I ask. ‘If we get enough people we could all chip in and hire the strata community hall here.’
‘How about we do it at my place? We’ve got a cinema room.’
‘A cinema room?’
Paula looks momentarily embarrassed. ‘Yeah, yeah. I know.’
Despite my misgivings, Paula insists that her parents won’t mind an invasion of teenagers.
She waves a hand dismissively. ‘It’s called emotional blackmail. Let me demonstrate.’ She sits up, grins at me. ‘Pay attention,’ she tells me. ‘Unleashing my finest acting skills here.’
‘M
um, can my friends and I have the house all day and can you supply all the food and drink and make sure you’re out until the last person’s gone?’
She clears her throat, then puts on a breezy voice. ‘Make sure we’re out of the house? Why, Paula, we had no intention of being home in the first place. We’ll be in the office that weekend.
‘But you don’t know which weekend yet.
‘Minor detail, darling. Here’s my credit card. Buy as much food and drink as you need. Have a wonderful time!’
Paula bows, lets out a bitter laugh, and then falls back onto the pillow. ‘So in other words, venue and sustenance are taken care of. We just need to figure out who to invite.’
‘So they work long hours?’
‘Yep.’
‘My stepfather does too.’
‘Does your mum?’
‘She’s in and out of the restaurant.’
‘I’m a feminist, I don’t care which of them cuts back their hours, I only wish one of them would. Meanwhile, my sister, Nancy, abandoned me and is spending her gap year in the States. So I’m basically an orphan with a one-email-a-week sibling.’ She shakes her head. ‘So hopefully I’ve made you feel sorry for me now which is why you have to get into slam poetry with me!’
‘Slam poetry?’
She grabs the laptop and goes back to YouTube.
‘Check this channel out: Def Poetry Jam. It’s an HBO show. I’ve died and gone to heaven. It features all these spoken word artists. Prepare to lose your breath.’
It’s like nothing I’ve seen or heard before. The words pierce me. The beat, the intensity, the rhythm. Some performers’ voices are soft melodies, lulling you into a false sense of security until wham, they’ve pulled the ground from under your feet. Others puncture your heart with every word.
‘Wow.’
‘I want to perform one day. I’ve been going to a poetry slam event in the city. I’ve made some friends there, but I don’t have the courage to get up on stage yet. Would you come with me to the next one? I might have worked up the courage by then.’