When Michael Met Mina (25 page)

Michael

Dad is fielding call after concerned call following the
News Tonight
program. I'm doing my homework at the dinner table and can hear him next door.
‘It doesn't change anything. Well, that's his right . . . Yes, it could just be some kind of adolescent rebellion. I hope people will make up their own minds.'

Mum is sitting at the kitchen bench, dunking a biscuit into her cup of coffee as she completes an excursion form for Nathan. I can tell she's listening to Dad too, and she throws the occasional glance my way.

‘Is there a girl, Michael?' she asks out of the blue. She clears her throat, speaks gently. ‘Is that why you've suddenly changed?'

I groan softly. ‘If you're asking because you think I said those things to impress a girl, then the answer is no.'

She taps her fingers faintly on the bench. ‘But there's a girl?'

I sigh. ‘Yes, there's a girl. But not how you think.'

She treads carefully. ‘Well, tell me about her,' she says cautiously. ‘She's obviously changed you.'

‘Actually, no, she didn't, Mum.' I sigh. ‘As corny as this will sound, she made me realise I didn't need to change, I just needed to figure out what I stand for.'

She purses her lips and murmurs something to herself.

Dad emerges then, his face solemn and weary. He turns on the kettle and stands in front of it, staring at the benchtop as it boils.

‘Are they calling for my head?' I ask Dad in a droll tone.

He raises his eyebrows. ‘Don't flatter yourself. We can survive without you.'

I stare at him, slightly shocked. But then I see the beginnings of a faint smile on his face and I can't help but let out a laugh.

‘Glad you can both see the humour in this,' Mum says.

‘We're not the first family to divide on politics,' Dad says matter-of-factly. ‘It shouldn't split us apart.'

‘Well, obviously I won't let
that
happen,' Mum says tersely. ‘We wouldn't be much of a family otherwise, would we?'

Mina

It's almost ten at night when I remember. Guilt stabs me and I reach for my phone and call her.

‘Paula! K4! What happened? I'm
so
sorry for not asking.'

It doesn't surprise me that she's quick to forgive me. ‘Oh, come on, I totally understand. Nothing's happened yet anyway. Surgery's actually tomorrow.'

*

‘Mina! Wake up! It's time!'

I open one eye, half asleep as I peer at Baba in confusion. His eyes are wild. He's trying to tuck his shirt into his pants, smooth down his hair and put his shoes on all at the same time.

‘Keep your mobile charged and close to you! I'll call you.'

I hear a sound coming from inside. A loud moan.

‘Is she okay?'

‘No!' He half laughs, half chokes. ‘Oh my God, Mina, it's happening! Get dressed, quick!'

Mum moans again, only louder this time.

*

We arrive at the hospital and Baba and I help walk Mum inside. She's quickly taken to the delivery ward and I'm left alone in the waiting room.

It's just past eight in the morning and I lean back against the wall, close my eyes and try to block out the infomercial break in the morning breakfast program.

A midwife comes past an hour later and tells me Mum's making good progress. I go downstairs to grab a coffee and a muffin. I text Mum's friends to let them know. Rojin calls me on the spot, asking if Mum would mind if she visited her in hospital, and if I could let her know as soon as the baby is born so she can bring a gift.

By midday I've read every pregnancy-related magazine in the waiting room and consider myself an expert in all things antenatal. I text Paula to check up on K4 and she calls me instantly, laughing and crying as she tells me that the lump was detected and removed before it had the chance to spread.

‘Oh, Mina, I'm so excited! And guess what? Just guess? Go on, try! You won't guess. But try! Okay, fine I'll just tell you. Dad's applied for long service leave! And Mum spoke to Nancy and guess what? Nancy's going to cancel her Europe trip at the end of the year and come here instead! FOR A MONTH.'

We go a bit silly over the phone. She invites me to her place for celebratory cake, and I tell her I'd love to but I have a prior engagement otherwise known as
I'm going to be a sister again
!

It's all-round squealing.

*

Three hours later and Baba emerges, his face wet with tears.

‘It's a boy!'

I scream out with joy and he hugs me so strongly I feel as though my ribs might pop.

‘How's Mum?' I ask anxiously.

‘Exhausted! But she's okay. Come on, she's in a room now. He's beautiful, Mina. Looks like a hairy monkey. A perfect hairy monkey.'

Mum's lying back in the hospital bed, pale, eyes droopy with exhaustion, but smiling. I kiss her and she points to the bassinet beside her. I approach cautiously. Inside is a tiny thing with a shock of black hair. He's fast asleep, mouth pouted and eyes shut tight. I love him already.

‘What did you name him?'

‘Nabil.'

I pick him up and sit down on one of the visitor's chairs. Nabil is sound asleep. I stare into his perfect tiny face.

‘Hello, Nabil,' I whisper.

I study his face. I don't want to break my gaze for a moment. He's cast a spell over me. I raise him up closer to hear him breathing. The sound of a baby's breath seems like a miracle to me. The more I stare at my baby brother the more I am reminded of Hasan's face. These eyes are almond; Hasan's eyes were more rounded. These eyelashes are long and straight; Hasan's curled. This nose is small with nostrils that flare slightly, like Hasan's. These lips are thick on the bottom, thinner at the top; Hasan's were thick and pouted. This baby's skin is the colour of honey. Hasan's skin was pale.

My chest is fit to burst. I feel complete again. For Nabil has returned my brother to me.

Michael

Mina and I arrive at school early, when it's easier to meet in private, in a secluded section of the oval. I see her approaching me and feel like she's hooked a lasso around my heart. She plants herself in front of me and grins.

‘Come here, you,' I say and open my arms. She throws herself against me and I wrap my arms around her.

Dropping my hands around her waist, I lean back slightly and she tilts her chin up to meet my eyes.

‘So you're a big sister again, hey?'

She smiles. ‘He's beautiful.'

She touches my right cheek with the palm of her hand. ‘I saw you on TV. Michael, you were incredible. That took guts. But how are you coping at home? It's not fair on you.'

‘They're devastated and upset, but making an effort.' I laugh faintly. ‘I'm trying to get them to appreciate the funny side of the situation. You know, get them to see that things could be far worse. I could have come out and told them I was converting. Or dating a Muslim. That's for another day.'

Mina smiles.

‘That put things in perspective for them,' I say brightly. ‘So, anyway, enough about them. Did you miss me?'

She looks at me coyly. ‘A little.'

‘Well then, prove it.'

And I bend down and kiss her.

Mina

‘The poetry slam is on at school tomorrow,' Paula tells me during last period.

‘Nice.'

‘Come watch?'

‘Yeah, of course.'

Butterflies erupt in my stomach. Because there's a poem in my head. It moved in weeks ago, just like that, unannounced, big and bold, daring me to evict it. It's been playing on repeat, settling in and getting comfy, like when you try to make your own dent in a new couch. It's there, like a challenge. And no matter what I do I can't sweep it away, or drown out the voice inside that keeps reciting it.

*

Baba calls me during recess, talking so fast I can barely make out what he's saying. I tell him to slow down and he laughs.

‘Mina, Mina, Mina!' he says in a singsong voice. ‘The lawyer says Adnan, Mustafa and Mariam will be released on Saturday! Thank God their visas weren't cancelled!'

I race through the school grounds in search of Michael. He's at the basketball courts. I wave at him and he jogs over. My heart is pounding wildly and I'm grinning like a maniac. I tell him the news and he picks me up and spins me around.

*

It's lunchtime. The poetry slam is being held in the school hall. Several people have performed so far and the audience is really getting into it, clapping and clicking their fingers at their favourite lines. Paula's arranged for one of the slam artists from Bankstown to visit. Amy performs a piece that manages to cover her first love, body image and parkour. From the moment she speaks, she sucks us all in. She's fast-paced, angry, funny, tender and totally uncensored. When she drops the f-word the audience cheers. I can see the teachers nervously looking at each other, but one of them shrugs as if to say
let it go
.

I'm sitting in the front row, alongside Michael, Cameron, Leica and Jane. My stomach is churning. Poor Brian's got an impossible act to follow. Not to mention he's slamming about his cat.

Terrence and Fred start to make meowing sounds.

Brian finishes and Paula calls my name. The others look at me, eyes widening as I slowly stand up.

‘You're going up there?' Michael asks in shock.

‘Are you nuts?' Jane says helpfully.

I laugh. ‘Yep. Talk me out of it please.'

‘No chance,' Michael says, grinning.

I don't realise how large the hall is until I'm standing up on stage in front of endless rows. People are chatting among themselves, laughing and mucking around. Paula introduces me and the teachers start their shushing and pacing, flashing menacing looks at the ones slower to realise I'm ready to start.

I look out at the audience and an unexpected wave of confidence rushes through me. I have something to say and it matters. I'm not embarrassed and I don't care what people will say about me.

I recite a little prayer to myself, take a deep breath, clasp my fingers tightly around the microphone, and begin.

I've come from the place of go back to where you came from

From unmarked graves and stinking camps

From seas that wanted to swallow me

And prisons that wanted to disappear me

From places other people will travel to

With travel blogs, and itineraries highlighted in fluorescent Sharpies,

and Instagram accounts that show how they “found themselves”

In places some people are allowed to visit

While others are never allowed to leave.

The exotic are a short drive up the road

Postcodes vending an experience of elsewhere

But without the frequent flyer points and itinerary

They are just ghettos.

When you feel like a dandelion

Just a wish from being blown away

When you feel like a spice

Just a sprinkle of flavour to your taste

When you feel like a souvenir

In a bazaar of identity that peddles fear

You feel

That you must carve yourself out of resistance

But then some people showed me:

That anger is good

But with action it is better.

That remembering is good

But with hope it is better.

That change is good

But with discovery it is better.

That questioning is good

But with trust it is better.

That resisting is good

But sometimes those you resist do not matter.

And that standing up is good

But standing up alongside others is better.

Thunderous applause, like a storm has erupted, the sound of rain crashing down onto the top of a tin roof. It washes over me like a midday rainstorm. It's pure and beautiful and I've never felt so alive.

I search the audience for Paula and Michael. They're grinning, clapping wildly.

Michael's eyes meet mine.

He thinks he's learnt from me. He's wrong. It's me who's learnt from him.

He's taught me to never give up on anybody.

Acknowledgements

Thank you Mobinah Ahmed, Asme and May Fahmi, Annarose, and Zayied and Sara Saleh for Facebook-status-inspired hilarities, geekiness and anecdotes. Like the Eye of Sauron, I am watching (and yes sometimes using) you all. And I think you love it.

Thank you to the Bankstown Poetry Slam for inspiring parts of Paula and Mina's journey.

Thank you to Mariam Veiszadeh for clarifying Afghan words and customs for me. Any errors are my own.

Thank you to Zeinab and Sumaia El-Kadomi for the music. What a difference it made.

Thank you to Peter Gould for advice on general tech and gaming geekiness and for almost getting me hooked on AR blogs.

Thank you to the amazing people who bring such expertise, depth, integrity and truth to the process of turning my drafts into the final book you are reading: my agent, Sheila Drummond. My team at Pan Macmillan: Claire Craig, Danielle Walker, Tracey Cheetham and Cate Paterson. My editor Julia Stiles. I am so blessed to work with you all.

Last but not least, thank you to my family for your constant support and encouragement, without which nothing would be possible.

About Randa Abdel-Fattah

Randa is an award-winning author, former lawyer, regular media commentator and doctoral candidate researching Islamophobia in Australia. Randa is currently working on the film adaptation of her first novel,
Does My Head Look Big in This?
and is keen to use her intervention into popular culture to reshape dominant narratives around racism and multiculturalism. She lives in Sydney with her husband and three children.

Also by Randa Abdel-Fattah

Does My Head Look Big in This?

Ten Things I Hate About Me

Where the Streets Had a Name

Noah's Law

No Sex in the City