When Michael Met Mina (3 page)

Paula huffs with indignation. ‘So Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Guantanamo Bay, Abu Ghraib, bombs on Afghan weddings and parties, CIA torture, drones, white phosphorous – all wonderful examples of
civilised
behaviour, right?'

‘You can't compare,' Michael says. ‘It's the war on terror.'

I roll my eyes and doodle in the margins of my textbook.

‘Are you saying stonings and cutting off hands are okay?' Terrence asks Paula.

‘Obviously not,' she snaps.

Mr Morello reads out a section from the textbook and throws questions back to the class for discussion. At one point Terrence, who I suspect has been marinating in testosterone for some years now, snorts loudly. ‘In Saudi Arabia, does downloading movies count as stealing? I mean, could you get your hands cut off for downloading the next season of
Game of Thrones
?'

In terms of the Muslims-are-barbaric joke theme, I'd give Terrence points for originality. It's the general contempt that goes with the joke that leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

A guy called Fred, sitting beside Terrence, high-fives him.

‘Oi, how do they high-five in Muslim countries?' Terrence continues, grinning. ‘It'd be wrist to wrist!'

That sends Fred and Terrence into another fit of giggles.

‘One more inappropriate comment and I'll see you in detention at lunchtime, Terrence,' Mr Morello says coolly.

‘I'm just saying,' Michael says, ‘that people have value in the West.'

The words escape my mouth before I even know what's happening: ‘Try telling that to the people locked up and abused in detention because they were naive enough to think Australia would care about their lives.'

All eyes are on me. What a way to announce myself. I think trapdoors and invisibility cloaks.

A couple of the boys, led by Terrence, do the ‘Oooh fight' stirring thing.

‘Look, it's not ideal, what they're going through. But Australia has the right to protect its borders,' Michael says.

‘Oh, because women, children and men fleeing persecution are
such
a threat, hey?'

Michael frowns. ‘I didn't say that. I meant, if you come by boat, you've jumped the queue.'

The bell rings and the din of noise rises as everybody starts packing their things and Mr Morello tells us our weekend homework.

‘There's no
queue
,' I tell Michael as I slam my books into my bag. ‘I would know. I came here by boat.'

‘Well you have nothing to complain about then, do you?' Michael replies calmly.

Oh no. He didn't just go there.

Michael

I can't believe that the girl from the protest – Mina is her name – has started at my school.
In my year.

She's sitting quietly, observing everybody with those eyes that are driving me crazy. Terrence is having fun working the class up because giving people a hard time is pretty much his standard MO. The third wheel in our trio is Fred, and he's finding our political posturing amusing. We usually save zealous for our race to see who can get the Easter egg first in COD zombie mode.

Fred's generally a lay low kind of guy. His real name is Minh Nguyen. It took all of twenty seconds for us to rename him Fred on his first day at school in year seven. Because, well, non-Anglo names with too many consonants
and vowels can sometimes freak out my people.

One would think, from the way I'm acting in my Society and Culture class, that I've inherited my parents' passion for politics. But the thing is, I wear my politics like hand-me-down clothes: some bits feel like they don't fit properly, but I expect I'll grow into them, trusting that because they're from my parents they've come from a good source.

Mina takes me by surprise when she finally speaks up. I manage to insult her before I've even had a chance to get to know her. I wish I had my parents' way with words. When they talk, they sound smart and convincing. I feel kind of bad that it gets personal. So when the bell rings and everybody's making their way to the front gate, I rush to catch up with her. She's walking alone and I come up close beside her. She throws me a sideways look and continues walking.

‘Hey,' I say, trying to sound casual.

She slows down. ‘Yeah?' she says impatiently.

I do what I consider is a reasonable attempt at a conciliatory smile. ‘I didn't mean to come across so harsh.'

Eyebrows raised, she scans my face. ‘I can handle harsh. Offensive is another matter.'

‘Yeah, well, sorry. I didn't mean anything personal. It sounded personal, but it wasn't. You know what I mean?'

She stares at me. ‘So. Queue jumper.
Nothing to complain about.
Not personal?'

‘Well, look . . .' I pace myself, try to find the right words. ‘I didn't specifically mean you. It was more general facts.'

‘
Facts?
'

‘Yeah. My dad's done a lot of research. I'm not judging you. I was talking more about the people who say they're fleeing persecution when they're really just economic refugees.'

Her eyes widen. I soldier on.

‘It's cheating. What about all the people who have been waiting in refugee camps and can't afford to buy their way up the queue? And then there's the fact that if you can afford to pay a people smuggler all that money, how bad a situation are you really in? That's what I was trying to say, but it came out all wrong.'

I shrug and give her a satisfied smile.

‘You can't be serious?' She stares at me incredulously. ‘Those arguments are getting old.'

I look at her, puzzled. ‘Is that your idea of accepting an apology?'

‘Was that your idea of an apology?'

‘Well, yeah.'

She raises her eyebrows.

‘I didn't have to track you down and apologise,' I say curtly. ‘I just wanted to put things right.'

‘Thanks. That's really
magnanimous
of you.'

I'm baffled by her hostility. ‘What's your problem?'

She rolls her eyes. ‘I'm not going to do the refugee myth-busting thing with you. If you're still running those slogans, you're the one with work to do, not me.'

And with that she storms off.

Mina

‘How was your first day?' Mum asks on our way home.

‘Great. I fit right in.'

‘That's good.'

Groaning, I recline the front seat all the way back and stare up at the car ceiling. ‘You're not doing irony today, hey?'

She regards me with wry amusement. ‘It will get easier.'

‘You are the queen of pep talks, Mum,' I say drily.

We pass the restaurant on our way home. To the left is an alley that leads to the back car park, and to the right is a pizza shop. The sign at the front of our place says
Joe's Fish n Chips 1979
in faded black writing. The restaurant is still a mess of renovations. Baba and Irfan are inside with some workers who are knocking down a wall and the front counter. Baba sees us and his face lights up.

‘We'll get there soon,' he says cheerfully, wiping white dust off his face.

‘
Assalamu Alaikum
, Mina!' Irfan cries out happily. ‘You look so smart in that posh uniform!'

‘Be careful with your uniform, Mina,' Mum says as Baba and Irfan show us around.

When I can no longer feign enthusiasm over floor plans and colour schemes, I ask about dinner and Baba sends me next door to get some pizza. Mum comes along too.

We step into the Pizza Hub. There are two small families dining in, and a young guy ordering at the counter. The heat wraps around me like a friendly hug. The scent of melting cheese and rising dough makes my stomach cramp.

Mum and I wait our turn. It takes me a minute to realise that a woman sitting down is staring at Mum, looking her up and down. I take in Mum's floral scarf, striped harem pants and two-toned long cardigan. I wince. Without a hijab, the clash of patterns and colours would ooze hipster-chic. With a hijab, she just looks like an ‘ethnic'. I take a step closer to Mum and, in Farsi, caution her not to ask if the meat is halal.

When it's our turn I order a vegetarian pizza and a seafood pizza. Mum is watching the guy (Tim, according to the pizza-shaped nametag on his T-shirt) behind the counter closely. I can tell Mum is getting anxious as Tim dips into and between the toppings. The seafood is close to the ham, and my mum watches him intently.

‘Please, can you wear different gloves?' she asks.

‘Different gloves?'

Tim has no idea what Mum is talking about. I start to explain but Mum cuts me off. ‘We don't eat ham. You need to please wear new gloves so that ham does not come on our pizza.'

Tim looks confused but shrugs in agreement. ‘Okay.'

‘Thank you. You have a very nice shop.'

‘Thanks.'

‘We are opening next door soon. Kabul Kitchen. Afghan food.'

‘Really? Next door? That's yours?'

Mum nods.

Tim smiles briefly. ‘Joe's was popular. Guess it'll be nice to get some diversity into the place.'

‘You are welcome any time.'

Tim smiles again but, thankfully, doesn't say anything. The woman staring at Mum is packing her things to leave. She seems half puzzled, half contemptuous of Mum's presence. It's been a long day. I don't want to have to deal with her saying something to Mum. We've only just moved to this neighbourhood and I don't want any trouble.

*

The school café makes a great latte. They get the extra hot right too. It's neither a second-degree tongue burn, nor an I-might-as-well-scull-a-cordial drinking experience.

I've arrived to school early today and sit in one of the gardens (What school has gardens,
plural
?) to read our English text,
Emma
. My iPod's on, earphones in, music on low in the background.

‘Hey.'

I look up. Paula is standing over me, balancing her schoolbag, a pile of books and a coffee. I can't help but smile. I remove my earplugs and turn off the iPod. She motions to my book and I hold up the cover for her to see.

‘Cool. So you're doing extension English too?'

I nod and she plants herself down next to me. ‘Ms Parkinson is awesome.
We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.
I read that this morning. Beautiful, huh?' She pats the jacket of one of her books. I lean close to read the title.
Lady Windermere's Fan
.

‘Read it?' she asks.

‘No.'

‘Oscar Wilde. My favourite writer of all time. It's kind of pretentious to quote books in regular conversation, but he's worth the reputation.'

I laugh. ‘I love reading too. Quote away.'

‘You will regret that, my friend.
I am quite illiterate, but I read a lot
. Who said that?'

‘Holden Caulfield,' I grin. ‘I studied
Catcher in the Rye
last year.'

‘And so our friendship begins.' She leans back against the tree and stretches out her legs, crossing one ankle over the other. ‘Nobody writes like that now.'

‘Like Holden Caulfield?'

‘No, like Oscar Wilde. Mediocrity reigns. A world without poetry.'

‘Do you always talk like this?'

She fixes her eyes intently on me. ‘Yes. Is that a problem?'

‘No. A relief.'

We burst out laughing.

‘You were brilliant on Monday by the way,' I say.

‘You're going to have to be more specific as it tends to happen more than once each day.'

I grin back at her. ‘Society and Culture.'

‘Ah, yes.' She takes a sip of her coffee. ‘Terrence is part dumb jock, part class clown, part vicious bully. Be warned.'

‘And Michael?'

She pauses, thinking for a moment. ‘I think even he's surprised that he's lasted this long as Terrence's friend. It was the first time I heard him talk like that, to be honest. He's usually a pretty easy-going guy. I mean, as vanilla as they come, but hey, look around you. It's Victoria College. We do vanilla seriously well here.'

‘You think?' I raise one eyebrow and she flashes me a sympathetic look.

‘I see you met my cousin,' she says after a pause.

‘Did I? Who's your cousin?'

‘Jane.'

‘Oh. I had no idea. She never mentioned it. Well, not that the topic came up.'

‘We're not that close. Jane's way too self-conscious to cope with me. Anyway, what do you think of Morello?'

‘Morello? He's cool. Why? Are you related to him too?'

She sighs dramatically. ‘If only. I'd have to kill off his wife first and then hope he'd return my undying love.'

‘Are you kidding? He's a teacher!'

‘He's only thirty. That's a fourteen-year age gap. It's nothing, especially when you consider I'm mature for my age.' She grins. ‘Relax, I'm not a home-wrecker. Plus I saw Morello and his wife in the car park one morning and they are obviously and disgustingly very much in love.'

‘So it's unrequited love then?'

‘Yep,' she says, standing up, dusting off her uniform and extending out her hand to pull me up. ‘Unrequited love is better than returned love that fails. This way I can dream. Oops!' She stumbles and coffee spills all over her skirt.

‘Oh no!' I cry, lunging at her with tissues and frantically trying to wipe the coffee off. Mum's warning from last night is still ringing in my ear:
You have one set of the uniform so keep it clean
.

Paula looks at me, baffled. ‘What's wrong? Relax.'

I take a step back. ‘Sorry.' I motion to her skirt. ‘Your uniform.'

She shrugs. ‘I've got three.'

I can't help but blush and quickly change the subject as we head to class.

‘So, um, does Morello know?'

It's her turn to look mortified. ‘No way. I'm completely discreet. It would be beyond embarrassing if he found out. So tell me, do you like animals? Because I'm an animal lover. I own a labrador named K4, two cockatiels named Kryss and Sunday (because we found him on a Sunday), one budgie named Green (because he's blue), a bearded dragon named Forseti after the Norse god of justice, and two turtles named Magneto and Xavier. K4's been part of the family since before I was even born. Nancy got him for her birthday. K4's the closest thing to me at home. Do you have any pets?'

‘Mum's not really an animal person. Plus we're in an apartment.'

‘Come on, the bell's going to ring in ten and I need another coffee now that my skirt's had a caffeine hit. We've got Maths now and Ms Hamish is only worth facing with extra caffeine in the system.'

We walk to class together. I think maybe Victoria College might just turn out all right after all.

*

Mum and Baba are at the restaurant finishing the last touches of the fit-out in preparation for opening next week. The real estate agent they're leasing the shop through put them on to an interior decorator, and he's out there with them tonight giving them some last-minute advice.

I'm in my bedroom, surrounded by study reinforcements (junk food), with music cranked up to a volume that would antagonise my mother but not the strata committee. Maha texts me while I'm doing a character profile of Mr Knightley for my English homework.

Jasmine got caught cyber stalking Jasper so Paul dumped her & Jasmine's gone all I have an eating disorder my world has ended but we know it's just an act because we busted her gorging on veg toast and claiming she hasn't eaten in days.

It's random, frivolous and gossipy but the familiarity of that voice sends a pang through me.

We send each other texts back and forth. Maha makes me ache with a longing to return to Auburn Grove Girls High, which was a kaleidoscope of cultures and ethnicities. Somewhere where I'm not the ethnic supporting character.

Maha:

Relax. You'll fit in soon.

Me:

I'm NOT using that whitening cream.

Maha:

Calm down. Nothing wrong with cosmetically changing your race to fit in.

Me:

You worry me.

Maha:

Nina just brought back a batch from India & swears by it but Pretti tried it and it burnt her skin
L

Me:

OMG. Where?

Maha:

Left butt cheek. She thought it best to try it in an inconspicuous spot first.

Me:

God I miss you.

Maha:

Chillax. You moved suburbs not countries.

When I feel I've written just as much as I can about Mr Knightley, my phone beeps again. I glance at the text and see that it's Paula.

I don't want to get too romantic but I can definitely see we have a future together.

I grin and instantly text her back.

You had me at
hey
.