Does My Head Look Big in This? (25 page)

He doesn’t say anything, only shrugs his shoulders and grunts.

“Why is it that when I believe in something different, I’m the one apparently judging you? What about you judging me? Why is it so bloody offensive that there are people out there who don’t do the whole sex thing before they get married? Or who don’t do the whole physical thing? Who gives a shit? Isn’t it my business? Or is that just too weird to accept? I’m obviously a bitchy love-me-do because I’m different. Yeah, great logic there, Adam.”

We look at each other and then the anger in his face suddenly drops away. And something worse replaces it. Aloofness.

“Hey, whatever you believe in is up to you.” His tone is so dry it feels like he’s put it in one of those machines Mum uses to dry fruit. Like an apricot whose juices have been sucked out, leaving a shrivelled, dehydrated lump. “I thought we had something more than
friendship
. But I guess we are different.
Too different
.” He lets out a bitter laugh.

“You don’t understand me after all,” I whisper.

He looks at me with hollow eyes and casually shrugs his shoulders. “I think you’re right. You don’t understand me and I don’t understand you. We’re even.”

I feel like I’m about to suffocate on the tension and I run out of the courtyard and through the house. Tia bumps into me on my way out and stands in front of me, bursting into laughter as she looks me up and down.

“What are
you
doing here?” she asks, her voice an intoxicated mix of smugness and haughty amusement. “Isn’t this, like, sinful for you? Won’t you burn in hell? Rebelling tonight, are we? And all for
Adam’s
sake.”

Rage hammers through my head and I am momentarily too overwhelmed with emotions to move or say anything. She takes a sip of her drink and leans towards me conspiratorially.

“Piece of friendly advice: you should take that thing off before you do the dirty with him. It might get in his way.”

I push her. She sprawls back on to the floor, her glass smashing next to her.

“You bitch!” she cries. “You could have cut me. How dare you! Why don’t you just get out of our country and go back to some desert cave where you belong?”

I stand over her, my heart drumming in my chest. “This is
my
country and if you ever forget it again I’m going to rip your head off!” I turn away and plough through the crowd to find Eileen and Simone.

29

T
he thought of seeing Adam on Monday has given me stomach cramps all weekend. I spend all of Saturday and Sunday in bed with my Walkman blasting out mushy love songs which just make me feel sorry for myself.

Should I have seen it coming? Did I lead him on? I remember Eileen warning me but I was having such a good time becoming closer to him that I never considered he would interpret it as an invitation to be anything more than really good friends. OK, really good friends who occasionally flirt. And talk for hours on the phone. And pass notes in class. And share secrets. Oh no. I’m a big fat hypocrite.

Yet a part of me, a teeny weeny part of me, is making a lot of noise in my head at the moment wondering about what it would have felt like to be kissed by Adam.

It’s confusing. Not for one moment do I regret my decision. But even still, I can’t stop thinking about his lips and whether they would have been soft and whether it would have been sloppy and squishy or tender and smooth. I wonder do people lose their breath when they kiss? Do they have to come up for air? It looks complicated. Would my nose have bumped into his nose? And how do you know what side to lean on? His head was tilted to the right so I guess I would have had to tilt mine to the left. What would have happened if it tickled and I wanted to sneeze?

I’ve wondered about these things many times but now, having been so close, I’m wondering even more. Because on one level I really would love to be kissed by Adam and I can imagine it in my head with digital TV precision. I don’t know if it’s a bad thing to feel this kind of desire for him. I can’t help it though. He smelt
so
good. It would have been special.

But I know that what’s even more special to me is being true to what I believe in. I want to be with one person in my life. I want to know that the guy I spend the rest of my life with is the first person I share something so intimate and exciting with. OK, I’m only sixteen which means I’ve got plenty of years to come before that happens. I’m willing to wait though. But it’s not a bad wait. It’s not the kind of annoying, painful wait you go through in a medical centre or when sitting in an airport lobby waiting for the boarding announcement for your delayed plane.

I suppose it’s the fact that I have the personal freedom to go out there and be with someone, to have kissed Adam back but have
chosen
not to, that makes the decision quite simple for me.

I have no idea what to expect at school. Will Adam ignore me? Will we never talk again? Will we hate each other? Will he make fun of me to his mates? Will I become known as the frigid dag?

But then something happens. Something that doesn’t come within ten solar planets of what I expect. A group of lunatics rip bombs through a nightclub in Bali on Saturday killing and maiming many Australian tourists.

I go to school not knowing. It’s one of those weird chains of events. It’s surreal because my parents are major news and documentary addicts. But for some reason this weekend they’ve both been snowed under with work. They’re both out the door on Monday morning before I’m up, so there is no listening to the news over breakfast. I simply wake up, get ready and catch the bus to school. The bus driver doesn’t have the radio on, and we don’t even make eye contact. I just slip my ticket through the automated machine, take my seat and lean against the window with my Walkman blazing.

When I arrive at school there’s an announcement that we’re all to file into the auditorium for a senior school assembly. I put my bag in my locker and make my way to the auditorium, wondering whether Eileen and Simone are already there.

I find them in line and hurry up to them. I pass Adam on my way and he looks at me. He holds his head up and ignores me. His coldness slices through me like a knife. I stand next to Simone and Eileen, fighting back tears.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Didn’t you hear?” Eileen whispers in my ear as Ms Walsh walks across the stage and the teachers all start their shushing chants.

“Hear about what?” I whisper back.

“Bali,” Simone says.

“Huh?”

They look at me in surprise.

“Terrorists bombed a nightclub in Bali on Saturday. It’s horrific.”

It’s like a sandpit in my throat.

Ms Walsh’s voice booms over us: “I know how distressed you’ll all be about the weekend bombings in Bali. Please make sure to talk to your teachers and the school counsellor if you need to. I’m sure you’ll all have the chance to share your feelings and emotions in class.”

It’s agonizing. I can’t feel only grief. Or horror. Or anger. It’s too mixed up. Incongruous, disjointed and completely insane thoughts flash through my mind. Mum and Dad wanting to book for their anniversary. What song was on when the bomb went off? Were there honeymooners? Oh my God, how could honeymooners be killed like that? Did the bombers watch as their inferno turned human life into carcasses? Was I going to be incriminated for their crimes? Was I going to be allowed to share in my country’s mourning or would I be blamed? How many Indonesians died? Do people care? Who would look after their children? Did brothers lose sisters? Parents lose children? Children lose their parents? Would a husband or wife or partner be left to watch the death toll on television from Sydney or Darwin, wondering if their other half was alive? It could have been Mum or Dad.

I cry, but it’s bizarre because I can’t even break down and grieve without wondering about what people are thinking of me. I wince every time Ms Walsh says the word “massacre” with the word “Islamic” as though these barbarians somehow belong to my Muslim community. As though they’re the black sheep in the flock, the thorn in our community’s side. It gives them this legitimacy, this identity that they don’t deserve. These people are aliens to our faith.

After assembly we go to home room. Almost everybody’s eyes are red and blotched. A haunting silence fills the classroom. Adam is sitting at his desk, his head in his hands. Mr Pearse goes through the roll in an exhausted voice as we sit limp at our desks.

“Those bloody Islamic terrorists! Has to be them!”

I don’t even flinch.

“That’s enough!” Mr Pearse says softly, looking anxiously at me. “In these times we have to know how to channel our hurt and anger.”

“It’s not how to channel it,” somebody else calls out, “it’s
who
to channel it at.”

“I don’t want to hear anybody using this as an opportunity for ugly racism or for making other Australians feel less. . .”

My mind blocks out his words. I’m not interested in being defended or protected.

By recess I’ve had enough. I spend the rest of the day in the sick bay wondering how naïve I was to ever think that I could find my place in my country and be unaffected by the horrors and politics in the world.

I have nowhere else to go and nowhere else I want to go. Once again I don’t know where I stand in the country in which I took my first breath of life.

I refuse to go to school the next day. And the day after that.

“Say I’ve got the chicken pox,” I tell my parents, and spend the entire two days in bed.

At first they’re cautious, tender, understanding. But then on the second night I overhear them arguing about how to approach me, whether I’ll be OK at school.

“Maybe it was a mistake, this hijab,” my father sighs.

“Don’t be absurd!” my mum shouts. “With or without it she’s still an outsider to them. I’m sick of it! I’m sick of the whole thing! She’s only sixteen and she has to go through this. What do they want from us?”

“Don’t yell. She’ll hear you.”

“Hear me? She doesn’t need
me
to tell her. She lives it every day!” I’ve never heard my mum so negative, so bitter.

They argue for ages and I want to scream out to them to shut up. I sink into my mattress and cram the pillow over my head.

After two hard days at school we go to a peace vigil on the weekend. My parents, Uncle Joe’s family, Yasmeen and her family, Simone, Eileen and Josh. We stand there in the crowd, holding candles, clutching on to each other, singing prayers and John Lennon songs, swaying together in a gentle, evening breeze that smells of birthday cake candles and tragedy and agonizing incomprehension. It’s the first time we don’t question each other. The first time we don’t all stop and think about our labels and rationalize our participation. Nobody speaks about identity or religion or politics or ideology. We just sway and grieve with the crowd. And something builds up inside me as a priest and a rabbi and a sheikh and a monk stand together on the steps in front of Parliament House and prove to us that our labels mean nothing compared with what we have in common, which is the will and right to live.

I can imagine that there’s a lot of hate right now. If it ends up turning people against each other then I’m petrified; I’m sickened to think that we will allow those murderers to end up winning.

30

T
his is my corny, mushy, soppy moment and boy oh boy am I lapping it up. I’m lying in bed listening to a CD of love ballads which includes Shania Twain’s “From This Moment” and yes, I will admit, a couple of Celine Dion songs. It is obvious that I have a serious case of the blues because I’m finding that each line in each song is a perfect description of my life. These songs are suddenly like tarot cards and with each piano and saxophone interlude I’m getting more and more depressed. . .

I miss Adam, and I am going to enjoy this dose of self-pitying misery while I can. I miss talking to him on the phone while we’re both watching some cops and lawyers show or a
Big Brother
eviction. I miss his laughing eyes, his curiosity, the vulnerability in his voice when he talks to me about his mum (at least I like to think it’s vulnerability, although I suspect there is a hint of detached disinterest). I miss looking out for him in the corridors at school and feeling needed by him when he doesn’t understand something in class. I miss the way he shared Simone’s carrots and celery without asking her any questions and the way my insides went all mushy and electric when our eyes locked in class. Since the party he hasn’t called, he hasn’t sent me a text message, he hasn’t asked me about school work or met my eyes or sat with us at lunch time or shown the slightest bit of interest in my existence on planet Earth. I hate myself for feeling so disgustingly limp against my emotions because it means I have no control and leave myself as vulnerable as a blindfolded person crossing a freeway on rollerblades.

I’m not dumb. I know I rejected him and that he went off at me because he was trying to save face, and having a go at my beliefs was an easy way to hide the fact that he basically went in for a kiss and I moved away. I mean, in the land of high school, sexual rejection is catastrophic. I just wish Adam would understand that I’m not about to announce to the world that I turned him down. I wish he’d see that it had nothing to do with him. I mean, if I wanted to kiss any guy at school, he’d be number one on my list, no questions asked. If he needs a public relations campaign to help his self-esteem get over it, I’ll be first in line to spread the news at school that he’s one melt-worthy guy. But instead he’s opted for keeping things icy cold with me and it’s giving my heart major frostbite.