Ten Things I Hate About Me (7 page)
I DESPERATELY NEED
a plan of action. If I don’t get some freedom or independence soon, I’ll be stuck at home watching TV and surfing the Internet until graduation. That’s three years’ worth of annoying commercials, unimaginative sitcoms, and pointless Google searches. I can’t bear it.
Several strategies for getting out of the house cross my mind. I could sign up as a volunteer cleaner at our local mosque. I could donate blood every weekend. Surely Dad couldn’t forbid that!
I’m racking my brain as I sit in Bilal’s car on my way home from the bus stop. Bilal’s picked me up since it’s raining. He takes me to a McDonald’s drive-through. The girl serving us doesn’t look a day older than me. As she hands Bilal our order I have a sudden revelation. I almost knock the drink out of Bilal’s hand as I lean over him and ask her how I can apply for a job. She gives me an application form and Bilal looks at me like I have momentarily had my brain juiced.
“Are you running a fever?” he asks as we drive off.
I chew on my fries and bounce up and down excitedly in my seat. “That’s it! It’s my ticket to freedom! A part-time job! I can finally have a life outside school and home. I can earn some money! I can have an extended curfew! I can discover the recipe for Big Mac sauce and find out if the salads really are low-fat!”
He shakes his head and turns the music up. “As if Dad will let you. He gave me a hard enough time about working at Red Rooster when I was in school.”
“That’s because you spent about ten minutes per year at your desk studying. He knew you were looking for any excuse to get out of doing schoolwork.”
“Do you mind?” He looks at me in digust.
“Whssfdgt?”
“You have half a burger and ten fries in your mouth and are insisting on having a conversation with me.”
I grin at him and his head jolts to the side. “Close your mouth! Ugh! You are so revolting.”
“I love showing you my mature side,” I say, laughing. “Anyway, you have to help me with Dad. Come on, we’ll practice. Let’s do a role-play. You act as Dad and I’ll be me.”
We’re stopped at a traffic light and he bangs his head on the steering wheel and groans. “All right,” he says in a defeated tone. “Start.”
“Dad, I’d like to become more responsible and mature and learn the value of money.”
Bilal pretends to choke but I ignore him. “Accordingly, I am seeking your permission to work on a part-time basis at McDonald’s family restaurant.”
“NO!”
“Bilal, he wouldn’t yell yet. The yelling comes later. At first he’s calm and that’s the deadly part. Sheesh, has it been that long since you’ve done the begging routine?”
“Yeah, I don’t ask anymore. I just do.”
I throw a french fry at him and he nearly runs a red light trying to stop it from “soiling” his car interior.
“Please hear me out, Dad,” I continue. “Everybody knows that having a part-time job at a fast-food establishment looks good on your resumé because of the discipline and training you receive. Also, I’m highly dedicated to my studies, so if I have a job and good grades that also shows my maturity and conscientiousness.”
“What’s being unconscious got to do with it?”
“Never mind,” I say, rolling my eyes at him. “Just play Dad.”
“Can I yell now?”
I look at him and smile wearily. “Yeah, the yelling would start right about now.”
Aunt Sowsan is at our place for dinner. After Shereen and I put the dishes away and make tea for Aunt Sowsan and Dad, Shereen goes to her room to do an assignment. I sit down next to my dad and say a silent prayer that he won’t freak out on me.
I don’t even get a chance to indulge in my spiel about good grades and holding down a job. He hears me say “part-time job at McDonald’s” and shakes his head. I lose my cool. A sea of rage crashes through me and I leap out of the chair, flinging my arms around furiously. “Why do you always have to say no automatically? Not once have you ever given me the chance to plead my case to you! You don’t care one bit about what I think or feel, you just treat me like some kid!”
“No, I don’t, Jamilah.”
His voice is cool and calm and I want to scream. The anger and frustration is suffocating me, moving up my throat like a busted water main, threatening to flood the room when it finally gushes out.
“Yes, you do! No matter what I ask, you always say no. I never get the benefit of talking to you about it, or even the slightest indication that you value what I have to say. It’s just a big fat automatic no.”
“I know what’s best for you.”
I stare at him for a moment, my chest heaving up and down. Aunt Sowsan is quiet and hasn’t intervened.
“How can you know what’s best for me? You never talk to me. You never listen to me. You just give me orders.”
I run out of the room and into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. I wait for him to storm after me to lecture me about “being rude,” but he doesn’t.
I overhear him arguing with Aunt Sowsan. I can’t make out the words clearly, though. I hear Dad say “…don’t tell me…
raise…” and Aunt Sowsan saying “…nothing to be worried about…let her go…couple of days…”
Aunt Sowsan knocks on my door an hour later and asks if she can come in. I ignore her and pretend to be asleep. I’m not in the mood for hearing how I have to “understand my dad” and “see things from his point of view.”
I can understand why he won’t let me go to underage clubs or stay out late with my friends. I will give him that much. But what I can’t understand is why somebody who experienced so much in their own teenage years wants to deny his daughter any experiences of her own. My dad always tells us about all the jobs he worked when he was a young boy growing up in Beirut.
Sometimes I find my dad in the quiet of the night sitting in his armchair, puffing away at his water pipe, and drinking his sweet mint tea. The television is switched off but there is a peculiar dreamy smile on his face as he stares at the blank screen. At those times Dad tells me what his life was like growing up in Beirut before the civil war. He becomes lost in his Arabian reverie and talks to me as an equal, as an audience to be entertained and amused, not a subject to be disciplined and tamed.
I listen to him and I feel jealous, wondering what stories I will have to tell when I’m his age.
Dad drops me off at the bus stop in the morning because I’ve slept in and I’m running late. The first half of the journey is silent except for the ABC news and the occasional sound of
my dad’s smoker’s cough. As we get nearer to the bus stop, my dad turns his head towards me and says: “Which McDonald’s?”
I dig my fingernails into my hands to stop myself from gasping.
“Parramatta.”
“How many days a week?”
“Two. They’re after-school shifts. And if I’m really good I can get Saturday night too, and it’s double pay.”
We’ve arrived now and I hold my breath in anticipation of his response.
“I’ll think about it,” he says and I nod, not daring to push my good fortune. I lean over, whisper a thank you, then kiss him good-bye and jump out of the car.
I’M UNPACKING MY
books for English when Peter approaches my desk, smiles, and slides into the empty seat beside me.
“Who’s your favorite rugby team?”
I giggle nervously. “Oh, I’m not really into rugby.”
“Then you should root for the Parramatta Eels. They’re champions. Don’t ever be a Canterbury Bulldogs fan. They are our mortal enemy.”
I laugh and raise my eyebrows at him. “They’re all the same to me.”
He slams his hand across his forehead dramatically. “You’re killing me here, Jamie! There is a fundamental difference. It’s of religious significance that you appreciate this. The Eels are legends. The Bulldogs are losers. Don’t ever forget that.”
I find myself suddenly feeling confident and forgetting how cruel Peter can be. All I can think about is the fact that people are watching us.
“Oh, I don’t know, Peter, they’re both just a bunch of oversized buffoons who kick a ball and smash into each other. Oh yeah, and who wear shorts one size too small. I’m sure there are some anatomical risks there.”
He bangs his head on the desk and moans. “You need to be re-educated.”
“Mr. Clarkson, is there something you’d like to share with the class?” Mr. Arnold yells out from the front of the room. “Unless your conversation is about Charles Dickens, I suggest you zip it or you will be getting excited about lunchtime detention with me. Understood?”
The rest of the class boos and Peter stands up and takes a bow, grinning down at me.
“That’s enough of your antics, Mr. Clarkson,” Mr. Arnold says. “Now sit down and try to apply yourself, as hard as that may be for you.”
Peter sits down, the confident grin still plastered on his face as he soaks up the attention.
As we pack up our bags after class he leans over toward me. “The next time there’s a match between the Eels and the Bulldogs, you should come. You can’t be a Sydney person unless you get into rugby. You may as well move to another state.” He winks at me and walks away.
Liz applies her interpretive skills to my conversation with Peter and instantly concludes that he wants to ask me out on a date.
“He was definitely flirting,” Liz says. “I saw you both. The whole eye-contact thing when he got into trouble. When a teacher humiliates you, the first person you look at says a lot about what you think about them. Peter sought out your eyes instantly.”
I smile shyly. The more attention Peter gives me, the more the Jamilah in me fades away. I begin to believe my lies. That I’m a girl without cultural or religious baggage. That I’m Peter’s type.
“Would you say yes if he asked you out?” Amy asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Anyway, it’s really unlikely to happen. Sure, he seems to be flirting with me, but we’re not on the same level. He wouldn’t risk his reputation.”
I’ve never had a steady boyfriend. I’ve been asked out but I’ve always turned guys down. It’s just too complicated. My dad would literally have a heart attack if he found out. It wouldn’t be worth the risk. How would we go out? What if the guy called me at home? What if I got busted? Then there’s the whole physical thing. Most guys consider it part of the relationship package. I’ve never kissed a guy. I’ve always chickened out at the last minute. The most I’ve done is hold hands. I don’t think that even counts as first base. The guy was George Fraser in eighth grade. I put a stop to that, though. His palms had sweat pores the size of golf balls. I needed to walk around with a hair dryer after holding hands with him.
I cast my mind to an image of Peter and me walking hand in hand down the tenth grade hallway. I’ve made it. Everybody
laughs at my jokes, and when the joke isn’t funny I’m not a try-hard, I’m “cute.” I’m guaranteed an invite to every party. My dad’s rules don’t apply in this fantasy. Girls huddle at lunch and discuss how adorable Peter and I look as a couple. Guys treat me like one of the group. There’s no booing when I miss the ball in gym. I’m Peter’s girlfriend. I’ve cemented my position in the school hierarchy. I’m immune.
But even if the universal laws of probability were suspended for a day and Peter asked me out, he’d be asking
Jamie
out. He wouldn’t look twice at Jamilah.
From: [email protected]
Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame-seed bun.
Guess what?
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You’re hungry?
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I am officially a McDonald’s employee.
Yippee!
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Do you realize how many calories there are in your newly acquired profession?
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Don’t ruin this glorious moment for me. By some miracle, my father has agreed to me working on a part-time basis at the Parramatta McDonald’s and I want to hire a hot-air balloon and shout it out to the whole of Sydney!
This means freedom and financial independence and something TO DO on a Saturday night (assuming I impress the duty manager and secure a weekend shift).
From: [email protected]
You’ll get minimum wage and probably afford half a DVD a week and you call that financial independence?
You’re easy to please!
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WARNING: Do not attempt to make another sarcastic comment about my new job, because I’m in a state of bliss at the moment and will track you down and thump you in the head with a bottle of Evian if you do not congratulate me in the next e-mail and tell me that I ROCK!
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Do I get any discounts on your shift?
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Yeah, leftovers.
I’m so excited. I can’t believe my dad agreed. I’m determined to prove to him that I’m responsible and trustworthy. Maybe then he’ll relax a little.
From: [email protected]
Your dad doesn’t seem so bad. I can accept that he goes off the deep end when it comes to the male gender and that he has some chronic fashion problems (masseur soles!). But he is obviously trying to cope with bringing up a Puff Daddy try-hard son and the female equivalent of John Lennon. And then there’s you. You’d be a handful.
I don’t know. Your dad seems harmless to me. My dad’s an SOB. At least your dad goes a little deeper.
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Why’s your dad an SOB? I get scared even writing that. I’ve never sworn at my dad. It gives me chills to think what would happen if I did. My dad thinks “shut up” is a swear word (how old—fashioned is
that?). “Say
be quiet,”
he tells us. Like Bilal is really going to listen to a polite request for silent tonsil action when he’s singing away to a Ja Rule song and I’m trying to watch a
Survivor
finale.
From: [email protected]
He just is.
From: [email protected]
Wow! Information overload. Restrain yourself! That essay was too much for my heart to take.
Listen to me, John. There is no way that I am going to do all the opening and sharing in this relationship. If you were my boyfriend I’d dump you for that pathetic “He just is.” I’d make you pay for that ridiculous attempt to flush a topic down the toilet. I will not be the only one venting about her family in this e-mail relationship, got it? Now that it seems you may not have a perfect family, I want to see you pour out a good chunk of venom and spite and indulge in as much moaning, whining, and nagging as you can come up with, and then some.
Did that penetrate your brain cells? Now let me see some keyboard action.
From: [email protected]
All I can say is thank God you’re not my girlfriend.
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Details required before normal conversation resumes.
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What’s the big deal? I really don’t want to have to do this.
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I’m waiting.
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Oh come on. Do you really want to hear a sob story? It’s so boring.
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Clock is ticking.
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OK, OK. You know what? You are really stubborn.
Hmm, you want to know why I hate my dad?
Because he’s sarcastic. All the time. Because he puts my mom down. All the time. Because he tells me I’m going to amount to nothing. All the time. Because he only cares about making
money and he only visited my grandfather, my mom’s father, in the hospital twice when he was dying of cancer—less than ten minutes each time. He was busy with meetings, he said. Liar. Because he’s the type that doesn’t smile with his eyes and if you need five bucks he expects you to pay him back. But most importantly, because he cheated on my mom with some young law clerk and actually had the gall to tell me to mind my own business.
If I were to give my dad a Father’s Day card, you know what I’d say? Thanks for being my sperm donor.
That’s basically the extent of his contribution to my life. Satisfied?
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Oh…um…that’s pretty rough.
You must think I’m pretty dumb, huh? Here I am complaining about my dad’s job and my curfew and your dad cheated on your mom. You put things into perspective for me.
From: [email protected]
Don’t you dare start to pity me. This is exactly the reason I wanted to avoid the topic. I swear if you don’t e-mail me back with a good whine about your family you are going to “deleted items.” And guess what? I’m then going to send you off to
permanently
deleted items. Never to return.
Things better go back to normal between us. I want doom and gloom e-mails and apocalyptic visions of our future. Hey, you have a screwed-up family too! You’re just as messed up as me, I assure you. OK? Do not get any perspective. I suggest you immediately, AS IN RIGHT NOW, go to your room and listen to some soppy love song and feel sorry for yourself. Cry a little if you must.
Deal?
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Marry me.
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On two conditions:
- There be no reality TV shows allowed to screen at any point of the day in our household.
- We have a Godfather trilogy night every three months.
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Actually, I’ve changed my mind. You never make any spelling mistakes. That means you’re probably the type of guy who irons his undies, color-coordinates his closet, and always puts the cap back on the toothpaste tube. We’d be divorced within the hour. Let’s just stay friends.
Speaking of appearances, how do I know you’re not some cross-eyed, toothless, balding freak? We’re just faceless, anonymous entities at the moment. But I’m not really into the exchanging pics with a stranger thing.
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Based on what I know about you, you’re about an eleven out of ten in my mind. What’s my score with you?
From: [email protected]
Nine out of ten. You need to work a little harder.