The Good Daughter (11 page)

‘What about other game shows?' I asked.

‘On “Temptation” you have to be a rocket scientist on stupid local trivia.'

‘What about “Wheel of Fortune”? All you have to do is spin the wheel.'

Adnan was scornful. ‘And then you have to guess the phrase.'

‘The phrase is pretty obvious.'

‘For someone born in an English-speaking country. All these shows are made for people born here. This,' he pointed to the TV where the credits on ‘The Price is Right' were rolling, ‘this is the only show for us wogs. It's the one thing we're good at. Prices and bargaining.'

What Adnan said made me feel odd, like I was seeing my country for the first time. I was in no-man's-land. To the Aussies I was Bosnian, to the Bosnians I was Aussie. In the inner city I'd been Sammie Omerovic, second-generation Aussie. Now I had all this Bosnian baggage to drag around and I didn't know how to carry it.

Edin left. Dido and Adnan sat across from each other on the sofa while I stayed on the floor, pretending to watch TV.

‘Does your mum know you're here?' Dido asked.

I glanced over my shoulder; Adnan was shaking his head.

‘Will you tell her?'

‘You know Mum,' Adnan said. Dido coughed his usual smoker's cough that sounded like he was about to lose a lung. ‘You're sick.' Adnan held Dido's hand.

‘I'm fine.' Dido cleared his throat and spat his phlegm into a tissue.

Adnan became thoughtful. ‘If you were sick Mum would be here like a shot.'

Dido lay on the sofa, adjusting the cushion under his head. ‘Can you hand me my blanket?' Adnan reached for the blanket and covered Dido from head to toe, tucking him in like a child.

‘Where are his pills?' Adnan asked. I pointed to the pillbox on the TV cabinet. Dido opened one eye and watched as Adnan put his pills on the coffee table. Dido smiled and within a few breaths he was snoring.

Adnan smiled as he picked up the phone. ‘Mum?' His voice quavered. ‘Dido's not feeling well.'

Auntie Zehra arrived within ten minutes. She must have driven with squealing tyres and burnouts. She cried when she saw Dido lying on the sofa.

Adnan touched her arm. ‘He had a bad turn.'

Dido opened his eyes and held out his hand. ‘Zehra.'

She dropped to her knees beside the sofa. ‘Babo, how are you?'

Dido kissed her hand. ‘I'm glad I saw you again before I died.'

‘He's not that sick,' I told her.

‘He needs to sleep,' Adnan jumped in, glaring at me.

Dido patted her hand. ‘Come and visit me tomorrow.'

Auntie Zehra was torn. Adnan helped her up. ‘Come on, Mum.'

She nodded and kissed Dido on the cheek. I walked them to the door. ‘Where's your mother?' she asked.

‘She's at Safet's.' I'd hardly seen her the past week, which wouldn't have been that bad, except that I copped being Dido's servant.

‘She should be at home taking care of the two of you,' Auntie said.

‘She'll be home soon,' I replied, scowling She shook her head. ‘I'll be back tomorrow.' She kissed me on the cheek.

On Saturday morning, my mood worsened as I remembered what was awaiting me.

‘Sabiha, get up!' Mum burst into my room and flung open the curtains.

‘I think I'm sick.' I crumpled into the foetal position and clutched my stomach.

‘No way.' Mum ripped the doona off me.

‘Ohhhh,' I groaned, burrowing my head under the pillow.

‘I'll have breakfast ready by the time you've showered,' Mum said as she walked out, leaving my bedroom door open.

I pushed the pillow off my head and looked at the empty doorway. Who was this woman and what had she done with my real mother? She'd never woken me up and made me breakfast before I went to school, but today she was Mrs Homemaker because it was my debut as a Born-Again-Muslim at
mejtef
.

It took me a while to get dressed because I had to dig out my daggy clothes—the ankle-length loose skirt I hid at the back of the wardrobe.

I gasped as I walked into the kitchen. ‘Strawberry pancakes!' They were my favourite: spread with strawberry jam, sprinkled with crushed walnuts and pecans, filled with strawberries, and then rolled into a burrito shape. I took a bite. So far the
mejtef
experience wasn't all bad.

‘Sabiha, it's important you make a good impression,' Mum lectured while I ate. ‘The
hodja
is making an exception for you.'

Mejtef
was organised like school: children progressed through different levels with their age group. Despite not having been to
mejtef
before I had been placed in my grade level, with the expectation that Dina would help me keep up.

I nodded absently, the tart taste of strawberries taking me to a happy place.

‘Do you want me to come with you?' Mum asked as she pulled up in the mosque car park.

‘I'll be okay.' I reached for the doorhandle, puffing myself up with false bravado. She drove off and I turned to the mosque.

It was a square white building with the familiar dome roof and minaret that was traditionally used to broadcast the call to prayer. I'd only been to the mosque once before with Mum and everything had been a blur.

I entered through the front glass doors into a hallway with shoe shelves against each wall, where prayer-goers left their shoes before entering the prayer room that was covered with a colourful red carpet. Muslims prayed on the ground so there were no pews or seats in the prayer room.

There was a kitchen where an informal café operated, selling Turkish coffee,
pita
and
chevapi
. I walked past rooms fitted with taps and sinks for the prayer-goers to take their ablutions before performing their prayers, and then I entered the classroom where
mejtef
was held.

I slid into the empty seat beside Dina. ‘So how does this work?' I asked anxiously. I hoped it wouldn't be like school where they made the new students stand and talk about themselves while everyone stared as if they were a zoo animal.

‘The
hodja
talks, we listen.' Dina continued scribbling in her notebook.

I fought the instinct to elbow her in the ribs. She was such a prissy bitch. Students milled around, chatting to each other. A few threw curious glances my way. For once Dina's self-involvement worked to my advantage and she didn't perform any introductions.

The
hodja
walked in, wearing his traditional black robe. Everyone sat. ‘We have a new student, Sabiha,' he announced in Bosnian, nodding at me.

My fists clenched as I waited for him to call on me.

‘Last week we were talking about the correct conduct for a Muslim man and woman and we're continuing this discussion. In the
Kuran
it states modesty is a priority for both men and women. Men are to cover their torsos and to be covered from waist to knees. Women are to be covered from their neck to wrist, and waist to ankle. When they pray women also cover their hair.'

‘Great, we're being sent back to the dark ages,' I muttered.

‘The general perception by non-Muslim society is that the requirement for modesty in Islam is a way of subjugating women. But we know that if women are covered, they are judged by their intellect and not purely on their physical appearance.'

I stared down at my notepad and drew hearts while the
hodja
continued talking about what it meant to be a good Muslim. This was the first time I'd heard about both men and women having to practise modesty. People only talked about how Muslim women were treated unfairly by having to cover up, but nobody mentioned that men were supposed to be doing the same.

I recalled the way some men looked at me when I wore skimpy clothes. If I didn't wear revealing clothes, would they pay attention to me properly? Mum tried to convince me that you could be both modest
and
fashionable. I wasn't buying it. Why should I have to compromise myself for other people? Most of the time I dressed to feel good for myself, not for anyone else. And what was the big deal about modesty? Shouldn't women be respected, regardless of how they looked? I wished I had the guts to ask the
hodja
that question; instead I tuned out while the lecture continued.

After talking for fifteen minutes, the
hodja
taught us a new prayer. He recited a few words in Arabic and then the students repeated them. We had to enunciate the Arabic words, over and over. Then the
hodja
intoned the Bosnian translation.

‘Your homework for next week is to learn this prayer and be able to recite it when I call on you.'

I stopped myself from swearing. I had enough real homework without this.

‘Sabiha, see me before you leave,' the
hodja
said while students headed for the doors.

Shit, he'd heard my smartarse comment about the dark ages.

‘This will also be your homework for next week.' He handed me a sheet of paper with the heading ‘Five Pillars of Islam'. ‘Because you haven't had the chance to learn the basics you have to work harder to catch up.'

‘So I have to learn both these things?' I held up the other handout with the new prayer.

He nodded and handed me a book. ‘And this is what we use for the junior
mejtef
classes. You should read it, too.'

‘When am I supposed to do my school work?' I demanded. ‘I mean, that's a lot of stuff to learn.' I stopped when I realised how harsh my voice sounded.

‘Just learn the Five Pillars,' he said. ‘It's most important you know the basics.'

‘Thank you,' I said meekly.

‘But you will have to start learning at the same pace as the other students,' he said.

I nodded without answering. What a crock. First I was forced to participate in this whole makeover experiment and now I was being persecuted by having to be Ms Islam overnight. I so had to find a way to get out of this.

On Monday morning Brian rode to school. ‘Here you go.' He wheeled the bike over to me.

‘What do you mean?'

‘As much as Jesse and I would love to walk you home every night, it's not going to happen.
Voilà
.' He waved at the bike and smiled at me. ‘With this you'll be an independent woman again.'

‘But I can't pay you.' I rubbed the handlebars in wonder. With this means of escape I would never be at the Twins' mercy again.

‘It was hanging around Jesse's house.'

I snatched my hands off it. ‘It's Jesse's bike?'

‘I think it was his sister's.' He pointed at the V-shaped bike body. Jesse joined us. Brian grabbed Jesse into a bear hug. ‘Where were you?'

Jesse punched him on the arm. ‘We were supposed to swap riding the bike to school.'

Brian grinned cheekily. ‘I like the fast life.'

Jesse turned to me. ‘Do you like it?' he asked with a shy smile.

‘I love it.' I stopped short. Taking a present from Brian was okay, but being beholden to Jesse, I didn't know if I could do that. I wasn't even sure if he liked me. I mean, he was always avoiding me. It seemed like a weird game. My hands sweated as I tried to find the words to tell him I couldn't take it. He'd either spit the dummy or cry. ‘I—I—' I glanced at Brian, pleading.

Brian took pity on me. ‘She doesn't know if she can take it for free.'

‘And I have no money to pay for it,' I added.

‘How about a trade?' Jesse asked.

‘Okay.' What would Jesse want from me?

‘Bring in your CDs so I can load them onto my computer.'

‘That can't be the trade for a bike.'

‘That's your fee for borrowing it for a year.'

‘Really?'

Jesse shrugged. ‘It was rusting in the backyard since my sister bought a car.'

‘Thanks.' Before he could react I kissed him on the cheek.

He blushed. ‘It was nothing.' He put his hand through his hair. ‘I'd better get going.'

‘Where are you off to?' Brian asked.

‘Gotta do something,' Jesse mumbled.

‘He was fixing it before and after school yesterday,' Brian said.

I felt guilty: I'd made it obvious I wanted to be alone with Brian, so Jesse was avoiding spending time with us.

‘I'm not looking forward to tonight,' Brian moaned, as we walked to the bike-shed.

‘What have you got on?' I bent and locked my new bike with the padlock Jesse had attached.

‘Are you high?'

‘No.' My hands were covered in grease.

‘You really don't remember?'

I found an old hanky in my backpack and wiped my hands. ‘Keep it up and I'll turn you into a grease-monkey.' I jumped at him with my dirty hands outstretched.

He held his arms up in surrender. ‘It's parent–teacher night.'

‘Oh,' I groaned.

‘How speaketh you of such matters as if they meaneth nothing?' He dropped dramatically to one knee, his hand to his forehead and pretend-swirled an invisible cape around himself. ‘How now, why speaketh thee as if thy school affairs are not life and death?' I walked off and he ran after me. ‘My parents will hear about my lack of “progress”.' He made air quotations. ‘And I'll be stuffed.'

‘My Mum never comes.' I forced a smile at the sight of Brian's face. ‘She's never on my back about homework.'

‘You're lucky,' he said.

‘What can I say?' I laughed. ‘I'm blessed.'

We split up in front of the gym. My words replayed themselves in my head. ‘
I'm blessed. I'm blessed
.' It sounded like a slow-motion effect on television. I didn't feel lucky. I felt like no one cared.

Mum hadn't come to my parent–teacher interviews since Grade 6 when all my teachers praised me. Since then she only looked through my end of semester reports to see if I was in trouble. Her motto was: if you're not doing badly, why should I care?