The Good Daughter (16 page)

‘Is it too early for you?' We had to keep to my timetable so I could fake I went to
mejtef
.

‘No,' Jesse smiled. ‘But then I wasn't the one who stayed up half the night watching a Justin Timberlake special on “Rage”.'

‘Brian!' I whacked him on the shoulder. ‘I thought you were taping it.'

He shrugged. ‘It's Justin.' As if that explained everything; and unfortunately it did.

The bus arrived and we climbed in. ‘I hope you still taped it?' I said, as I bought a ticket from the driver.

‘Of course,' he said. ‘It's Justin.'

I grimaced. ‘That better not be your only sentence today.'

He smiled and followed me down the aisle. We sat at the back of the bus, I got the window seat with Brian next to me and Jesse at the end. I wanted to go to the city, but Brian and Jesse vetoed that suggestion. They'd been outraged that I hadn't had the proper indoctrination to the western suburbs culture—Highpoint was where it all happened. When the bus stopped we headed into the complex. Most of the shops were still opening and the walkways were empty and silent.

‘I told you it was barely dawn,' Brian gloated.

‘There's Justin.' I pointed at a shop window.

‘Where?' Brian stared around him wildly.

Jesse laughed silently beside me.

‘Very funny.' Brian walked off. He stuck his middle finger in the air and kept walking. We stumbled after him, weaving drunkenly as laughter overcame us. When we caught up he was in a café ordering a cappuccino. I added a hot chocolate to the order and Jesse got a juice. Brian sat moodily as we waited. When the cappuccino arrived he looked at it like a lost love.

I took a sip of my hot chocolate. ‘Your hair looks great today.'

‘Thanks,' he said grudgingly. ‘I've got to go to the loo.'

When he was gone Jesse made sucking noises.

‘Shut up,' I said.

‘Before I forget,' Jesse opened his satchel. ‘I read the piece you wrote about the Bosnian mosque.'

‘You did?' I crossed my legs. ‘Because there was no rush.' I'd emailed him my article a few days ago from the school library, expecting him to send me his comments via email. I composed my face into an expression of interest, even though I was cringing inside.

‘There were some great paragraphs.' He pointed to a few lines where he'd put red ticks. ‘I've also made suggestions.' While Jesse was talking about my story Brian returned to the table and sipped at his cappuccino.

‘Thanks, Jesse.' I squeezed his hand. ‘That's really helpful.'

Jesse smiled. ‘I hope the newspaper likes it too.'

Warmth filled me. Jesse was the first person I'd entrusted my writing to: he'd clearly read every word and, while he was speaking to me about it, he made me feel like the most important person in the world. I wanted to hug him. We'd been gazing into each other's eyes. I glanced at Brian. He winked. I blushed as embarrassment hit me. Brian thought I liked Jesse.

‘Here's my story.' Jesse handed me a sheaf of papers.

‘I'll read it and get back to you.' I put both stories in my handbag.

By the time we finished our drinks the shopping centre was jumping. We inspected clothes we couldn't afford. Jesse and I ducked into a bookshop and Brian dragged us out. Brian became hypnotised at the music store and Jesse and I frogmarched him out, each holding onto an arm while he tried to make a break for it and return. It didn't take us long to agree on a movie to see:
Dark Knight
was the hot favourite and we all thought it was awesome. It was at the food court that we began to disagree.

‘Maccas.' Brian glanced at the golden arches.

‘I'll pass.' I hated McDonalds. Sometimes it was like I was the only person in the world who did. Brian and Jesse's faces fell. ‘I'll do the rounds and find you,' I told them.

On the other side of the food court was a couple chewing each other's lips off. The girl was familiar. She pushed her hair off her face and I recognised Dina. My first instinct was to hide, but
mejtef
was finished so I was in the clear, and anyway Dina saw me.

‘Hi Dina.'

‘Hi.' She avoided my eyes.

I waited for her to say something. She blocked my view of the guy. As the silence stretched out uncomfortably I got angry. ‘You must be the boyfriend.' I moved around her and held out my hand. Up close he didn't look like a high school kid.

‘Tony,' he offered, shaking my hand.

‘How long have you been together?'

‘Six months,' he said.

‘Dina never mentioned—' I started to say.

‘Okay, let's go.' She grabbed my arm and strong-armed me away from Tony. ‘We're going to the Ladies, hon,' she called back to him as she pushed me into the women's toilets.

‘What's your problem?' I demanded.

Dina shushed me and checked under the toilet cubicles.

‘Paranoid, aren't we?'

‘You don't know what it's like having to hide like a criminal,' she said.

‘What's the big deal?'

We had so much in common: our parents were both Bosnian-Muslim, our grandads were best mates, we were the same age and we saw each other six days a week between school and at
mejtef
, yet it was like we were from different planets. This was finally my chance to bust her open and see what was inside.

‘Because my parents have found religion,' she said bitterly. ‘And now I'm supposed to be the perfect Muso girl.'

‘Well, I get some of the same treatment, you know. But you don't seem to have it too bad.' I nudged my head in the direction of the food court. I still couldn't believe it. At school she pretended to be a regular girl who had crushes, and yet she was in a relationship.

‘My parents don't know about Tony.' She blew her hair off her face. ‘No one knows except you.'

‘Not even Gemma?' I asked.

She shook her head.

‘You've been friends since forever. How can she not know?'

‘If my parents find out about Tony they'll kick me out of the house, just like they did my brother,' she exclaimed in frustration.

‘Why take the chance?' She was putting herself in a world of trouble for a boy. How could she be so dumb?

‘I have to!' Dina shouted. She grabbed hold of the vanity and watched me in the mirror. ‘I love him!' She burst into tears.

I broke her gaze, uncomfortable at her raw emotion. Dina was usually bloodless and cold, but now I realised that she kept her emotions submerged because she was living a double life.

She turned and squeezed my hand so hard I thought she'd fuse my fingers together. ‘You have to promise me you won't tell anyone about Tony,' she begged. ‘Not even Brian and Jesse,' she added as if she'd read my mind.

‘I promise.'

She searched my face to see if I was telling the truth. She finally let go of my hand. ‘Thanks.' She turned and opened the toilet door. ‘I hope you're someone I can trust, Sabiha.'

I flinched as the door shut behind her. Her last words were like a barb in my gut. I'd already betrayed Kathleen's trust, blurting our secret to Shelley about going to the concert. I inspected myself in the mirror. Was I someone who could be trusted?

Dina and Tony were gone by the time I got out of the toilets. When I found Jesse and Brian, they'd nearly finished their lunch.

‘What took you so long?' Brian asked.

‘It took me ages to decide.' They smiled at my tray. After talking to Dina I was so rattled I'd ended up at Red Rooster.

‘You got the lesser of the two evils, did you?' Brian grinned as he lined his McDonalds next to my tray.

‘Are you okay?' Jesse frowned at me.

‘I'm fine.'

‘You picked well.' Brian stole a chip.

I spent the rest of the afternoon preoccupied with Dina's secret. How could her parents banish their only son?

When I got home, Mum was making dinner. It was one of the rare evenings we'd have a meal together like a real family. Safeta and Safet were out visiting so Mum had stayed home.

‘How come Dina's parents kicked out her brother?' I asked her.

‘He disobeyed them,' Mum said. ‘He used drugs.'

‘What? He made one mistake.'

‘He wasn't a Muslim,' Dido piped up. Anyone who didn't conform to the Muslim credo, even in the slightest way, was branded a non-Muslim heretic by Dido.

‘Do they think God will reward them for throwing away their son?' I asked Dido.

‘Yes.' He hit the table with the palm of his hand. The plates shook and goulash spattered the tablecloth. ‘Abraham was willing to kill his son to prove his faith to
Allah
and that's what Dina's parents did.'

‘That's disgusting,' I spluttered. ‘What sort of a God would do that?'

‘
Allah
wanted to know that Abraham believed,' Mum explained. ‘So he hid from his eyes that Abraham was killing a lamb, instead of his son.'

‘Would you throw me away if I had a
vlah
boyfriend?' I asked.

‘Sabiha.' Mum put her hand on mine. ‘Of course—'

‘If you married a
vlah
you would be no grand-daughter of mine,' Dido hissed.

‘It's not as if you care that I'm your grand-daughter now, so it's no big loss. What would
you
do?' I turned to Mum.

‘I'd disinherit you,' Mum said.

‘You hypocrite!' I pushed myself away from the table and the chair clattered to the floor. ‘You won't have a daughter for much longer.' When I got to my bedroom I wanted to scream.

Mum barged in. ‘We're only doing what's best for you. Think what would happen if you married someone who wasn't Muslim?'

‘You married a Muslim and look how that turned out.'

‘I know you think we're old-fashioned—'

‘You had
vlah
boyfriends,' I interrupted her.

‘Yes, but I never married any of them.'

‘What about your first boyfriend?'

‘How do you know about Darko?' Mum stopped dead.

‘Mmm…you raved about him once when you were sick,' I lied.

I'd tried to read Mum's letters from Darko and had managed to translate a few words. They wanted to marry, but their parents were against the marriage because Darko was Serbian and Mum Bosnian. Pretty much the same as your Romeo and Juliet scenario.

‘But Sabiha, if I had married him, how would my life be right now?' Mum was speaking like she was possessed. ‘Our people were killed because they were Muslim. My family lost their homes and started again in a country that is alien in language and culture. And what would have happened to my children? To be half and half with their loyalties torn. To belong to neither and be hated by all.'

‘What about me?' I shouted. ‘Both my parents are Bosnian, but to him I'm the Australian grand-daughter who still has to fulfil his expectations.' I pointed to the living room where Dido was waiting for the rest of his dinner. ‘To the Bosnians I'm Australian, and to the Australians I'm Bosnian!'

‘Imagine how much worse your struggle would be if your parents weren't both Bosnian.'

‘I'm Australian.' I spat out. ‘I can marry anyone.'

‘Can you really?' Mum asked. ‘Why do you think I left Dave?'

Dave was the only one of Mum's boyfriends I'd liked. He was the closest thing I'd ever had to a father.

‘I thought he left you.' I trailed off as Mum shook her head.

‘I left him.'

‘He was nice.'

‘He was a
vlah
.'

‘That's bullshit.' This was the first time we'd talked about Dave and I wouldn't let her bag him. He was the only decent man I knew. After they broke up he sent me a Christmas card, but I never replied because I thought he'd dumped Mum like all her other men had.

‘I'm not saying he didn't love us both,' she added. ‘But all the things he loved in the beginning he wanted to change in the end. He didn't like our food, didn't like me talking Bosnian or having any Bosnian friends and, when Dido came to Australia, Dave didn't understand that I had to take care of my father.'

Everything changed when my grandmother passed away. Mum had a crisis when her mother died: she was wracked with guilt for not visiting her parents after she moved to Australia, despite her mother's entreaties.

After Dido came to Australia and lived with Auntie Zehra, Mum wanted to hang around her family more. The one time we visited with Dave had been a disaster because he couldn't speak Bosnian and nobody spoke English with him.

‘Mum, Dave wasn't the problem. Dido is the only one who cares about where people come from.'

‘You get asked where you come from all the time when your name isn't Australian,' Mum said. ‘So it's better to stick to your own community.'

‘That's just because people are curious.' I defended it, even though I hated the question. Whenever I was asked it I still felt like I didn't have the right to call myself Australian.

‘And how do they react when you tell them you're Muslim?' Mum demanded.

I remembered all the ways that I avoided the Muslim tag. As soon as people heard the M word their gaze sharpened, and then the questions would start: why was I not covered up, what was
Allah
, and where was Bosnia?

‘You don't have to admit it to me.' Mum headed for the door. ‘But at least be honest with yourself.'

Mum was paranoid. Like Frankie said, she was overcompensating for her guilty conscience by being a Try-Hard-Bosnian. But I was Australian and that crap didn't apply to me.

Maybe Mum was right and some people treated us differently for being Muslim, but not everyone was like that. The movie ticket stub I'd saved from my trip to Highpoint was on my mirror. Brian and Jesse were Australian, but they didn't give a shit. They cared about was
me
, Sabiha Omerovic, with or without the Bosnian baggage.