The Lines We Cross

  “You know, that kind of pressure doesn’t help, Mum. I’m about to start a terrifying chapter in my life …” I stand in front of her, swigging down the last of my drink. “You do realize that, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. But you were also smuggled out of a war zone, lived in a refugee camp, traveled here on a leaky boat, and were locked in detention for months. By all means be scared.” And then, without a hint of irony, she adds, “But just remember, I’m expecting you to be top of your class.”

  She’s done it. She’s actually pulled out that card. I’ve got nothing to trump that.

  Terrence and I are shooting hoops at the local court. It’s been our thing since I met him during lunchtime detention in seventh grade. We don’t have much in common (except when it comes to basketball) but have somehow stayed close mates since.

  Terrence is filling me in on a game he played last night.

  “He got a foul against me, man,” Terrence says. “Dare me to get it from here?”

  “Go on.”

  He takes the shot, scores, yells out, “Yeah, baby!” and then does a little dance.

  The ball rebounds and I lunge forward, catch it, and dribble it between my legs. “All so I could get stuck with a pressure-packed free throw,” he continues.

  “Did you score?”

  “Missed by a fraction.” He takes possession of the ball and starts slowly dribbling around me, a big grin on his face. “Zara was there.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah. Looking Victoria’s Secret as ever.”

  Given our breakup was ugly, the image does nothing for me.

  I shake my head and let out a small laugh. “Too bad about the psycho jealousy.”

  “I would have put up with it for that body … And he scores! In your face!”

  I steal the ball from him and dribble to the three-point line. “No, you wouldn’t. She thought I had a thing for Tessa just because I had to spend one freaking study period with her finishing a joint math project. All hell broke loose. Don’t make me relive it.” I bend my knees, take aim, and shoot the ball.

  Terrence asks me what I did yesterday and I tell him about the protest. He groans.

  “I’ve yet to meet somebody who supports mining and also happens to be a sex siren. Why would you bother?”

  “Mining?” I laugh. “This one was about boat people. And unlike you, I don’t plan my weekend activities based on the probability of hooking up with a girl.” I grin at him. “Loser, we spent all of ninth grade doing that, remember?”

  He shakes his head at me in dismay. “Those protests are usually all dreadlock hippies, wannabe hipsters, or hairy feminists.”

  “Wow. You’re a really good listener, you know?” I shoot the ball and miss. “There was a girl there, by the way. And she was a stunner. Happy?”

  “But at a protest,” he says in a duh tone. “Girls talk enough already without getting all political on a guy too.”

  I stop and stare at him. “Do you have any idea how well you pull off sexist pig? I mean, I’m a guy and that offended me.”

  Terrence grins. “That’s because you’re all New Age and metrosexual and shit.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “I don’t exfoliate my face.”

  “Moisturize?”

  “No. But isn’t it kind of sad that your masculinity test is based on moisturizer usage?”

  We spend the rest of the hour ribbing each other and then split ways to go home, arranging to go online to play FIFA tonight.

  I crash through the house, starving. “Mum, what’s for dinner?” I yell, kicking off my shoes.

  Dad’s setting the table and Mum’s dressing a salad. My ten-year-old brother, Nathan, is sitting at the kitchen bench, hunched over his iPad. Hearing me come in, he looks up and grins. I high-five him.

  “How are you, champ? We missed you! How was the air show?”

  He cocks his head to the side. “It was the best weekend of my entire life. Ever.”

  Mum beams and I grin at her. “You’re feeling like you need a Mother of the Year award now, hey, Mum?” I tease.

  She giggles. “Nah. I got all the reward I want. Nathan loved every minute of it.”

  “Except for the security screening in the airport,” Nathan says. “They made me take off my belt. And shoes. I didn’t like that.”

  “I’m always afraid I’m wearing mismatched socks,” Dad says.

  “KLM is the world’s oldest airline.” Nathan goes back to playing on his iPad.

  “Really?” I sit down next to him, stealing a slice of cucumber from the salad bowl. Mum hits my hand. “How old?”

  “Established in 1919.” His gaze is still fixed on the screen.

  “Wow. Fascinating, champ.”

  “Darling, tell Michael about the weekend,” Mum coaxes. “Here,” she says, passing me the salad bowl, “put this on the table.”

  Nathan is silent, absorbed in his game.

  “Nathan,” Mum says. “Go on, tell him.”

  Mum dishes up and we sit down to eat, patiently listening to Nathan, who finds summaries difficult because of his need to share the finest details. When he’s finally finished, Dad grins at us all.

  “I have good news. SBS TV called to confirm—drumroll, please!—I’m going on the show.”

  Mum squeals.

  “Wow. Serious, Dad? You’re going to be on TV?”

  “Yep. It’s called Don’t Jump the Queue. Four weeks trailing the route of a boat person. Iraq to Indonesia to Australia.”

  “You’ll be famous,” I say. My mind wanders as I think of the possibilities. Would this mean we’d get to go to the Logie TV Awards? Mix with all those stars on the red carpet? Then again, it is SBS. Hardly the big-time. In fact the only person I know who watches it is Jason Starke, and he only watches it because his parents refuse to let him have the Internet because of its “corrupting influence.”

  Dad puts down his knife and fork and leans back in his chair. “They’ve been following reports about me in the media, and the interviews at the protest helped boost my profile. Maybe people are starting to realize we’re onto something important here.”

  “It’s fabulous!” Mum exclaims as she cuts up Nathan’s chicken. Nathan’s still fixed on the iPad, frowning in concentration as he studies a model of a plane engine. “Eat up, Nathan. I’m just surprised they have the courage to put someone like you on the show, Alan. I guess they know you won’t be peddling all that politically correct let’s open the borders and flood our country into a disaster nonsense.”

  “It’s basically free national advertising for your organization,” I say. “You’ll probably attract more members.”

  Dad’s chewing slowly, his mind elsewhere.

  “You contemplating your best side for the cameras?” I ask.

  He chuckles. “Just thinking. It’s a big responsibility. I’ve got to do this right, make sure I can convey the organization’s message effectively.”

  “You’ll be great, Alan,” Mum says, placing her hand on his arm.

  “They want to interview all of us to get a sense of our family life, our values,” Dad says.

  “Really? Well, that’ll be interesting.” Mum leans her head back against the chair and heaves an exhausted sigh. “What a day. I got called in for two extra lectures this morning because one of the part-timers was off sick.”

  “UNSW?” Dad asks.

  “Nope.” She scrunches up her face. “UWS. Milperra campus.”

  Dad lets out a whistle. “You haven’t lectured there for years.”

  “They’re good students. First years. Always so eager at the start. So many young girls in hijab though,” she adds. “And some of them don’t even wear it modestly. Honestly, I think it’s just to make a statement: Look at me, I’m different.”

  “I suppose it’s understandable in the Middle East,” Dad says. “They all cover up. But here it attracts attention. They want to flaunt their difference.”

  Mum lets out an exasperated sigh.
“That’s half the problem though, isn’t it? When my parents came here they got called poms, so they made sure us kids fit in.” She raises her eyes to the ceiling. “You can’t wear the hijab, get a negative reaction, and then complain. You have to take responsibility for yourself and think: How are people going to treat me? Am I inviting trouble?” She shakes her head sadly.

  Dad smiles. “Maybe you should go on the show instead of me, Mary. You articulate it much better than I do.”

  Mum lets out a short laugh. “Oh no, thanks. I’d never get academic work again. It’s hard enough getting part-time work without people labeling me a racist.”

  “Well, at least I know you’ll be able to talk about what we stand for when the cameras roll for the family interview,” Dad says.

  “Why would anybody roll a camera?” Nathan asks incredulously. “It’ll just break.”

  “One of those figures of speech we talked about, darling,” Mum says distractedly.

  “Actually it’s got a technical explanation too, Mum.”

  She flashes me one of her dagger looks, daring me to provoke her in her exhausted state.

  “Really?” Nathan’s all ears now.

  She looks at me, a signal that this one is on me. I turn to Nathan and give him a crash course in predigital cinematography, and she gives me a grateful smile. When I’m done, Mum and Dad are still deep in discussion. I leave them at the table for some one-on-one time and take Nathan upstairs to help him with his homework. When we’re done, and Nathan’s in his bed reading a book, I go to my room.

  I open the UTS Design School website and feel the same flurry of excitement I did when I discovered it last month. I’ve crossed a threshold and I don’t know how I’m going to tell my parents. Tell them that I no longer want to follow in Dad’s footsteps and study architecture. That all the drawing and sketching and time spent on digital art programs all these years has made me realize that I have a different plan for my future. What I really want to do is graphic design.

  Dad’s talked about me becoming an architect ever since I was a kid. His dream is that I’ll join him in his practice one day. How do you smash your parents’ dreams and still live with yourself?

  Victoria College takes the art of topiary seriously. In an enormous garden bed in the center of the circular driveway leading to the main office, the hedges have been shaped into perfect geometric letters to form the name of the school. With every step I take into the school grounds I feel as though I’m about to hand myself over to be clipped, trimmed, and sheared into the shape of a good private-schoolgirl.

  The grounds are all vast lawns and ovals, manicured hedges and color-coordinated flower beds with a combination of grand, romantic heritage buildings and ugly modern clichés. I follow the signs and eventually find the office. It’s in a majestic building: high stained-glass bay windows, shining timber floors, black-and-white photos of past school years lining the walls. The receptionist looks like she belongs in a corporate office with harbor views. Her hair is slicked back into a low ponytail, not a wisp out of place. The color description is probably honey malt with a hint of butternut, rather than blonde. Her lipstick is bright red, a masterpiece of outlining. She beams at me, her White Glo teeth flashing, and cheerfully tells me to take a seat and wait for the principal, Mrs. Robinson.

  It feels like déjà vu, only at my first meeting, after I’d passed the scholarship exam, my parents had been here too. Mum had worn the charcoal two-piece suit she wore to Tahmina’s wedding, and a mauve hijab she’d loosely draped over her head, flicking the ends over her shoulders. Her dyed bangs had been blow-dried straight and swept to the side. She’d clutched her prized fake Chanel bag that Baba got her from the markets in Malaysia on their vacation there last year. Baba had worn gray pants, a new short-sleeved blue shirt, and tan shoes freshly polished. I was mortified, especially when Mrs. Robinson had emerged, dressed in an immaculate genuine designer outfit.

  The meeting had gone well enough. My parents had listened attentively to Mrs. Robinson, nodding at the right time, too intimidated to ask any questions of real significance. I’d known they were desperate to ask about the incidental expenses, the stuff the scholarship wouldn’t cover, but they held back. Mrs. Robinson had been very impressed with my exam results, and excited about offering me a place at Victoria College, a school that produces “global citizens.”

  At that point my mum’s back stiffened and she quickly said, “We have the citizenship.”

  Mrs. Robinson had looked momentarily flustered, and rushed to apologize if her meaning wasn’t clear: She explained that Victoria College was “not just about the academics” but about being “a well-rounded and cultured student of the world.”

  Mum had nodded as if she understood, and Baba had sat there, looking solemn and serious.

  “They are the future leaders of this nation,” Mrs. Robinson had said, “and we are determined that they have a sense that the world is bigger than they are. For example, in junior high school years, the students go to language camps overseas. In tenth grade we send them to a third-world country to give them the opportunity to immerse themselves in a different culture. The experience is life-changing for them.”

  I’d stolen a glance at my parents at that point. They’d looked slightly bewildered.

  “Any more trips?” Baba asked hesitantly. I’d guessed he had been doing the sums in his head and was panicking.

  “No, in grades eleven and twelve the students have already enjoyed those experiences and are hunkering down with their studies.”

  Relief washed over Baba’s face.

  The meeting had ended with Mum boasting that I’d been top of my class at Auburn Grove Girls High and had a short story published in the Auburn Gazette. I’d flinched as I wondered what Mrs. Robinson would think about a local paper when Victoria College had produced internationally acclaimed authors and playwrights. Yet Mrs. Robinson was genuinely pleased to hear I’d been published and congratulated me warmly.

  It’s all still fresh in my mind as I wait for Mrs. Robinson on my first day of school. I’m staring at the class photos lining the walls of the foyer when she emerges. She is smiling as she greets me.

  “Hi, Mina! Excited about your first day?”

  I nod and smile back at her, trying to ignore the fluttering sensation in my gut.

  She recites another encouraging spiel and then wishes me luck for the first day. I’m to wait for the eleventh-grade coordinator to collect me. She turns to leave but then turns back on her heels to face me.

  “Oh, I almost forgot! The first issue of the school’s quarterly magazine will be out in a month. Would you like to be on the front cover? It would be a wonderful opportunity to showcase Victoria College’s commitment to diversity and multiculturalism.”

  “Um, sure. Okay.”

  She beams at me.

  As I wait for the coordinator, I take out my phone and text Maha. I imagine her at our old school. She’s probably with the other girls, gossiping and laughing before the first bell. I feel a pang of nostalgia.

  She responds almost instantly.

  The eleventh-grade coordinator, Ms. Ham, arrives to escort me to my homeroom class. She has the typical flustered energy of a teacher, although she’s all smiles and easy chitchat. We walk quickly through noisy halls and corridors. Having been at a girls’ school, I feel like I’ve been dropped onto another planet. There are boys everywhere. And yes, I’d gathered this would occur at a coed school, but actually being so close to adolescent boys is a lot to take in, beginning with the overreliance on cheap aftershave. Pimply, short, tall, huge, scrawny. They’re loud and boisterous and it terrifies me. Ms. Ham is too busy multitasking—chatting to me, directing kids, telling others off with the eyes in the back of her head—to notice.

  She opens a classroom door and I follow her in. All eyes are on me.

  “Here we go, Mr. Morello. Mina’s the new girl. All the way from Afghanistan!”

  “Auburn, actually,” I say, quickly addi
ng a smile so she doesn’t interpret my correction as insolence.

  Ms. Ham is in too much of a rush to register and leaves.

  “Auburn?” I hear a voice call out, followed by a snicker. The voice is attached to a guy with an ash-blond crew cut and pale blue eyes framed by long eyelashes.

  I pretend I don’t hear. Mr. Morello smiles at me and scans the room.

  “There’s an empty seat next to Jane,” he says, pointing to a girl who’s sitting at the back, braiding her hair. I pass a guy who’s staring up at the ceiling fan, balancing a pen on his upper lip. There’s a girl doodling in the margins of a book, another boy swinging on his chair, his large body spilling over the edges.

  Jane gives me a half smile as I sit down next to her.

  Mr. Morello starts reading aloud student notices: reminders about school rules, IT policies, uniforms. He has to tell the guy who spoke out before to settle down. Terrence is his name, and he clearly enjoys being the center of attention.

  A guy sitting next to Terrence turns around to look at me. His gaze lingers for a moment and then he turns to face the front.

  “So where are you from?” Jane asks after the bell has rung and we’re walking to first period, English.

  “Auburn Grove Girls High.”

  “I’d hate to start a new school in eleventh grade. It would be awful.”

  I smile. “I feel so much better now.”

  She laughs guiltily. “Sorry. So where are you from?”

  “I told you. Auburn.”

  “I mean originally.”

  “Afghanistan.”

  “Oh yeah, Ms. Ham said that. Wow, you’re Afghanistanian. That’s so cool.”

  “Afghani. And why cool?” I ask, a little dumbfounded.

  “It’s different,” she says with a shrug. “Different’s cool. Are you a refugee?”

  I never know how to answer that question. Do you ever stop being a refugee? Even if at some point in your life the place of refuge becomes home?

  She leads me through a labyrinth of corridors and stairwells. Finally we arrive at our classroom.