The Lines We Cross

  “He hurts people’s feelings. He hurt Paula’s feelings.”

  “I told him off about that. He’ll leave her alone now. I’m sure of it.”

  She picks at her brownie, unconvinced. Eventually she says: “What’s the story with him and Jane?”

  “He enjoys stringing her along. It’s cruel.”

  “She thinks he’s serious about her.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Terrence isn’t serious about any girl.”

  “Well, Jane’s under the impression she’s the one to change all that.”

  “That’s stupid. Terrence is a player. Always has been. Everyone knows that.”

  Mina’s quiet. The mood is suddenly low.

  “Look, why are we even talking about Terrence? I’m not even that close with him anymore.” I take her hands in mine and pull her closer to me, wrapping my arms around her. “Forget about everybody else for a moment. Jane, Paula—give them some credit. They can look after themselves.”

  She looks up at me, defiant. “Paula’s my friend. She hurts, I hurt. And Jane’s got it in her to be strong if only she had the courage to see through Terrence. You don’t just leave people to go through things on their own.”

  I can’t help but squeeze her tighter. “If only I had a heart as big as yours.”

  “You underestimate yourself. Although”—she looks at me with a cheeky smile—“I could never collect fifty bucks off some innocent guy for the sake of a white kangaroo.”

  Jane tracks me down just after lunch and pulls me aside in the corridor.

  “Are you and Michael seeing each other?”

  Her words are like an allergic reaction and a heat instantly builds up my neck.

  “No,” I say, as emphatically as I can manage.

  She stares at me, studying me closely. “You’re always together at lunchtime.”

  “Not always. Anyway, we’re not alone. He just hangs out with us sometimes. With me, Paula, whoever’s in the library. You’ve been with us plenty of times. Do we act like a couple?”

  “Well, no. I mean, he’s obviously into you though. I see the way his face lights up when he looks at you.”

  I try not to smile.

  “Why doesn’t Terrence hang out with you guys?”

  “Because Terrence is the last person we’d want to hang out with.”

  “Hmm.”

  I approach cautiously. “Have you, you know, worked things out?”

  “I’m going nuts,” she says flatly. “One minute he’s texting me, flirting with me, making me feel like I’m the center of his world. The next minute I’m invisible. I just wish I knew where I stand. I wish I knew what would make him like me. Really like me. Like, enough for us to be together.”

  She looks stricken and pathetic and I want to whack her on the head and tell her to chuck him out of her life, but I know as well as she does that the heart and head are like parallel train tracks. I try the you deserve more, he’s not worth it pep talk; trawl through every cliché on self-love that I can bring myself to utter. But she’s fallen hard and I can see my words are like floating bubbles around her, pop, pop, popping before she’s even had time to register them.

  In Society and Culture the next day, Jane walks in with Terrence. They’re holding hands. I steal a glance at Michael. He looks just as surprised as me and shrugs. Paula takes one look at the couple and shakes her head in disappointment. But Jane, deliberately avoiding our gaze, is unable to wipe the contented smile off her face.

  Mr. Morello walks in and promptly reminds Jane and Terrence of the hands-off policy. Jane giggles and sits next to Leica. Terrence saunters over to his usual spot in the back, next to Michael and Fred.

  Paula slips me a note.

  There are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.

  Poor Jane.

  I slip her a note back.

  Glad to see you’re quoting OW again. I was beginning to worry.

  She chuckles.

  Mr. Morello announces that he has our midterm essays ready to hand back. We’re all nervous and jittery as we wait to find out our grades.

  I get eighteen out of twenty and want to dance on the table. I look back at Michael. He grins at me. A good sign. We worked hard together researching the essay. Zoe is grinning too as she looks at her mark. Instantly, I see her search me out.

  Mr. Morello tells Terrence he wants to see him after class. Terrence asks for his essay and Mr. Morello tells him he’ll discuss it with him privately. Terrence plays it cocky, but even I can tell he’s worried.

  News travels fast. Mr. Morello has Terrence suspended for three days for cheating. He’s handed in an essay that a student from several years ago submitted. I can’t believe his stupidity.

  It’s Friday night. The door to the restaurant opens and a couple enters. One of our waiters, Mariam, approaches them to seat them. After about five minutes I hear what seems to be a heated discussion in the middle of the restaurant. I quickly walk over to investigate.

  The couple is arguing with Mariam.

  “Is there a problem?” I say calmly as I approach the table. I notice other customers have stopped eating and are staring at the table, trying to listen in.

  The man flashes a smarmy smile at me. “Oh, hello there, miss. We were just trying to place our order and your waiter seems to have a problem understanding us.”

  I look at Mariam, my eyes searching hers for a clue. The man’s tone is so condescending that I’m pretty sure the customer-is-always-right rule has no application to this scenario.

  “Mariam?”

  She tucks her hair behind her ears and seems to be struggling to contain her anger. I feel sorry for her. She’s constantly making mistakes but Baba and Irfan want to give her a chance. She’s another one from community detention they took pity on.

  “I came to take their order,” she explains to me in Farsi, “and after I wrote it all down they said they wanted the non-halal option.” She scrunches up her face. “I explained that all the meat is halal and they’re not happy.”

  “Um, excuse me, English, please?” the man says. “Just common courtesy I would have thought.”

  “So you’re not happy about the meat being halal?” I ask.

  “Damn right we’re not,” the man says, flashing me that patronizing smile again. “Is it too much to ask that a person doesn’t have halal food shoved down his throat in Australia?”

  I take a deep breath, try to conjure a smile. I need to defuse the situation quickly because we’re now providing free entertainment for the busybodies nearby who have swiveled around to get a better view.

  “Sorry, I’m not sure I understand. What exactly is the problem?”

  “We. Don’t. Eat. Halal,” the woman says slowly, as though I’m an imbecile. “It’s barbaric and inhumane and who knows what halal funds. So we refuse to eat it.”

  “Maybe you’d like a vegetarian dish instead?”

  “But we’re not vegetarians,” the woman says indignantly, as though I’d accused her of being a devil-worshipper. “If you insist on serving up that barbaric meat, you should at least offer a non-halal option. This is Australia, not the Middle East after all.”

  “Afghanistan isn’t in the Middle East,” I can’t help but snap back. I quickly recalibrate, take a breath to calm myself down. The man demands to speak to the owner and so I tell Mariam she can return to work and let me handle the situation.

  “I’ll go and get him,” I say. “But I normally deal with all the complaints.”

  The woman smirks. “Oh, really? That’s quite a lot of freedom for a Muslim girl, isn’t it?”

  I walk off quickly, worried I might go down for assault and battery if I stick around another second longer.

  Baba is in the back, bent over a delicate dish he’s trying to assemble. I fill him in on the situation.

  “Can you ask Irfan to deal with it, Mina? He’s in the stockroom. His English is better anyway.”

  I talk t
o Irfan and he joins me, but not before first smoothing down his clothes, combing his jet-black hair to the side, and spraying on half a bottle of aftershave.

  I notice Mariam is back at the table, looking overwhelmed as they talk to her. I quicken my pace to reach her before any more damage is done, although they seem to be quite friendly and chatty with her now.

  “It’s okay, Mariam, we’ll handle this,” I tell her hastily, and she gives me a bewildered look and steps away to deal with a new family lined up waiting to be seated.

  “Well,” the man says triumphantly. “Is this the manager?”

  “Yes, sir. Mina has been telling me about your worries about the halal food. It is humane, I promising you. That is what our religion is preaching us.”

  Good Lord, Irfan’s going to make things a million times worse now! I quickly interrupt.

  “Look, there’s nothing we can do for you, sorry. We’re not here to debate halal slaughter practices. We clearly advertise this as a halal restaurant. It’s entirely your choice and right not to eat halal and there are plenty of other restaurants you can go to.”

  Irfan is looking at me with horror but I refuse to meet his gaze and tell him in Farsi that he needs to trust me to do the talking.

  “So you don’t offer a choice of non-halal?” the woman says.

  “No, we don’t,” I say, losing my temper. “Just like a vegetarian restaurant isn’t going to serve up a roast lamb. We’ve chosen to use halal meat and we know we might lose customers but restaurants make those calls all the time. As you can see from how busy we are, it doesn’t seem to bother most people. I’m sorry you wasted your time tonight but the sign is at the front.”

  I would have thought the conversation would be over by now, but the man folds his arms, seems to have more to say.

  “Is it true you’re hiring people who are on bridging visas?”

  I blink once. I feel like things are spinning out of control.

  Irfan stares blankly at them. “Begging pardon?”

  “Mariam—sweet girl—has a bridging visa, she told us. And you have two others working here too.”

  “And so what? Why is this your business?” Irfan says.

  I wince. He’s just confirmed it to them.

  “She says they’re all very grateful for the help you’ve given them. But from what we know, they’re not allowed to work. So you’ve got yourself a bit of a situation there, don’t you? Cheap labor, cash wages.”

  “Work you could give an Australian citizen,” the woman snaps.

  “I think you should leave the premises now,” I say softly but firmly under my breath.

  “Sure thing, love,” the man says, and they stand up. “But you haven’t heard the end of this. We’re actually part of a new political organization and we’re going to make sure this comes up in the state election agenda. People like you are taking jobs away from honest Aussies.”

  A wave of fury comes over me, wrenching itself from the pit of my belly.

  “You’re from Aussie Values?” I demand.

  “Yes,” the woman says proudly.

  “That is the bullshit organization who coming with the TV!” Irfan says angrily. “Get out, please.” He’s all worked up now. “You getting out now!”

  Everyone’s eyes are on us as Irfan’s voice rises. I try to calm him down but he’s too distressed. “You making us terrorists on the TV!” he cries. “Get out!”

  The man and woman are calm, smirk at us, and walk out. I’m mortified. Irfan storms to the kitchen, no doubt to consult with Baba. I smile meekly at the people closest to us, offer as many apologies for the disturbance as I can, and quickly follow Irfan.

  I try to calm them down but they’re both panicking, wondering if they’ll be caught. Mariam walks in with an order and I stop her before she leaves.

  “What did you tell them?” I ask her urgently.

  “They were friendly and asking me where I’m from, how I’m coping here. I explained how kind your baba and Irfan have been to me and the others. They kept asking me questions and I did not know how to get away.”

  I groan, lean my forehead against the door frame.

  “I’m sorry,” she says guiltily. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, nothing, Mariam,” I console her. “It’s fine. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  I go out to the front for some fresh air and call Michael. He’s our only hope.

  He picks up after the first ring.

  “Hey,” he says brightly.

  “Michael, I need your help!” I say quickly. I fill him in on what’s happened, ask him to stop the organization from taking it further, talking to immigration or the media.

  “They’re not allowed to work but how are they supposed to live? We’re just helping them out. And the media?! I can’t let my parents go through the stress of it all. Why are they picking on us? We’re an Afghan restaurant in the lower North Shore. We’re hardly going to swing an election for them.”

  “I don’t know,” he says with concern. “I’ll talk to my parents.”

  Baba comes home that night and heads straight to the balcony. He drinks tea and chain-smokes until past midnight. Mum paces in the family room until eventually she falls asleep on the couch.

  She wakes up in the morning and cancels her lunch invitation to Emily and Rojin. It tears me apart to see my parents so distressed.

  I text Mina.

  I promise Mina I’ll speak to my parents. They’re back late from the Central Coast and so I grab the chance the next morning before school. Dad’s at the kitchen bench, eating his breakfast and reading the news on his iPad. Mum’s packing Nathan’s lunch, and Nathan is eating his toast and watching TV in the family room.

  I pour myself a bowl of cereal and sit down at the bench across from my dad. I start eating, trying to figure out the best way to bring up the topic. Stuff it, I think. I just have to throw myself in.

  “Dad?”

  “Yep?” He doesn’t look up.

  “Apparently a couple from Aussie Values was at a local Afghan restaurant on Saturday night. There was a bit of a commotion about—”

  He looks up sharply. “Oh, yes! I completely forgot to mention it. Listen to this, Mary. Jeremy and Margaret were at some Afghan restaurant—the same one Andrew busted on News Tonight—and there was a scene over the halal food they serve.”

  “Really? What happened?”

  “The usual. Halal or nothing. So we have them on that front. But the best part is that they found out that they’re hiring people on bridging visas. They don’t have work rights, remember?”

  My mum shakes her head in frustration.

  “We can really do something with this, Mary. Expose the rot at the core of this system. These people are in breach of their visa conditions. They’ve been released into the community on trust. And these restaurant owners are happy to exploit them as cheap labor.”

  “Dad,” I interrupt. I take a deep breath.

  “Yes?”

  “Please, could you leave this one alone?” My eyes plead with him.

  “What do you mean?” He’s genuinely confused. “We have to speak out, Michael. Bad things happen when good people remain silent.”

  “They’re not allowed to work, Dad. Is it so bad if somebody helps them out?”

  “They should have thought of that before they decided to break the law,” Dad says seriously.

  Mum nods as she cuts up Nathan’s sandwich.

  “How can this possibly make any difference to you? You’re getting results in Jordan Springs, you’ve got some more members. Why can’t you show some freaking mercy?”

  Dad is taken aback and Mum, raising her eyebrows at me in dismay, says, “What has this restaurant got to do with you?”

  “The owner’s daughter is in my class.”

  “I thought they were refugees too.”

  “Yeah, they came here from Afghanistan. So?”

  Mum seems surprised, indignant even. “And they can afford Victoria C
ollege?” She shakes her head in disbelief. “That only makes things worse, hiring cheap labor when business is obviously highly profitable.”

  “For God’s sake, Mum, Mina’s on a scholarship. Don’t worry, they’re not going to overtake you on the class ladder.”

  “What’s gotten into you, Michael?” Mum stares at me, clearly stung by my words.

  I take a deep breath. “It’s one restaurant. I’m asking you to please let it go.”

  Dad fixes his eyes on me. “If it means that much to you, I’ll talk to the others,” he says calmly. “But I can’t promise you anything. This is bigger than us now, Michael. And the personal shouldn’t matter when it comes to what’s right and wrong.”

  “Right and wrong is always personal.”

  Emily stops Mum and me in the hall on our way out to the car on Monday morning.

  “Is everything okay?” she asks Mum with concern. “You didn’t sound like yourself when you called to cancel.”

  “Everything is fine,” Mum says, smiling at her. “Thank you, Emily.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I am sure. I must take Mina to school now. I will see you soon, okay?”

  “Okay.” Emily gives her an uncertain smile.

  We rush to the car and I scold Mum.

  “She does not need to know about our problems,” Mum says firmly. “I am sick of problems. She has her problems and I will help her. We will deal with this by ourselves. Understood?”

  I stare out the window. “Suit yourself,” I mutter. I’m sick of everything.

  I go to school with my stomach in knots.

  I’m opening my locker when Michael grabs me from behind and hugs me.

  “Michael,” I say under my breath, wriggling my way out of his embrace. I can’t help but laugh though. “People will see.”

  “Relax, there’s nobody around. Anyway, so what?”

  “I can’t. And no, I’m not ashamed of you, so don’t even start that up again.”