When Michael Met Mina

  ‘I can do non-schoolwork conversations as well,’ I tell her.

  For the first time since I’ve met her, she smiles with her eyes. Then she giggles, and I think she’s proof that some people really do need alcohol in order to seem human.

  ‘I know,’ she says cheerfully, her words slightly slurred. ‘But you’re so smart! You’ve beat me on every quiz and essay since you started. I know you have. I sneak a peek all the time.’ She giggles. ‘I have some major,’ she pats me on the arm, ‘major competition with you. That makes me angry.’ She puts on an exaggerated pout. ‘Because I’ve always, always been top of the year. That’s my thing.’ She points to her chest with her thumb. ‘Go back home, Mina. Just go. Please?’ She bats her eyelashes at me.

  I stare at her. ‘Okay, I get it,’ I say, but I’m not angry. Hearing her expose herself like this, and knowing how badly she’s going to regret it when she realises, only makes me feel sorry for her.

  Clara hovers over us, cradling her glass as she surveys the crowd in the yard.

  I stand up and offer her my seat.

  ‘Do her a favour and keep her away from her phone,’ I tell her. ‘They obviously wrote the don’t-drink-and-text rule for her.’

  *

  In the next hour, Paula and I try to help Leica coax Jane out of an ensuite bathroom in a spare bedroom upstairs. Terrence has apparently been seen with a leggy girl wearing an impossibly small white dress. Jane is beside herself because, like anybody with half an imagination and a crazy unrequited crush, she’d built up a fantasy about what would happen between her and Terrence tonight, which had all the realism of a Tolkien trilogy.

  We finally succeed in getting her to wash her face, blow her nose and clean herself up.

  Paula paces the bedroom and then claps her hands together, faces us all and proceeds to have a meltdown at us.

  ‘We’re here to enjoy ourselves, okay? We can be sad and pathetic and make the night about boys or’ – suddenly she’s excitable and a little wild – ‘we can actually have fun and make it about us!’

  Leica, Jane and I instinctively lean back, but can’t help smiling at her.

  ‘We’re going downstairs to take crazy photos of ourselves in dress-ups,’ she says, firmly and seriously. ‘And then we’re going to dance – and we’re not going to give a SHIT if people think we can’t dance because, hello people, we are at a party in the North Shore. Nobody can dance in this postcode. That’s a racial fact. And then, Mina, you and I are going to go home. And that’s that. Got it?’

  None of us dares argue with her.

  We dress up.

  We laugh.

  We are very much in the I Am Woman zone.

  And then Michael and Fred are suddenly before us.

  Crazy wigs and fake facial hair.

  I try to offer Michael nonchalance. Instead, he gets angry death stare.

  *

  After we take photos, we just sit back and hang out for a while, because even Paula is prepared to admit that the music is awful.

  We talk and laugh, and pretend that we’re feminist role models, even though I can tell Jane is thinking about Terrence, and I’m secretly analysing my encounter with Michael. Then suddenly ‘Gangnam Style’ switches to ‘Together’ by The XX and I know, without a shadow of doubt, that it’s Michael’s doing.

  I see him. And he sees me.

  But I quickly look away, because it will take more than sharing the same taste in music for me to be impressed.

  *

  I spend most of the Easter holidays with my head stuck in my books, trying to get on top of my assessments. Mum fusses around me, bringing me snacks and drinks so that the only things I need to focus on are unavoidable bodily functions and being the top of my class.

  Today’s a big day, and a welcome break from studying. Paula has tracked down a late-afternoon poetry slam event at the Bankstown Arts Centre, an eerily spacious room with rows of bleachers and chairs, and blankets laid out just in front of the stage area, where mics have been set up for the performances. The room is crowded. Girls kiss each other on the cheeks, squealing, hugging and complimenting each other. Guys greet each other with big bear hugs and high fives. It’s a flurry of activity. Paula and I walk past a long queue of poets who are waiting to put their name on the registration list so they can perform during the open mic. It’s Paula’s first time with this group so she doesn’t know anybody.

  We find a seat up at the back. Eventually there is complete silence as the hosts, Ahmad and Sara, take the stage and the show starts. Witty and sharp, they bounce off each other. Sara, in a funky turban-style hijab, is confident and sharp. Ahmad is a poster boy for tall, dark and handsome. He has the crowd wrapped around his finger. People take turns performing on all kinds of topics from the heavy (politics, gender, war, sex) to the frivolous (duck-face selfies and food pics on Instagram). The audience clicks their fingers to show their delight. The atmosphere is electric.

  Sara and Ahmad return to the stage and inform us that the last person to perform in the open mic section has had to leave. They invite somebody else to come up and have a go.

  Paula’s suddenly out of her seat and heading towards the stage. She looks back at me and flashes me a grin. I go a little crazy and cheer loudly for her. I’m in utter awe of her courage.

  Sara asks Paula to introduce herself.

  ‘I’ve never done this before,’ she says, clutching the microphone closely and braving a smile. ‘Well, not in public. At home in front of the mirror I’m a natural.’ The audience vibe is warm and friendly, boosting her confidence as she looks out at us all, a grin spreading on her face.

  ‘Good luck!’ Ahmad says and they step aside.

  Paula closes her eyes for a moment as she loosens up her shoulders and draws in a deep breath. The audience is quiet and she begins.

  See, I never asked for the white mansion

  With the manicured gardens and heated swimming pool.

  See, I never asked for the New Zealand skiing trip and the European summer holidays

  With you on laptops click, click, clicking and me on the guided tours

  I would have been happy pitching a tent, listening to stories of where you went

  See, I never asked for the nanny and the cash you used to silence my tears, placate my fears

  Fears that I would become a shadow, somebody to pass by in the house sometime

  See, I long to collide with you

  Crash into you

  Give me a chance to woo you

  Remind you of how I feel, smell and sound

  See, you spend days and nights in your offices with the harbour views and the delivered dinners and the text messages you don’t respond to and the leave a message voicemail that you ignore because I’m not your client

  Tell yourself you’re doing it for me, you’re doing it for us, you’re doing it because we must give our lives up to something bigger

  But see the bigger that something gets, the smaller I become

  Until pretty soon I’m invisible

  Alone

  With a voice so large that it wakes up the world

  Except for you

  You who have forgotten the sound my voice makes, the love it takes

  To actually be a parent.

  Paula takes a bow, grinning out at an audience who have been clicking throughout. They offer her a big round of applause. My chest is bursting with pride but there’s a massive lump in my throat as Paula’s words reverberate in my head.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Paula,’ I tell her, on our train ride home. ‘I didn’t realise you were hurting so badly.’ I fix my eyes on her. ‘You’re not invisible. And you’re not alone. I’m here for you.’

  She returns my gaze and mulls over my words. Then her lip curls into a bright smile. ‘Thanks.’

  We sit in silence for
a moment. The couple sitting behind us are in an intense discussion about a new reality TV show.

  ‘Your mum has your photo as her phone screensaver, you know,’ I say casually.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘It was next to me on the kitchen bench when we were eating lunch. I caught a glance of it.’

  Paula raises an eyebrow at me. ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’

  I let out a small laugh. ‘Yeah. Sometimes the little things are just as important.’

  Paula smiles, but it’s a charitable gesture. ‘She works all the time. So does Dad. You know my favourite Wilde quote? To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness. Isn’t that brilliant?’

  She goes on before I can answer. ‘See, he has a point,’ she says breathlessly. ‘Maybe I’m just not enough for them.’

  ‘I don’t believe that for a second.’

  She smiles at me again but doesn’t look convinced. My heart aches for her, but I’m confused too. I can’t imagine what it must be like to feel like you need to fight for your parents’ attention; compete with their work. But a part of me sympathises with them. Maybe they’re passionate about what they do. Things wouldn’t change for Paula if that were taken away from them. They’d probably just start to slowly wither inside, like my mum.

  I don’t know what to tell Paula. I’ve seen a lot in my life but there’s nothing as complicated as family.

  ‘I still can’t believe you stood up there and laid yourself bare like that,’ I say eventually.

  She suddenly breaks out into a goofy smile. ‘I can’t believe it either. Thanks for coming today. I’ve been dying to try it out but wasn’t brave enough to do it by myself.’

  I nudge her with my elbow, glad to see the full smile on her face. ‘Don’t mention it. Any time – well, let me amend that. Any time it fits within my mother’s curfew laws.’

  She chuckles.

  The driver announces the next stop: ‘Get excited, people, because next stop is Campsie.’

  We look at each other and the other passengers on the train and burst out laughing.

  The driver continues his cheerful commentary with each stop, making us all chuckle. ‘Welcome aboard, Dulwich Hill peeps, thanks for bringing along the cool breeze . . . Next stop Sydenham. For those of you who are leaving, I’m sad to see you go but I understand your reasons.’

  When we say goodbye it’s as though we both know we’ve crossed a threshold into that wonderful, intense and slightly terrifying place only true friends can enter. Some things in life you have to work hard to find. But my friendship with Paula has fallen into place.

  There is no nightmare for me tonight. Only sleep hugging me like a friend.

  Michael

  The promo ad for Don’t Jump the Queue starts in the last week of the holidays. Mum and Dad are thrilled, shouting out at Nathan and me whenever it comes on TV.

  The shots of Dad made me cringe. Lots of arms folded across the chest, staring down the camera with an I-mean-business look on his face. He’s described as the man who wouldn’t mind a return of the White Australia Policy. My parents are unhappy about it. Andrew sends Dad a text to congratulate him.

  I ask Dad if he really wants the White Australia Policy again and he’s appalled by the suggestion.

  ‘Of course not, Michael. I celebrate our diversity – so long as people assimilate to our values. I don’t have a problem with different foods and festivals. That enriches our country. But people need to fit in with the majority instead of trying to mark themselves as different. That’s why multiculturalism as a policy has been such a disaster. It sends a message that all cultures and religions are equal so you don’t have to assimilate into our society. Well I disagree. You’re welcome into this wonderful country so long as you respect Judeo-Christian values. And believe me, Michael, blending in makes life easier for migrants and their children too.’

  Mum’s stirring a pot on the stove as we speak. She interrupts. ‘Michael, it’s like this soup I’m cooking. The dominant flavour is asparagus. I’ve got other spices and flavours in here too because that’s what makes the soup so rich and flavoursome. But they complement the asparagus, rather than take over.’

  I lie awake in bed tonight trying to make sense of the uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. Not only do I not want to follow in Dad’s career footsteps but I’m starting to think that maybe my parents have things drastically wrong.

  It makes me realise that I need to tell Dad about my uni plans. But if I’m going to crush him, I’ll have to do it in stages.

  *

  Dad’s taken Nathan to see the latest kids’ movie at the cinema. Mum’s getting ready to go out for a walk. I tell her I’m going to speak to Dad.

  She sighs. ‘Not yet, Michael. Wait for the right moment. It’s been very busy since he got back.’

  I’m not buying it. Pursing my lips together, I watch her pulling her shoes on.

  ‘It’s never going to be the right moment, Mum.’

  ‘Are you still . . .’ she stalls and then meets my eye. ‘Are you still adamant you won’t at least consider –’

  ‘Mum,’ I say softly. ‘Please don’t.’

  *

  I retreat to my room.

  I read the latest updates on the Oculus VR Forum.

  But I can’t stop thinking about Mina.

  I finish my Design and Technology essay on the pros and cons of self-driving robotic cars.

  But I can’t stop thinking about Mina.

  I do a mind map for my Visual Arts essay on the influence of modernity on the practice of artists.

  But I can’t stop thinking about Mina.

  *

  I spend some days at Dee Why Beach, listening to music, watching the water, sketching in my Visual Arts diary. I let Nathan string along with me. He sits beside me quietly, reading, only occasionally saying something. The silence between us is comfortable and pure. Other days I go to the basketball court at the park around the corner from our house to shoot some hoops. Terrence joins me a couple of times but I don’t make much effort to see him or Fred.

  On the last Friday of the holidays I decide to detour to Auburn on my way back from Dee Why. Nathan, who’s with me, notices as soon as we take a different route home.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘Impossible. We’re somewhere now and we’re heading somewhere else and when we get there you’ll say we’re here which is not nowhere. So where are we going?’

  ‘Auburn.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I crank up the volume on my stereo.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because.’

  ‘Does it have anything to do with your angry music?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Any more questions?’

  ‘Yes. Can you get me a Big Mac with the pickles and lettuce in a separate bag?’

  ‘Sure. I always do, don’t I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  *

  ‘There are a lot of women wearing hijab at this McDonald’s,’ Nathan says as we sit in the outdoor area. We’re at McDonald’s on Parramatta Road in Auburn.

  ‘Yep.’

  He looks around, a hungry, curious we’re-not-in-Kansas-any-more expression on his face.

  ‘I think they look nice,’ he says. ‘Actually, that’s not true,’ he says, dissatisfied with the apparent imprecision of his statement. ‘Some – most – look nice. But not all of them.’ He takes a bite of his burger, chews slowly and swallows. ‘See that woman over there? She shouldn’t be here. She’s inviting an obesity condition.’

  I raise an eyebrow at him, but I can’t help but laugh.

  ‘Lower your voice, mate,’ I say softly.

  When we’re done, we follow the na
vigator’s instructions and approach a large intersection. I see the minarets of a big white mosque nearby. When the lights change, I take a sharp left and find myself in a leafy residential street. The mosque is on the corner, in front of the railway tracks. I park in front of it.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen a mosque up close.

  ‘The minaret and dome isn’t a Muslim invention, you know,’ Nathan says casually.

  I look at him. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I watched a BBC documentary on the rise of the Ottoman Empire.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Only it was on the ABC, not the BBC.’

  ‘Yep, that happens.’

  ‘I’m watching a documentary on Ancient Greece now. I’m thinking I might become a historian one day. Work on plane engines on weekends.’

  I nod. ‘Good choice. You be what you want to be.’

  ‘Dad said the Ottoman documentary was verging on propaganda.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  There’s a stillness to the place, a tranquillity I can sense even from my car. The only person around is a gardener tending to the front flowerbeds.

  ‘I need the toilet,’ Nathan suddenly says.

  ‘Oh, man. Why didn’t you go at Maccas?’

  ‘I didn’t need to then,’ he says matter-of-factly.

  ‘Fine, I’ll drive us back there.’

  ‘I need to go now.’ And then he opens the passenger door, jumps out and enters the mosque gates. ‘Come on,’ he yells out at me, not even bothering to look back.

  ‘Christ,’ I mutter (probably inappropriately in hindsight). I park the car and run after him, into a quiet courtyard. We search for a toilet sign. I hope we can slip in without being noticed. Nathan is holding his crotch at this point, a look of desperation on his face.

  I run through some doors and find myself in the mosque. I’m taken aback by its simplicity. It’s just a huge expanse of carpet. Then I look up to a beautiful stained-glass dome. There are some men up front, bobbing up and down in prayer, and some women in the back rows, praying or sitting down, quietly reading. I wave to a man who’s doing neither. He hurries over to me.