joke during media studies. Our assignment by Mr Roberts was to write a letter to the editor responding to an article in the newspaper. I was scanning the newspaper, while my friend Isabella was diligently typing her letter.
Isabella’s mother was a CEO of a refugee centre and she was super socially conscious. Even though submitting the letter was optional, she was working on her second letter about the need for better public transport infrastructure in the Western suburbs in response to a tunnel being built.
Mr Roberts was having a conversation with Julia, the class suck up, who was on the computer directly opposite me.
‘I want to write about the French government banning the Burka,’ Julia said.
‘What do you want to say?’ Mr Roberts asked.
‘That we should do the same thing here,’ Julia said. ‘Those poor women shouldn’t be forced to look like that.’
‘Yes, but the article you’re referencing is about the Burka being banned because of possible terrorist threats,’ Mr Roberts said.
‘Did you hear that?’ Isabella hissed.
I nodded, not looking up from the newspaper. Ever since she found I was Muslim, Isabella kept going on about the anti-Muslim sentiment. You’d think she was the Muslim.
‘He so supports the ban on the Burka which is against the rules,’ Isabella said. She was also very committed to fairness and following the rules. Last week she’d completed a whole diatribe about people not following the rules when using the school computers and booking them properly. She’d written a letter to the Principal and school librarian and then had follow-up meetings about implementing a proper system.
‘What rules?’ I asked, not really caring but knowing from long experience that if I didn’t indulge her, Isabella would have a go at me about my “supposed” apathy and middle class complacency.
‘It’s against the rules of teaching. This is supposed to be an exercise in us developing our social conscience in addressing issues we’re passionate about. It’s not for him to influence who writes about what and how.’
I nodded, even though I thought Mr Roberts was just doing his job in directing Julia to address the assignment, but of course I didn’t say that. Isabella acted like any contradictory opinion was a personal betrayal. As she was my only friend at school, I’d learnt to silently agree.
‘I’ll prove it to you.’ Isabella put her hand up. ‘I want to write about the Burka issue and that it’s wrong that they discriminate against Muslim women. Isn’t it like against Human Rights or something?’
‘Which article are you referencing?’ Mr Roberts asked. He scanned the article Isabella was pointing. I looked at it too and saw it was about Muslim women being empowered by wearing the Hijab.
‘It’s a bit of a reach since the Hijab and Burka are two different things,’ Mr Roberts said.
Isabella nodded in agreement and waited until he shuffled off to help another student who raised his hand. ‘See.’ Isabella was triumphant. ‘He is anti-Muslim.’
‘No, he’s not—’
I was going to tell her the difference between the Hijab; the head covering that Muslim women wore, and the Burka, which covered a woman’s face, but Isabella interrupted me.
‘Are you deaf?’ Isabella was outraged. ‘He wants letters written that support the anti-Muslim sentiment. I’d think you of all people should care. After all it’s your people that are being attacked, but if you can’t be bothered…’
Isabella turned back to her computer monitor.
I wanted to tell her to take a chill pill and get her facts straight before she launched into conspiracy theories, but if I did, I’d get the silent treatment.
‘I think I will write that letter.’ I had no intention of submitting the letter as my assignment as I typed it, parroting Isabella’s sentences about schools needing to be places for students to develop their social conscience and not be indoctrinated into racism by teachers.
‘Good girl,’ Isabella patronised. ‘Make sure that you include a line about Australia supposedly supporting religious freedom. Here’s the newspaper email address.’ Isabella flicked open her sent email after she read my letter.
‘I’m not going to send it.’ I saved my document and removed the memory stick from the computer.
‘Why not? I thought you’d want to stand up for your sisterhood.’ Isabella narrowed her gaze.
‘I want to proofread it again,’ I evaded, as I put the memory stick in my pencil case. ‘I put my hand up and asked to use the toilet.
When I finished in the toilet, I dawdled as I looked at my watch. I vowed that tomorrow I’d try to make more friends, but it was hard. Everyone in the new school knew each other from primary school. Cliques were firmly entrenched and hard to penetrate. The only reason Isabella took me on as a friend was because she prided herself on her tolerance and the diversity in her friendship clique proved her open-mindedness.
I returned to class thirty seconds before the bell went. I was packing up when I noticed my pencil case was missing.
‘Sorry, I had to borrow a pen.’ Isabella smiled sweetly and passed it to me.
It wasn’t until I was called into the Principal’s office the following week I found out Isabella hacked into my email account and sent the letter without my permission, after editing it to include Mr Roberts name as the racist teacher. Naively, I kept Isabella’s role a secret, thinking I needed to maintain the friendship.
The school didn’t expel me immediately. First, they suspended me as punishment and only after I’d left they sent a letter advising my parents that Searers College wasn’t the right environment for me. Dad tried to convince them otherwise, only to find out that a private school had final say in whom they accepted within their hallowed halls and they deemed me not suitable.
***Now, as the St Albans High school bell rang heralding the end of the day, I ran to the toilets and remained there for ten minutes, ensuring that enough time passed for Sabiha and her friends to leave the school grounds. I’d had enough of the weird vibes that came with being around her and was relieved it was the weekend, so I’d have a reprieve. I vowed that on Monday I’d return to the library and renew my friendship with the chess nerds.
I was at home on the internet when I received a pop-up message. Intrigued, I opened it.
Dina’s face popped up on my screen, live and smiley.
‘Hi,’ she called out.
‘Hi,’ I said, feeling ambushed. I hadn’t really thought through the implications of opening her message and was regretting my impulsive click of the mouse.
‘I’m just checking in to see how you’re doing,’ Dina said.
‘I’m good. Everything’s good,’ I repeated, rushing to fill in the awkward pause and then feeling gauche.
‘Oh, good,’ Dina said, her face becoming red when she realised she was repeating the same word as me. ‘So how are you going with your English essay?’ She launched into a monologue about her struggle with the topic while I half listened, trying to find a graceful way to end the conversation.
‘Great,’ I said when she paused for breath. ‘Listen—’
‘I’ll be seeing you soon,’ Dina jumped in before I could end our conversation. ‘My parents are planning to visit you tomorrow.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘And I’m guessing you want me to tell your mum that you’ve been helping me out at school,’ realising that was the only reason she called me.
Dina’s face took on a look of consternation.
The study door behind me opened. ‘Who are you talking to?’ Mum demanded, walking in with a tea towel in her hands.
‘It’s Dina,’ I said, pushing my chair away from the desk so she could see the screen.
Dina waved at Mum.
Mum leaned over me, her hands on my shoulders so she was visible. ‘Thank you for helping Alma settle into her new school,’ she spoke in Bosnian.
‘No problems,’ Dina said, shifting uncomfortably in her chair.
‘As you know, she’s had a lot to deal with these past few months and it’s such a relief that she has one good friend in you.’
Dina smiled queasily.
‘Anyway, I’ll leave you girls to it.’ Mum squeezed my shoulders.
There was a pause after mum left as we waited for the other to speak.
‘Anyway, I’d better get going,’ I said.
‘Okay,’ Dina sighed with relief. ‘See you later.’
I flicked the screen closed and glared at my computer monitor. I was so angry that she’d called and brought back all the crap feelings from today. As I brooded, I heard voices coming from my headphones. I closed my browser, thinking that a clip was playing from the website I’d been looking at, but I still heard the voices.
A shiver went through me when I realised it was Dina and Brian speaking. I must have turned off the camera so she couldn’t see me, but our line was still open and I had audio from her computer. I went to shut down the conference call browser, but when I heard my name and my index finger froze in midair on the mouse.
‘I was just talking to Alma,’ Dina said.
‘So did you neutralise her?’ Brian asked.
‘Don’t be a bitch,’ she snapped.
‘Anyway, that’s not why I called. I have something to tell you,’ his voice muted.
‘Oh, Brian, what did you do?’ Dina sighed.
‘I didn’t think it would be a big deal,’ Brian said. ‘I was just going to go stand on the sidelines and watch him play.’
I knew I should click my mouse button and stop eavesdropping, but the itch of curiosity overwhelmed me and my hand moved off the mouse as I listened to Brian’s story.
‘You should have seen him, Dina,’ Brian said. ‘He looked like David Beckham, with his torso bare and his washboard stomach glistening from sweat as he effortlessly swatted the ball.’
I’d missed his ex-boyfriend’s name and kept picturing David Beckham’s face in the role.
Brian’s voice was full of painful yearning as he described the way the Beckham look-alike played soccer, as if he were the transistor radio and everyone else was on his frequency, feeling his commands like little bursts of energy.
As Brian watched the object of his affection, his whole body twitched as he fought to control himself from running out onto the field. Brian soon realised that Beckham was just as aware of him. Every time he looked at his phone and sent a text message, Beckham performed tricks and made himself the centre of attention.
Beckham began sneaking glances at Brian. It became like a macabre play of stolen, longing glances being played out where Brian looked at Beckham. Beckham turned away. Beckham looked at Brian, and Brian looked at his mobile.
It became inevitable that there would come a moment when they both looked at each other, a moment when their eyes would meet, and Brian began feeling a sense of anticipation. He knew that when they looked into each other’s eyes, he would see if his ex was over him, or if he still wanted him back.
But then the soccer ball rolled to a stop at Brian’s feet. It was serendipity. Beckham hit a header that bounced off a player’s shoulder. The ball rebounded, and another player kicked it toward the goal. The opposition goalkeeper went to catch it, but the ball deflected off his hand and hit a rubbish bin, before it rolled to stop at Brian’s right foot, inviting him to swing his leg and shoot it straight at Beckham, who was facing him.
Brian looked down at the ball and then his eyes travelled the three metres to look up at Beckham. When they looked at each other, he didn't know what to expect. He knew what he didn’t expect. He didn’t expect Beckham to show fear for a split second before a curtain of indifference descended.
Brian waited. In the movies, this would be the hero moment. Brian would kick a perfect pass and the ball would fly in a beautiful arc and land in front of Beckham, rolling toward his foot so that all he needed to do was leisurely swing his leg and shoot it toward the goal while it was in motion, catching the opposition goal keeper off guard and rolling it into the net.
Beckham’s teammates would huddle into a scrum, jumping and shouting for all to see. They’d pull Brian in to join them and when they stopped celebrating, he would be a member of the team and there would be no more need for their forbidden love to play out.
It took Brian a moment to process the reality of what actually happened. While he was swinging back to kick, Beckham moved. Brian jerked, trying to halt the kick, but his foot glanced off the side sending it jumping like a rock across a millpond, skimming the surface before it stuttered to a stop next to an opposition team player who ran the ball down and scored a goal.
Beckham’s teammates huddled together. Beckham muttered something under his breath and they all laughed.
‘Thanks fag,’ a player shouted, looking over at Brian. The rest of the team laughed, Beckham’s booming laugh drowning out everyone else.
Brian was crying when he finished telling his story.
‘It’s okay,’ Dina soothed through her computer monitor.
‘You should have seen how he looked at me,’ Brian said, his voice barely audible. ‘It’s like I’m dead, but my body doesn’t know it.’
‘You know he loves one person and one person only. Himself,’ Dina said.
‘But he loved me.’ Brian’s voice was full of pain. ‘I know he loved me.’
‘Maybe he did,’ Dina said gently. ‘But once there was the chance the truth would come out about him, he wasn’t going to risk his whole life. You know how it is for ethnic boys.’
‘Fuck,’ Brian cried. ‘Why did she have to walk in on us?’
‘It’s not Sabiha’s fault,’ Dina said.
My ears sharpened. How was Sabiha responsible for Brian’s relationship breaking up? I could understand the pressure a gay ethnic boy would feel to keep his secret hidden. All I had to do was imagine how my parents would react if a son of theirs was gay; the worry about the gossip in the community, the social standing, the religious backlash, and I knew why the Beckham Look-alike was determined to stay in the closet.
But what I couldn’t understand was what role Sabiha played in the breakup and why did Brian blame her? I knew that I probably wouldn’t get the answer to any of my questions, but at least I found out something important about my sister. She wasn’t someone who could be trusted with the truth.
After Brian and Dina finished, I closed my browser and left the study, all the different things I’d heard winding around my head like a strange soundtrack.
On Monday, I entered the school grounds slowly, a mantle of guilt weighing me down after Dina’s visit on the weekend. When she finished her conversation with Brian, our dialog box had popped up, showing we’d had a 40 minute video chat and she’d realised I’d been eavesdropping on her conversation with Brian.
‘You can’t tell anyone about Brian’s ex,’ Dina had begged me while we were in the kitchen preparing coffee to serve our parents.
I was counting spoons of ground coffee into the džezva, coffee pot, and couldn’t answer immediately.
‘I’ve got nothing to tell,’ I’d said, not able to look her in the eyes as I poured water into the džezva and placed it on the stovetop.
She’d gone quiet for too long and I finally worked up the courage to look at her. Her face had a questioning look, like she was too scared to believe me.
‘I hope that’s true,’ she said. ‘Because if the secret gets out, a lot of lives will be ruined, including Sabiha’s.’
I turned back to the coffeepot just in time. The thick black coffee was frothing and about to spill over.
‘I have no interest in ruining anyone, and that includes Sabiha,’ I snapped between gritted teeth.
Dina placed the small džezva of boiled milk and a glass bowl of square sugar cubes on the large metal tray.
As Dina walked to the cabinet to collect fildžani, the small demitasse cups to serve coffee in, I cursed my curiosity in not ending the video call. I carried the tray into the living room and placed it on the coffee table.
‘You and Dina can go to your room,’ Mum said, as she began pouring coffee.
It was the last thing I wanted, but Mum wouldn’t be able to understand my reluctance. Usually, I was desperate and eager to spend time alone with my girlfriends.
By the time Dina collected her handbag, her mother had finished drinking her first fildžan of coffee.
‘Do a reading for me,’ she asked my mother in Bosnian.
Mum was known as kind of psychic because of the accuracy of her readings, something she’d learnt from her mother in the village that she came from in Bosnia.
Mum eagerly picked it up and grimaced as she looked at the sludge at the bottom of the cup. ‘Ruin awaits your family,’ she said.
Dina looked at me with eyes white with fear, while a feeling of dread settled in my stomach.
‘Can I come?’ Sanela asked as we began walking up the stairs.
‘Of course,’ I called out, eager to have a buffer between Dina and I.
After Dina left, I’d spent the weekend feeling a heavy weight pressing down on my chest. Dina’s fervent pleas had filled me with fear that I could somehow cause a catastrophic chain of events if I was indiscreet, and now as I walked to school to see Brian and Dina in real life, I wanted to be anywhere but here.
My plan was to avoid the lot of them and renew my friendships with the chess club in the library, but as soon as I began walking across the front lawn of the school, Dina waved me down.
‘You’re here early,’ I said, shuffling my feet nervously as I looked behind her.
‘Don’t worry, I’m alone,’ she said wryly. ‘I just wanted to tell you that no one else knows what happened and I want it to stay that way. Everyone would just freak out if they knew.’
‘Like I said, I know nothing,’ I repeated.
Dina nodded, but didn’t reply.
‘Anyway, I’ll see you later.’ I began walking away.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked. She patted the bench beside her, the look on her face not inviting any arguments.