Between Us Page 8

  One day, Turner mentions that the next topic we’ll be studying is the Big Bang. Ana thanks her profusely, like she’s just been given some kind of gift. Her enthusiasm is contagious.

  Later, I ask Ana if, maybe, I could sit with her in class.

  She chooses her words carefully. ‘I don’t think this is good idea. It, maybe, is too’ – she thumbs through her well-worn Farsi–English dictionary and finds the word – ‘distracting.’

  ‘Distracting, huh?’ I grin.

  Her cheeks have the faint blush of a ripe mango, as she says, ‘Yes.’

  ANA

  I hear myself humming on the bus. And at school. And in my room. It’s been such a long time since I uttered anything but the squeak of words. I’d almost forgotten the way music vibrates my throat awake and makes my head light and breezy. The way it can transport me into another world.

  Maman pauses to listen, as we hang up our clothes in the bathroom to dry. It’s safer than hanging them outside; no-one can steal them in here. She says, ‘What are you humming? Is that something from The Voice?’

  ‘No, it’s from school.’ One of Jono’s tamer selections. I feel a pang of guilt.

  But then I hear Maman’s voice. No, not her voice, her hum. It starts soft, then gradually builds until it erupts in a waterfall of words.

  I recognise the song as one she used to sing to me when I was a child.

  You are the sky’s great moon,

  And I’ll become a star and go around you.

  If you become a star and go around me,

  I’ll become a cloud and cover your face.

  If you become a cloud and cover my face,

  I’ll become the rain and will rain down …

  Arash comes to stand in the doorway and listens in curious wonder; it occurs to me that perhaps he doesn’t remember ever hearing Maman sing. The last time she did was at a party with family, just before we left Tehran. Arash would’ve only been two years old.

  Maman keeps singing, and I join in.

  I search out her eyes. Is this okay?

  She’s teary, but her heart seems to be smiling as she nods. Yes, my daughter, yes.

  KENNY

  I lie under the car’s engine, my back flat on the hard red earth. My dry and cracked bare feet must stick out like a pair of old rabbit’s ears, as I stare up into the constellation of mechanical parts above me. Another breakdown. Another budget DIY repair job.

  I hear a voice. ‘Hey, Dad.’

  I almost hit my head. Shuffle my body along and out, and see Jonathan smiling down at me. Actually smiling.

  I manage a surprised, ‘Hi.’

  Jonathan points to our bomb of a red Ford Laser. ‘Car gone again?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You should really get a new one. This is a piece of shit.’

  I’m about to launch into my ‘money doesn’t grow on trees’ lecture, but then Jonathan smiles again. So, instead, I say, ‘I couldn’t do that. You chose this car, remember?’ He nods, as I continue, ‘I took you out to Palmerston, where they sell the cars on the side of the road. And I wanted the white ute, but you kept telling me red cars go faster.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have listened! I was only four.’ But there’s a gleam of pride in his eyes, like he’s still thrilled that I listened to him, even after all these years. ‘Remember how spewing Mum was? She kept going on about how she wanted a station wagon.’

  I study his animated face in the bright afternoon sun. His iPod is nowhere to be seen. Neither is his phone, even though I gave it back to him weeks ago now. And he’s looking at me, really looking, making eye contact and laughing.

  I can’t recall the last time I saw Jonathan like this. It mustn’t be since … Not since … Shit.

  Not since Priya. Is it possible he’s in love again?

  My mind flicks to the pretty Iranian girl from the bus, the one with Jonathan’s band recommendation on her arm. But even if they have become friends, even if he likes her, they’d only ever see each other in school.

  It’s not like it could go anywhere … could it?

  JONO

  I search Facebook for ‘Anahita Shirdel’. My old laptop seems to hum as I wait for the result. Facebook tells me there are eight people with that name, but only one in Australia. There are no photos, so I can’t be one hundred per cent sure it’s her. The profile picture is a cartoon of a girl with big dark eyes staring out.

  I send a friend request with a note: It’s Jono. From school. Is that you?

  I can’t help myself. I cyber-snoop and scroll down. I should probably tell her about privacy settings, assuming it’s her.

  Most of the posts are in Persian script. I click: ‘see translation’. But the translator, who calls himself ‘Bing’, clearly needs more practise. Some things are funny: I the sea rain fish smile my thanks to my grape. Others are strange and sad: What I cry endless air air.

  Further down there are photos, but they’re generic, as if they’ve just been taken from the internet. A woman in a short dress. A pair of red high heels. A happy couple, arms around each other, walking in autumn light.

  There’s a link to a website called My Stealthy Freedom. When I click on it I see picture after picture of women not wearing headscarves. (Why does Anahita still wear hers? Would she get upset if I asked?)

  There are music video clips in Farsi. I watch one by a guy called Farzad Farzin. His voice is deep and crooning. It sounds like a love song. I consider asking Bing to translate the lyrics, then decide not to bother.

  I scroll down. There are a few inspirational quotes. Some mention God. (Is she religious? Is everyone in Iran religious? Is that a stupid question?)

  Further down still, she’s posted an emoji: the outline of a cartoon person weeping tears behind black prison bars.

  I didn’t know they made emojis like that.

  ANA

  ‘You get online much?’ asks Jono.

  I frown. ‘Online?’

  He seems suddenly shy and pushes his curtain of hair nervously behind one ear. For once, it stays there; it’s growing longer.

  He says, ‘On the internet, you know? The computer.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. One time every day. Yesterday, I am six to seven. Today, seven to eight.’

  He looks incredulous. ‘Are you serious? Is that all you’re allowed? One hour?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sounds like some kind of jail …’

  I’m not sure what to say. I ask, ‘Your father … does he tell you? About his work?’

  ‘Nah. We don’t talk much at all.’

  I’ve noticed that whenever the topic of his dad comes up the conversation ends in an abrupt full stop. I want to ask him about it, but he hurries on.

  ‘So yesterday you were on at six? And today you’ll be on at seven? For an hour?’

  I nod, and his brow smooths into something like relief as he says, ‘Great.’

  I line up outside the computer room at 7.00pm. I think Jono must have sent me something, but I don’t know how. He doesn’t have my email address, unless he got it from his dad, and that seems unlikely if they hardly ever talk.

  The 6.00pm group snakes out past us, and I file inside, showing my ID to the green-shirt as I pass. She records my boat number, and I choose a computer up the back. The green-shirts are less likely to look at your screen that way.

  I open my email account. Nothing.

  I open Facebook and there it is: JonoDo has sent you a friend request. I click accept and his profile fills the screen. There are lots of music video clips, but I don’t know the green-shirt and the room is full today, so I don’t dare ask to play them.

  Instead, I scroll down to see what else Jono has posted. There are hundreds of photos, many of them taken at dark, bustling parties. There are lots of Will and Mel. Mac and a rotating cast of younger-looking girls. Ibrahim and a beautiful African girl who I’m guessing is his girlfriend, because their bodies often appear intertwined.

  In lots of the photos Jono look
s blurry and wild. There’s one of him pulling up Will’s shirt to expose his bare hairless chest, pretending to suck on his nipple. Another of him on top of a table with a large bottle of alcohol in his hand. (Did they pay a policeman to guard the door of the party so they wouldn’t get caught?) And one of him holding an egg. He looks like he’s about to throw it at a passing car, but I don’t know why he’d waste an egg like that. We never get eggs in here. Arash asks for them every breakfast.

  As I scroll down further, the photos start to feature a girl. She’s dark-haired with sparkling eyes and honey-brown skin. She’s in almost all the photos now. Laughing. Dancing with girlfriends. In Jono’s arms. One photo shows them pressed together, kissing intensely against a wall. I feel like I’m intruding on something private.

  I almost jump as a message pops onto the screen. Hello! 7pm. Your time starts now! ;-)

  I’m glad he can’t see me blushing as I scroll back up to the top of his page, away from that photo. Away from the girl.

  I type back: Hello.

  His reply comes quickly. So … we’re officially friends now.

  I type: Yes. And then, before I can stop myself: There are many photos of you on here.

  JONO

  I type back: There’s a lot of my music on here too.

  And then it hits me. The photos of Priya. Is that what she’s talking about? Shit. Has she seen them? If she looks at my pictures from last year they’re kind of hard to miss. I thought about taking them down. I should’ve taken them down. But I didn’t.

  I wonder what Ana is thinking now. Did she see the photos of Priya and me kissing, or the selfies of us in my bed? What would she think of that? Ana’s told me there was a boy she liked back in Iran, but they were never able to spend any time together. Even if they were just walking in the street they had to be on separate sides of the road in case they were noticed by people she calls the ‘moral police’. As opposed to the immoral police, I guess.

  I bet she’s never even held a boy’s hand, let alone kissed or done anything more than that. Mel reckons Muslim girls are really conservative and restrained.

  The cursor blinks at me from the computer screen like a frown.

  I decide to change the subject and ask: How come there are no photos of you?

  Another long pause, then her words appear: You know how I look.

  I write: You know what I look like too. But I post pictures – most people do. And then, when nothing comes back, I attempt a lame joke: You’re not one of those girls who hates being in photos, are you?

  No reply. The minutes seem to crawl by. The little green dot is still next to her name, so I know she’s there. But no words appear.

  What if she’s put off by the photos of Priya? Or doesn’t like me anymore? Maybe she thinks I’m a pervert, or an idiot or a jerk. Maybe she doesn’t like the guy I am, the guy I’ve been.

  But as I’m spiralling into self-doubt, a new photo appears on my feed. Ana has changed her profile picture to a white guy with oversized glasses and a comb-over, gazing in rapture at a book.

  I’m laughing, as I type: What is that?

  Her message appears: I google picture of nerd. But they all men.

  KENNY

  I hear a gurgle of laughter from inside Jonathan’s room. I pause, pressing my ear to the timber veneer. But there’s nothing more, just the tap of fingers on keyboard.

  I knock, then wait until I hear Jonathan’s usual: ‘Yeah?’

  I open the door and step hesitantly inside.

  Despite the open louvred windows, there’s an ever-present waft of teenage boy in here. Body odour mingled with sweat-soaked shoes and Lynx deodorant. The floor is barely visible beneath discarded clothes. The walls are covered in posters of bands; I haven’t heard of any of them. Where did his musical taste come from? Definitely not from me. I love the crooning harmonies of Vietnamese vocals and keyboard. Jonathan calls it elevator music. His taste is something else. Something angrier, that seemed to arrive with adolescence, like pimples, almost overnight.

  ‘What’s up?’ asks Jonathan.

  I move closer. ‘What are you doing?’

  I see an exchange on Messenger, along with a picture of a white man wearing glasses. Some kind of scientist maybe. I peer at it more closely. ‘What’s that? Who are you talking to?’

  He angles the laptop away from me.

  I brace myself for the possibility that it’s a girl. Or, even worse, the Iranian girl from my work.

  But to my relief Jonathan says, ‘Oh … just Lara … sometimes she sends me stupid stuff.’

  I realise I’ve been holding my breath, and exhale. ‘Oh … good … well, say hello from me.’

  JONO

  I don’t tell Dad about Ana. I’ve heard all his lectures before.

  And, even if I wanted to tell him, I wouldn’t know what to say. She’s not a girlfriend; the order of things has been completely back to front. When I hooked up with Priya it started as a drunken pash at a party. It was only later that we worked out that we actually had stuff in common. With Ana, I know I like her, and we’re friends, but I’m not sure what, if anything, comes next.

  Still, I know I’m in trouble when I start to miss her on the weekends.

  For the first time in my life, I count down to them with dread rather than anticipation. Two whole days without her curious questions. Two whole days without her cheeky grins.

  One Friday lunch, I ask, ‘Do they ever let you out?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Only for school. And excursions.’

  I leap at the morsel of hope. ‘Excursions? Where do you go? Could I come?’

  ‘Not possible.’

  ‘Or could I visit you one weekend? At Wickham Point?’

  ‘No.’ The word bursts out of her like a gunshot, sure and violent.

  ANA

  I watch as disappointment floods his eyes.

  But there’s no way I want him to see me in there, like that. Like someone who should be kept out. I remember his expression when he first saw me on the detention centre bus. That stare of sudden realisation that made my face burn with shame. Oh, you’re one of them. And I remember other things too. The pity in his friends’ eyes as they examined my lunch. The way Jono seemed to close up when I told him I knew his dad.

  I never want to see that look on his face again. It would break my heart.

  So I repeat, ‘No’, and watch as he folds into himself, hurt scrawled across his features.

  ‘But maybe I can call you.’ The words fly out of my mouth and, once they’re said, I can’t take them back; he’s looking at me now with a shimmer of anticipation.

  ‘Yeah? Okay. That’d be cool.’ He pulls a pen from the pocket of his shorts, and lifts my arm gently towards him. Writing on my arm has become a ritual between us. An excuse to touch. But instead of a song or band name, today he prints careful numbers on my arm.

  ‘Can you read that?’

  I read the numbers back to him aloud.

  He nods and says, ‘No pressure, okay? I’ll just be waiting by the phone.’

  It’s hard to know if he’s joking or not.

  It’s not until I’m on the bus home that I realise I don’t have enough points; it costs twenty to buy a phone card, and Maman already used the last of mine this week to buy shampoo. If I want to call Jono, I’m going to need to earn more.

  I’m sitting in the spare seat next to Zahra. Jamileh’s sister Shadi had her baby last week; since then, Jamileh hasn’t been back to school.

  I ask Zahra, ‘Want to do an activity tomorrow?’

  ‘Why?’ Her voice sounds listless, her usual spark nowhere in sight.

  I take in her hunched shoulders. The deep permanent-looking furrow on her brow. The way she’s tugging the ends of her long sleeves down, twisting them in her hands. I remember Maman telling me that, before we arrived at Wickham Point, Zahra had swallowed washing powder when her family’s application for refugee status was declined for the second time.

  Suddenly I fee
l terrible that I haven’t noticed her slipping until now. I’ve been so preoccupied with Jono.

  I take her hand and squeeze it. ‘It might be good for you. We could do exercise.’

  She shrugs, but doesn’t reply.

  I try to wheedle her into it. ‘I’ll give you my orange rug …’ It’s an old one the children’s room was throwing out. I rescued it, desperate for a splash of colour in the navy blue and white desert of our rooms. Zahra’s had her eye on it for weeks. But today she just sits there, silent.

  I make one last attempt. ‘And you could use the points to buy a Mars Bar.’

  She finally manages a small smile.

  I don’t let go of her hand.

  JONO

  I try to keep busy as I wait for Ana’s call. I start by downloading music, but Dad soon interrupts. He insists I help in the garden, and I reluctantly comply, hauling oversized bags of horse manure from his car to where Aunty Minh is digging. She always buys in bulk.

  She barely nods acknowledgement and, when I’m done, just shoves gardening gloves into my hands, and says, ‘Now you do weeds.’

  I sigh and pause to check my phone. Again. Still nothing.

  I tell myself to relax. It’s only Saturday morning. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours.

  When I look up, Dad is watching. ‘Something wrong with your phone?’

  I feel a flare of irritation. ‘You mean apart from the fact it’s a hundred years old?’

  Aunty Minh shakes her head and tuts.

  I know I sound like a smart-arse, but I can’t help it. I’m too on edge. Why didn’t I ask Ana for her number instead of giving her mine?

  I weed for about five minutes then check again.

  This time, Aunty Minh teases: ‘Your phone turn into smartphone yet? Maybe like Cinderella and her pumpkin.’

  ‘You know I could actually buy a smartphone, like a normal person, if Dad would let me get a job.’