Ten Things I Hate About Me by Randa Abdel-Fattah
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Do I get any discounts on your shift?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Yeah, leftovers.
I’m so excited. I can’t believe my dad agreed. I’m determined to prove to him that I’m responsible and trustworthy. Maybe then he’ll relax a little.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Your dad doesn’t seem so bad. I can accept that he goes off the deep end when it comes to the male gender and that he has some chronic fashion problems (masseur soles!). But he is obviously trying to cope with bringing up a Puff Daddy try-hard son and the female equivalent of John Lennon. And then there’s you. You’d be a handful.
I don’t know. Your dad seems harmless to me. My dad’s an SOB. At least your dad goes a little deeper.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Why’s your dad an SOB? I get scared even writing that. I’ve never sworn at my dad. It gives me chills to think what would happen if I did. My dad thinks “shut up” is a swear word (how old—fashioned is that?). “Say be quiet,” he tells us. Like Bilal is really going to listen to a polite request for silent tonsil action when he’s singing away to a Ja Rule song and I’m trying to watch a Survivor finale.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
He just is.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Wow! Information overload. Restrain yourself! That essay was too much for my heart to take.
Listen to me, John. There is no way that I am going to do all the opening and sharing in this relationship. If you were my boyfriend I’d dump you for that pathetic “He just is.” I’d make you pay for that ridiculous attempt to flush a topic down the toilet. I will not be the only one venting about her family in this e-mail relationship, got it? Now that it seems you may not have a perfect family, I want to see you pour out a good chunk of venom and spite and indulge in as much moaning, whining, and nagging as you can come up with, and then some.
Did that penetrate your brain cells? Now let me see some keyboard action.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
All I can say is thank God you’re not my girlfriend.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Details required before normal conversation resumes.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
What’s the big deal? I really don’t want to have to do this.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
I’m waiting.
From: [email protected]
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Oh come on. Do you really want to hear a sob story? It’s so boring.
From: [email protected]
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Clock is ticking.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
OK, OK. You know what? You are really stubborn.
Hmm, you want to know why I hate my dad?
Because he’s sarcastic. All the time. Because he puts my mom down. All the time. Because he tells me I’m going to amount to nothing. All the time. Because he only cares about making money and he only visited my grandfather, my mom’s father, in the hospital twice when he was dying of cancer—less than ten minutes each time. He was busy with meetings, he said. Liar. Because he’s the type that doesn’t smile with his eyes and if you need five bucks he expects you to pay him back. But most importantly, because he cheated on my mom with some young law clerk and actually had the gall to tell me to mind my own business.
If I were to give my dad a Father’s Day card, you know what I’d say? Thanks for being my sperm donor.
That’s basically the extent of his contribution to my life. Satisfied?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Oh…um…that’s pretty rough.
You must think I’m pretty dumb, huh? Here I am complaining about my dad’s job and my curfew and your dad cheated on your mom. You put things into perspective for me.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Don’t you dare start to pity me. This is exactly the reason I wanted to avoid the topic. I swear if you don’t e-mail me back with a good whine about your family you are going to “deleted items.” And guess what? I’m then going to send you off to permanently deleted items. Never to return.
Things better go back to normal between us. I want doom and gloom e-mails and apocalyptic visions of our future. Hey, you have a screwed-up family too! You’re just as messed up as me, I assure you. OK? Do not get any perspective. I suggest you immediately, AS IN RIGHT NOW, go to your room and listen to some soppy love song and feel sorry for yourself. Cry a little if you must.
Deal?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Marry me.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
On two conditions:
There be no reality TV shows allowed to screen at any point of the day in our household.
We have a Godfather trilogy night every three months.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Actually, I’ve changed my mind. You never make any spelling mistakes. That means you’re probably the type of guy who irons his undies, color-coordinates his closet, and always puts the cap back on the toothpaste tube. We’d be divorced within the hour. Let’s just stay friends.
Speaking of appearances, how do I know you’re not some cross-eyed, toothless, balding freak? We’re just faceless, anonymous entities at the moment. But I’m not really into the exchanging pics with a stranger thing.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Based on what I know about you, you’re about an eleven out of ten in my mind. What’s my score with you?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Nine out of ten. You need to work a little harder.
18
MY DAD’S CELL phone keeps on ringing and I yell out for somebody to answer it since I’m on the Internet, e-mailing John. Nobody does and so I rush to the kitchen, where it’s vibrating on the counter, and answer it myself.
Miss Sajda is on the other end. We go through the chitchat niceties for a couple of moments and then she asks to speak to my dad.
“So he’s still home?” she asks when I tell her that he’s taking a shower.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t he be?” I ask in a puzzled tone.
“There’s a staff meeting going on at madrasa.”
“But it’s Saturday.”
“We’re discussing curriculum issues.”
“Will it take long?” I ask hopefully.
The prospect of having the entire house to myself is always thrilling. I can turn the music up as loud as I want or watch PG-13-rated movies to my heart’s content without having to glue my finger to the fast-forwar
The meeting is scheduled to finish late. My face erupts into a wide grin. I’ll be the first to admit that it doesn’t take a lot to get me excited.
“Don’t you sometimes wish something exciting would happen in your life?” I ask Amy on the telephone.
It’s eight o’clock and my dad is still out with the rest of the madrasa staff, who decided to go out to dinner.
I’m sprawled on the couch in the family room, surrounded by half-eaten bags of chips, a couple of cans of Coke, a dozen magazines, and a collection of DVDs. I’ve been on the telephone to Amy for the past two hours, discussing our favorite movies and what we want to do when we finish school. It’s the longest telephone conversation we’ve ever had.
“I’m sick of talking to you now,” she says lightheartedly. “You’ve harassed me all afternoon.”
“Hey, it’s been a symbiotic relationship,” I joke. “Your parents are out too and you’re stuck home alone and bored. You need me as much as I need you.”
“Anyway, being home alone isn’t such a weird thing for me lately. I like having the house to myself. I hate it when my parents are home.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re just one big happy family.” Her voice is bitter and I ask her if everything is OK.
“Yeah, of course it is,” she says in a dismissive tone. I’m about to say something but she cuts me off. “Liz has changed.”
“In what way?”
“She smokes now. She skips school with Sam. The other day Sam was making fun of Simon because Simon’s father came to the office. You know how he’s Sikh? Well, his dad was wearing a turban and Sam was making fun of him. I couldn’t believe it, but Liz was laughing along with him.”
“That’s horrible.”
“I can’t stand people who change themselves just to fit in.”
“Yeah, I know,” I mutter uncomfortably.
“It’s such an act of weakness. Is Liz so desperate for a boyfriend that she has to erase her personality?”
I gulp hard. I so desperately want to confide in her. I want a friendship based on honesty and openness. But it’s obvious that there is no way Amy will ever understand my situation. Or forgive me.
I was desperate for some excitement but now I take it back.
I want a refund on my words.
I want an IOU.
I don’t want excitement.
I don’t want adrenaline rushes and panic attacks.
I spoke too soon!
My world crashes down on me like the surf at Bondi Beach.
In homeroom on Monday Mr. Anderson announces that the tenth-grade committee has finalized the details for the tenth-grade formal scheduled for the end of the second semester, in June.
I freeze in my seat.
“The formal will be held at the Bellavista Function Center. We plan to hire a band so there will be live music. It should be a wonderful night.”
I can feel every capillary in my body frantically trying to pump blood into my heart which has, momentarily, stopped. I have an image of myself standing in the center of the school, the student body circling me and chanting, “Caveman Daddy won’t let her go! Caveman Daddy won’t let her go!”
The girls start squealing in delight and Amy grabs my arm excitedly.
“What will we wear? Who will we go with? What kind of car? Where will the after-party be?”
I generate as much energy as I can, flash her my most dazzling smile, and start to work hard at laying the foundations of enthusiasm early.
“How exciting!” I cry. “I can’t wait to find our outfits and do our hair and get some funky jewelery!”
There is no way my dad will let me go.
The flu, an appendix operation, lost house keys—none of those excuses are going to work this time. I’m going to need to consult encyclopedias for this one.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
John, I need a lawyer. Can you ask your dad if he’ll represent me in my case against my school? I want to sue the board for violating my human rights. And I want to name Mr. Anderson in the action and get compensation from him for the psychological trauma I am suffering because of his dumb decision to hold a tenth-grade formal at the end of next term.
AS IF I’LL BE ALLOWED!
Shereen went to an all-girls school and that’s the only reason she was allowed to go to her formal.
What am I supposed to say when people ask me why I’m not going? I can’t use the “my dad won’t let me” line. I might as well move to another country.
My reputation will be ruined.
Forever.
Beyond repair.
Gone.
Smashed.
Pulverized.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Where and when is your formal?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
In June at a reception place in Bellavista. Why do you ask?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
I’ve got a formal coming up too.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
So then you can understand how desperate my situation is.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Try and reason with your dad. He let you get a job at McDonald’s. I’m sure he’ll back down when he realizes how important this is to you.
But if he does say no, don’t stress. It’s just a formal. It’s no big deal. People get dressed up and gossip to each other about who’s wearing what and who looks hot and who doesn’t.
I’m sure you can think of a more stimulating way to spend an evening.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
I will die of a broken heart if he says no.
19
CHALLENGE PETER TO a dare and he’s up for it faster than a dog to a bone. I’ve figured it out. He’s a bigot and a bully but he’s popular because he provides entertainment value. In a nine-to-three world of algebra, chlorophyll, and text comprehension, watching Peter put a fart bomb on a teacher’s chair or releasing a mouse in homeroom is like getting free tickets to a movie.
This morning I overhear him talking to Sam and Chris. Chris says: “I dare you,” and Peter answers: “Simple, man.”
Later I’m walking in the hall when I notice Peter through the window of a classroom door. I stick my nose up close to the window and peer inside for a closer look. In one hand is a tube of superglue. In the other is a white-board eraser. He catches my gaze and winks. I’m caught off guard and give him a goofy grin.
I turn around and bump into Mr. Anderson, who’s on hall patrol. If I walk away, Peter will be caught. If I divert Mr. Anderson’s attention, Peter just might get away with it.
I’m no snitch. Trying not to look like I have something to hide, I plant myself in front of Mr. Anderson and flash him a huge grin.
“Hi, sir! How’s it going?”
I shouldn’t be lurking in the halls during lunch.
My conversational skills go into fourth gear. He falls for the “I’m a student interested in my teacher’s life” routine and we walk down the hall in deep conversation about his Rottweiler’s eating habits.
After lunch we all file into class. Peter takes a seat in the back row, swings on his chair, and laughs conspiratorially with Sam and Chris. Fifteen minutes into class Peter raises his hand and asks Mr. Anderson to write out the explanation of an algebraic equation on the board. Mr. Anderson gets busy on the whiteboard.
It happens halfway between an explanation of why ax2 + bx +
He quickly realizes that his hand is now partially stuck to a whiteboard eraser. He turns around and I estimate that it takes him a mere 2.5 seconds to put two and two together. He is, after all, proficient in algebra.
“Jamie!” It’s less than a roar, more than a yell.
“Yes, sir?”
“Am I to believe that it is sheer coincidence that my hand is stuck to this eraser and you were lurking around this classroom door at lunchtime today looking, now that I think about it, suspiciously guilty?”
“Yes, sir,” I mumble. Everybody’s eyes are on me.
“Unfortunately for you, I’m not that gullible.”
“But I didn’t do anything, sir.” I don’t dare to steal a glance at Peter—that’d be a dead giveaway. Instead I naively wait for him to speak up.
Mr. Anderson scans the classroom. “Is there anybody who knows anything about this?” he demands, his face red with rage.
Blank, silent faces and not a peep from Peter.
“Jamie, I’m disappointed in you. This is a very low act.”
“I didn’t do it, sir!”
“If you didn’t do it, then you most certainly know something about it. If it wasn’t you, then who was it?”
I hate it when teachers push you into a corner like this. To snitch on Peter would make the rest of my high school life a tormented one. I may as well skin myself alive and jump in a bath full of salt. The consequences would be less painful.
I stay silent, defiant. Mr. Anderson stares at me. I know he knows I didn’t do it. I’m the quiet girl. I’ve never rocked the boat in class. I’m not the type who would pull off something like this. But in Mr. Anderson’s world, refusing to expose the perpetrator is equal to committing the act.