The Yearbook Committee (30 page)

I'm so blessed to be able to do what I love and call it work, but I am even more blessed because of the stellar support system that has made this book a reality.

Thank you —

Selwa Anthony and Drew Keys, for the encouragement and guidance.

My team at HarperCollins Australia: Chren Byng, my wonderfully creative and clever publisher; the beautiful Cristina Cappelluto; and my patient and adept editor Rachel Dennis who wrangled the book into its current state. Thanks also to Bianca Fazzalaro, Amanda Diaz, Tim Miller, Gemma Fahy, Libby Volke and Graeme Jones. A special note for Jacqui Barton, for her ongoing efforts at taking my books into high schools, and to Stephanie Spartels for her gorgeous work on both the outside and inside of the book. I still adore the orange cover.

Melina Marchetta, for being an inspiration, and for offering her time, energy and feedback at every corner.

My biggest champions: my parents, siblings and extended Lebanese family. And to those that encouraged me across continents, cities and social networks, in particular Ahmed Mahmoud, Rachel Hills, Tammi Ireland, Fiona MacDonald, Scarlett Harris, Gabby Tozer, Nathan Azzi, Danielle Binks and Tara Eglington.

My sisters: Marie-Claire for being my right hand in everything I do, and Josephine for being an anti-ageing cream for my brain. Josie, I really appreciate how much time you invested in helping me to fine-tune this story.

Special mention to my mother-in-law, Glenda Anderssen, for her help with my baby at many a turn; and to my father-in-law, David Christie, and his partner, Christine Downing, for reading everything I write with great (and much appreciated) enthusiasm. And to Sarah Tarca from Girlfriend magazine for her constant support in all my writing endeavours.

To the surprise cheerleaders of the #loveozya community: school teachers, writers' festivals, media outlets, book stores, book bloggers and social media fans who have supported my author adventure so far. Thanks for all the love.

Finally, to my great loves Jam and Crumpet. James and Alissar, you bring so much love, joy and anxiety to my life, and are the sweetest blessings. I hope I make you proud.

SARAH AYOUB
is a freelance journalist based in Sydney, Australia. Her work has appeared in various print and online publications, including
Marie-Claire
,
Madison
,
Cosmopolitan
,
House & Garden
,
Sunday Style
,
The Guardian
,
Cleo
,
Shop Til You Drop
,
Frankie
,
Yen
,
Girlfriend
and more. She has taught Journalism at the University of Notre Dame and spoken at numerous industry events with the Emerging Writers' Festival, NSW Writers' Centre, the Walkley Foundation, Vibewire and more.

She is the author of
Hate Is Such a Strong Word
and regularly runs writing workshops at Sydney high schools.

To find out more about Sarah, follow her on:

Seventeen-year-old Sophie hates Monday mornings, socks worn with sandals, and having to strategise like she's a battle sergeant every time she asks her parents if she can go out. But she especially hates being stereotyped because she's Lebanese.

When New Guy, Shehadie Goldsmith, is alienated at her Lebanese school because his dad's Australian, she hates the way it makes her feel.

Like she's just as prejudiced as everyone else.

Like she could make a difference if she stopped pretending she's invisible.

Like the attraction between them might be too strong to fight . . .

But hate is such a strong word . . . Can Sophie find the strength to speak out — even if it means going against everything she's been brought up to believe?

A brilliant debut novel about identity, love, culture and finding your place.

I take my phone out onto the veranda, where I can watch the sun set over Bankstown, the area I've lived in since I was born. Although it's still daylight, boys are setting off illegal fireworks despite their mothers' fearful warnings. Older girls are heading out to parties, all dressed up, while their fathers lament their daughters' short childhoods and even shorter skirts. And I lament the fact that I won't be attending the globe's biggest party tonight – even in the limited way I've come to expect as a social nobody.

I can't decide which is worse: being sick of always missing out, or constantly having to explain why I'm missing out, which, trust me, is just as humiliating.

I call my best friend, Dora Maloor, to deliver the verdict.

‘Nawwwww,' she wails. ‘Why does he always limit your socialising to people who share your DNA?'

‘I dunno,' I mumble, trying to keep myself from crying. I'm ashamed to admit that I care so much, even to her. ‘Have fun on my behalf.'

‘I'm sick of having fun on your behalf, Skaz,' she says. ‘You've got an unhealthy attitude for a seventeen-year-old. You need to
build up the courage to express yourself. It's the only way you're going to have the fulfilling life experience you subconsciously desire.'

I roll my eyes. ‘What new-age hoo-ha have you been reading? That doesn't even make any sense.'

‘Well, neither does a seventeen-year-old who can't stand up to her father.'

‘Seriously, what am I supposed to do?'

‘Um, stand up for your right to enjoy your youth,' she says, stating the obvious. ‘His Stone Age 1950s Lebanese village rules have got to go. What's the reason this time? He's usually okay with you coming over.'

‘One of their friends is holding a dinner at his restaurant tonight. Mum doesn't really want to go, but she is, so I have to babysit.'

‘A dinner beats the little backyard soirée that my brother and sister are throwing. Although at least at my house there'll be hot boys to perve at, even if my brother's friends smile patronisingly at me.'

‘At least someone's smiling at you,' I point out.

We chat for a bit longer, then I hang up and lie sprawled on the veranda floor, resisting the urge to strangle myself with the cord of my pink mobile extension handset, something Mum bought me after seeing a daytime TV segment on the effects of mobile phone radiation on the brain.

I know no one will hassle me out here, but I also find it ironic that my safe haven represents everything that bothers me. Hiding on the veranda allows me to see the outside world, but there's no way I can touch it. It just stretches out before me, while the ties of my upbringing keep my feet firmly rooted in my father's house.

I turn to look through the glass sliding doors at what's holding me back. Mum is eyeing herself in her bedroom mirror as she applies a particularly unflattering shade of red lipstick. I hear her complaining about her wrinkles, and how a new year is only going to age her. Dad is watching the LBC news direct from Lebanon, totally unaware that Mum's ramblings are his cue to say something loving or supportive.

She focuses her attention on me instead, muttering something to herself before yelling, ‘Sophie, stop wiping the floor with your clothes and come here and help me.'

I scramble inside.

‘God give me patience,' she wails in Arabic, raising both hands in the air. ‘God give me patience to endure the torment of watching my practically adult daughter lying on the floor and catching dust that I'll have to handwash out of her clothes.'

‘Mum, your floor's cleaner than the plates of most restaurants because of your incessant need to clean it!'

She gives me a look and I decide to drop the attitude. I don't want her giving me a job to do when I just want to whinge. I stand there for what seems like ages while she fiddles with her hair, her shirt, her jewellery.

‘Sophie, do I look fat?' she asks eventually.

I wince, hoping she doesn't see. ‘No, Mama. You look lovely.'

My white lie doesn't convince her. She looks in the mirror, eyeing the body her children have given her.

A career woman might pass my mum in the street, see her wide hips, lined face and tired movements, and pity her because of the choices she's clearly made in life – to live for others. But Mum doesn't see it that way.

‘A housewife is a career woman, Sophie,' she often tells me. ‘She work every day, but she doesn't make money, she makes people. She turns a lazy man into a hard-working husband, and together they grow smart, strong babies like you. Well, until the baby is seventeen and tells me she's not hungry and won't eat the
shish barak
I make for her.'

I used to love my mother's
shish barak
. The little dumplings of mincemeat smothered in warm yoghurt sauce were just the cure after a tough day in primary school when I'd worn the wrong uniform and she'd have to come and save me from detention. Nowadays, she knows I won't let her save me. Hell, I don't even tell her what's wrong any more.

But where do I start with what's wrong? Not going anywhere on New Year's is the tip of the iceberg. I feel like I don't have a say in my own life. It's as though I'm invisible, defined only in the relative: dependable daughter, sister, student and friend. Is it so wrong that I want a little more?

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HarperCollins
Publishers

First published in Australia in 2016

by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited

ABN 36 009 913 517

harpercollins.com.au

Copyright © Sarah Ayoub Christie 2016

The right of Sarah Ayoub to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000
.

This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the
Copyright Act 1968
, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

HarperCollins
Publishers

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195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007, USA

978 0 7322 9685 8 (paperback)

978 1 7430 9917 9 (ebook)

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

Ayoub, Sarah, author.

   
The yearbook committee / Sarah Ayoub.

   
For young adults.

   
Interpersonal relations in adolescence.

A823.4

Cover and internal design by Stephanie Spartels, Studio Spartels

Cover image by BONNINSTUDIO/stocksy.com/428487