FOUR

He's talking about the job he got me at the local diner, The Est which is one of the nicest restaurants in the area, made famous by the rave review the international rapper, Cardi B gave when she was in the country. People from all over the country come to eat at The Est, but Daniel has never been. It serves Halal foods and Daniel refuses to let Papa win. There's an unspoken war between them and unfortunately, I'm stuck in the middle.

Saturday evenings Papa and I eat out. Daniel would rather starve to death.

I cup my glass, take a huge gulp, and then turn to my father with a bright smile. Show only eight teeth, Clara. Upper teeth only. You don't want Papa to be angry. Don't spoil his mood. "It’s going great. Thanks, Papa."

"And Dahab?" Dahab and Ali own the Est.

"The same as last week."

Aunt Dahab is my father's younger sister. They're triplets: Papa, Uncle Kaamil and Aunt Dahab.

Papa opened the restaurant for Aunt Dahab a year ago. A birthday gift he said. Uncle Ali had lost his job two years earlier and they were struggling financially.

"Tell her I said hi." He smiles. "I'm very proud of you. You're the most brilliant kid I know. If you keep this up, we might just go window shopping for that car you always bemoan about."

I'm not fooled.

I'm not better than Daniel, where I struggle to get high B's, my twin is a straight A+ student.

Last year I got an (oops) A in mathematics. Papa hunted a tutor for me; some skinny kid with oily skin so bad he looks like he bathes in baby oil.

I kissed him though ... just because.

The second our lips touched, I knew it wouldn't work. Not that I was looking for anything to the extent of permanence. His tongue kept wobbling and wriggling in my mouth like a worm in blistering heat and it was horrible.

Just horrible.

If he'd been doing the same thing somewhere else on my body, it would've been dutifully nice ... I think. Though no guy has ever gotten that far.

Daniel holds down a weekend job at the local Newspaper, Daily News, where he writes angry political columns and sometimes coughs a line that betrays his Islamaphobic leanings. He's great with words, often writes me poems with words I can't pronounce (And yes, I have to look at the dictionary to know what these mean). My favourite is titled: Humor for Dummies.

As I was growing up I realised that while Papa, like most men (especially Muslim men), wanted a child, to be specific a son. My father wanted a special kind of son: honest: prays every Friday, keeps halal, makes du'a, invests time in the Qur'an, follows sunnah, pure (no sex before marriage), a younger (handsomer?) version of himself.

Evidently, none of these 'attributes' can be linked to Daniel.

This is the reason Papa refuses to acknowledge fatherhood to such a rebellious teen. He's even changed his will to make me the sole beneficiary.

After breakfast, my brother, father, and I squeeze into Papa's mini cooper.

The car stinks of apple purifier, my mother's favourite.

Again, this mounts my confusion.

Papa loves my mother to the point of obsession. He has enough resources to organise a private search party that would guarantee that Mama 'finds' her way home within a week.

Why isn't he taking measures to ensure she return to us?

To him?

Or maybe he knows where she is.

This suspicion has always lingered in the back of my head. While most kids would have this conversation with their remaining parent, in my family the parent talks, the child listens. Papa doesn't like to be questioned. For the sake of peace, my father should never be questioned.

When a car cuts in front of Papa to get to the drop off zone first, I dig my fingernails into my seat. Still I'm jolted towards the windshield so hard I see hearts dancing with the stars for a few seconds.

Papa slams the brakes and the car stops.

He is throwing questions at me. Kadre, can you hear me? Should I take you to the hospital? Can you hear me, sweetheart? Would you like some water? My father can be so caring in public sometimes.

Before I can make sense of the situation, my brother is upon me. His large hands sandwich my face. His face is suddenly right up in front of mine, our noses touching by the bridge. He is invading my space to the point where oxygen doesn't pass to my nostrils instead, I am breathing in his carbon dioxide.

Discomfort attacks my nerves as aggressive as a wild boar.

I always feel funny when people get too close, not just emotionally but physically too. I don't voice my discomfort.

Daniel needs to let go of me. He's too close. Too close.

"Clara, talk to me, are you okay?"

Daniel eases me back against the seat.

Papa digs his eagle’s nails into my shoulder and shakes me. To get my attention I suppose. It's already on him anyway, or rather the pain shooting up my arms. With how hard he's shaking, I'm quite certain I'd make a bobblehead jealous. The last thing I need, on top of everything else, is a paralysed neck.

"Ow, I'm fine, Daniel, Papa."

"You sure?" Daniel smiles in relief. "You can be so stubborn sometimes, can you walk?"

Ugh. Seriously?

I roll my eyes and his smile widens.

There it is again.

Today is my lucky day.

I nod. "Positive. Now leave me alone."

My father inspects his car. He mutters under his breath.

Is he cursing?

No. My father doesn't swear. Only Daniel and me (is this the correct grammar?) do.

"Clara..?" Daniel stares in my eyes, his wide with horror. "Did you see the driver?"

My body goes cold. "Mama?"

His answering smile is bleak and disappears immediately.

I don't want to overuse my imagination but was that really Mama? If so, why'd she try to kill us?

Back in the comfort of the car, Papa kisses my cheek, as its routine. He takes my hand in prayer.

While he prays, I stare blankly at the road ahead. When he's done, he wishes me luck. He wants me to have a great first day. His wish is in vain.

Daniel gets my backpack and we walk together to the main entrance.

The buildings are maroon and announce South Coast Academy in bold, underlined letters.

It's the first day of school. I've recently changed schools. I failed the fifth grade, that's why I'm a year behind Daniel. He's been here for a year already.

I stumble behind Daniel as he leads me to the front office.

Inside it is warmer than I thought. The thermostat is set as high as it can go and a smaller heater spews fire like a dragon behind the door.

I'm roasting under the grey niqab. Sweat collects under my armpits and I shuffle as discomfort folds me in its grip.

Behind the narrow, wooden desk sits a petite woman. Her face shags in an odd way that can only ever come from years gone by. By the looks of it she's old enough to be someone's grandma. She has her home knitted scarf wrapped twice around the neck. A cup of tea brews between her inflamed fingers. Her silky black hair is pinned up so tight not a single strand is out of place.

It looks uncomfortable. Headache inducing.

I smile.

"Hello, I'm Clara Addas."

Hers is a smile that reaches the eyes. It falls with practiced ease on her lips. "Ah, yes, darling."

She wastes no time in searching through a pile of papers, opens a drawer, and rummages through it. By the time she's done, a stubborn frown sit square on her forehead. "I have your schedule and map right here, darling. Do you want me to go through them with you?"

"No, Mrs. Pike, that's quite all right. I'll show her around. Thank you."

Unlike me, my brother doesn't offer the woman a smile after he's done talking.

I wave at her and grin wider when her gaze questions Daniel's placid expression.

When we break out to the hallway, a swarm of teenagers are rendering the hallways with their silly banter and ringing, infectious laughter. A tall girl stands in my way and plasters a welcoming face. She is the kind of girl most guys would only be within their fantasies. Adolescence has been kind to her. It has spared her sun-baked skin the effects of acne and I suspect her black hair has never been in need of hair straighteners. Her limbs are long and willowy. She even walks with the grace of a ballerina for God's sake! It is a body meant to model the latest Victoria Secret, not parade the hallways of South Coast Academy.

She kisses Daniel on the lips. A French kiss with deep strokes of the tongue. I'm too shocked to be embarrassed by watching my brother make out with some girl I don't know.

Until today, I thought he was two hundred and ten percent gay.

I thought "weird, satanist Samantha" was just a friend. Platonic friend.

I guess not.

She steps back from the kiss and turns her attention to me.

Daniel wrinkles his nose and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Hmm.

I raise an eyebrow.