Free Ten Things I Hate About Me by Randa Abdel-Fattah Page B

wanted me to marry as soon as I turned eighteen.”
    “Wow, that’s young!”
    “We lived in a very affluent suburb in Lebanon and my mother was quite snobby. She was determined that I should marry into a wealthy family. One day a man named George Chaouk came to our home and proposed. He imported cars, so he was very well off. I refused him, though, and my motherwas furious. I was determined to go to college. I didn’t want to be a trophy wife.”
    “Did your mom forgive you?”
    “It took a while. You see, George’s family was very active in my mother’s church; rejecting George was a tremendous insult to them, particularly given the fact that I was only eighteen. They thought I was arrogant and too strong-willed!”
    “My dad has always insisted that we’re not to mention marriage until we have university degrees. I’m grateful to him for that.”
    “Well, that’s why I’m telling you my story. My mother restricted my freedom even when I was a university student. She was overly concerned about what people would say if I was seen at cafés or with male friends. But, Jamilah, I learned not to argue over the small things. I could handle restrictions on my clothes and the time I was expected home. I saved my energy for what mattered most to me—which was to gain an education.”
    “Education isn’t the issue for me,” I explain. “I just want more freedom. I can’t even talk to a boy without him going off the deep end. He’s completely caught up in how his friends will talk.”
    “I know it’s hard for you. You see your friends with practically no limitations to what they can do, and you feel deprived.”
    “Sometimes I feel suffocated. I’d love to invite my friends home or go out to see a movie at night.”
    “Your father would have no problem opening his house to your friends. I’m sure he would love it.”
    “Ha! There is no way I would.”
    “Why not?”
    I give her an uneasy look. “It’s…embarrassing.”
    “What is?”
    How can I tell her that I’m embarrassed to reveal myself to my friends? That as much as I love my identity at home and at madrasa, my relationship with my school friends is a constant struggle of deception?
    I jump up from my seat and avoid her gaze. “I better get going or I’ll be late.”
    She gives me a knowing look but I rush out of the classroom before she has a chance to say something.

15
    I DESPERATELY NEED a plan of action. If I don’t get some freedom or independence soon, I’ll be stuck at home watching TV and surfing the Internet until graduation. That’s three years’ worth of annoying commercials, unimaginative sitcoms, and pointless Google searches. I can’t bear it.
    Several strategies for getting out of the house cross my mind. I could sign up as a volunteer cleaner at our local mosque. I could donate blood every weekend. Surely Dad couldn’t forbid that!
    I’m racking my brain as I sit in Bilal’s car on my way home from the bus stop. Bilal’s picked me up since it’s raining. He takes me to a McDonald’s drive-through. The girl serving us doesn’t look a day older than me. As she hands Bilal our order I have a sudden revelation. I almost knock the drink out of Bilal’s hand as I lean over him and ask her how I can apply for a job. She gives me an application form and Bilal looks at me like I have momentarily had my brain juiced.
    “Are you running a fever?” he asks as we drive off.
    I chew on my fries and bounce up and down excitedly in my seat. “That’s it! It’s my ticket to freedom! A part-time job! I can finally have a life outside school and home. I can earn some money! I can have an extended curfew! I can discover the recipe for Big Mac sauce and find out if the salads really are low-fat!”
    He shakes his head and turns the music up. “As if Dad will let you. He gave me a hard enough time about working at Red Rooster when I was in school.”
    “That’s because you spent about ten minutes per year at your desk studying.