Free When Michael Met Mina by Randa Abdel-Fattah

demands that moderate Muslims stop their silence over radicals.
    A round of applause, enthusiastic nodding of heads. I’m recording the minutes, ‘One Thing’ playing on repeat in my head thanks to blog-man.
    â€˜Most of us here are old enough to remember a different Australia,’ my dad says when the crowd has quietened down. ‘An Australia where it was safe for kids to play on the streets, where neighbours looked out for each other, said g’day and Merry Christmas without fear of offending. An Australia where Judeo-Christian values were the norm. When there was no threat of a clash of civilisations.’
    He ends with a call for people who come to this country to ‘assimilate’, and there’s thunderous applause. Mum grins at him with adoration. Nathan’s in his own world, engrossed in a Tom Clancy thriller. I’m typing furiously.
    When it’s time to mingle, Dad pulls me aside and introduces me to Kyle Hudson, director of a boutique architecture firm in the city.
    â€˜Kyle’s pretty much promised me that once you start uni you can work part-time at his firm.’
    I do everything in my power to muster a grateful smile.
    â€˜Most of the big law firms hire me in hearings as an expert witness in their property insurance cases,’ Kyle says. ‘So we do a lot of expert reports. Big money in that. It’s a good, solid career, and from what your dad has told me, you’re more than up to the challenge.’
    I thank them.
    Profusely.
    Exaggerate my enthusiasm.
    Pretend to be excited by the bright future they see ahead of me.
    Ignore the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Mina
    Paula texts me as I arrive at school.
    Public service announcement from Route 419 Bus:
    Student: ‘Man, I can’t believe it’s 2015. 2010 was six years ago!’
    PS Round the corner now. Meet me in the café?
    *
    Today Ms Parkinson instructs us to get into groups for a shared task. I’m with Jane, Leica, Paula, Cameron and Adrian. We’re supposed to be discussing a passage from Emma but Jane’s distracted. Apparently at recess she was at the counter at the café buying a juice but was short on money. Terrence was standing behind her in the queue and gave her the shortfall. Then, on the way to class now, he passed her in the hallway and made a point to smile at her.
    â€˜He smiled with his eyes,’ she whispers. ‘It wasn’t just, like, some facial twitch. He meant it.’
    Adrian is chewing on the end of his pen, a bewildered expression on his face. ‘I don’t get it.’
    Cameron, who’s busy looking through the book trying to find quotes to answer the questions, says in a deadpan tone: ‘Jane’s doing that let’s-overanalyse-things that girls do.’
    Leica pulls a face at Cameron. ‘Don’t be mean.’
    â€˜You know it’s true,’ he says, not looking up from the book.
    â€˜One day he smiles at me, the next day he ignores me,’ Jane says softly, in case anyone overhears. ‘Can I help it if I’m trying to read into it?’
    Adrian shakes his head. ‘It must be exhausting being a girl.’
    â€˜Yeah, using your brain can be a workout,’ Leica jokes.
    â€˜Guys use their brains,’ Adrian says. ‘We just don’t have deep and meaningfuls about whether giving somebody fifty cents so they don’t miss out on buying a juice is a love declaration.’
    â€˜Can we get back to Emma and Mr Knightley?’ Cameron says. Cameron’s got absolutely no problem embracing his inner nerd.
    We’re discussing whether Emma was right to interfere in Robert Martin’s marriage proposal to Harriet when Terrence gets up to throw something in the bin (well, actually, he threw it from across the room and missed and Ms Parkinson yelled at him). He winks at Jane on his way back.
    Jane tries to play it cool but I’m guessing there’s some serious cardiac