Free No Sex in the City by Randa Abdel-Fattah

times I have stared into the distance when I should have been conscientiously attending to work demands: countless.
    ‘Er, sorry, what did you say your work experience was?’ I repeat during a telephone conversation with a candidate applying for a pharmacist manager role.
    ‘I had two weeks at Target.’
    I wonder what Yasir is doing now.
Focus
.
    ‘Target? What do you mean? Does Target have a pharmacy?’
    ‘No. I was working in Layby.’
    I take a deep breath and unlock my phone, checking if there’s a message. Nope. I sent the last one. The ball’s in his court. Get your hands on that ball, Yasir! Oh God, I’m turning into one of those psychos who want to be stalked on their phone, Facebook wall and email 24/7.
    ‘But I got an awesome chance to build on my skills.’
    Ah, yes, I have a job. ‘How old are you?’
    ‘Sixteen.’
    Good Lord. ‘And you don’t think that’s an issue?’
    ‘No.’
    I take a deep breath. ‘Do you realise that you need a Bachelor of Pharmacy and a minimum of five years’ experience as a practising pharmacist to get this job?’
    ‘Okay ... but that’s what I want to do when I go to uni, so can’t you still consider me? Trust me, Layby can get pretty busy.’
    My phone beeps. A text from Yasir.
Dinner tonight?
    ‘Of course!’ I cry.
    ‘Really? You’re the bomb! That’s awesome!’
    ‘No, sorry!’ I splutter. ‘I didn’t mean you. Call me in fifteen years and we’ll talk then.’
    I hang up.
    I’ve got it bad.
    My mother is hovering at my bedroom door, watching me get ready.
    ‘How is it going with Yasir?’ she asks hesitantly.
    ‘So far, so good,’ I say, putting on my earrings.
    She takes a step in. I know she doesn’t want to appear to be pressuring me, but as much as she wants to be subtle, she can’t help interfering. My mum’s bright, serious-minded and fiercely dogmatic about the things and people she believes in. Sometimes the force of her convictions is too strong and she can’t let go enough to give us the room to make our own mistakes and choices.
    ‘Is he serious?’ she asks me. ‘Sometimes parents think their children are ready to settle down but they’re not. Have you asked him?’
    I’ve had guys come for the formal-lounge-room date, only to find out that they’re there under pressure from their parents; one guy, Ali, already had a girlfriend he had every intention of marrying.
    ‘Mum, it’s been a week,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘Relax!’
    She raises an eyebrow. ‘I’m just warning you.’
    ‘Remember that I’ve done this a zillion times. I don’t need the warnings any more.’
    She shrugs. ‘No need to get upset. I’m just trying to have a conversation.’
    ‘You’re trying to force a helmet on me when I’m already in protective gear.’
    She clucks her tongue at me. ‘I’ll leave you then, seeing as you know everything.’ She’s about to turn on her heel and walk out when I stop her.
    ‘Mum, sorry,’ I say, giving her a tight squeeze. ‘I’m just nervous.’ I’m also terrified that if I leave the house with my mum upset with me, I’ll be struck dead on the way home. But I don’t tell her that.
    ‘I just want you to be as happy as I’ve been with your father,’ she says, giving me a warm smile. A smile filled to the brim with self-sacrifice and love and tenderness and trust. Knowing all I do, it makes me ache.
    Dad pulls me aside on my way out and thrusts a hundred dollars into my hand. ‘I want you to buy yourself a present,’ he says softly. ‘I know it’s not much, but you deserve something, darling.’
    Just then Mum walks in. ‘Deserves what?’ she asks. Her eyes fall on the money in my hand. ‘Oh, that’s sweet, Mehmet,’ she gushes, giving him a warm smile. ‘Always so generous with your family.’
    Dad mutters something under his breath and quickly leaves us alone.
    I play heavy metal in my car all the way to the restaurant. But as loud as the music pounds in my ears, I can’t drown out the