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

cross-dressing cockroach. “Sometimes I want to pity you. But even that would require me to acknowledge that you exist. You have as much relevance to me as a piece of lint on an unwashed sock.”
    Peter looks momentarily surprised. Then his eyes narrow in anger. “You’ll always be a freak, Goldfish.” He grins at me, convinced that he’s won the confrontation, and walks away.
    “You got to him,” I say in an impressed tone.
    He shrugs. “So when do you want to start working on this project?”
    “Whenever.”
    “Are lunchtimes OK with you? I mean, the last thing I want to do is waste my lunchtime in the library, but it’s either that or after school.”
    If I work after school I’ll miss the bus, which will mean either Dad or Shereen will have to pick me up. I’ve done my best to avoid that from happening. If anybody sees Shereen with her hijab on, my cover will be exposed.
    “I’d prefer lunchtimes, too.”
    “OK, how about tomorrow? The sooner we get this thing done, the sooner I can go back to spending my lunchtimes thinking about my tropical-fish tank.”
    For a split second I believe him. It’s a testament to the persuasive power of classroom gossip. Then I smile. But at the same time I’m worrying about what people, especially Peter, will think if they see me happily conversing with Timothy. Standard human decency has nothing to do with the situation. This is about my social standing.
    It would have been easier if Timothy had had the personality of a spatula. I could have worked with him, looked bored, and avoided anybody reaching the conclusion that I was enjoying my fate. Now he’s gone and messed it all up by making me smile.

10
    “ON MY CUE! One, two, three!”
    Mustafa starts playing the daff, which is an instrument similar to the tambourine. The sound of Samira’s guitar creeps in, then Hasan and I join in too. We’re practicing with Miss Sajda and I’m loving every minute of it.
    My darabuka is balanced under my arm and I drum down on the leather top with the palms of my hands, creating a deep, strong rhythm that echoes and reverberates in my chest. I feel a strange sense of calm and exhilaration. The sounds trigger memories of colorful weddings and Lebanese parties and dance floors and live bands and belly dancers. I get lost in the beat of the drum as my palms move faster and then slower; one beat, then two, then four quick beats, then back to one. My palms coax the sounds from the leather, and beads of sweat line my forehead as our music becomes more intense.
    This is where I belong, I think to myself. This is who I am.
    When we’ve finished we gather around Miss Sajda. We’re all on a high. We’re skateboarding in the sky, our voices rapidly rising over one another’s as we voice our delight with our performance.
    “Man, we need to go professional!” Mustafa says. “We’re too awesome to be stuck in a primary school classroom!”
    “You got that right, bro,” Hasan says. “I want an audience. I want to feel a crowd.”
    Miss Sajda laughs. “At the risk of encouraging your immodesty, I have to say I agree with you. You all play beautifully.”
    “We’re fully sick, Miss Sajda,” Samira says.
    Miss Sajda grins. “How somebody who weaves notes of poetry out of the oud can describe her performance as sick is beyond my generation.”
    “You’ve got to get with the vocab,” I tell her.
    “No, thanks,” she says. “I’ll stick with the dictionary for my definitions.”
    “So what do you think, Jamilah?” Mustafa asks me. “Do you want to try and get some gigs? We haven’t had much luck getting gigs with Oz Iz In Da ’Hood.”
    “I can’t imagine why,” I say. “You’re not exactly American Idol material.”
    Samira and Hasan giggle. Mustafa looks at me, grins, and then launches into a song.
    “Yo! American Idol is not my pleasure
    I seek higher things as my treasure
    I don’t need to be judged or adjudicated
    Just to get a TV channel rated.”
    We all burst