the

lines
we
cross
Also by Randa Abdel-Fattah

Does My Head Look Big In This?

Ten Things I Hate About Me

Where the Streets Had a Name

the
lines
we
cross
Randa Abdel-Fattah

Scholastic Press
New York
 Copyright 2017 Randa Abdel-Fattah

First published in 2016 in Australia by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

1 Market Street, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, 2000

All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. scholastic,
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of
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or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Abdel-Fattah, Randa, author.
Title: The lines we cross / Randa Abdel-Fattah.
Other titles: When Michael met Mina Description: First [United States] edition. | New York : Scholastic Press, 2017. |
First published 2016 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd...Sydney, New South Wales, Australia. |
Summary: Michaels parents are leaders of a new anti-immigrant political party called Aussie Values which is trying
to halt the flood of refugees from the Middle East; Mina fled Afghanistan with her family ten years ago, and just
wants to concentrate on fitting in and getting into collegebut the mutual attraction they feel demands that they
come to terms with their familys concerns and decide where they stand in the ugly anti-Muslim politics of the time.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016040576 | ISBN 9781338118667
Subjects: LCSH: RefugeesAustraliaJuvenile fiction. | Muslim familiesAustraliaJuvenile fiction. |
FamiliesAustraliaJuvenile fiction. | Interpersonal attractionJuvenile fiction. | AustraliaEthnic
relationsJuvenile fiction. | AustraliaPolitics and government21st centuryJuvenile literature. | CYAC:
RefugeesFiction. | Emigration and immigrationFiction. | MuslimsAustraliaFiction. | Family life
AustraliaFiction. | LoveFiction. | Ethnic relationsFiction. | AustraliaFiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.A15892 Li 2017 | DDC 823.92 [Fic]dc23 LC record available at
https://lccn.loc.gov/2016040576

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 17 18 19 20 21

Printed in the U.S.A. 23

First edition, May 2017

Book design by Maeve Norton

 To Deyana, Noor, Adam,
and the little one on the way.
 Michael

I know two things for a fact.

My parents are good people.
And ever since I can remember, theyve been angry about
almost everything.

I scan the area and see my dad, draped in the Australian flag,
talking to Li Chee, whos wearing a flag top hat and holding up
a Turn Back the Boats banner. I negotiate my way through the
crowd of people and flags on our side, ignoring the boos and
taunts coming from the counterprotest.
Hey, Michael! Dad pats me on the back. His forehead is
glistening with sweat. Really happy you made it.
It could be your big moment. I dont want to miss it.
Appreciate it, mate. He takes a deep breath, wipes
his forehead with the back of his hand, and looks around

1
nervously. Geez, its hot under this. What do you think?
Reckon the media will come?
Its hard to tell. The numbers on our side of the protest are
growing but theyre still small compared to the other mob. Its
also hot. Really hot. One of those days where the heat is so
oppressive you feel like meat being chargrilled on a hot plate.
But then Kahn and Andrew arrive, and Dads mood lifts.
Kahns carrying a spade in one hand and a sign in the
other: Start Calling a Spade a Spade: Islam = Terror. Andrews
dressed as a Spartan guard, carrying a shield and sign that
says: Democracy Started in Greece: Protect Our Democracy.
Dads thrilled. Personally, hes not one for stunts, but he has
an instinct for what will grab the medias attention. If some-
body else is willing to wear spandex for the cause, hes not
going to say no.
Andrew asks me to take photos so he can tweet them
to news outlets. Kahn, Andrew, and some of the others
pose for the shots, and then Andrew works his social media
magic.
Dad and I are taking a selfie to send to Mum and Nathan,
who are in Melbourne for an air show, when a guy with a
grotesquely muscled body bulldozes his way through our
crowd and steps up close to us. Hes carrying a couple of signs
in one hand, snapping photos of the crowd with his smart-
phone with the other. I havent seen him before. Hes not so

2
much steroid-pumped nightclub bouncer as ex-commando-
who-visits-war-zones-in-his-spare-time kind of guy.
Hey, Alan, he says sternly, nodding at Dad.
The testosterone force field around this guy is so strong I
feel like I might grow a full-length beard just taking in his vibes.
Gday, John, Dad says. Thanks for coming, mate.
Wouldnt miss it, he barks, then snaps a photo of Dad for
his Facebook page. John looks me up and down. Wheres
your sign? He doesnt give me a chance to reply but instead
hands me one of his (No to Sharia Law), raises his eyebrow
(theres only one), and looks grimly at the opposing crowd.
Fucking bleeding-heart terrorist-loving freedom-hating
traitors.
Does that come in a bumper sticker? Dad asks with a
laugh. He discreetly nudges my foot with his shoe and I strug-
gle not to laugh.
Its not a joke, John says gruffly. You should know
that, Alan.
I know, mate, Dad says good-naturedly, patting him on
the back. Im just pulling your leg.
They should shut the hell up and respect the fact they
have free speech in this country.
No ones saying they shouldnt protest, Dad says. Thats
the beauty of this great country of ours, John. That they
can be here, same as we can. The irony is that they dont

3
appreciate that were fighting to make sure this democracy of
ours doesnt change.
John flashes a look of contempt at the mob of counterpro-
testers. Theyve escalated the shouts of abuse. John walks off
to join some of the more vocal ones on our side and starts
chanting at the top of his lungs.
I give Dad a look. Hes a bit...deranged?
Nah. He just looks tougher than he is. Hes Andrews
good mate. Suddenly Dads face breaks out into a grin.
Michael! Look!
I glance in the direction hes motioning and, noticing a
reporter and cameraman, smile.
Your mums press release must have worked. He runs his
fingers through his thinning hair and readjusts the flag. How
do I look?
Like the leader of a new political organization, I say
proudly. Whos sweltering under that thing. Dont forget its
all about the sound bites. Aussie Values aims to represent the
silent majority blah blah. The kind of thing you and Mum were
practicing last night.
We have about fifty members, Dad says with a smile. In
a population of twenty-three million, I wouldnt say that
really constitutes a majority. He leans in close to me and
winks conspiratorially. But nobody needs to know that,
hey, mate?
The chants of the other protestors are getting louder. Rick,

4
from our side, starts up a chant in reply. Game on. The atmo-
sphere is electric, and people are fired up on both sides. I can
see Dad across the crowd, a camera in his face as he talks to
a journalist. He glances at me and I grin.
And then I see her.
Her eyes. Ive never seen eyes like hers before. What color
are they? Hazel and green and flecks of autumn and bits of
emerald and Im standing holding my sign and there she is,
standing steps away, near the cop, holding hers (Its Not Illegal
to Seek Asylum), and all I can think about is how the hell Im
going to take my eyes off her.
Her hair is jet-black, hanging loose down her back, and I
think hair that gorgeous has no business being on someone like
her. Shes wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Shes the
most beautiful girl Ive ever seen and it stupidly, inexplicably,
throws me.
Theres a girl standing next to her, shouting at the top of
her lungs, waving her sign in the air with all the energy of a kid
flying her first kite. She elbows the beauty, prompting her to
laugh and raise her sign higher.
On my side I can hear peoples chants rising: Stop the
Boats! No to Queue Jumpers! Islam is Fascism! But my
voice isnt working.
Suddenly Johns beside me. He nudges me in the side and
scoffs, Theyre a disgrace, arent they?
I manage a grunt. John grimaces and motions to my sign,

5
which Ive inadvertently lowered. I quickly hold it up, smile
meekly at him, and wonder what the girls name is.

So it was a success? I ask Dad on our way home.

Dad smacks the steering wheel with both hands and lets
out a cheer. Michael, it was brilliant! Ill be on the news
tonightwell, maybe, they said they couldnt guarantee, and
only for half a minute, but its still something...
It would help your organization out if it runs. Did you
tell Mum?
She couldnt talk. She texted though.
They having fun?
Dad chuckles. You kidding? Theyve sent about fifty pho-
tos already. Nathans in heaven.
He turns to face me as we stop at a traffic light. Hungry?
Ravenous.
Joes shop at the Village closes tomorrow. You up for
some fish and chips? A chiko roll?
Sounds good.
He changes lanes, makes the yellow light, and turns left.
Could be the last chiko roll this area ever sees, Michael.
The way the place is going, some trendy caf will open s erving
free-range organic duck on a bed of foraged mushrooms.
I chuckle. Dad. Wow. That was kind of meme-worthy. Im
impressed.

6
 Your mum and I were over at Joes the other night. Twenty
years hes been there, Michael. Poor guys taking it badly.
Wheres he going to go?
Go? Thats it, Michael. He has to retire now. People like Joe
dont start over. Hes priced out of the area now. Hell take
his fiberglass shark thats been up on that wall since the sev-
enties, hang it in his lounge room at home, and get a
subscription to Netflix.
We turn into the parking lot behind the local shops and
Dad parks the car. He turns off the ignition, faces me, and looks
me in the eye. Thats why were fighting, Michael. For people
like Joe.
Lets go get our last chiko roll then.
For Joe, Dad says.

7
 Mina

This will be the last time I wake up here. I keep my eyes

closed, savor my final moments lying in bed listening to the
cacophony of morning sounds from nearby Auburn Road. If I
concentrate hard enough I can bring the place alive: the fish-
mongers van rumbling around the corner and over the
uneven asphalt of the alley behind the mall adjacent to our
house. The pungent scent of fish wafting out of the fish shop
at the entrance to the mall. The fruit and vegetable store
teeming with early morning shoppers, nobody queuing up,
everybody somehow managing to buy their stuff without any
fuss. The group of Sudanese men sitting at the corner coffee
shop, smoking, sipping coffee, and talking. Big W next to a
discount shop, a cheap lingerie stall, and a hijabi/anything-goes
fashion house fronted by mannequins dressed in jeggings,
long shapeless abayas, or sequined minidresses. Mehmet will
be starting on the salads at the corner Adana shop, while
Ferhat mounts the doner kebabs onto the sticks. Theres

8
something for everyone here, and Im leaving this corner of
my world, the only world Ive known since arriving in Australia
from Afghanistan ten years ago, to move to the lower North
Shore of Sydney.
My mum knocks on my door. Come on, Mina! she says,
her voice strained. She opens the door and sticks her head in.
Ten more minutes, I groan.
Nine, she counters, and goes downstairs.
I throw the duvet over my head and plug in my earphones.
Eventually Mum forces me out of bed and we spend the
morning packing the last loose items and wiping down walls,
doors, and cupboards. We fall into a rhythm. We work hard,
every mark on the wall taunting us: Youll have to wipe harder
if you want the deposit back. By the time were done, Im
exhausted. I collapse onto a chair.
Wasnt Baba due with the van half an hour ago?
Flat tire. Mum carefully ties her hair into a bun at the
nape of her neck. I told him to book that local company but
you know him. He likes to do things himself. Unplug the ear-
phones, Mina. Ive told you a million times. Youll be deaf
before you turn twenty listening to that rubbish.
My mum hates my taste in music. She thinks itll make me
want to pierce my entire body, chop off my hair to look like
the lesbians, and elope with a tattooist.
Baba better not scratch my chair. Make sure he doesnt,
Mum. Im not optimistic. My stepfather likes to think of

9
himself as a jack-of-all-trades. Hes a chef, and moving furni-
ture is not his strong point.
My mum fixes her eyes on me. Youre still insisting on tak-
ing that old thing with you?
I give her a defiant look. Im not backing down.
She looks like she has a whole lot more to say but then a
slight smile ruffles her composure.
I smile, probably smugly.
Fine, she says.
Mum had me when she was very young. Shes thirty-three
now and our battles can sometimes feel like sibling rivalry.
Shes not a yeller, never has been. Her emotions are tucked
deep inside her body, but she doesnt need to scream and
shout for me to know how she feels.
I found the chair in an antique store in Leura on a day trip
to the Blue Mountains last year. It reminded me of the chair
in my fathers study in our house in Afghanistan. Quilt pad-
ded, floral greens and mauves, a high curved back. I have
nothing left of my life in Afghanistan except faded memories.
The Taliban destroyed most of my life. What wasnt destroyed,
we left behind, including my father in his grave.
I continue working but Im hungry now. I can feel my stom-
ach muscles tighten.
Ill go get us some lunch, I say, grabbing my handbag from
the corner of the now empty family room.
Her face lights up. That would be nice actually.

10
 Our last chance to get the best food within walking dis-
tance of home before we move to Pretentiousville, where
you pay triple the price for Kabuli palaw.
Mum chuckles softly. In some areas, the more expensive,
the more exotic.
Twenty minutes later Im back with fresh bread, chicken
sheesh, dips, hot chips, tabouli, and cold drinks. We sit on the
tiles and use a suitcase as a table.
Mum eats slowly, calmly. Im scarfing my food down, but its
more than hunger. I suddenly feel a heightened awareness of
everything, the aroma of garlic and mixed spice in the foods,
the sound of traffic outside. Eating this food here, now, in our
empty duplex, a surge of emotion charges through me.
Tell me again, I say, how big is the apartment were
moving to?
Mum looks at me, chewing her bread slowly. Finally, she
replies, It would probably fit into the downstairs space here.
I cant see why we have to move. I could just catch public
transport to Victoria College. We belong here.
She takes a long sip of water, then wipes her mouth with a
tissue.
I dont want you spending hours on public transport. You
need to be focused on your studies. Getting a scholarship is
one thing. Keeping it is another.
The stakes arent high enough already, Mum?
Mum tilts her head to the side and looks at me fondly. A

11
scholarship for eleventh grade at one of the top schools? You
know Im proud of you, Mina. Anyway, you wont be the only
one under pressure. Were opening the new restaurant there
too. Its a big change for us all. She sighs. Double the rent for
the restaurant over there though. The supplies will cost a lot
too. It used to be a fish and chip shop.
So youve got a lot of work ahead of you, hey?
She shrugs. Thats for Baba and Irfan to deal with. Ive got
other plans.
Surprised, I quiz her. Such as?
But she just shrugs again and moves the food around on
her plate. Just plans. She fixes her eyes on me again and, as
an afterthought, adds, Plans that involve making sure you get
the scholarship for twelfth grade too.
The scholarship had been the idea of my teachers at
Auburn Grove Girls High. My parents immediately embraced
it, even though the logistics of living in Auburn and going
to school in the lower North Shore would be complicated, to
say the least. But they had big dreams for me. They wanted
me to have the best education and the best future. Moving
out of Western Sydney hadnt been part of the plan though.
Baba had a successful restaurant here. Mum did all kinds of
creative outreach classes at the community center, and
worked at the after-school care at one of the local grade
schools. Auburn has been home ever since Mum and I were
released from Villawood detention center, ten years ago.

12
 But then I passed the scholarship exam. And we discov-
ered the transport situation would be two hours minimum
on either side of the school day. Then my parents heard that
the Lane Cove shops could do with some exotic food. One
thing led to another, and now here we are sitting among
boxes about to relocate. I feel like border control will demand
to see our visas when the moving van ventures beyond
Parramatta Road.
A silence settles between us as we finish our meal. Then
suddenly, without warning, Mum says, By the way, did you go
to the protest with Maha yesterday?
I reassure her that I had Babas permission and just went
along with Maha because Aysha bailed on her. She doesnt
need to know I was curious too. She doesnt want me getting
involved in political stuff. Not with my scholarship.
Shes up now, pacing back and forth in front of the line of
boxes, checking theyre sealed and labeled. Youve got
enough to worry about without going to protest marches.
She stops and, with a sigh, corrects herself. Weve got enough
to worry about, Mina. Weve made a new life for ourselves
here. Lets be grateful for that rather than drawing attention
to ourselves. All I want is for you to get the best grades pos-
sible. Be a doctor or a lawyer. And to do that you need
to focus.
You know, that kind of pressure doesnt help, Mum. Im
about to start a terrifying chapter in my life... I stand in

13
front of her, swigging down the last of my drink. You do real-
ize that, dont you?
Of course I do. But you were also smuggled out of a war
zone, lived in a refugee camp, traveled here on a leaky boat,
and were locked in detention for months. By all means be
scared. And then, without a hint of irony, she adds, But just
remember, Im expecting you to be top of your class.
Shes done it. Shes actually pulled out that card. Ive got
nothing to trump that.

14