Huda and Me by H. Hayek (summer beach reads TXT) 📗

out what side our seats are on. ‘I’ll be down to check on you in a little while.’

This plane is almost twice the size of the one we flew on from Melbourne. There are three seats on each side of the aircraft, by the windows, and four in the middle. They stretch on for what looks like hundreds of rows.

We’re the first on the plane, and we take our time getting into our spots. Huda takes the seat closest to the window again. I sit next to her, and we keep the third seat for our stuff.

The plane fills up quickly, and before we know it they play the safety video. After that, we’re in the air. Martin pops past and I give him a thumbs up. Everything is going perfectly.

I decide to chill out with a movie and begin to flick through the options on the screen in front of me. There are a million to choose from, and I read each summary, finally deciding on a new-release movie about aliens and zombies that Mum and Dad would never let me watch at home.

Just as I’m about to hit play, Huda elbows me. ‘Gotta go to the dunny. Move over.’

She squeezes past me before I can even lift my tray-table, tangling my headphones. I grab my headset before she drags it down the aisle, pop it back over my ears, and hit play again on my movie. An alien begins to attack a family of zombies, and I sigh happily.

Just as the zombies are about to rip off the alien’s head, through the gap between the seats ahead, I spot Huda charging back up the plane aisle. Her hijab is twisted to the side, and tears stream down her face.

I hit pause on the movie, right at the bit where blood spurts out of the alien’s ears. Huda’s in such a hurry to get back to her seat that she’s bumping into people and knocking things off their tray-tables. She squeezes past me and curls into a ball on her seat.

‘Huda, what’s wrong? What happened?’

She doesn’t answer. I wonder if she finally saw her reflection properly in the toilet mirror and realised she looks a bit too dressed up.

‘If it’s about what you’re wearing, don’t worry, you look okay.’ I’ve heard it’s okay to tell a white lie to make people feel better.

She sobs harder and covers her face with her hands.

‘You look all right. Really.’

Huda whispers, ‘Are you sure, Akeal?’

‘Of course I’m sure. Would I lie to you?’

I’m about to hit play to see whether the zombies will actually eat the leftover alien bits when Huda speaks again.

‘Because the boy called me a little terrorist. He told me to take “that thing” off my head.’

I feel like I’ve been hit by a cricket bat. I wonder if I heard her wrong.

‘What are you talking about?’ I stutter the words. They stick in my throat.

She sits up and wipes her wet cheeks with the sleeve of her jumper. Then she sniffs and rubs her nose with her fist.

‘I went to the fancy toilets at the front of the plane. The ones for the rich people. I was waiting my turn to go in and an older boy came and stood next to me. He was looking at me a lot. Like he was gonna say I look nice in my scarf or something.’

My sister’s voice is croaky and soft, and I can barely make out some of the words she’s saying. She pauses and swallows. Hard. Like it hurts to talk.

‘Then he said Muslims are bad, and that I probably want to hurt him. I don’t understand what he was talking about. I don’t even have a toy gun. And then …’

Huda’s breathing gets deeper and heavier. She can’t get the words out through her tears.

‘And then what happened, Huda?’ I need to know, but I don’t want to hear it.

‘Then he grabbed my hijab and tried to pull it off.’ Huda’s tears take over and she curls up again.

Her face is red and wet. Her fringe sticks out of the front of her scarf and a few diamantes are falling off. I put my arm over her, so she’s wrapped up like she’s in a cocoon.

Martin dashes towards us from the front end of the plane and kneels down. His face is flushed, and his voice is serious.

‘I’m sorry about what just happened, Hooda.’

Huda doesn’t look at Martin.

‘Sometimes people can be …’ Martin pauses. He doesn’t know the word he’s looking for.

‘Mean,’ says Huda quietly, from inside her cocoon.

‘Racist,’ I say. I’ve heard of stuff like this, and worse, happening on the news.

Martin nods. ‘But I don’t want you to worry. The boy won’t be coming anywhere near you for the rest of the flight.’

Huda slowly unravels herself from her ball. She blinks her eyes a few times and clears her throat. Then she wipes her runny nose with the sleeve of her jumper again.

‘It’s okay, Martin. That boy is nasty, but I feel sorry for him for being so stupid,’ she says through sniffles.

Martin takes a clean tissue from his pocket and hands it to my sister, but she waves her hand to say she doesn’t need it. She wipes her nose with her sleeve again instead.

‘I know it probably doesn’t mean much right now, but I think you look lovely in your scarf, Hooda,’ says Martin.

Huda half-smiles. ‘You think so, Martin?’

She’s still sniffling, but I know she’s hoping he keeps going with the compliments.

‘Yes, pink is totally your colour.’ Martin’s normal voice is back. He leans over and adjusts her hijab so it’s sitting right again on her head. Huda closes her eyes while he does it, as though she’s at the hairdresser.

Martin knows just what it takes to make her feel better. I feel a bit awkward sitting there between the two of them, but I’m glad my sister isn’t crying anymore.

‘How about an ice-cream?’ says Martin, rubbing his hands together.

Huda’s eyes widen. ‘Yes, please!