The Sassy Saints Series Books 1-3: Sassy Saints Series, #3.5

MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA

https://www.pishukinpress.com/

Copyright © 2023 by Amra Pajalić

First Published 2023

Pishukin Press

All rights reserved. This book is copyright. Apart from fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the copyright act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission from author.

Cover design: Created using Canva elements

Sabiha's Dilemma previously published 2022

Alma's Loyalty previously published 2022

Jesse's Triumph previously published 2023

For content and trigger warnings please go to www.amrapajalic.com/themes

Pre-publication data is available from the National Library of Australia trove.nla.gov.au

Box Set Ebook edition ISBN 9781922871428

Praise

’... would be excellent for class study as it concerns matters of modern Australian multiculturalism, the question of belonging and issues of identity.′ Fiction Focus

‘... is a candid, insightful story and a realistic portrayal of a teenager in crisis.’ Magpies

’A funny and challenging debut novel that has been described as the Bosnian answer to Looking for Alibrandi... a gritty and enjoyable novel, at times unflinching and dramatic.′ Canberra Times

′... is the debut novel from new Melbourne author Amra Pajalić and it’s one you won’t want to miss! It’s a funny and honest story about Sahiba, a teen girl growing up in Melbourne’s western suburbs who’s trying to deal with family traditions and her own desire to do what she wants. (5 stars).′ Girlfriend Magazine

‘Amra Pajalić writes with such honesty every young adult will empathise with her… While dealing with some ordinary stuff Pajalić‘s observations are sincere and often hilarious.’ Bendigo Advertiser

‘This multicultural story is frustrating, funny and sad with an ending that promises there is still much more to tell about Sabiha’s life. I hope so. Loved it. Want more!’ The Reading Stack

‘Insightful… A spirited debut novel.’ Herald Sun

‘Written with a light and comic touch… Pajalić brings a fresh voice to Australian Young Adult fiction through a funny, endearing, tough and ultimately resilient, first-person narrator.’ Viewpoint

‘Rewarding, poignant and occasionally chuckle-out-loud funny.’ Books Buzz

‘A raw and honest story about duty and the desire to run free. A strong new voice in Australian fiction.’ Melina Marchetta

‘It had me in stitches. Hilarious, poignant, gutsy and real.’ Randa Abdel-Fattah

‘Funny, sharp and insightful.’ Simmone Howell

A note on pronunciation:

Č č—Ch sound

Ć ć—a softer Ch sound

Đ đ—softer Dj sound

Š š—Sh sound

Ž ž—Dj sound

About the Author

Amra Pajalić is an award-winning author, an editor and teacher who draws on her Bosnian cultural heritage to write own voices stories for young people, who like her, are searching to mediate their identity and take pride in their diverse culture. Her short story collection The Cuckoo’s Song (Pishukin Press, 2022) features previously published and prize-winning stories. Her debut novel The Good Daughter, was published by Text Publishing in 2009 and won the 2009 Melbourne Prize for Literature’s Civic Choice Award and is re-released as Sabiha’s Dilemma (Pishukin Press, 2022).

Her memoir Things Nobody Knows But Me (Transit Lounge, 2019) was shortlisted for the 2020 National Biography Award. She is co-editor of the anthology Growing up Muslim in Australia (Allen and Unwin, 2014) which was shortlisted for the 2015 Children’s Book Council of the year awards. She works as a high school teacher and is completing a PhD in Creative Writing at La Trobe University.

Amra Pajalić publishes her dark fiction using pen name A. P. Pajalic. She also publishes romance novels under pen name Mae Archer. 

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A guide for international readers

This book is set in Australia and uses British English spelling. Some spellings may differ from those used in American English.

Australia’s seasons are at opposite times to those in the northern hemisphere. Summer is December–February, autumn is March–May, winter is June–August, and spring is September–November. Christmas is in summer.

In the Australian school system, primary school is for grades Kindergarten to Grade 6, and high school is for grades Year 7–12. Secondary college is a name frequently used for high school. Tertiary education after high school is either at universities and TAFE (technical and further education) institutions.

In Australia, each school year starts in late January and finishes mid-December.

The legal drinking age in Australia is 18 years old.

AUSTUDY is financial help if you’re 25 or older and studying or completing an Australian apprenticeship.

Contents

Sabiha's Dilemma

Massacre

Alma's Loyalty

Reckoning Short Story

Jesse's Triumph

Contents

1. Chapter 1

2. Chapter 2

3. Chapter 3

4. Chapter 4

5. Chapter 5

6. Chapter 6

7. Chapter 7

8. Chapter 8

9. Chapter 9

10. Chapter 10

11. Chapter 11

12. Chapter 12

13. Chapter 13

14. Chapter 14

15. Chapter 15

16. Chapter 16

17. Chapter 17

18. Chapter 18

19. Chapter 19

20. Chapter 20

21. Glossary

Bonus Material

Chapter 1

When I stepped out of my bedroom ready to leave, Mum gasped. ‘You can’t go like that!’ And pushed me back into the bedroom. We were going to a zabava, the Bosnian name for a party. Zabava’s were organised twice a year, once as a community meet and greet, the second to celebrate Ramadan, the Muslim religious month of fasting. This would be my first attendance.

‘Why not?’ I demanded, my hands on my hips as I twirled. I wore a little black dress Mum bought for my fifteenth birthday. I’d grown in the year since and the dress moulded to my body. I wore the dress a few months before, when we attended a work barbecue for Dave, Mum’s ex-boyfriend. Mum complimented me then.

‘It’s not suitable.’ Mum rifled through my wardrobe.

Even though both my parents are from Bosnia, I didn’t have anything to do with the community. When I was six-years-old Mum moved us to the inner-city. Now that I was sixteen we were back where we’d started—in St Albans.

Even though St Albans was established in 1887, at least that’s what the plaque at St Albans train station said, you couldn’t tell by walking through the bustling centre. The buildings are two-storey plain block structures with tin roofs. The shop fronts are a mix of European, who settled after the post World War II boom, and Vietnamese who came in the 1970s.

St Albans’ only distinguishing feature was the streets formed into perfect rectangles, an absence of trees on nature strips and the fact that every second shop is a pharmacy catering to the ageing population.

There were always Yugos in St Albans and after the Balkan war in the early 1990s the population exploded with refugees from all sides settling there. It wasn’t a coincidence that Mum and I moved away, while everyone else moved into St Albans.

I never thought of myself as Bosnian. I was born in Australia, all my friends were Australian, and if I thought about it all I would have called myself a true blue Aussie. All that changed three months ago.

‘What’s wrong with my dress?’ I admired myself in the mirror.

‘You’re too, too...’

‘Beautiful, hot, gorgeous, sexy.’ I cocked my hip. The black dress brought out the highlights in my dark blonde hair. The V-line showed off my cleavage, while the mini skirt made my legs look longer.

My bedroom door was pushed open. ′Hajmo,′ my grandfather demanded that we leave. He caught a glimpse of me. ′Bože sačuvaj,′ he hissed, which meant ‘God Save Us,’ and turned his back so he couldn’t see me.

’Bahra, nađi joj nešto drugo da obuće,′ his torrent of Bosnian came in lightning-fast bursts. I understood that he wanted my Mum, Bahra, to find me something else to wear, what would people think if they saw how I was dressed, that I was a whore, and then I lost him.

‘Did Dido call me a whore?’

‘He said you look like a whore because of your make-up.’

My grandparents were supposed to come to Australia with my Aunt Zehra and her family after the Balkan War in 1995, but my grandmother’s diabetes made her too ill to travel. When my grandmother passed away last year, my grandfather came to Australia and lived with my Aunt Zehra and Uncle Hakija.

Unfortunately for me that lasted a few months before Uncle Hakija and Dido couldn’t stay under the same roof. Auntie Zehra manipulated Dido into leaving—apparently by telling him that Bahra needed to be with him after all these years. And then she served up a good dose of guilt to her sister about being the black sheep, and about all the embarrassment Mum caused by shacking up with an Aussie. So Mum caved in and she and I made the move back to the western suburbs. And Dido moved in with us. And my life became hell, because of him.

I checked my make-up in the mirror. My foundation was flawless, making my pale skin blemish free. The liquid eyeliner and eye-shadow brought out my green eyes. I was wearing the basic make-up any teenage girl would wear to an evening function.

‘He’s whacked, Mum.’

She glanced at my face quickly. ‘You’ll have to tone it down.’

‘But I’m wearing regular make-up.’

‘We need to make a good impression.’ Mum sighed.

‘You’re saying we’re not good enough.’

‘No.’ Mum put her hands on my shoulders. ‘Tonight is a very important night. It’s the first time we’re attending a Bosnian function as a family and we’re all anxious about looking our best.’

I had to admit tonight was Mum’s night. During the refugee onslaught my Auntie Zehra’s family had arrived from Bosnia and we’d managed to play happy families for a total of two years, before Mum and Auntie Zehra had a falling out. We hadn’t had anything to do with each other during the ten years we lived in the inner-city, but tonight was The Reunion.

She hugged me, but I held myself stiff in her embrace.

‘I look great.’ I pulled away from her, forcing her to look at me. ‘Don’t I?’

Mum hesitated. ‘Yes, you do—’

‘What are we waiting for? Let’s go.’ I headed for the door.

’But this isn’t an Australian function. This is a zabava. Everyone will be watching us, judging us, judging me.′ Mum winced.

Mum and I weren’t what you would call traditional Bosnians. More like exiles returning to the fold. Mum had made some bad decisions. At the age of eighteen, she married my father, who brought her to Australia. After my birth she had a nervous breakdown and went to hospital. My Dad left us because he didn’t want a mental patient for a wife; so Mum embarked on what I called her ‘Finding a Daddy’ phase when she dated every Bosnian man in sight, supposedly to find a father for me. Some lasted a night, some a week, some a few months, but inevitably they all left us. She ended up getting a bad reputation and this was one of the reasons why we moved out of St Albans.

‘Please Sam-Sabiha, be good for me.’

For years I’d called myself Sammie Omerović and so had Mum. It was the easier option because most Australians had to be taught to pronounce the ‘h’ in my name, and then there was the deciding incident.

I’d been looking forward to Grade 6 camp the whole year. We went to a farm in Victoria’s countryside and I had fantasies of milking cows and riding horses, but what I hadn’t envisioned was my camp leader and his wife. On the first day of camp Mr Howard asked all the students for their name. When it was my turn the conversation went something like this:

Mr Howard: ‘That’s an interesting name. Where are you from?’

Me: ‘Thornbury.’

Mr Howard: ‘No.’ He laughed. ‘Which country.’

Me: ‘Australia.’

Mr Howard: ‘Your name isn’t Australian.’

Me: ‘It’s Bosnian.’

Mr Howard: ‘Ah, so you’re Bosnian.’

That should have been the end of the story, but then I met his wife.

Mrs Howard: ‘Where is your name from?’

Me: ‘I’m Bosnian.’

Mrs Howard: ‘When did you come to Australia?’

Me: ‘I was born here.’

Mrs Howard: ‘So you’re Australian.’

Me: ‘Yes.’

While I had many conversations that went along these lines, what made this so different was that Kristy Newman, my Grade Six nemesis, witnessed both. She made the three-day camp a living hell by by calling me Sabiha-No-Country.

When I came home from camp I told Mum I wanted to change my name to something more Australian. By the time I began high school I had a clean slate and everyone knew me as Sammie Omerović. Now that we were embracing our ethnic roots I was Sabiha again...

‘Bahra.’ My grandfather was getting angrier with Mum.

‘There’s nothing suitable here.’ Mum closed my wardrobe doors. ‘Find something in my wardrobe.’

‘Mum,’ I whinged.

‘Please Sabiha.’ Mum gave me a harried look and went to answer Dido’s demands.

I sighed heavily as I rifled through Mum’s wardrobe. It used to be fun playing dress-ups in Mum’s wardrobe when I was a child, but now it would be a disaster. Mum was a few inches taller than me and her figure was fuller. Anything I put on would hang like a sack.

As I pushed her clothes along a parcel fell at my feet. I bent and picked up a bundle of letters tied with a ribbon. I pulled a letter out, but it was written in Bosnian and I couldn’t understand much. I glanced at the salutation and saw it was signed from ‘Darko.’ Another old boyfriend? But this name didn’t ring any bells... I returned the letter to its envelope and tossed the bundle back to the bottom of the wardrobe. I’d make sure to come back and decipher them later.

‘How did you go?’ Mum asked as she rushed in.

‘There’s nothing here that will fit me.’ I shut the wardrobe doors.

‘Nice try.’ Mum opened the doors.

‘No way.’ I cringed as Mum held out the dress to me. And that’s how I ended up at the zabava, without a spec of make up and wearing the dorkiest outfit in the history of female fashion.

‘Nice dress,’ snickered my cousin Adnan as I sat in the chair next to him. I stiffened. His sister Merisa gave me a dismissive once-over. She was wearing a silver silk suit jacket and skirt that was fitted around her tall willowy body. She’d managed to toe the line between modesty and good taste without looking frumpy. Unfortunately I wasn’t so lucky.

Adnan pinched a fold of fabric between his fingers. ’For your birthday I’ll get you a subscription to Vogue.′

I went red. It was one of Mum’s ‘conservative’ dresses. On her it was a knee-length fitted dress with a scooped neckline and almost skin-tight; but on my thinner frame the hem reached my calves and the scooped neckline was too low, so Mum had insisted I wear a top underneath. I looked like an op-shop reject.

‘Read between the lines, buddy.’ I lifted my hand, joining my thumb and little finger and keeping my other three fingers in a straight line. I caught my Aunt’s eye across the table. Guiltily I put my hand down by my side.

‘You look nice,’ she called out.

I forced a smile. ‘Thanks.’ Adnan smothered a laugh. I elbowed him. Having a family was way overrated.

I examined what other people were wearing. If you say you’re Muslim most people go to the stereotype of the turban-wearing, bearded Arab-man or the hijab-wearing subjugated Arab woman. They don’t get that there are 1.5 billion people practicing Islam in 57 languages and that each ethnic group had a different way of expressing their religion. Since the Balkan War people know of Bosnia, but they don’t know about Bosnians. They don’t understand why women aren’t covered up and men aren’t turbaned.

I hadn’t known either, but since Dido moved in his pet project was to educate me about my ‘roots.’ He told me that Bosnians were ruled by the Turkish Ottoman Empire from fifteenth to the early twentieth century, that most Bosnians converted from the Bosnian Church to Islam. As a result we have a lot of Turkish words in our vocabulary and dress like Turks in Western fashion.

Most of the people at the zabava wore regular clothes. The men were in suits and the women wore loose clothing with no skin showing. There were a few older women who were covered up, but instead of the hijab they wore a headscarf. Single young men wore jeans and a shirt. Adnan said he’d tried to do the same, but Auntie Zehra ordered him to change into a suit.

Mum waved to someone. I turned and groaned. Safet and his sister Safeta were making their way over to our table. It was the Bosnian tradition to use one name in the family and add variations to it, the most popular being adding an ‘a’ to make names female.

’Salaam Aleykum,′ Mum said, uttering the Arabic greeting, ‘Peace be unto you.’

’Aleykumu Salaam,′ Safet returned the greeting. Bosnians speak a Southern Slavic language, like most people in the Balkans, but they use a few Arabic words and greetings that they learnt, because all Muslims pray in Arabic. Mum introduced Safet as her special friend. In private she called him her boyfriend, even though they’d only been going out for a month. I was reserving judgement.

The men shook hands with Safet, my Uncle Hakija making a point of greeting him with Zdravo, ‘Hello’, to needle my grandfather. Uncle Hakija was still a fervent communist and a thorn in Dido’s side. Dido explained that it was an insult to use non-Muslim greetings among Muslims. These were reserved for mixed company only.

I turned to find Safeta standing behind me, holding out her arms. I leaned in for the kiss on the cheeks, another custom. We were pretty relaxed about it. I used to have a Turkish friend and I’d never seen so much cheek-kissing in my life. They have the whole three-kiss thing down pat. We used to do the three-kiss thing too, but we dropped it because the Serbs have the same practice with their three-fingered crossing of the chest.

Usually I managed to avoid kissing, but Safeta was trying to impress and was over-compensating. She thought she had to win me over. She didn’t know that Mum’s boyfriends never lasted and that I’d stopped caring one way or another.

Safet and Safeta sat on the seats we’d been saving for them. Dido watched Safet with approval. Safet used to be a university professor before the war and was considered a catch, even though he worked as a taxi driver in Australia—that is, when he chose to work.

Soon after the preliminaries they moved onto their favourite game. Safet and Safeta were originally from Prijedor, while Mum’s family came from Banja Luka, which was roughly an hour away.

‘Do you know Ishmael Šahović and his wife Husna?’ Safet asked, ash hanging off his cigarette. My Auntie and Uncle looked blank.

‘He has a daughter Esma, and a son Faruk,’ Safet’s sister added. Auntie and Uncle shook their heads.

They could keep this up forever, trying to find a tenuous link, a friend of a friend of a second cousin whose mother was related by marriage to their grandfather five generations back.

When I called this the ‘Connect the Bosnian Game’, Mum told me off. She said that in Bosnia everyone knew his or her neighbours within a twenty-kilometre radius. Bosnia and Herzegovina was roughly half the size of Tasmania and had a population of 4.1 million, so even if you were dropped on the other side of the country by direction-challenged aliens, chances were you’d find people who knew someone you did.

Now that everyone was scattered to the four corners of the world this was the only way they had of learning about their former neighbours and creating a sense of community. They also trawled the telephone directories looking for possible relatives. When they found someone with the same surname they’d call to sniff out if there was a family connection.

Mum told me that Bosnians who arrived in Australia during the 1970s were desperate for kinship and that anyone with the same surname would become a cousin, whether they were a blood relative or not. Now that there was a larger population there was no need to settle like that.

As they talked I opened my bag and found my mobile. I typed in a message: ‘Hope you’re having a better time than me. Love Sammie.’ I scrolled to Kathleen’s name in my address book and pressed ‘send’. Kathleen was my best friend. We were friends since primary school when Mum and I lived in Thornbury.

During the summer holidays we still saw each other regularly. She visited me once, but my grandfather was less than welcoming so mostly I travelled down her way and we met in the city or hit the op-shops and cafés around Brunswick Street, in Fitzroy.

In the week since I started Year 10 at my new school, St Albans High, we hadn’t spoken much. I was used to seeing her every day, and then we’d call each other after school, or send an email or text message. I missed her. I returned my mobile to my handbag. When I tuned back into the conversation they were talking about the war, again. I was so sick of hearing about the war.

‘I was on the front line,’ Uncle Hakija said. ‘That’s where I got injured.’ He touched his stomach. There was a collective sigh by the group. There weren’t many men who could claim hero status. Most men fled with their families when the war broke out.

When he arrived in Australia Uncle Hakija had surgery to repair the damage to his gut. He attempted working for a few years, but his health was frail and he was in too much pain. Now he tended to the garden and ran errands, while Auntie Zehra and my cousin Merisa, who was 20 years old, worked as cleaners. In Bosnia, Hakija had been a veterinarian and Zehra was a nurse.

‘I lost my wife and two daughters. My oldest would be Sabiha’s age.’ It was Safet’s turn and he glanced at me. We all shook our heads on cue.

‘My fiancé was a police officer in Prijedor. After Serbs seized the city he was arrested, with all the other officials and non-Serb leaders. I never heard from him. They were probably sent to Omarska,’ Safeta said.

We all looked down, remembering the television images of emaciated men staring at the camera through steel fences. Omarska was the Serb-run concentration camp in which Bosnians were imprisoned, the Bosnian equivalent of Auschwitz. Even though I was sick of the constant talk about the war, when I remembered those images, I realised why they couldn’t let it go.

I turned away and watched the Bosnian folk dancing on what passed as the dance floor. When Mum talked about attending the zabava I’d imagined a fancy ball, instead we were in a high school gym. There were folding tables and plastic chairs laid out in long rows from one end of the gym to the other with a walkway in the middle.

In the canteen attached to the gym the women were making food. Heavy clouds of cigarette smoke hung over the tables blending with the smell of sweat, onions and cooked meat. On the stage behind me a folk band were producing an ear-piercing tune. Some people would call it music, but I wasn’t one of them.

While I watched the folk dancing it had seemed deceptively easy. Dance in a circle holding hands as if you’re in a conga line and shuffle your feet in a quick two-step. But for some reason I lacked the necessary rhythm to transform the simple moves into a high-spirited jig.

When I tried dancing it looked like I was jumping on a pogo stick. Mum had natural rhythm. Her cheeks were flushed, a wide smile on her face as her feet kicked in unison with the other dancers.

As we walked back to our table a man stared at us. ‘Isn’t that Mustafa?’ I asked Mum as we sat. Another ex-boyfriend—he’d lasted nearly a year and was one of the rare guys I’d liked. I smiled and lifted my hand to wave.

‘Don’t.’ Mum slapped my hand down. ‘He’s with his wife.’

A little girl about eight years old sat on his lap. His wife noticed me staring. I looked away and met my Aunt’s gaze.

Auntie Zehra cast Mum a scathing look. Mum blushed. Auntie looked like she was about to get stuck into her sister.

‘I’m hungry,’ I exclaimed loudly.

Uncle Hakija and Adnan stood to get ćevapi and soft drinks for us to eat. I loved ćevapi. The grilled skinless sausages made with minced beef or lamb, garlic and spices served on a Turkish roll with diced onion. While we were eating they resumed their conversation.

Uncle Hakija had a toothpick between his lips. ‘The war happened because of who we are. It’s backward the way everyone’s identity is decided by his or her religious beliefs. We call Bosnian Catholics Croatians, or Orthodox Bosnians Serbs, even if their family has lived in Bosnia for centuries.’

Uncle Hakija’s theory was that there were no problems when former Yugoslavia existed under the communist President Tito who led the Partisans to defeat the Nazis in World War II. It was only when Tito passed away in 1980 and communism was eroded that tensions started simmering as everyone sought independence.

Dido thumped the table. ’Those Orthodox Bosnians are Serbs. If they weren’t why did they rise up in the coup d’ etat even though they’d been living in Bosnia all their lives?′

‘Just like you were a Muslim all your life.’ Uncle Hakija made a dig at Dido’s previous life as a communist. Dido was now a Born-Again-Muslim like most of the Bosnians since the war.

‘I did what I had to do,’ Dido defended. ‘It was the only way to make a life.’

While those with religious beliefs weren’t persecuted in Yugoslavia the way they were in other communist countries, they weren’t promoted at work and given opportunities that communist party members received.

Safet clapped Dido on the shoulder. ‘Come on friends, let’s talk of happy things.’

Auntie Zehra covered Uncle Hakija’s hand. ‘We came to have a good time, not rehash old arguments.’

Dido and Uncle Hakija engaged in a staring contest. Safet and Safeta finished eating and left to speak to friends at another table.

Mum picked at her ćevapi. ‘Do you want it?’ she asked Uncle Hakija. He broke the stare, smiled and shook his head.

Auntie Zehra narrowed her eyes at them. ‘You were always wasteful, Bahra.’ Using a fork she transferred the ćevapi to her plate. ‘You need to eat more.’ She bit into a ćevap and chewed it with relish.

Mum scrunched her nose and watched Safet as he worked the room. ‘I need to watch my figure.’

‘If you put meat on your bones you’d be able to keep a man.’ Auntie Zehra followed Mum’s gaze.

‘Not all men like big women,’ Mum replied.

Uncle Hakija pinched the roll of fat bulging over Auntie Zehra’s skirt. ‘You should watch your figure too.’

She slapped his hand, hard. ‘You should keep your eyes off other women’s figures.’

Uncle Hakija rubbed his hand. ‘I was joking.’

‘He didn’t mean anything by it,’ Mum said.

‘You’re in your thirties yet you’re as vain as a teenager,’ Auntie Zehra attacked Mum.

Even though Auntie Zehra was forty-two years old to Mum’s thirty-seven, she was right. Mum looked like she was twenty-something. She did push-ups and sit-ups every night to keep her figure trim, while Auntie Zehra’s weight aged her face and the frumpy clothing she wore made her look like a senior citizen.

Auntie Zehra kept going, pointing at Mum. ‘And you’re dressed like a whore.’ Mum’s only fault was that she looked too good. Her knee-length dress fitted against her curves and her cleavage was just visible.

After over fifty years of living under communist Yugoslavia, there were only a few customs Bosnians practised in their everyday life that identified them as Muslim: the names they gave their children, drinking Turkish coffee, and the fact that male children were circumcised. Since the war they were groping for a new-found sense of identity after being pigeon-holed as Muslim; and while many of them didn’t know how to be Muslim, they knew what didn’t make the grade and what got gossiped about. Skimpy clothes, drugs and pairings with non-Muslims were at the top of the hit-list. Mum had already received two out of three strikes.

Mum picked up her glass and took a sip, her hand trembling. She wasn’t good at confrontations.

‘That’s not—’ I interrupted my Aunt. Adnan pinched me under the table. ‘Ouch!’ I exclaimed.

‘Leave them to it,’ he whispered.

‘She’s my mother,’ I whispered back.

‘She’s her sister.’

I was about to speak, but he held up his fingers like he would pinch me again.

Uncle Hakija held Auntie Zehra’s hand and looked at Mum. ‘Bahra looks nice,’ he pronounced.

Auntie Zehra’s face was flushed and rivulets of sweat trickled from her temple. ‘Keep your eyes to yourself.’ She dug her nails into Uncle Hakija’s hand.

‘Zehra,’ Dido snapped. ‘This isn’t the time.’

Mum and Auntie Zehra’s bickering went back nearly twenty years ago when Uncle Hakija was courting Mum. Everyone expected that they would marry, but then my father came home from Australia to find a bride. Mum ended up marrying my Dad and moving to Australia, Auntie Zehra and Uncle Hakija married and stayed behind, and there’s never been peace between the two sisters since.

In the quiet afterward, we heard a hushed whisper at the table behind us. ‘That’s the woman who’s crazy.’

A woman at the table behind us scowled at Mum.

Chapter 2

Mum hunched in the seat beside me. Most of the Bosnians off the boat freaked out when they heard that Mum was bipolar. In communist Yugoslavia anyone who had a deformity or was afflicted were put in a home and separated from the rest of the population. Yet another reason why we avoided the Bosnian community.

‘She may be crazy, but at least she’s not dumb.’ Auntie Zehra glowered at the woman. The woman turned away. ‘Don’t pay any attention to them,’ Auntie Zehra told Mum. ‘They’re primitives,’ she said, her voice loud enough to carry.

The woman stiffened, but she didn’t look at us again. Mum smiled at Auntie Zehra, who nodded and kept eating her ćevapi. Mum fiddled with her dress, tugging the V-line to cover her cleavage.

‘Merisa, give Bahra your jacket,’ Auntie Zehra said.

Merisa sat on Mum’s other side. She took off her jacket and handed it to Mum.

‘You have to have to stop dressing like an Aussie.’ Auntie Zehra reached across the table and squeezed Mum’s hand.

‘I know.’ Mum smiled as she put the jacket on.

‘See,’ Adnan whispered in my ear. ‘I told you.’

‘Up yours,’ I whispered back.

Adnan left the table and I breathed a sigh of relief. I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. It was still weird that these people had a claim on Mum. For so many years we’d been our own independent unit. Unlike most mothers and daughters we were friends, but now everything was changing. I was relegated to the sidelines. I checked my mobile—no reply from Kathleen.

Merisa stood. ‘Where are you going?’ Auntie Zehra asked.

‘To the toilet,’ Merisa replied.

‘I’ll come too,’ I said, following her away from the table.

Inside the bathroom Merisa went to the mirror while I went to the toilet cubicle. As I washed my hands Merisa re-applied her make-up. I eyed her lipstick covetously. ‘Can I have some?’

‘I don’t think this is your colour.’ She used her finger to fix her lip line. I dried my hands using a paper towel directing a piercing stare at her in the mirror. Merisa sighed and handed me the tube. ‘Don’t break it.’ She was such a tight-arse. I rubbed it on my lips. ‘Not like that.’ Merisa blotted my lips with a tissue. ‘You don’t want to be obvious or Dido will go crazy.’

Adnan waited for us in front of the toilet doors. He and Merisa walked away from the door leading into the gym.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

‘To get some fresh air.’ Merisa’s tone was sharp. I knew I wasn’t welcome, but I didn’t care.

They hurried outside. I followed and heard snatches of conversation as we turned the corner. So this is where everyone under the age of twenty disappeared.

Merisa pulled out a pack of cigarettes from her handbag and popped one in her mouth. ‘Anyone got a light?’ she asked in Bosnian. A young man with a cigarette in his mouth flicked his lighter and put the flame to her cigarette. ‘Thanks.’ She exhaled smoke to the side.

He offered his hand. ‘Mooki, short for Muharem.’

‘Merisa.’ She smiled as they shook hands.

Adnan moved to another group. I edged closer to Merisa and she introduced me. I said hello, not knowing whether to offer my hand or not. Most Bosnians seemed to be into the handshake thing, but it felt weird to me.

‘Australian?’ Mooki asked. Merisa nodded.

Another young man put his arm around Mooki’s shoulders. ‘What have we got here?’

Mooki introduced his brother Ferid.

I watched them like I was at a tennis match, my head bobbing from side to side as they talked. I knew Merisa was keen on Mooki by the way she tilted her head and laughed. I thought that Merisa was pretty when I first saw her, but once I knew her better her bitchiness erased my first impression.

Adnan appeared at my side. ‘Got a light?’ he asked Merisa. She passed it to him without looking away from Mooki. Adnan lit his cigarette and returned the lighter. ‘Having a good time cuz?’ Adnan put his arm around me and squeezed me against him.

‘Let go,’ I muttered, pulling away from him.

He laughed, pinching my cheek before sauntering off.

I turned and saw Dina watching me. Dina and I now went to the same school and even had classes together. Our grandfathers used to be neighbours in Bosnia and since my Dido moved to St Albans they’d reconnected. Her grandfather was Edin, my grandfather’s chess-playing buddy and she was named after him. Her real name was Edina.

Last week, when I started at St Albans High, Mum talked to Dina’s mum, Suada, and asked Dina to show me around. Grudgingly, she and her best friend Gemma let me hang with them if I happened to find them, but they didn’t make it easy and were always moving.

Dina sidled up to me. ‘Is Adnan your boyfriend?’ she asked, her eyes following him as he rough-housed with his friends. Adnan went to our high school, but he was in Year 12.

‘No,’ I protested. ‘He’s my cousin.’

‘Your cousin?’ Dina said disbelievingly.

‘Our mums are sisters.’ Dina looked relieved and I realised that she liked him. There was no accounting for taste.

‘Wow, you’re Adnan’s cousin,’ she said it as if I was related to royalty.

You could call Adnan handsome. He was over six feet tall. He had bright blue eyes and brown hair, with a slight cleft in the chin. As his cousin I was immune to his charm since I was always the butt of his jokes.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were related?’ Dina said, pouting.

‘What’s the big deal?’ I asked.

Dina shrugged and gave me a smug smile.

Adnan appeared at my side. ‘Where is she?’

I looked around and saw that Merisa had disappeared.

‘Mum’s coming,’ he grunted.

Auntie zeroed in on Adnan.

‘Merisa’s gone back to the gym,’ Adnan said.

She walked on. I didn’t have a good feeling. Her face was flushed and a vein was popping in her forehead, like when she and Uncle Hakija were arguing. Adnan and I followed. Even though I tried to give my feet the signal to turn back to the gym, I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to see Merisa cop it.

Ten minutes later we found them. Merisa was leaning with her back against a building while Mooki had one hand above her head, his body nearly on top of hers. She turned her head away to exhale smoke and saw Auntie Zehra. Merisa stamped the cigarette under her foot. Mooki straightened and offered his hand to Auntie Zehra. After shaking hands, Auntie waited for us to start walking toward the gym before following in the rear.

‘You should have been more careful,’ Adnan said to Merisa.

‘What’s the big deal?’ I asked. ‘Merisa’s an adult.’

When we were away from the crowd Auntie sped up and caught up to us. ‘What were you doing with those boys?’ Auntie demanded, her voice tense as she kept from shouting. She had Merisa’s arm in an iron grip.

‘Nothing, Mum.’ Merisa was clearly in pain, but she didn’t pull away.

I’d been looking forward to Merisa getting in trouble, but seeing the Auntie’s scarcely suppressed rage, I wanted to get away.

‘Zehra! Babo wants you to come inside,’ Mum said as she approached. When Auntie ignored her, Mum tried to pull her away from Merisa. ‘Now isn’t the time.’ Mum pushed herself between Merisa and Auntie, but as Merisa moved away Auntie went for Mum.

‘Don’t tell me how to discipline my child. How do you think I felt hearing about all the men you slept with?’ Auntie Zehra’s face was ugly as she leaned into Mum. ‘Not even married men are safe from you.’

Mum put her hand on Auntie Zehra’s arm. ‘Zehra, there’s nothing between Hakija—’

‘I know there isn’t.’ Auntie Zehra threw her hand off. ‘I’m keeping an eagle eye on you both because I know what you’re capable of.’

Auntie looked around, realising we were in public. She stormed off. Merisa followed, rubbing her arm, Adnan in the rear.

I checked my mobile in order to avoid looking at Mum, and frowned at the blank screen. Usually Kathleen would have replied instantly. She carried her mobile everywhere. We would have spent the whole night sending each other messages. At least I would have had something more amusing to get me through this hellish night.

Back at our table Dido was talking to a man in a black robe. Even though Bosnians might wear Western clothes the hodža, the Muslim priest, wears a robe. Imagine an orthodox priest except the hodža’s hat is white, minus the cross, of course.

‘Here are my grandchildren,’ Dido announced.

He introduced Adnan and Merisa. The hodža shook hands with Adnan, but Merisa didn’t put her hand out. Women followed the Muslim custom of not touching a male who wasn’t a blood relative, which was really weird because they shook hands and kissed everyone except the hodža.

‘This is my Australian granddaughter.’ Dido was being a such a suck-up.

‘Sabiha,’ I snapped. ‘My name is Sabiha.’

Mum came to my side and put her hand on my back. I bit the insides of my cheeks.

’I’m reminding parents that mejtef is held at the Deer Park mosque on Saturday mornings,′ the hodža said. ‘So many children are woefully ignorant about their heritage and we need to correct this.’

I’d never been to mejtef, the Bosnian religious school. Mum had never followed any of that religious stuff, until now.

’Some vlasi know more about Islam than Bosnian children,′ Dido spat out. Vlah was the worst insult a Muslim could give another Muslim. It denoted all non-believers.

‘The parents are to blame. They accepted communism as their salvation and neglected their children’s religious education,’ the hodža said. ‘Now they expect their children to become perfect Muslims overnight.’

Dido stared at the ground. Mum told me that during Dido’s communist phase he’d once caught my grandmother teaching Mum and Auntie Zehra how to pray and beat them for embracing superstition.

‘I will make sure my grandchildren attend,’ Dido said, putting his arm around Adnan and me.

’I look forward to seeing you in mejtef.′ The Hodža shook Adnan’s hand and nodded at me before leaving.

When we reached the carpark Uncle Hakija and Dido began arguing. Hakija was furious that Dido said Adnan would attend mejtef. ‘I will decide how my children are brought up!’

‘I believed all the communist propaganda and look where it got me,’ Dido implored. ‘I will be judged for my sins on judgement day.’

‘Superstition,’ Uncle Hakija roared. ‘There is no heaven or hell.’

Dido stared up at the sky. ′Allah protect him.′

‘There is no almighty God that protects and punishes humans. We are the controllers and destroyers of the Earth.’

‘Blasphemy!’ Dido yelled. ‘You will bring down God’s judgement.’

‘Don’t talk rubbish around my children,’ Uncle Hakija warned.

‘They’re my grandchildren!’ Dido yelled back.

‘Stop it both of you.’ Auntie Zehra got between them.

’Zehra, tell him that Adnan needs to go to mejtef and learn to be a good Muslim,′ Dido urged.

‘Zehra is my wife and she’ll do as I say,’ Uncle Hakija barked.

‘Zehra,’ Dido begged.

This was my aunt’s fate. She was always used as a tug of war between my uncle and grandfather. Whichever way she decided there would be hell to pay. ‘Hakija is my husband and he’s the head of our family,’ Auntie Zehra said.

Dido seemed to collapse as his bluster deflated. ‘Then you’re not my daughter any longer,’ he said, walking away.

’Babo,′ Auntie Zehra called.

‘Leave him.’ Uncle Hakija took her arm. ‘He needs to calm down.’

‘Another fun family reunion,’ I grumbled as I followed Mum to our car.

Dido spent the rest of the weekend in a dark depression, muttering under his breath about ungrateful daughters. I hid out in my bedroom and avoided him.

***

On Monday at school when I walked out of History, Gemma and Dina were waiting for me. ‘What’s up?’ I asked. It was the first time they’d ever sought me out.

‘Nothing much.’ Dina put her arm around my shoulders and turned me to walk towards the back of the school.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

‘To the oval,’ Dina said, a rare smile on her face.

‘Yeah, to the oval,’ Gemma repeated, laughing like a kookaburra.

‘I’ll meet you there.’ I stopped walking. ‘I have to buy lunch first.’

‘No!’ Dina exclaimed. ‘You can have my lunch.’ She held up her lunch box. ’I have zeljanica.′

My mouth watered. Pita was the Bosnian national meal and was made with pastry filling that was rolled into a cannelloni shape. Then the roll was formed into a spiral and baked. Cheese and spinach pita, which is what Dina was offering me, was my absolute favourite.

‘I need something to drink too,’ I said, testing Dina’s resolve.

‘Gemma will give you her juice.’ Dina grabbed Gemma’s backpack and pulled out her apple juice.

‘Hey,’ Gemma protested, snatching the juice back.

‘Give it to her,’ Dina said.

Gemma hesitated, before buckling under Dina’s glower. ‘Here.’ Gemma threw the juice at me.

‘Now can we go?’ Dina demanded.

‘Okay.’ I shrugged and walked to the oval. I poked the straw through the juice box, hiding my grin as I sipped. They were so pathetic.

As we walked there was a dacking underway. Dacking and knackering were the two great traditions of my new school. Two boys grabbed an ankle each and knackered the victim’s balls against one of the numerous poles holding up the walkways. The worst was when a third boy held the arms, so that the victim couldn’t cup his balls to protect them.

Dacking was the reason that tracky pants were only ever worn to Phys Ed. Unfortunately for him the target hadn’t received the memo. The bully went behind him and yanked his dacks and undies to his ankles. The guy in tracky dacks stood frozen, his cock and balls visible to the world, his pale face turning tomato red. When laughter broke out he awkwardly lurched down and pulled his pants up, at the same time trying to run, and nearly did a Jerry Lewis tumble.

‘You should Pull the Dragon!’ Gemma yelled as the target ran.

‘What’s Pulling the Dragon?’ I asked.

‘Dragon was the nickname of Dragan Blažić,’ Dina said.

‘He was so hot,’ Gemma said dreamily.

‘He graduated last year,’ Dina continued. ‘Someone dacked him and he stood with his pants around his ankles, letting the world see his equipment.’

‘So what?’ I demanded.

‘He had the goods.’ Gemma held out her hands a ruler length apart. ‘And he always wore tracky dacks.’

‘Yeah,’ Dina agreed. ‘He was never short of girlfriends.’

‘But that guy there didn’t have what it takes to Pull the Dragon.’ Gemma giggled and held her index finger and thumb a centimetre apart.

‘Let’s sit here.’ Dina pointed at a patch of grass beside the railing, on the other side of which Adnan was playing soccer with a bunch of guys.

‘Yum,’ I murmured as I swallowed the pita. ‘Your Mum is a great cook,’ I told Dina. Her stomach rumbled as I ate. Gemma ate her sandwich on the other side of me. She looked longingly at the juice.

Dina yelled out to Adnan when there was a break in play. A few minutes later he ran over and sat next to me. ’Yum, pita.′ He snatched some from me.

‘Cut it out!’ I pushed his hand away and shoved the rest of the pita in my mouth.

‘You’re a pretty good soccer player,’ Dina said.

‘Thanks.’

‘I always wanted to play.’ She leaned toward Adnan so that she was halfway across my lap.

‘It’s not that hard,’ Adnan scoffed. I made a gagging face only he could see. He laughed.

‘What’s funny?’ Dina demanded.

Adnan pointed to one of his mates messing with the ball. When Dina peered at the boys, he wagged his finger at me. After a while Dina turned and talked to Gemma.

‘You’re such a love-me-do,’ I said quietly.

‘I can’t help it if I’m stunningly handsome,’ he preened, smoothing his hair with his hand.

‘Vomit.’ I put my fingers down my throat.

***

As word got around about my family connections I wasn’t short of company. Whenever girls met me their first words were ‘You’re Adnan’s cousin.’ Every girl wanted to be my friend, any excuse to hang around near Adnan. When he came over to talk to me they’d drool while I rolled my eyes. By Friday I was sick of being the Adnan-Love-Boat-Link and hid in the library.

I was in the fiction shelves when I bumped into Brian who was in my General Maths class. We nodded at each other and I turned back to the shelf.

‘So,’ he said. ‘You’re Adnan’s cousin.’

‘What’s it to you?’ I retorted.

He blushed.

‘I’m sorry,’ I spluttered. ‘Did you do your maths homework?’

‘It’s bloody hard and we’re only doing General Maths,’ Brian said.

‘No matter how hard I try I don’t get it,’ I agreed. He was really cute. His eyes were dark chocolate brown and his brown hair was wavy.

‘There you are.’ Dina stood to my left. She gave Brian a once-over like he was old gum stuck to her shoe. ‘Come outside.’ She tugged on my arm.

I pulled away from her. ‘Sorry, I’m busy.’

‘See ya.’ She flicked her hair and walked off, her anger following her like a smell.

‘Another member of the Adnan fan club?’ Brian asked.

I returned a book to the shelf. ‘Yeah, I’m over it.’

‘She’s really good.’ Brian reached around me and handed me the Tara Moss book I was looking at. He stood close and I breathed in his aftershave. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. As I took the book it slipped between my fingers. He ducked and caught it at my knees. He straightened slowly, his face moving up my body as he did.

‘Thanks.’ I took the book from him. He was the first boy I met who read books and it made him so much cuter.

‘Did you want help with your homework?’ He looked straight at me, smiling. ‘I’ve got my Maths book here.’ He nodded toward his backpack.

My heart sped up and I blushed. ‘Okay.’ I followed him to the study area, checking out his butt on the way. As Brian showed me how he’d worked out the answers, his shoulder bumped into mine, and I fought to concentrate on what he was saying.

A boy dropped to his knees in front of our desk. ‘Joshua King,’ the boy said. ‘I’m putting him on my hit list.’ The boy pulled out his notebook and took Brian’s pen.

I read the page upside down. People to kill. I blinked. Did I read that right?

‘Why?’ Brian asked.

‘He tripped me in the hall,’ the boy said.

Brian read out the next answer, but I widened my eyes and nodded at the strange boy with homicidal tendencies.

‘Sabiha, this is my best friend Jesse.’

Jesse’s blue eyes were curious. He didn’t look like he was mentally deficient. ‘We’re in Phys Ed together,’ he said.

‘Right,’ I said, remembering him.

When our teacher Mr Robinson left the gym to go to his office, all the boys in class decided to play dodgeball with Jesse as the target. As Jesse tried to protect himself from the basketballs bouncing off his body, everyone laughed. Jesse looked like he was going to cry. When Mr Robinson returned and saw the balls on the floor around Jesse he asked him what happened. When Jesse didn’t say anything, Mr Robinson ordered him to put the balls away. The Phys Ed students laughed at his rising emotion and treated him like a wind-up-toy whose only purpose was their entertainment.

‘That one’s great.’ Jesse took the Tara Moss book titled Split that Brian recommended.

‘You’ve read it too?’ My voice sounded overly surprised.

‘I can read.’ Jesse threw the book on the table.

He blushed and his eyes watered. What had I done? I’d just pissed off the guy who was probably voted most likely to go on a high school killing spree.

Chapter 3

I grabbed Jesse’s hand before he could run off and add me to his kill list. ‘I haven’t met any boys who read,’ I lied. Jesse’s face cleared and my heartbeat returned to normal.

Since we moved to the western suburbs, whenever Mum dragged me to visit I’d been on the lookout for something to read to pass the time, but I hadn’t seen any books in people’s houses. It was so different from Thornbury where most houses had overflowing bookshelves and there were bookstores on almost every corner. The only bookstores in the west were the chain variety in shopping centres.

‘I was just surprised to find someone who shared my passion,’ I explained.

‘Jesse’s the book-lover,’ Brian said. ‘I just read what he tells me to.’

Just what the world needed. A book-loving psychopath.

Jesse glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got to stock up on my rations.’

Seeing my confusion Brian translated. ‘He needs to get reading material for the weekend.’

‘How long have you two known each other?’ I asked after Jesse went to gather his books.

‘Since primary school.’ Brian put his Maths book away.

‘Has he always wanted to kill people?’

‘Jesse’s not a weirdo or anything. He uses fantasy to deal with the bullying. He couldn’t hurt anyone.’

‘Good to know,’ I said.

I was putting my books in my backpack when Jesse placed his books on the counter. ‘This is a new title,’ the librarian said as she scanned it. ‘You have to write a recommendation since you’re the first lender.’

Jealousy cut me. At my old school I was the librarian’s favourite and got all the perks. I was allowed to borrow over my limit and got let off fines. It sucked being the new kid.

I was walking out of the school gates at the end of the day when Dina called me. ‘Do you want a lift?’ she pointed to her mum waiting in the car.

‘No thanks.’ I waved to her mum and walked on.

‘I’ll see you on Monday at the front?’ she yelled.

I kept walking, a huge smile on my face. Instead of the oval, I planned on hanging around in the library with Brian again.

When I got home Mum’s bedroom door was open. She knelt on her woven prayer mat with little pieces of paper spread around her. She’d only been praying for a few months; with five different prayers a day, she had a lot to learn, so she used the cheat method and read the prayers instead of reciting them.

She wore dimije (think Harem pants except three times as much fabric is used so they billow like a kite when you walk), a loose shirt and her head was covered with a scarf. Women were supposed to be modest while praying: they shouldn’t show any flesh above the wrist or ankle, and only their face was uncovered.

I went to my bedroom and closed the door. I’d accessed my email at the school library and read an ambiguous message from Kathleen. When we lived with Dave I used his computer, but since we moved out I had to rely on the public library, or internet cafés, to type up all my work or to email.

I’d been sending Kathleen SMS messages every night since the zabava, but hadn’t received a response. Whenever I called I received an out-of-service message, and her landline rang out. Her parents were cheap-skates and wouldn’t get broadband, so most of the time the phone was busy because they were on the internet.

After agonising for another day, I’d finally sent her an email from school at recess. ‘Haven’t heard from you. Are we still on for tomorrow?’ Her reply when I checked after school: ‘Yes. Usual time, usual place.’

Was she ditching me? Had Shelley finally won? I hated Shelley. She was supposed to be our friend, but I still couldn’t stand her. Back in year 7 Mum and Dave broke up for a few months. So Mum moved us out of Thornbury and I changed schools for six months. When Mum and Dave made up again and I returned to my old school, I found that Kathleen, my best friend had made a new best friend and we were supposed to be one big happy triangle. I’d been on Kathleen’s back for years to ditch-the-bitch, but so far my entreaties had fallen on deaf ears. I always suspected that Shelley was out to steal Kathleen from me. What if she’d finally succeeded? I’d have to wait until tomorrow to ask Kathleen what was going on.

Mum poked her head into my room. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Ever heard of knocking?’

‘Come with me,’ Mum commanded.

She was standing behind the dining table ’Today we’re making pita.′ She handed me a pen and paper.

‘What’s this for?’

‘To make notes.’ She put on her apron.

‘Will you test me?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is a waste of time. I don’t need to cook.’ I put the pen down.

‘What will you do when you get married and have children?’ Mum asked.

‘Takeaway,’ I snarled.

‘Let’s hope you make enough money to buy takeaway,’ Mum said.

‘Maybe I’ll marry a chef.’

Mum let out a bark of laughter. ‘As if a man who cooks all day for a living will come home and cook for you.’

’I know how to make pita.′ I slouched in the chair. ‘I’ve seen you do it enough times over the years.’

‘Okay.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Tell me how you make the dough?’

I drew a blank. Of course I’d never paid attention. ‘Flour and milk,’ I said decisively.

Mum’s eyebrows rose. ‘Not quite.’ She placed a bowl on the table. ‘To make dough you need one tablespoon of salt, four cups of flour and two cups of warm water.’ She waited for me to take down the recipe. I started writing. It wouldn’t hurt to learn. I mean, I loved pita.

‘Place the flour into a bowl.’ Mum counted with her plastic measuring cup. ‘Then add the salt and stir.’ She held the jug of water with her right hand and poured it into the bowl while stirring with her left hand. ‘Have a look.’ She tipped the bowl. ‘You knead until it forms into a ball of dough and leave it to rise for twenty minutes.’

I stood. ‘I’ll come back in half an hour.’

‘Nice try.’ She took a plate off the bench-top. ‘This is dough I prepared earlier.’

I smiled at her television-chef imitation. Remembering myself, I formed my mouth into a straight line. There was no way I’d let her think I was enjoying this.

‘As you can see, I kneaded this dough, then flattened it onto the plate and rubbed oil into the top.’ Peeling off the Gladwrap, she placed the pancake dough on the dining table, in the middle of the white tablecloth.

She smoothed the dough using the Bosnian version of a rolling pin, a long stick the length of a broom handle, called an oklagija. The oklagija holds a special place in Bosnian life. Apart from being used for cooking, it’s also used to measure kids and to beat kids. Whenever Mum told me stories about her childhood she’d inevitably end it with, ’And then Mum chased us with an oklagija.′

Thankfully she’d never shared that tradition with me. Mum’s idea of discipline was talking to me until I buckled under the weight of her emotional blackmail.

Mum placed her fingers in the middle of the stick and rolled her hands onto it, while maintaining even pressure over the whole expanse of dough. After each roll she jerked the dough in another direction, flattening it evenly. ‘Have a go.’ She held out the stick.

I tried to manipulate the oklagija, but the wood pressed into my hands and made them itch. My lower back twinged as I bent over the table. My shoulders tensed and bunched up.

Mum stared at the misshapen dough. ‘It’s okay. I’ll take over now.’ She adjusted the dough with a few strokes of the oklagija; the muscles in her forearms taut as she manoeuvred the stick. She placed it in the middle of the table and folded the pastry over it. Lifting the oklagija in the air with one hand, she tugged the edges with the other, stretching the pastry into a see-through sheet.

‘Can I have a go?’

She gave me the oklagija. My arm was nearly wrenched from its socket as I fought to hold it in the air. I tugged the dough, but instead of stretching it the way Mum did, I