Huda and Me by H. Hayek (readict txt) 📕

except this man doesn’t look like he’d have much fun taking on baddies. He’s busy yelling in Arabic at some people in the next queue to stand behind a yellow line. Veins bulge from his forehead, and I see Huda notice she’s standing on, not behind, our yellow line and take a little hop backwards.

‘Wait here a tick,’ Martin says and steps forward.

I think the passport officer is going to yell at Martin for overstepping the yellow line too – or maybe even have him arrested – but instead he smiles. His teeth are yellow.

‘Marteen!’ says the officer. He stands awkwardly at his little brown desk so he can throw an arm around Martin. Martin looks like a little kid next to him. ‘It been so long, my friend.’

Martin leans in close and we catch bits and pieces of his words as he explains we’re unaccompanied minors. The officer glances our way and I gulp. His face scares me. His cheeks are covered in stubbly hair, which eventually turns into a thick beard. His dark eyebrows look like someone got a fat permanent marker and drew one line across his forehead.

Martin beckons us over, speaking quickly. ‘Okay kids, it’s your turn to go through passport control. You’re getting VIP service today as unaccompanied minors. But of course Habib here needs to ask you a couple of questions.’

I feel my stomach churn. I can’t move. What if he checks our bags? What if he sees all the money?

Huda elbows me in the side. ‘Stop looking all pale and weird, like you have something to hide,’ she hisses. ‘Don’t come over till I signal by scratching my bum.’

Huda winks at me and then skips ahead, singing out, ‘Sure thing, Martin,’ as she does so. I wondered why my sister can’t use a normal signal, like scratching her nose or tapping her shoulder.

I try to breathe deeply while Huda is talking to Habib. He’s still standing up at his desk, and she’s probably the same height as his knee. I don’t know how she’ll get through this one. She barely even speaks Arabic.

Huda’s waving her arms around, like she’s telling a story. At first Habibi glares at her, frowning. But then, out of nowhere, he throws back his head and laughs.

Huda slides her bag off her back and offers it to him to check, but he waves it away. Instead, he looks at her passport and then pats her on the head. He asks her a couple of questions, and each time she speaks he laughs. Then he sits back down and takes a lolly out of his shirt pocket. Huda says something and points at me. He takes out another one and hands her both lollies.

Huda scratches her bum.

I don’t know what just happened, but I hope we are safe. I also hope I don’t spew on the floor in front of Habib. I approach him slowly.

‘Luk, come here boy!’ He smiles warmly. ‘Mafi ahla min ukhtak.’

Huda leans in close. ‘He said there’s no one cuter than me, Akeal.’

I want to tell her I understand Arabic and speak it better than her gibberish, but Habib is holding my eye.

‘Aaaahhhh, you no speak Arabic, boy? No good, no good. Your sister better than you.’

I feel a pang of indignation.

‘You look after sister Huda. She good girl. You maybe not good boy.’ Then he turns to my sister. ‘You eat two lolly. Two! None for him. Okay, give me passport.’

My sister grins as I pass him my passport. He flicks it open and holds it up to my face.

‘Why you come here?’

‘Just a holiday,’ I stutter.

He passes the passport back and pats Huda on the head again.

‘Shukran, Uncle Habib,’ she says.

‘Yallah, enjoy holiday.’

‘Thanks, Habib,’ Martin echoes Huda. ‘See you on the way back.’ And we are through.

The three of us march on through the airport, down a flight of escalators and around a corner. I pull my beanie off, and Martin frowns and stops walking. He unties the hanky from around his neck.

‘Let me take a look at you,’ he says, tilting my chin upwards. He gently dabs his hanky to the gash on my head. ‘Looks like it’s a graze and not too deep.’ He says this calmly, as he gently wipes around my cut. Then he passes me his hanky and points to a little green sign in front of two doors a few metres away. ‘Those are the toilets. Give your face a wash and take a breather. You too, Hooda. I’ll be waiting right here for you.’

Me and Huda nod and walk over to the toilets. Huda goes into the women’s and I swing open the door to the men’s. It’s quiet and smells like stale air-freshener, but I’m glad it’s empty so I can have a few moments to myself.

I walk over to the sink and look at myself in the mirror. Dark rings circle my eyes, and I seem to have lost the cheer in my face. Maybe it’s the blood smeared across my face. I look like a serial killer.

I splash my face with water. The gash on my forehead stings, but Martin was right – it’s only a graze. I scrub my cheeks and kept flicking water onto my face until the tap turns itself off. Then I comb my hair with wet fingers and dab my face dry with a few paper towels from the dispenser on the wall, wiping off any bits of blood that the water missed. Almost as good as new, but not quite.

I step into the toilet cubicle behind me … except there’s no toilet. Just a weird oval-shaped thing in the ground. There are two ridges along each side in the shape of feet, and I feel my stomach wobble. I don’t know how these things work, and I don’t have the guts to learn. Not today anyway. I convince myself I’m not that busting and walk back out to meet Martin.

Huda’s already there. She isn’t talking, which is strange.