Ten Things I Hate About Me Read Online Free PDF

and Hasan (who stands next to Samira, doing the whole rap thing with his fingers and offering the occasional “yo” to beef up the chorus).
    “We came up with this last week,” Samira says. She grabs a pencil case and starts making spitting noises into it in an attempt to create some rhythm and beat. Hasan begins walking up and down in the foreground. He has that “I’m too cool not to bounce when I walk” thing going on; his head is low, his knees are bent, his back is curved, and his fingers are in strict rapper mode, slicing and jabbing the air for no apparent reason. Mustafa coughs, looks at us with a serious, contemplative expression on his face, and then launches into the lyrics:
    “Yo, whassup?
    Guildford’s in da house
    MCM is my name”
    “Yo” (interjection by Hasan)
    “ Cops always out to lay the blame
    They try to take away our pride
    ‘Cos they confused by their lies
    They see us with our spikes
    And they try to trample on our rights”
    “Yo” (another interjection by Hasan)
    “ Maybe if we were white
    They wouldn’t put up such a fight
    Yo whassup with that?”
    “You tell em gangsta” (Hasan again)
    “ I tell ya, whassup with that?”
    The class erupts into cheers and we all burst out laughing. The three of them take a bow, clearly enjoying the attention. Miss Sajda walks in and looks at us with amusement.
    “I see that you’re all being well entertained,” she says, smiling at us. “Too bad you have a pop quiz on the history of Muslim immigration.”
    We all groan.
    “Muslims have been in Australia from as early as…?” She stands over my desk and I look up at her.
    “Um…since the time you could buy a kebab from a van at a gas station?” The class laughs and Miss Sajda raises her eyebrows.
    “Not exactly the answer I was looking for. Anyone want to bless me with an intelligent response?”
    “The sixteenth century,” Liyaana Donya answers. “Makassan fishermen from the east Indonesian archipelago visited the north coast of Western Australia…”
    “How fascinating,” Samira whispers to me in a bored tone.
    “Jamilah, can you tell us how many English words derive their root from Arabic? Jamilah? Woo hoo! Earth to Jamilah!”
    Her voice startles me out of a daydream in which I’m at George’s party enjoying Peter’s attentions. “Um…I’m not sure…”
    “Over nine hundred,” she says. “Can you give us an example?”
    “Not really, sorry.”
    “Hmm…I am deciphering that somebody has had a bad day. But that’s OK. Everybody’s entitled to resent my class at least once a month.” She winks at me and I smile back gratefully. “Now let’s look at the word decipher,” she continues. “The word cipher means zero in Arabic, which was used as a prominent symbol in early secret codes…”
    She doesn’t address me for the rest of the class. Later she approaches me, pulling up a seat beside me.
    “You’re not yourself today,” she says.
    I shrug my shoulders. “Just some personal stuff.”
    “Anything I can help with?”
    “Nobody can help. My dad is a really stubborn person.”
    “What happened?”
    I want to confide in her but I clam up. I don’t expect her to understand. I don’t want her pity and I don’t want to be lectured. So I tell her that I’d rather not talk about it.
    “Well, feel free to talk to me at any time. I’m willing to listen to anything you have to say.”
    I thank her, even though I have no intention of taking her up on her offer.

5
    THE FOLLOWING NIGHT I start writing.
    From: [email protected]
    To: [email protected]
    OK, John, before I bother adding you to my address book, let’s swap our VS (vital stats—in case you’re one of those people who doesn’t understand net talk).
    And don’t go telling me that you have a six-pack and hazel-green eyes, are going to become a professional soccer player, and are a leading champion of feminist causes. I am just so fed up with false