Swing

                                    

                                          
I swivel in my seat to glare at mum before turning back to Baba embarrassedly and muttering a quick "no one." I don't look up at Baba, but I can feel him staring at the top of my head; burning my face a bright red.
                          
"Hana." His tone is one of warning. I'll admit, I haven't heard it much since my childhood, when I was scolded for almost everything, but even now- almost ten years later- it sends chills down my spine and leaves me fearful of a moral lecture.
                          
"He's her neighbour." Mum interjects placing her hands on my shoulders and patting them slightly. The action is simple, but I know she means it to be apologetic. You see, despite mum watching me being raised Islamically by Baba all my life, it still manages to slip her mind that the subject of 'guys' is taboo, especially in front of Baba. Unfortunately though, mum's attempts at fixing the situation only add fuel to the fire.
                          
"Her neighbour?!" Baba puts down his tea cup with a clutter on the fragile saucer and places his hands firmly on the table. "Inti ma kalamtineesh innoo jarik walad."
                          
"Almodou moosh mohim." I swirl my spoon through my soggy cereal, feeling my appetite satisfied by fear rather than food. 
                          
"Moosh mohim?" His voice doesn't rise, it stays constant; somewhat calm and quiet. His tone however, holds a sense of authority to it, of the 'fatherly' sort.  "If this isn't moohim, then what is? Ah?"
                          
I try to shrug my shoulders, but the weight of mum's hands on them keeps me still. "Don't you think you're over exaggerating?" Mum says to him.
                          
"She's living alone with a boy next door," He speaks exasperatedly to mum. "Wallahi, bringing her back here permanently wouldn't be an exaggeration." The words tumble quickly from his lips, but settle slowly and heavily in my chest.
                          
"What?" My stomach churns at the prospect of being forced back to Adelaide over something so minor. Over Noah.
                          
Baba just gives me a pointed look, ignoring my question and asking his own. "Do you see him?"
                          
"Of course she sees him." Mum speaks again. "They're neighbours, like us and Anne and Bret."
                          
"Do you speak to him?" He specifically addresses me.
                          
"You're being ridiculous now." The conversation seems to be more of an issue to Baba and mum, than to me.
                          
"Do you?" He asks again.
                          
"Sometimes." I realise the vagueness of my response isn't helping my case, but God, if Baba ever found out about Noah and I's balcony chats or our sit down with mum, I wouldn't even be allowed to go back to Melbourne to pack my things.
                          
"So what if they talk? He's a Muslim just like you two and one of the nicest blokes I've met." As mum speaks, my heart palpitates and my stomach twists itself into the tightest knot it can. That's the one thing, I really didn't want Baba knowing. I didn't want anyone knowing, because Noah doesn't want anyone knowing. Even though I didn't tell, I still feel like I broke a promise, a big one at that.
                          
"Mum!" I hiss as I shrug her hands off my shoulders and stand.
                          
"What?" She looks taken aback as she takes my seat, before realisation, or perhaps memory of the incident at Abu Tamer's rolls back around. "Oh, but it's just your dad."
                          
I rub my face and push my hair back as Baba interrogates me further. "He's a Muslim?"
                          
"A convert."
                          
"What is he?"
                          
"Australian." I almost let slip that he's German somewhere down the line, but that would definitely let off that we speak more frequently than 'sometimes'.