Suddenly Dad's face breaks out into a grin. "Michael! Look!" I glance in the direction he's motioning and, noticing a reporter and cameraman, smile. "Your mum's press release must have worked." He runs his fingers through his thinning hair and readjusts the flag. "How do I look?" "Like the leader of a new political organization," I say proudly. "Who's sweltering under that thing. Don't forget it's all about the sound bites. Aussie Values aims to represent the silent majority blah blah. The kind of thing you and Mum were practicing last night." "We have about fifty members," Dad says with a grin. "In a population of twenty-three million, I wouldn't say that really constitutes a majority." He leans in close to me and winks conspiratorially. "But nobody needs to know that, hey, mate?" The chants of the other protestors are getting louder. Rick, from our side, starts up a chant in reply. Game on. The atmosphere is electric, and people are fired up on both sides. And then I see her. Her eyes. I've never seen eyes like hers before. What color are they? Hazel and green and flecks of autumn and bits of emerald and I'm standing holding my sign and there she is, standing steps away, near the cop, holding hers ( It's Not Illegal to Seek Asylum ), and all I can think about is how the hell I'm going to take my eyes off her. Her hair is jet black, hanging loose down her back, and I think hair that gorgeous has no business being on someone like her . She's wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt. She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen and it stupidly, inexplicably, throws me. Excerpted from The Lines We Cross by Randa Abdel-Fattah All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
