Farah Rocks Summer Break

by Susan Muaddi Darraj

  She bursts into laughter and claps her hands. “Farah, you’re funny!”

  Ms. Rivera pops her head into the dining room, talking into her headset. “Yes, that timeline sounds good, Bob,” she says while she peers at me lying on the floor.

  I scramble up, and then an idea strikes me. “Come on, Esmeralda!” I say, grabbing the cards.

  “Where are we going?” she asks, standing up.

  “Show me your favorite room in the house,” I say.

  “Okay.” She leads me through their house. It is huge, like a mansion, although it’s all one level. The family room is where we end up. It has a tall ceiling with a skylight in it.

  “Here!” she announces.

  “Okay. We’ll go through your flash cards in here,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “Because…” I say in a mysterious voice, “. . . of THIS!”

  I toss the cards—all fifty of them—up in the air. She shrieks as they float down around us and settle on the beige carpet.

  “What are you doing, Farah?” she asks, looking both confused and excited.

  “You get one point for each card you pick up,” I say.

  “Oh! One point?” She lowers herself to her knees and reaches for a card.

  “But you can only pick it up if you can say the word on the card,” I add.

  She looks up at me and grins. “Tricky, Farah!”

  “I think you can do it.”

  She picks up thirty cards at first. Some cards she picks up, scans, but then drops them back to the floor. “That’s all I know,” she says.

  “No problem,” I say, and we sit and review the other twenty she didn’t know.

  I stack the cards again and fling them into the air. This time, she picks up forty-two cards.

  “You have forty-two points today,” I tell her. “Next time, I think you will get all fifty.”

  “So what do I get for forty-two points?” she asks.

  “You get to play outside with me!” I exclaim.

  “Yay!”

  I hear a chuckle and glance up to see Ms. Rivera standing in the doorway, looking very pleased.

  CHAPTER 9

  Ms. Rivera recommends me to another friend, who also has a first grader.

  Allie’s dad tells a neighbor about me too, and I get another “client” that way. I am up to one hundred and eighty dollars.

  On Day Twenty-Two of summer vacation, Dr. Sharif, who lives two blocks away and also goes to our church, calls Baba. From Baba’s end of the conversation, I can tell he wants me to tutor his son in math.

  “Looks like you have a reputation already, Farah,” Mama whispers to me as we listen to Baba talk to him. “You’ve started a little business here.”

  Baba looks at me and raises his shoulders. He’s asking me what I think.

  I give him a thumbs-up.

  He hands me the phone so I can talk to Dr. Sharif myself.

  “We will make blans after shursh on Sunday,” Dr. Sharif tells me. I try hard not to giggle because he sounds just like Baba. “And I will let others know too. Does your business have a name?”

  “No, but maybe I should think of one,” I tell him.

  “Every business needs a name that beoble will remember!” says Dr. Sharif.

  Before I hang up, I remember Mama’s words: “You have to prepare. Make sure you are ready to work hard for the full hour.”

  Marwan is a rowdy, funny kid with thick black eyebrows, but I don’t know him that well.

  I ask Dr. Sharif about what Marwan learned last year in second grade. I make a note that he did mostly addition and subtraction. In third grade, I know he’ll be doing multiplication and division because that’s when I learned it.

  Then I call Allie. “My tutoring is a real business now,” I tell her.

  She sounds excited. “We should advertise it!” Allie says. “You can get more customers that way.”

  We make a plan to get together the following week, and I hang up. I should feel happy that my plan is working out.

  Why am I suddenly so nervous, then?

  If I mess up somehow with Marwan, Dr. Sharif will know. And it’s different with him because he’s close friends with my parents. And what if he tells other people too?

  I didn’t realize there would be so much pressure in having a business.

  I think about other times I have been nervous. Sometimes I’d get nervous before a big math exam. Definitely the night before. I used to study and study until I knew I would be okay.

  So maybe, I think to myself, I need to study to become a tutor. I had some good ideas with Samir and Esmeralda, but what if I run out?

  I get Mama’s permission to use the iPad to research. I spend the next two hours on YouTube, watching videos of tips to help children learn. I also find some teacher resource websites with some ready-to-print worksheets.

  I organize the worksheets into one of my old school folders, then label the folder Tutoring. I get one of Mama’s canvas shopping bags and put the folder in there. I rip out the few used pages of one of my notebooks. On the cover of the notebook, I write, Tutoring Ideas.

  • • •

  At church on Sunday, I see Marwan during line-up for Sunday school class. He’s being rowdy and noisy in the hallway. The elementary teacher, Mrs. Fairouz, puts her finger to her lips. She shushes him so roughly that she kind of spits on her own hand. I try not to laugh, and instead I kind of snort. Marwan notices me and snickers.

  In the middle-school class, Lana is showing her new blue highlights to her friends. She sees me but does what she usually does—smirks and turns her back.

  After class, the kids go out to the main hall, where the adults have their coffee hour. This is where the adults “catch up” with each other. “Catching up” for Arab parents usually means talking about two things: 1. their kids and 2. food.

  Dr. Sharif is standing with my parents. “There she is! Al ustazah Farah,” he says.

  He’s basically called me a professor, which makes me giggle. He’s like a cartoon character, the way he waves his hands when he talks, like a bird flapping its wings before takeoff. My parents like him because, even though he is a heart surgeon and his house is bigger than the church, he never acts like he’s better than anyone else. Dr. Sharif starts going on about how smart I am. He says how lucky Marwan is to have me for a teacher. He is completely exaggerating, but I don’t mind.

  “What’s this?” asks Mrs. Khoury, striding up to us. In my head, I call her the Snow Queen because she walks very stiffly, like she’s made of ice. Plus her makeup is usually shimmery like snow.

  “Farah here is going to tutor my Marwan over the summer break,” Dr. Sharif explains after they all greet her.

  “Is that right?” She sounds very surprised. Like, super surprised.

  I feel annoyed. Why is that a shock?

  Then she adds, “I’m sure Marwan doesn’t need a tutor. And if he did, Dr. Sharif, surely you could hire a real teacher?”

  My parents don’t look happy about that comment.

  Dr. Sharif says, “Oh, you do not know Marwan. If I told him a teacher is coming to review work with him, he would not cooperate. But when I told him Farah was coming over to do the same thing, he was very excited.” He puts his hands out to the side, as if to say, “See how simple.”

  “Plus, Farah is excellent in school. She helps her brother all the time,” my father explains to Mrs. Khoury. He’s smiling, but I can tell it’s fake because his lips are pressed together. “She’s also an excellent student. Actually, she was just accepted into the Magnet Academy.”

  “Mabrouk!” Dr. Sharif says, patting my shoulder. “I knew I picked the right person.”

  “Yes, indeed. Mabrouk,” Mrs. Khoury says, but I can tell she doesn’t mean it. Then she walks away.

  “Abdallah
,” Mama sputters. “That’s… that wasn’t very nice.”

  “It’s awkward, Abdallah,” Dr. Sharif tries to explain to Baba. “You see, her daughter Lana applied. She did not get accepted to Magnet.”

  “I know,” Baba says in a wicked tone. He laughs when Dr. Sharif looks shocked. “Sorry, but sometimes I forget how to be bolite.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Allie comes over one day to help me make a plan. If I can just get a few more students to tutor, perhaps ten sessions a week, I could have enough to go to Camp Crystals.

  “I’ll ask Timothy if any of his friends have younger brothers and sisters,” Allie says as we sit in my room. We are brainstorming ways to get new customers. I’m on the floor, polishing my rocks. She’s pacing around my room like a tiger prowling around its cage.

  “Yes! That would be great.”

  “Nah, never mind,” she said, waving her hand. “He would probably demand a percentage of what you make. He’s so annoying.”

  I laugh because Timothy really is annoying.

  “Enrique texted Winston from Puerto Rico to ask about everyone. He asked how you were doing,” Allie tells me.

  “Cool. I hope he’s having fun.”

  We both sigh.

  Allie lets herself fall back on my bed, her arms outstretched. She stares up at the ceiling. “I wish your parents could figure out how to just give you the money,” she moans. “I mean, it’s not really that much. You know?”

  I don’t answer right away. I feel like my Official Best Friend just slapped me across the cheek.

  “It is a lot of money,” I say in a quiet voice, “for us.”

  Allie is quiet too. When I look at her, still stretched out on the bed, she’s blushing. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It came out wrong.”

  I turn back to my rocks, polishing and thinking. Usually, Allie and I never have awkward moments. But now there is one hanging between us.

  Her dad is a scientist, and her mom manages a pharmacy. They don’t have to worry about money like we do. Six hundred and twenty-five dollars probably isn’t a lot for them.

  I’m suddenly angry. I have to work so hard to get something that a lot of kids never doubt they can have.

  But guess what? I’ve always had more responsibility than most other kids. For example, I’m used to having a little brother who needs more help than other kids do. And I do it because I try to be a good big sister.

  Suddenly an idea lands in my brain like a bee on a flower. “Big Sister Tutoring,” I say aloud, my rock in one hand and my cloth in the other.

  “What?” Allie asks.

  “That’s the name of my business.”

  “Huh.” She sits up on my bed. “It’s perfect, Farah Rocks.”

  “I know!”

  “We should make posters or flyers and hang them all over Harbortown,” she says excitedly. “And you should ask Ms. Rivera or Dr. Sharif if they would give you a reference if someone calls them.”

  “Good idea!” I grab my notebook and jot down some notes. “I can make the flyers today. Tomorrow I can walk around town to post them.”

  “We can do that,” Allie says. “I’m going to help, you know.”

  “I don’t want you to waste your summer helping me,” I say.

  She shrugged. “If you don’t go to Camp Crystals, then I’m going to have a terrible time. So…” She shrugs as if to say, end of discussion.

  We handwrite flyers. Allie draws really well, so she makes a cool border. It has books and math problems and school supplies all along the edge. Then I letter in:

  Big Sister Tutoring!

  Responsible sixth grader available to review…

  Math

  Science

  Language Arts

  …with your K–3rd grader this summer!

  I put my name and Mama’s cell phone number on the bottom of the flyers.

  Allie adds one more line: “References available.”

  It is a beautiful flyer, but it took us an hour just to make two. I can’t stand the thought of making fifty more by hand.

  “I think it’s time to take some of the money I’ve earned and put it back into the business,” I say to Allie.

  “An investment,” she says.

  “Right.” I get my money from the tin box in my closet. “Let’s go to the copy store.”

  We check with our parents, then we head to the copy store three blocks away. Mama is at work, so Samir has to come with us. Allie and I walk while Samir rides his scooter while wearing his Tommy Turtle helmet.

  At the copy store, I find out that one color copy costs forty-five cents. A black-and-white copy costs only twenty cents. Allie and I figure out that fifty black-and-white copies would cost ten dollars, plus tax. It hurts a little as I hand the man eleven dollars. But I know this will help my business grow.

  Allie has brought the stapler from her father’s home office. After we get the copies, we decide to hang some flyers in the library.

  Mrs. Nirmala, the librarian, greets me at the counter. “Hello, Farah! Allie!” She pats my brother on the shoulder. “Hello, Samir, my friend.” She has short, stylish hair, and she always wears cool earrings. Today they look like large, silver peacocks. She asks if we’re planning to sign up for the summer reading program. “It’s not too late! We still have a few weeks left. The main prize is a drawing for a tablet reader.”

  “I want a tablet,” Samir declares excitedly. Then he pauses. “What’s a tablet?”

  I forgot to sign up this year because I’ve been so busy planning ways to make money. While Mrs. Nirmala shows Samir her tablet, I register myself and Samir. Allie has already signed up.

  The high schooler who volunteers there offers us stickers of Harbortown Library’s mascot, the Hound. He’s a cute cartoon dog who wears a Sherlock Holmes hat and carries a book under his arm.

  “Take as many as you want,” he tells us. The stickers are different sizes and colors.

  I take a bunch of them, thinking, I now have prizes for my students.

  Mrs. Nirmala offers to keep a few flyers at the information desk. She shows us the bulletin board where we can hang a copy. I staple the four corners of my small flyer to the board.

  We all step back and look at it. It’s black and white, like a little piano keyboard in the middle of a busy, colorful cloud of other posters. But it’s perfect in its own way.

  “Let’s go put up the west,” says Samir, strapping his helmet back on.

  We go to Harbortown Mart and also to the community center. Then we find a spot at the bulletin board in front of the nail salon. And finally we put one on the news wall in Harbortown Pizza and Sub Shop.

  “Well, nobody can say they don’t know you’re available to tutor,” says Allie with a grin. “We wallpapered Harbortown with Big Sister Tutoring. Everyone will know you have a business.”

  I suddenly feel a huge load of doubt, like an avalanche, knocking down my enthusiasm. What if everyone who sees my little flyer thinks it’s silly?

  “Would you hire me? Or at least call me, based on the flyer?” I ask Allie.

  “Definitely!”

  “How about you?” I ask my brother.

  “Oh no, not me,” he says. He uses his foot to push off the sidewalk, propelling his scooter faster.

  “Why not?” Allie and I ask at the same time.

  He glances up at us. “Why would I pay you? You’re my sistah. You should help me fow fwee.”

  He gets so annoyed that we are laughing our heads off that he zips by us, daring us to catch him.

  CHAPTER 11

  I go to Marwan’s house several times over the next few weeks. It’s nice because I actually get to see Mrs. Sharif. She has lung problems, so she doesn’t leave the house too often. She had cancer five years ago and went through a lot of treatments. She doesn’t h
ave cancer anymore, but she had to quit her job because she is always tired. She hardly ever comes to church except for the holidays.

  I sit with her on her living room couch. She is eating bizir and reading a novel.

  “My mother says hello to you,” I tell her.

  “Thanks, habibti,” she says. “What an honor that you got into the Magnet Academy. You must be very excited.”

  “I am,” I say. “I can’t wait. The camp I’m saving to go to is part of the school’s program too.”

  “Not many students get accepted.” She lowers her voice. “Poor Lana was very upset not to get in.”

  I hate to think about Lana. Part of me feels sorry for her. I think about how we used to play together when we were little kids. We sat together during Sunday school classes. We played on the playground together. We took dabke lessons together, learning how to do the line dance, stamping our feet in time to the music.

  Lana changed toward me when we got older. Things became awkward when she started having birthday parties at fancy places. I always had parties at my house. Mama would make a nice cake, and we’d play outside. But one year, Lana’s mother booked a whole beauty salon for Lana’s birthday. All the girls who attended got their fingernails and toenails manicured. They even got facials.

  She handed out invitations after Sunday school one day in third grade. She didn’t hand one to me.

  “Sorry, Farah. I can only invite ten girls,” she’d explained, like it was no big deal. Like she wasn’t breaking my heart.

  Mrs. Sharif gets me out of my thoughts. “I’m so happy that you’ve been helping Marwan,” she says. “He showed me the dice game you created. So smart.” She hands me a tray of sesame cookies.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking a cookie. I got the idea for the dice game from a teacher’s website. You roll a pair of dice and multiply the two numbers that are rolled.

  “He just doesn’t like to sit and study with me or his father. He’s doing a better job of listening to you instead of his boring parents.”