This, I realize, is something that is really helping my business. I am not their sister, or their teacher, or their parent. I’m an older kid. And to them, older kids are cool.
I wonder if Esmeralda and Marwan know that people in my own grade used to call me a nerd. I’m glad it doesn’t matter to them.
Soon, Marwan and I are sitting on the floor, and our books and cards are on the coffee table. Marwan is a fun kid. He has a cute way of tugging on his ears when he’s thinking hard about an answer. But it’s been half an hour, and he is getting “bouncy,” as Mama would say.
“Sit still, Marwan,” I tell him. I’m using flash cards to review his multiplication facts. “We just have to go through these a couple more times.”
“I already know them!” he moans. He is bouncing up and down like a spring. “We did the dice game.”
“You don’t know all of them,” I say. “We practice our facts in lots of different ways.”
“This is boring,” he pouts.
His mother looks up from her book with a frown. “Pay attention, Marwan,” she says sternly.
I know I have to do something different. I stand up. He watches me as I walk across the room, then lay the cards face-up on the carpet.
“Whatcha doing?” he asks. He stares at me curiously.
I ignore him. I move back, laying more cards face-up. The problems are staring up at me. The answers are hidden on the back.
“Farah? What are you doing?” he asks again.
I smile at him but still don’t answer. I snake a line of cards all the way from the kitchen to the front door.
He watches me silently. Even Mrs. Sharif puts down her novel to see what I am doing. By the time I’m done, the chain of cards on the carpet loops around the room, under the table and around the couch.
“It’s a math train,” I finally tell him. “Ready to ride?”
“A math… train?” He jumps up and comes over to where I’m standing.
I explain the rules. “You can only ride the train if you can tell me the answer to the card. If you get stuck, you have to go back.”
“And what if I know them all?”
“You get a prize.”
Mrs. Sharif is smiling. “How clever,” she murmurs.
“Fine!” Marwan walks to the start. He picks up the first card. “Two times four.” He snickers. “Easy. Eight!”
“Put it down and go to the next one,” I say.
He gets the next three easily. But then he hits eight times seven. He stops and squints at the card as if the answer will suddenly appear on the front.
“Forty-two?” he asks.
“Nope. Back to the start.”
He gets it on the third try, but we are out of time.
“But I didn’t finish the train!” Marwan says.
“You can ride next time.”
Dr. Sharif walks into the room and stares at the line of cards across his carpet. “You’re very creative,” he says. He hands me a ten-dollar bill. “Very smart girl. I’m going to tell everyone at shursh about you. I bet Mr. Munir will call you about his daughter. She’s having trouble with her summer reading assignments.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“You could also call him yourself,” Mrs. Sharif tells me. “Tell him you are available. Your parents have his number.”
“Maybe I will.”
CHAPTER 12
It’s Day Thirty-Three of summer. In three weeks of tutoring, I’ve made almost two hundred dollars. As Ms. Rivera pays me after my latest tutoring session with Esmeralda, I realize I am just three hundred dollars away from my goal. There is one month left until Camp Crystals.
I wave goodbye to Esmeralda and walk home. I need to visit the library on my way.
Ms. Loft accepted my application for the camp. I had to send her a seventy-five dollar down payment. I gave the cash—three twenties, a ten, and a five—to Mama. She wrote a check and mailed it. I felt very grown-up that I was making my own down payment on the camp. Samir looked at me in awe.
I walk into the library and glance at the bulletin board. But something makes me stop.
My poster is not there. My little black-and-white flyer is gone.
I move even closer. I can see the staples still stuck in the board where I hung it. There is a small triangle of white paper trapped under one of the staples.
Why did Mrs. Nirmala remove it? I wonder. I start to panic. I only have a few more weeks to get as many tutoring sessions as I can.
I hurry inside and find her at the information desk.
“Hello, Farah,” she says. “How are—”
“Why did you take down my flyer?” I blurt out.
She looks surprised. And hurt.
“Farah, I didn’t touch your flyer,” she says.
“But it’s gone,” I say. I know I sound rude, so I quickly apologize. “I’m sorry. But I’m just confused.”
Suddenly I am angry. I’ve been tutoring for weeks, assuming that my flyer was up. It makes sense that I haven’t been getting many new calls. How long has it been down? I wonder.
Mrs. Nirmala heads to the lobby. She pushes her glasses to the top of her head and peers at the board. Then she reaches out to touch the remaining staples.
“Someone must have torn it down,” she says. “That’s not allowed. Only the library staff can approve things to be put up or removed.”
I reach into my bag, but I have no copies. She assures me that she has an extra one at the information desk and will hang it up for me. She stares at me with an odd expression on her face. “Did you put this flyer up in other locations around town?”
“Yes,” I reply. “The nail salon, Harbortown Mart…” My voice trails off as I start to get her point.
“You might want to check on those,” she says in a grim voice.
• • •
Every flyer is gone.
Every single one has been taken down.
I ask the owner of the pizza and sub shop. Then I check with the manager of Harbortown Mart and Mrs. Kim, who owns the nail salon.
They all say the same thing. “We didn’t take it down. We don’t know who did.”
“This is sabotage,” Allie proclaims. We are at her house, throwing rocks into the creek. I throw one that skips twice across the water.
“Why would someone take down only my poster?” I wonder out loud. “It’s so weird.”
“We should ask people to stand guard.”
“And do what?”
“Watch out in case the person does it again,” says Allie.
“And tackle them to the ground!” I say. We both laugh.
“I can imagine you, Farah Rocks, chasing someone down the street. Just launching yourself at some bad guy with a face mask.”
“I could do it too,” I reply, flexing my muscles.
“Maybe you can stand at the library,” Allie says. “I’ll take the supermarket. Winston can watch out at the…”
As she continues, I imagine my friends protecting my flyers like a team of bodyguards.
Mrs. Liu feeds us lunch. After, I call Mama to tell her about the posters. She sounds upset that anyone would do that. “Are you sure it’s not a mistake?” she asks.
“Seems like it was done on purpose,” I reply.
I ask if I can go around with Allie to look for more places to hang my flyers.
“Yes.” Her voice is firm. And a little bit angry. “Hang them everywhere you can, habibti.”
Allie and I spend the morning replacing all the posters. We go to every store, every restaurant, every public place we can. We tape them to telephone poles. We ask the manager of the gas station if we can tape them to the gas pumps. Surprisingly, he agrees. Father Alex lets me hang one on the community board in our church.
All of Harbortown, it seems, look
s like a giant advertisement for Big Sister Tutoring.
But I’m worried that I have already lost a lot of time. “Do you think people are seeing the flyers now?” I ask Allie.
“For sure,” she says. “You’re going to get tons of calls this week. You’ll see.”
I do get a few calls. Three of them turn into new customers. Mama doesn’t know them, so I am not allowed to go to their homes. Instead we agree to meet at the library. Mrs. Nirmala reserves one of the study rooms for me.
My poster has been taken down one more time, she tells me a week later. Luckily I had left a stack of copies with her. “I put up a new one,” she says. “And I also put up a sign of my own.”
I look at the board in the lobby. A long strip of paper runs across the top of it. Only library staff may add or remove signs on this board. Anyone who tampers with it will be banned from the library.
“Wow, you mean business,” I say.
“Oh yes, I sure do,” she replies, putting her hands on her hips.
CHAPTER 13
Two more weeks pass by quickly. My flyers are taken down twice more, but Mrs. Nirmala replaces them. So do Mrs. Kim from the nail salon and Mr. Baldelli from Harbortown Pizza and Sub Shop. “I don’t know who is doing this,” says Mr. Baldelli, “but it’s pretty sneaky. And mean.”
Mama is concerned about the flyers. One evening, I overhear her talking to Baba in the kitchen. “Who can it be? They are not taking down anything else—just Farah’s flyers.”
“It’s terrible,” Baba agrees in Arabic. “I’m worried about it.”
“I don’t like the idea of someone bothering her like this. Abdallah, do you think we have enough…,” she asks hesitantly, “…you know? Enough to just give her the rest?”
“I checked already,” he says sadly. “I even tried to get more hours at the quarry. It’s just too big a sum. And for one week of camp.”
“I know,” Mama agrees. “And yet, many camps cost even more than that.”
“She is wonderful, no?” Baba says. “To be working and making money because she wants to do this camb, no matter what?”
“She is excellent, this girl,” Mama agrees. “Nothing can stop her.”
I sneak back up to my room, smiling. While I’m up there, I think about what to do. I have just two weeks before I have to pay the balance for Camp Crystals.
I remember what Dr. Sharif said about Mr. Munir from church. I go back downstairs and ask Baba if I can call him.
Baba looks up Mr. Munir’s number on his cell phone and hands it to me.
I hit the call button.
“Hi, Mr. Munir. This is Farah Hajjar. Abdallah Hajjar’s daughter.”
“Hello, young lady.” He sounds happy to hear my voice, so that’s a good sign. “How can I helb you?”
“I’m calling because Dr. Sharif said you might be interested in tutoring for your daughter. I’m tutoring Marwan now, and I have free time to—”
“Oh, I wish you had called earlier.” He sounds sad. “I just hired another tutor last week.”
“Oh, okay. No problem. Thanks, anyway.”
“You and her should go into business,” he says, laughing. “Two are better than one, you know.”
“Who?”
“You’re friends anyway, aren’t you?”
“Who, Mr. Munir?”
“Lana. The Khourys’ daughter.” He pauses. “She started her own tutoring business this summer as well.”
I’m so shocked that it’s only after he hangs up that I whisper, “Holy hummus.”
• • •
At church on Sunday, I watch Lana walk in with her parents. Only she doesn’t just walk. She strides in, looking confident as usual.
She sits next to her parents, wearing a sparkly dress with a matching headband. I look down at my old dress. It is very clean and neat, but the skirt is long and baggy. It looks like a little girl’s dress. Lana’s dress is way more fashionable than mine.
I feel bad about it—for about thirty seconds.
I turn my head and look at my mother. Her skirt and blouse are simple styles, but they look beautiful on her. She’s wearing her favorite color, burgundy, which makes her hair and eyes look even darker and prettier.
Then I look at her hands. My mama has hardworking hands. Strong hands. I slip my hand into one of hers. She smiles down at me and kisses the top of my head. As I sit there listening to Father Alex, I get ready for Lana. I’m angry. In my mind, I put the anger on like it’s armor.
I find her after Sunday school, standing by the hummus and manaeesh table. Our church’s coffee hour takes place after mass, but it’s really like a full dinner. You eat more here than you would at a restaurant.
“Lana, I heard you have your own tutoring business,” I say.
“Yeah,” she says with a sneer. She looks annoyed that I am standing next to her.
“Me too.”
“Good for you.” She smirks. “Maybe you can use the money to buy some decent clothes.”
I pause. If I am a red, bull’s-eye target, she just drove an arrow right to my center. And it hurts.
But I think of Mama’s hands, and I fire back: “I would make more money if someone would stop their sabotage.”
“What’s your point?”
“You’ve been taking down my posters, Lana.”
“You’re crazy,” she says.
I think, for a brief moment, that maybe I am wrong. Maybe I’m being unfair. I don’t have any proof that she’s been doing it. But I do know that:
She does go to the library regularly because she signed up for the summer program.
She suddenly started her business after I started mine.
She hates me because I got into Magnet and she didn’t.
I press on, inventing some proof of my own. “You were seen, you know. At the library.”
Her eyes widen a little. “You’re a liar. I couldn’t have been seen because I didn’t do anything.”
I continue anyway. “There’s a camera outside the nail salon. You were caught on video.”
She says nothing. Her lips are pressed firmly together.
Victory.
“What I’m saying is, if my flyers keep disappearing, I’m going to report you,” I say.
“You’re such a brat, Farah Hajjar!” she hisses.
“I’m just trying to make some money. You’re the one who is sabotaging me.”
“I hope your stupid business fails,” she says. She tucks her perfect, blue-dyed hair behind her ear. Then she walks away from me.
“It won’t,” I mutter.
I find my parents helping clean the tables after coffee hour. I offer to take a full trash bag out to the dumpster behind the church.
“Meet us at the car, Farah,” Mama says.
I toss the bag into the tall dumpster and walk back around the building. That’s when I hear it—a grinding, clanky, awful noise. It can only be one thing. Our car.
I stand on the sidewalk with Dr. Sharif, Mama, Samir, and a few other people. Baba is in the car, trying to start it again.
Grind.
Clank.
Then we all hear it at once— a startling SNAP.
And with a huff, the car surrenders and dies.
CHAPTER 14
While members of St. Jude Church watch, a tow truck arrives in the parking lot. The driver gets out and talks to Baba. Then he attaches a big chain to the front of our little car, hooking it up to the back of the truck. A few minutes later, the truck leaves the lot, pulling our car behind it.
Samir asks where he’s taking our car. He’s holding his Tommy Turtle game cards and his book, which were in the back seat. I have my box of rocks, which I play with during car rides, and the graphic novel I checked out from the library.
“To the mechanic,�
�� Baba answers. “We will see if our car can be fixed or not.”
“I hope so,” Mama says.
Dr. Sharif drives us home in his car. Then he plans to return to church to take his own family home. He has a car he’s been thinking of selling, he says, now that his wife doesn’t really drive anymore. “Let me know if you need to borrow it for a time.”
“Thank you!” Baba says. He shakes his hand gratefully.
Later that evening, Baba gets a phone call from Harbortown Mechanics. Right away I can tell the news is bad. I hear him sighing. When he hangs up, he looks at Mama. “We can fix it for three thousand dollars.”
She gasps. “Oh no.”
Baba slumps on the couch. “I can take the bus to work.”
“You’d have to get to the bus stop,” she says. “And the L bus doesn’t reach your work. You would have to get off somewhere and take the S bus.”
“Yes,” he says with another sigh.
He calls Dr. Sharif, who agrees to drive the car over later. When he arrives, he tells Mama and Baba to drive it for a week to see if they like it. “If you do, we will talk.”
Baba takes us all out for a drive. First we drop off Dr. Sharif at home. Then we drive around Harbortown. The car is old, but newer than ours. It’s a small SUV. Samir and I like that we sit up higher than before. Baba thinks it drives well. Mama likes how spacious the trunk is.
“Ask him how much he wants for it,” Mama suggests.
“I’ll wait a few days, and then I will,” Baba replies. “I hope it’s not too much.”
“As long as it’s less than three thousand dollars,” Mama says in a tired voice, “I guess we will have to take it.”
“And somehow find the money for it,” Baba says under his breath, but Samir and I hear him anyway.
• • •
That week, I have several tutoring sessions. Another student has signed up, a little boy whose parents are friends with Ms. Rivera. I’m glad because the money for camp is due in two weeks. I’m almost there.
Farah Rocks Summer Break Page 5
