A Place at the Table

by Saadia Faruqi

Maddy says, “See you later,” to Stephanie, as if our station is on the other side of town instead of two steps away. Ugh. This was supposed to be our thing, BFF time.

  “I’ll chop,” Maddy offers.

  “Large chunks,” Mrs. Hameed instructs. “The pieces should be slightly bigger than the end of your thumb.”

  “Ew,” Maddy says as Mrs. Hameed walks away. “Now I’m going to picture big hunks of thumb in our rice.” She hacks at the potato I’ve just peeled.

  I push my charm bracelets up my arms so they don’t dangle as I peel. Then I sneak a glance at Mrs. Hameed. She’s wearing a green headscarf decorated with white teardrops, and makeup that shows off her dark eyes. My mother doesn’t do makeup, except for special occasions.

  Some kids near our station start grumbling about making food with names they can’t pronounce.

  “Chef Elaine was so much better,” Stephanie says in a low voice.

  “What’s wrong with mac and cheese, or chocolate chip cookies? American food,” Maddy adds.

  The red-haired boy from swim team grins and says, “Right?”

  Mrs. Hameed ignores the chatter and goes on teaching without getting frazzled. When grouchy Mrs. Kluckowski comes in with her notepad, Mrs. Hameed nods politely and acts as if our FACS teacher is invisible.

  I like her style. If she can ignore the complaining, so can I.

  I’m not here to gossip. Yes, I want to spend time with Maddy. The only class we have together this semester is PE. But mainly, I’m here to learn. If I pay attention and work hard, maybe I can take over making dinner at home. I already know how to bake challah and some other breads, but my older brother says he needs meat to put meat on his bones. He is pretty skinny for a fifteen-year-old. Dad says David hasn’t gotten his man-muscles yet. Gross.

  What if I add chicken to this rice and potato dish? I can tell David and my younger brother, Justin, to think of it as a breadless Hot Pocket. They consider those things a miracle of culinary brilliance.

  I’m so busy planning my own version of tahari rice that I don’t notice Maddy’s terrible knife skills. The potato is a mess of jagged bits on her cutting board. It’s never going to cook evenly.

  “Let’s switch places,” I suggest. “I’ll chop; you peel.”

  Maddy shrugs. She catches sight of that girl in the corner, huddled over her sketchbook. “Who sits on the floor in the school kitchen?” Maddy snorts. “Her jeans are going to smell like onions and disinfectant.”

  The girl has long black hair clipped back with a silver barrette. She’s wearing jeans and a blue-gray tunic with bell sleeves. I know her from language arts class. Ms. Saintima calls her Sarah, the American way, but her mom pronounced it “Sah-rah.” I like the way her name makes a little rhyme. It’s weird that she’s never corrected our teacher. Ms. Saintima would be cool with it. Plus, it’s October. We’ve been in school for weeks.

  Maddy catches me staring and nudges my arm. “You know her?”

  “We have a class together, but she hardly ever talks.”

  Maddy snorts again. “I wouldn’t talk either if I had an accent like that.”

  Was she even paying attention before? Probably not. She was too busy talking to Stephanie. “Mads,” I say, “she sounds exactly like us.” I don’t know why I’m sticking up for Sarah. Sara. Whatever. I don’t even know her.

  “Her mom is, like, impossible to understand.” Maddy makes sure Mrs. Hameed isn’t nearby. “My brain has to work overtime when she talks.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” I say. Maybe having a mom with a foreign accent makes paying attention to Mrs. Hameed easier for me.

  Mrs. Hameed calls us to a giant soup pot on the teacher’s stove. The moment she tosses cumin seeds into the hot oil, I know this club is where I’m supposed to be. I breathe in, close my eyes, and inhale the warm, nutty aroma. When I open them again, Maddy is chitchatting with Stephanie. Loudly. I catch Sara scowling at them.

  Most of the kids in sixth grade have friends from elementary school, but I don’t think Sara does. She sits alone at lunch and hangs her head down in class, barely speaking, even to teachers. Did she move here from far away? That might explain it, but it’s no excuse for being unfriendly.

  Mrs. Hameed reaches up to the wood-framed mirror hanging from the ceiling. She tilts it so we can see chilies, tomatoes, and onions glistening in the pot below. When she asks for a volunteer to stir, no one raises a hand. But all of those rich colors and flavors are calling to me. I step forward and take the wooden spoon.

  Mrs. Hameed directs one of the eighth-graders to pour in the soaked rice with its water. “Carefully,” she explains as I stir. “The rice is fragile.”

  Rice is fragile? No one ever told me that. At my house, rice boils in a plastic bag or gets heated in the microwave.

  When Mrs. Hameed is pleased with the mixture, she puts the whole pot into the oven so it can finish cooking. “Time to set the tables,” she calls.

  I spot a package of napkins on the counter, but Sara’s in my way. She’s still on the floor, absorbed in her sketchbook.

  “Excuse me,” I say.

  Nothing.

  “I need to reach the napkins.”

  Typical. Sara must be the least friendly kid in our grade. I poke her shoulder. Hard.

  As she looks up and scowls, her hair falls away from her face.

  “Oh, you’re wearing earphones,” I stammer.

  She glares at me, as if I’ve accused her of stealing. “Is class over?”

  “No. The rice is in the oven.”

  Sara leans back and relaxes a little. I want to grab the napkins and rush back to Maddy, but my mouth keeps moving. It does that sometimes.

  “I didn’t know that was a thing. Cooking something on the stove and then sticking the entire pot in the oven.”

  Her eyes narrow as if to say, Why are you still talking to me? Finally, Sara mutters, “Good food takes time and patience.”

  I laugh without meaning to. “Tell that to my mom. Does your mother have a cooking club for grownups? Because I will sign my mom up so fast.”

  “One cooking class is more than enough.” She shakes her head and returns to her sketchbook.

  I’m trying to be nice, but if she’s more interested in her artwork than in me, fine. I’m reaching for the napkins when Sara speaks again.

  “All we do at my house is cook.” Her voice is quiet. “My mom has a catering company.”

  “But you’d rather draw.” I lean over to peek at her sketch.

  Sara snaps her book closed, but not before I see a swirling garden created in black ink, one red flower in the center. It’s beautiful. If I could draw like that, I’d study animation when I grow up. But my hands are big and clumsy. I’m better at kneading dough than drawing.

  Sara slides her sketchbook into her backpack without saying another word.

  Conversation over, I think. I head to the table, where Maddy is already sitting next to Stephanie.

  Stephanie’s all right, I guess. People like her because she’s always sharing samples of the cupcakes she bakes. But she’d rather watch America’s Got Talent than Doctor Who.

  Maddy and I used to argue for hours about which actor was the best Doctor Who, a time-traveling do-gooder who clashes with monsters, saves Earth from aliens, and witnesses historical events like the destruction of Pompeii. How cool is that? Not cool enough for Maddy, now that she’s friends with Stephanie Tolleson.

  Maddy’s complaints about Mrs. Hameed’s accent and the spicy food are annoying, but I put up with her because she’s my best friend. We’ve been together since third grade, when we both showed up for the school Halloween parade wearing the Eleventh Doctor’s tweed jacket and red fez hat. I laugh to myself, picturing Sweet Stephanie in a fez and nerdy bow tie. That is so not her look.

  When it’s finally time to eat, everyone gets a ladleful of bright yellow rice and potatoes in a plastic bowl. I chew slowly, savoring the flavors. They’re so delicious that the noise in the room fades a
way for a second. How can such simple ingredients make my tongue feel like it’s dancing with warmth and smoke?

  No one has taken the time to teach me about food before. Not even my grandmother. She taught me to make challah, but Bubbe says the kitchen in her New York apartment is too cramped for showing me more complicated recipes.

  But tahari rice is easy. I bet I can make this at home. No Stilton cheese necessary.

  I take another bite and shoot Maddy a huge grin. And that’s when she spits her rice into a napkin. “My tongue is on fire,” she tells everyone at the table.

  Sara drops her plastic fork with a clatter. All eyes turn to the end of the table, where she’s sitting by herself. She treats everyone to a lethal scowl.

  This is why she has no friends.

  I don’t know what Sara’s problem is, and I don’t have time to care. I’m too worried about Maddy. Since we started middle school, sometimes she feels like a new person. Spitting out her rice was rude, but I know she’s showing off for Stephanie. I ignore her and enjoy my food.

  The door opens before we finish eating. A few parents wander into the room. Stephanie tries to hand some of them her brochure.

  “I cater birthdays and bat mitzvahs,” she says. Her smile matches the grinning emoji-faced cupcake on her Sweet Stephanie’s T-shirt.

  I walk over to Mrs. Hameed and tell her, “I can’t wait to try this recipe at home!” I feel like I should curtsy or something, which is ridiculous. It’s not like Mrs. Hameed is the Queen. She’s a regular mom who happens to be our cooking teacher. I blush, totally embarrassed that I even thought about curtsying to Mrs. Hameed.

  I’m taking a printout of the recipe when Maddy’s dad comes in. He’s driving me home today. Mr. Montgomery doesn’t like it when we make him wait. I rush to the door in time to hear him grumble to Maddy, “That Arab lady is your teacher?”

  I know that Mrs. Hameed is not an Arab. This is a South Asian cooking club, after all. The Hameeds are from Pakistan, not the Middle East. But I’m not about to say that to Mr. Montgomery.

  3

  Sara

  ON SATURDAY, I wake up to the smell of steaming-hot parathas and eggs, the way I’ve done every morning since I can remember. Mama and Baba are at the kitchen table, eating and watching a morning talk show. Some blond reporter with a toothy smile is praising the qualities of an L.L.Bean jacket versus the Sears brand.

  I quietly say, “Salaam,” and get a bowl from the cabinet.

  “Paratha khaa lo. I just cooked it,” Mama tells me, her eyes glued to the television. She waves to the freshly cooked paratha in the foil.

  So what else is new? I almost say, but it’s too much effort to talk just yet. Who invented mornings, anyway? I fill my bowl with chocolate cereal and pour milk over it before anybody objects. “No, thanks,” I say in English, and settle next to Baba, who’s got a plateful of fried eggs sprinkled with pepper. “You can give my paratha to the twins.”

  Baba looks up from his plate, eyebrows threatening to touch his hairline. “Eggs are good for you, jaanoo,” he tells me in Urdu. He’s big and bulky, all wrapped up in a tattered jacket even though the central heating is on full blast.

  “Er, no, actually, too many eggs could increase your cholesterol, Baba.” Again, I reply in English. He grumbles under his breath. It’s a game with us: the older generation speaking one language, the kids responding in another. But Mama and Baba always give up in the end.

  He switches to English. “What are you talking about? See how strong and healthy I am?” Baba flexes his biceps.

  “That’s not muscle, Baba!” I groan. “That’s fat. F-A-T!”

  Mama scoffs. She has a not-so-secret habit of eavesdropping on other people’s conversations.

  She reprimands me, her tiny frame rigid with indignation. “Our parents used to eat paratha and eggs every day in the villages of Pakistan, and they lived to be ninety.”

  I wave a spoon dripping with milk. “They lived a different lifestyle, Mama—you know that. They worked on farms and walked everywhere, so they got plenty of exercise.”

  “Hmph,” Mama mutters, sipping hot tea. I make a face at her. Mama and I are often at loggerheads about the weirdest things, like how people in villages lived a hundred years ago. Still, I secretly enjoy our little arguments. She’s very knowledgeable but doesn’t like to rub it in.

  Baba puts up his hand like a police sergeant. “Please stop, you two. I have ulcers from listening to you all the time.”

  I don’t tell him that spicy food will irritate his ulcers. I jab a spoon in my cereal, which has absorbed so much milk that the pieces look like bloated life jackets bobbing in a speckled ocean. Ew.

  Baba goes back to his eggs. I look around and catch sight of the papers from the cooking club last night, lying on the kitchen counter with a bunch of unopened mail. A slim booklet with an American flag on the front sticks out from underneath, jogging my memory. “Why are you watching that blond airhead again, huh, Mama? Don’t you have your citizenship test to study for?”

  Mama makes an impatient sound deep in her throat and whispers, “Later.”

  “Kya?” Baba abandons his egg halfway to his mouth. His grayish-black goatee quivers on his chin. “You told me you were almost done with your studying.”

  Mama gives me an exasperated look. I am instantly ashamed, but in my defense, I didn’t realize she hadn’t been studying for that thing at all.

  “I’m doing it, okay?” she tells Baba, touching his shoulder in a comforting gesture. “It takes time. If I had someone to help me, it would go faster.”

  Both of them turn to look at me. Uh-oh.

  I pretend to focus on my soggy cereal. “Maybe I’ll have a paratha after all,” I say weakly, trying to make them happy.

  Too late.

  “You will help your mama study,” Baba commands. He gets up from the table and wipes his mouth, then turns to Mama. “It’s ridiculous that you’ve been studying for months and haven’t finished yet. Sara is going to help you, and that’s the end of it.”

  Baba doesn’t usually talk so firmly. In his job as a pharmacy technician, he speaks little and works way too hard. Both Mama and I glare at him.

  “But . . . it’s not fair,” I splutter. “I’m already staying back with her in that stupid cooking class! Why do I have to be part of this, too?”

  Mama’s hand freezes. I see her teacup tremble slightly, and I wish I could take the words back.

  Baba frowns. “Don’t you want your mother to be a citizen of this great country? Do you want her to float around between two cultures forever?”

  I groan. My father is always so dramatic. When he puts it like that, the choice is clear. “Okay, fine. I’ll do it,” I say with gritted teeth.

  Mama relaxes. “Thank you, jaanoo. That will be such a big help.” She smiles at me.

  I bite my lip, then reluctantly smile back. “Anything for family, right?”

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, I sit on my bed and stare at my laptop, wondering if I should send Rabia a message on Google Hangouts. It’s past two o’clock, so she must be watching America’s Got Talent videos. We used to watch together on weekends, with the Hangouts bar open in the corner of our screens, commenting on all the contestants, laughing, even though we could only see tiny squares of each other.

  Rabia’s family spent the summer with her grandparents in Pakistan, so we haven’t watched AGT since fifth grade ended and I left Iqra. I drag the laptop onto my thighs and ping Rabia before I lose my courage. It’s dumb, really. What am I afraid of? She’s still the same girl I’ve always known.

  The computer rings and rings. I count five beeps before she answers.

  “Sara!” Her face is grainy and dark, so I know she’s in her room with the curtains drawn, probably listening to music really low.

  “Hey, Rabia. How’s it going?” I try to act casual, as if I don’t think about her every day when I walk into school without a friend.

  “I’m fine. I
have to get started on a project about solar ovens, but it is so boring!” She tosses her hair back in classic Rabia style. “How about you?” Her face looms across the screen, the same wide sparkling eyes, her curly hair longer than I remember it.

  I’m suddenly tongue-tied. “We did solar ovens in science last week.”

  She laughs. “Yeah, you’re in public school now,” she teases. “All high and mighty, doing lessons before us private-school kids.”

  I relax. “I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to work the other way around.”

  She laughs again. “So how is it, your new school?”

  “Do you want the good, the bad, or the ugly?”

  “Definitely the good.”

  “Hmm.” I glance out my window. The neighbor’s cat is climbing awkwardly on a high branch, its claws gripping the wood as if it’s petrified. I know how that cat feels, but I search for the positive anyway. “The teachers are nice, especially my art teacher. We’re starting a new project on Monday, and I’m dying to know what it is.”

  Rabia rolls her eyes, but her smile is gentle. “You and your art obsession.”

  I shrug. “I prefer to call it my passion.”

  “Not sure your parents would agree.”

  The cat is stuck on the branch now, swiveling its head from side to side in slow-motion panic. “We’ll see.” Call me an optimist, but I’ll never give up hope that my family will take my art—and me—seriously.

  “Sara!” Mama calls from downstairs. Ugh.

  “Gotta go,” I tell Rabia. “Remember our trip to the mall is coming up soon.” I breathe anxiously. “You’re still going, aren’t you?”

  “Are you kidding? It’s our tradition. I wouldn’t miss it!”

  “Sara! Jaldi aao!” Mama calls again, louder, and I shut the laptop.

  Downstairs, the family has gathered for packing duty. Baba has work today, but everyone else is at their positions in the kitchen. Mama’s catering business is a family affair. We all have to pitch in whether we like it or not. My twin brothers, Rafey and Tariq, are only eight years old, but they pack food like quick-fingered professionals. I’m a bit on the messy side, so I ladle and try not to spill too much.