A Place at the Table

by Saadia Faruqi

  Mama points to the butter chicken in a gigantic pot on the stove. “Four containers, please,” she tells me. I pick up four plastic takeout containers from the counter and start ladling. It’s still warm, and I don’t want the curry splashing on my white T-shirt. It’s got an American flag on the front, with white flowers where the stars should be. It’s almost worn out with so many washings, but it’s my favorite comfy shirt.

  The flag reminds me of our conversation at breakfast. “I’m sorry I said anything about your citizenship test to Baba,” I offer.

  She smiles. Her face is warm and flushed, but the little creases in the corners of her eyes always make me smile back. “It’s okay. I was probably annoying you with all that talk of ancient village people.”

  I giggle, and the twins look at us curiously. “Anyway,” I say. “When’s your test?”

  Rafey says, “You have a test, Mama?” He’s the leader of the duo, always asking demanding questions.

  Tariq adds, “We had a math test on Friday. It was really easy. Fractions are stupid!” He grins as if it’s a joke. Everything is a joke to Tariq.

  The twins moved to our local elementary school this year, but they seem to be loving it. They’re math geniuses. At least Baba thinks so. The teachers treat them like little princes. Disgusting.

  Mama looks up from the lettuce she’s cutting. “Don’t say stupid, please. It’s not a nice word.”

  I’ve seen that prim, frowning expression before. She had it painted on her face in cooking class yesterday. I’d never seen Mama that way before, all reserved and almost strict. A teacher, not my mama. It was strange, and I’m not sure I liked it.

  A little thump in my chest makes me swallow. I’m feeling angsty again, just like in the morning. “Kids say much worse words than stupid, Mama. This is America. You should get used to it.”

  She stops and puts her knife down. “Sara, I’ve lived in this country longer than you’ve been alive. Please don’t act like I don’t know anything.”

  The twins gaze at us with their mouths slightly open. Not a good look when half your baby teeth are missing.

  “I want you two—you three—to always act kind and respectful. Just because your friends are using bad words doesn’t mean you should. Right?”

  “Right, Mama,” the twins chorus. “We love you, Mama.” Rafey hugs her quickly. Tariq hates hugs, but he grins to let her know his feelings.

  I stick my tongue out at them. Sucking up, as usual.

  We get back to the work at hand, all of us practiced in our assigned tasks. Customers usually come in the evening to pick up their orders, so we have to make sure everything is ready by four o’clock at the latest. Once the butter chicken containers are packed, Tariq sticks labels on them so we’re sure we’re sending the correct orders home with each customer.

  “Time to watch cartoons!” howls Rafey. He runs off toward the television, with his trusty twin sidekick behind him.

  Mama takes out a pot of biryani from the fridge and hands me white Styrofoam boxes to fill. I breathe in the smell of fragrant rice and succulent lamb.

  “Good?” Mama asks, smiling at me.

  Biryani is one of the few Pakistani dishes I actually like. I nod, relieved she doesn’t seem really mad. “I’m sure it’ll be great. You make good food.”

  “Seems like some of your classmates don’t agree.”

  It takes me a moment to realize she is talking about the cooking club. “Oh, them! Don’t worry about them, Mama. They’re idiots.”

  Mama throws me a warning look but doesn’t scold. Apparently, idiot isn’t as bad a word as stupid.

  “They didn’t like the food, I think?” she murmurs, her mouth turning downward.

  “Not everyone!” I reach over and hug her. “That girl Elizabeth seemed to really like it. She said her own mom doesn’t cook much.” I think of the way Elizabeth closed her eyes and breathed in a long sigh when the tahari was handed out.

  Mama hugs me back, places a little kiss on the top of my head, and I know all is forgiven—for now. No doubt we’ll be at loggerheads again pretty soon.

  “Do you know Elizabeth?” she asks.

  “Not really.”

  “I hope she can bring the others to her side,” Mama says, her face grim. “I can’t afford to lose this class.”

  I freeze, my hand trembling with the weight of a spoon full of biryani. Mama and Baba rarely talk finances in front of me. “What do you mean?”

  Mama shakes her head and forces a smile. “Nothing, jaanoo. Forget I said anything.”

  I slap the spoon down on the table, and little grains of rice fly around me. “I’m not a little kid anymore. I want to know.”

  She takes a deep breath. “I know you’re not a little kid, but Baba and I never want to burden you with our problems.”

  I can’t believe what she’s saying. “It’s not your problem, Mama! It’s our problem. We all help with the business.”

  “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. Sub theek hai.” Her face smooths and she turns back to the biryani. Her long hair falls forward, shielding her face and hiding her feelings. This conversation is over.

  Back in my room at night, I replay Mama’s words over and over in my mind. I can’t afford to lose this class. She’ll never admit it, but she needs my help. It’s clear to me: no matter how boring I find Mama’s cooking club, I’ll try to win over that girl Elizabeth and make sure the club is a success. How hard can it be?

  4

  Elizabeth

  THE FRONT DOOR SLAMS, waking me up. That’s David, leaving for the high school bus. He’s a sophomore and, like Dad, isn’t home much. The robotics team and theater crew keep him late after school. When David is home, he’s holed up in the garage tinkering with engine parts or tweaking his team’s robot.

  Not that I blame him. Things have been pretty bad since Mom came back from England.

  I hurry downstairs. There was a full box of Cheerios yesterday, but David eats huge soup bowls of cereal for breakfast. I’d make myself toast if the toaster weren’t in the garage, along with the remains of several other small appliances my brother offered to fix.

  Unless I want scrambled egg Hot Pockets this morning, I have to get to the cereal before Justin does.

  “Hi, Mom.” I shake the box. “We’re low on Os.”

  Mom sits in a corner of the family room, legs buried under the gray blanket she’s knitting. Our schnauzer, Robin Hood, nestles at her feet. The only thing Robin has in common with the legendary hero of Nottingham is that he’s an expert thief. Of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

  The yarn Mom is knitting pools in her lap like strands of overcooked spaghetti. “It wouldn’t hurt to say ‘Good morning’ before you start whinging, Elizabeth,” she scolds. Her short brown hair is brushed, which is a good sign. But her eyelids are puffy. She’s still in her bathrobe, which she calls a dressing gown.

  “Good morning, Mother dear,” I say with an extra dose of sweetness. Sometimes my sarcasm makes Mom laugh. Other times, it pushes her buttons. That’s when she gets angry and says that all she wants is some peace and quiet.

  Mom spent the whole summer in England, taking care of my grandmother. David and I got shipped off to sleepaway camp. We couldn’t stay home with Dad, because he was traveling for work. Even Robin Hood was sent away. He spent the summer in New York with Bubbe. Robin is Bubbe’s BFF: best furry friend. But don’t tell her Persian cat, Claude. He gets jealous.

  Justin’s lucky he’s only nine. He got to go with Mom and spend time with our cousins, my aunt Louise’s kids, all summer.

  No one even told me Nan died until I got home from camp, which I was totally not okay with. Dad’s excuse was that they wanted me to enjoy my summer. Ha! The JCC performing-arts camp is where my parents met when they were college students. They are super romantic about it—how they spent the summer putting on theater productions in the woods—so I’m kind of not allowed to say how much I hated it.

  I come over and sit on the arm
of the sofa. Mom puts down her needles and slips an arm around my back. After Mom came home from England, a big box covered in British stamps arrived on our doorstep. I was hoping there’d be some keepsakes inside, something of Nan’s that I could hold on to. But the only thing in there was a bunch of Nan’s unused yarn, cushioning some commemorative plates. British people love those things: a plate for the Queen’s birthday, a plate with the prince’s wedding portrait on it. They’re not for eating. Mom hung ours up in the hallway with the rest of our family photos, which makes it seem like Elizabeth II is my honorary grandmother.

  Our family is together again, but I think spending the summer on opposite sides of the ocean stretched us thin. Mom is sad about losing Nan, and probably she misses Aunt Louise. She might be pining for England, like always. Maybe all three are knitted together, like the woolly blanket she’s working on.

  Mom sips her tea. “We have other food in the house besides cereal, Elizabeth,” she says, and goes back to knitting.

  I’m glad I don’t have to ask her to make my lunch today. I made tahari rice this weekend, carefully copying Mrs. Hameed’s recipe. There’s no way the garbage-pails-on-legs that are my brothers have eaten it. If food isn’t wrapped in plastic or cardboard, they won’t touch it. Thank goodness we don’t keep kosher. If we did, my brothers would probably starve. Ninety percent of Hot Pockets have bacon in them.

  Sometimes I wish we did, though. Keep kosher, light candles on Friday nights, follow rules and traditions. Even though Mom converted to Judaism when my parents got married, we’re not very observant.

  Watching Mom knit makes my eyes heavy. It’s so cozy and warm sitting next to her that I ease back into sleep.

  “Wake up.” She nudges my arm. “No more lollygagging. You’ll be late for school. And make sure Justin is awake, would you?”

  I run upstairs and shout “School!” into my brothers’ bedroom. I refuse to go in there ever since David set up a motion-detecting alarm in the doorway.

  I head to my room to get dressed. As soon as I open my drawer, I spot a problem.

  “Mom!” I yell loud enough for her to hear me through the floor. “I need clean underwear!” I head back downstairs, almost tripping over Robin Hood. Robin barks at me, then races ahead to the family room and barks at Mom.

  “Mom, please tell me you did laundry this weekend.”

  She scrunches her eyes closed, as if I’ve given her a headache. “You’re old enough to do your own laundry.”

  “But I was cooking this weekend. Besides, you never taught me like you said you would.”

  “It’s my fault, is it?” Mom stands up. Yarn tumbles from her lap. She’s tall, but softer-looking than usual, with rounded, puffy cheeks.

  Mom steps over the yarn and heads to the laundry room. “I’ll check the dryer,” she says.

  Her phone rings. I call out to Mom, trying my best not to shout. “Should I answer your phone?”

  Mom calls back from the laundry room. “Only if it’s Aunt Louise. I'll ring her back in a bit.” I look at the screen, pick the phone up off the floor and answer. “Hi, Aunt Louise.”

  “How’s your mum today, Els?” Auntie asks. My family nickname is my initials, ELS, for Elizabeth Leah Shainmark.

  “Not so good. All she wants to do is knit and listen to audiobooks, and nobody did the laundry.” I don’t tell her that I was too distracted with cooking to check that I had clean clothes.

  Aunt Louise sighs. Even though she’s three thousand miles away, the sadness in her voice flows into me, making my eyes prickle. She’s the older, more sparkly sister, but there’s no happiness in her words when she says, “Your mum is doing her best to take care of herself. Things are hard for her right now.” She pauses. “You know the English saying ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’?”

  “It’s on Mom’s favorite teacup.”

  “That’s what she’s struggling with. The carrying-on part. Is she there?”

  “She said she’ll call you back.” I say goodbye to Aunt Louise, pick up the knitting, and place it carefully on the sofa. When I finally get to the laundry room, Mom has the place pulled apart.

  “This was all I could find,” she says, handing me a fistful of cloth.

  I hold it up.

  “Mom,” I say, tears threatening again. There are some things I am not willing to do, even to help Mom stay calm. Wearing my little brother’s underwear is one of them. “These are Justin’s underpants. BOYS’ underpants. I have PE today. There is no way.” My voice is tight. There are some kids who like wearing boy-style shorts. I am not one of them.

  She hands me laundry detergent. “Wash your dirty pants in the sink.”

  I know she means underwear. “They won’t dry in time.”

  Mom’s blue eyes are dull, tired. “Those are your choices, Elizabeth.”

  “It was Aunt Louise on the phone,” I mumble. Mom pushes past me into the family room, picks up her phone, and heads upstairs. “Hi, Louise,” I hear her say. “Sorry about that. Teenagers.” She says the word with the fakest laugh ever. Also, she knows I’m only eleven.

  I trudge upstairs, hoping I can find a pair of underwear to wash.

  Then, as she’s closing the door to her room, Mom says something that makes me freeze. She tells Aunt Louise, “I wish I could be there” and “. . . coming home for good.”

  Robin waits for me at the top of the stairs, stubby tail wagging, but I don’t move.

  Mom wants to go back to England for good? Will she take us with her? What about Dad? My mother said this was the year she’d get her U.S. citizenship. I was so excited. Because how can we be a family if we don’t all belong to the same country? But then Nan got sick and Mom didn’t have time to study. I haven’t seen her reading the Learn About the United States booklet in months.

  I only have a few minutes until the bus comes. I’ve got to get dressed and pack my backpack. If I wear Justin’s underwear, I might have time to find Mom’s study book.

  I race back downstairs, sweating from all the running around. The booklet isn’t in the mail pile or with the old newspapers. I stop and throw my homework folder, container of tahari rice, and water bottle into my backpack. I’m running out of time.

  One last place to search. The coffee table is covered in Mom’s knitting projects, but I bet her magazines are underneath. There, buried under issues of O and Royalty Monthly, I find the booklet with its bright American flag waving on the cover. I put the study book in the kitchen, right next to Mom’s teakettle. She’ll get the message: I want her to stay here, on this side of the Atlantic, with us.

  Then I’m upstairs, rushing to pull a pair of jeans over Justin’s underwear. The leg holes are too tight—he is nine, after all—and there’s that gross extra pouch in the front, which I don’t even want to think about. Thank goodness my jeans are thick. I grab my favorite Doctor Who sweatshirt, which used to be Mom’s. She watched Doctor Who on TV when she was a kid. Except she says “telly” instead of “TV,” which I think is one of her most adorable Briticisms.

  It’s not that I want Mom to give up everything about being English. Of course not. But I want to know she’s here, that she belongs to our family one hundred percent. That she’s not going to fade into her sadness or go back to Nottingham for good.

  The sweatshirt comes down to the middle of my thighs. I roll up the sleeves and put on the charm bracelets that each of my grandmothers got me for my tenth birthday. I quickly touch my favorite charms: Star of David on my left wrist, then Union Jack flag, teacup, and blue police box on my right. The last charm is my favorite because it’s Doctor Who’s time machine.

  At school, I’m so wiggly that Ms. Saintima asks if I have ants in my pants. My friend Micah laughs, along with everyone else. Sara from cooking club glares as if she’s saying, How dare you distract me from my studies?

  I shrug. My brain is too frazzled to care what that stuck-up girl Sara thinks. Time to focus. I need to come up with a plan for PE or everyone will know I wore boys’ underwea
r to school.

  By the time Maddy and I meet in the hallway, I feel like I’m going to barf. The bell is about to ring. In moments, I’ll be changing in the locker room and Justin’s snowy white undies—I hope they’re snowy white . . . did I check?—will be on display for the world. Or at least for the girls in my gym class.

  Maddy pulls me into a corner and unzips her backpack. “I need to show you something,” she hisses. A flowery smell whaps me in the face. She points to little pillows wrapped in purple-and-pink plastic.

  “You got your period?” I whisper.

  “No. My stupid mother made me bring pads.” She blows the hair off her freckled forehead and then, in a quick motion, pulls her dark hair into a ponytail. She used to wear it in a cute bob because we hated how every girl in our grade had long straight hair. But she started growing her hair out this summer while I was away.

  Maddy says, “My mom got her period in sixth grade. She’s convinced it’s going to happen to me, like, any minute.”

  I sag against the wall and catch my breath. “Cover them with something,” I suggest. “If they fall out by accident, everyone will see.”

  “Good thinking.” She shoves a pencil case on top of the pads. As Micah comes bounding up to us, Maddy yanks the zipper closed, hiding all evidence of feminine products.

  Micah Rosen-Perez is my Hebrew-school buddy. This is the first time we’ve gone to actual school together. He has curly brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. He wears cargo shorts no matter how cold it gets outside. And he’s a percussionist. Micah’s drumsticks are always either in his hands or in his pocket.

  Maybe the scent of flowers has gone to my head, because an idea sprouts there. “That’s it!” I gasp and give Maddy a hug. “You’re the best.”

  “What the heck, Els?” Maddy pushes me away and glances around the hallway to see if anyone noticed how immature I am.

  “Group hug?” Micah asks.

  “You wish,” I say, walking down the hallway as fast as I can without getting yelled at. “Tell Mr. Graff I went to the nurse,” I tell Maddy.