“Ew,” Justin says. “You’re the only one who eats fungus.”
“There’s a fungus among us,” Dad jokes, kissing the top of Justin’s head.
“Worst dad joke ever,” David says, but he’s grinning.
We set the table. It’s Friday night, so I go to the cabinet where we keep the brass Shabbat candlesticks.
Mom puts a hand on my arm. “I’m not up to it tonight, Elizabeth.”
“Can we at least say the Hamotzi?” I ask. It’s a prayer we say over challah, thanking God for the bread we eat. Pizza is bread, so we could pray over that.
“Not tonight, Elizabeth.” Dad’s voice is firm. “Tomorrow we’ll go to services as a family. Then I’m taking the three of you out. Mom needs a break.”
I wonder if Dad has noticed the darkness under Mom’s eyes and how slow she is to smile.
“I have robotics,” David says. “First tournament’s coming up soon.”
Justin raises his hand. “Soccer practice.”
“I’ll go to services,” I cut in quickly. I’m supposed to meet Maddy at Bean Heaven for a Halloween-costume planning session. But that can wait.
* * *
The next day, Dad and I get up early for services. The synagogue is a modern building. Dad helped install solar panels on the roof, so he’s super proud of it. Huge windows overlook trees and a pond.
When the congregation sings my favorite prayer, Ma Tovu, Dad rocks back and forth on his loafers. The melody is sad, but hearing it fills me with hope. I love the line about the temple being a place of glory. I look out the windows. The autumn leaves are more beautiful than stained glass.
Dad closes his eyes, nodding with the beat as we sing. I slip my hand into his. He squeezes back. It was worth getting up early on a Saturday to spend time with him.
Micah is here too. That’s another thing I like about services. Micah usually comes with his family. It’s hilarious to see him in khaki pants, a button-down shirt, and loafers instead of cargo shorts and high-tops. His curls are slicked into a neater-than-usual ponytail.
After services, everyone gathers in the lobby. We eat challah and the cookies the Rosen-Perez family brought for hospitality.
“Shalom, Elisheva. Shalom, Michah.”
Micah chokes on his Manischewitz grape juice and covers his mouth so it doesn’t spray all over Mrs. Gruver, our Hebrew-school principal. She has appeared out of nowhere and planted her manicured hands on each of our shoulders.
“Shalom, Mrs. Gruver,” we both say.
I’d like to tell Mrs. Gruver that both our names are from the Torah and she doesn’t need to prove a point by using Israeli pronunciation. Also, I want to tell her that my first name is supposed to be Elizabeth, like QEII. My name is British and Jewish, like me.
“Where is your mother, Elisheva?” Mrs. Gruver asks, craning her neck so it stretches from her lace-trimmed collar. When she’s satisfied that my mother is ditching services, she adds, “I haven’t seen her in months.”
I decide not to tell her that’s probably because my grandmother died. If Mrs. Gruver’s such a great principal, she should know that already.
“Don’t forget, Elisheva, it’s your family’s turn for Oneg Shabbat in a few weeks. Cookies and juice. We’re counting on you,” Mrs. Gruver says as she leaves us to prey on another poor, defenseless Hebrew-school student.
I give Micah a shove. “Why didn’t you warn me she was right behind me, Michah?” I say his name with a hard “ch” rolling in my throat, Mrs. Gruver–style.
“What was I supposed to do, Elisheva, pull my ear?” He pulls his ear so hard, he messes up his hair. “We need a secret sign. The Gruver Approacheth.”
I laugh. This is what makes Micah such a good friend. When we joke around, no one’s feelings get hurt. Not that Mrs. Gruver doesn’t have feelings. I’m sure she does. She just takes being principal way too seriously.
* * *
That afternoon, we pile into the car for our hike. Robin Hood is so excited when David puts his leash on, he can’t stop barking.
“Are you sure bringing Robin is a good idea?” I ask.
“He needs the exercise,” Dad says.
David leans between the front seats to scratch Robin’s head. “Next to Mom, you’re the laziest Shainmark,” he tells our dog.
Aunt Louise’s words pop into my head. “Mom’s not lazy,” I argue. “She’s doing her best to take care of herself.”
David says, “She’s supposed to be taking care of us.”
Dad interrupts us. “Not today! It’s Mom’s day off. Today we are fending for ourselves.”
At the park, Robin Hood races from tree to tree, his gray mustache quivering as he sniffs. When David and Justin stop to pick up after our dog, I follow Dad’s long strides along the wooded path.
“Heard from any of your summer-camp friends?” Dad asks.
“What summer-camp friends?”
“I thought you liked it there.”
“That’s David, Dad. I hated it.”
This was David’s third summer at camp, so he had actual friends. But I’d never spent more than one night away from my family before. For me, performing-arts camp was six weeks stuck in a cabin with a bunch of eleven-year-old divas. And every single one of them wanted the lead role in Annie. If I never hear the song “Tomorrow” again, it will be too soon.
I’ve tried to tell my parents how homesick I was this summer, how much I longed to curl up with Mom and Justin, eating the Walker’s salt-and-vinegar crisps Mom gets at the British-goods store, watching Doctor Who save Earth from aliens once again. But Mom and Dad have been too busy, or too sad, to listen.
I wish I were still little. Then Dad could swing me onto his shoulders and I’d ride there, reaching up to touch the branches.
“I’m glad you’re home,” I say quietly, and he hugs me with one arm.
Later, when we get home from our hike, David disappears into the garage. As usual, Justin follows him. “Can I help with your robot?” he asks.
Mom is dressed and busy folding laundry. That’s a relief. “Guess what?” she asks Dad.
“The Spice Girls are getting back together?” he teases. The Spice Girls are Mom’s favorite British pop group.
She shoves an armful of laundry at him. “I guess you could say that.” Mom pretends to hold a microphone to her mouth. She sings, “All you need is positivity.” She grins, then explains, “Louise is planning a girls’ weekend for us. It’s just what I need.”
Dad nods, but rubs the back of his neck as if it’s sore. “I’ll check my travel schedule. If it’s only a weekend, we’ll make it work.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Elizabeth can practice her new cooking skills.”
Mom says, “I’ll need an extra day or two for travel. She found a great deal on a hotel in London.”
“London? Nicole, we’re down to one income. You know we can’t afford—”
Mom argues, “It’s only five days. You can manage, Els. Can’t you?”
My heart flip-flops. “Can I go with you?” I ask.
A few days ago, Mom was talking to Aunt Louise about going home for good. If she goes to London, I’m going too. Someone has to make sure she comes back.
“Stay out of this, Elizabeth,” Dad warns. “Nicole, I need to speak with you.”
Mom follows him upstairs. I plug some headphones into the family laptop, select the angel food cake episode of The Great British Baking Show, and turn up the sound so I can’t hear them arguing.
The next morning, Dad leaves for another business trip. As soon as he’s out the door, Mom is crying on the phone to Aunt Louise.
* * *
All week, I try to persuade Maddy to stay in cooking club. I can’t take another person leaving me. Not now, with Dad away and Mom wishing she weren’t here. But Maddy won’t listen.
“I just want to make normal food,” she says, finally arriving at our table after spending half of lunch talking to Stephanie. “Steph is going to make some suggestions
to Sarah’s mom.”
Micah says, “I wish she’d make some suggestions to the school cooks.” He holds up today’s lunch. The rubbery sandwich sags like a sad frown.
“Maddy, her name is SAH-ra,” I enunciate. “The first part sounds like car.”
Maddy’s ponytail swishes back and forth. “Too confusing.”
She’s being ridiculous. We’ve been classmates with Roozbeh, Hye-Jun, and Megha since forever. Sara’s name is not that difficult.
I’m totally shocked when Maddy shows up to our third class. Good thing Sara’s not here yet. By the time she arrives, Maddy and I will be set up and Sara can go back to her artwork.
I wave to Maddy, but she walks over to Stephanie’s station. Steph hands her a pink gift bag with polka-dot tissue paper inside. Next thing I know, Maddy is putting on a white apron with the bright pink SWEET STEPHANIE’S logo plastered on the front. She notices me watching and mouths Sorry.
What is happening?
I barely notice when Sara walks in with her mom.
“Hi, Elizabeth. Guess what we’re making today,” Sara teases.
I can’t speak. My brain is stuck on Maddy and Stephanie and their matching aprons.
“Are you all right?” Sara waves a hand in front of my face. I swat it away like it’s a pesky fly.
Finally, Maddy comes over. I glare at the too-cute cupcake on her apron and cross my arms at her. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to class?” I demand.
“I knew you’d be mad.” Maddy’s green eyes are shiny, like she might cry. She pulls me away from my station. Away from Sara. “You have a new friend,” she says, her voice low and insistent. “Why can’t I?” Her cheeks flush pink underneath her freckles. “Stephanie’s nice, Els. Like, she’s a really good person. Her business—”
“I don’t care about her business. Cooking club was my idea. We were supposed to do it together.” The words bubble out of my mouth and deflate, like dough that’s been left to rise too long.
Maddy motions to Sara, who’s chopping herbs at our station. “You already have a kitchen partner.”
I set my mouth in a hard line. “Okay, I guess.” I stomp back to my own station.
“Oh, good. You’re here,” Sara says. “You’re going to love today’s recipe. Garlic naan. It’s like pita without the pocket.”
“I know what naan is,” I snap.
“Sorry!”
I wash my trembling hands and sprinkle flour on the wooden board at our counter.
A cloud of flour wafts over from Maddy and Stephanie’s area, followed by a burst of laughter. They’re both covered in a layer of white dust. Mrs. Kluck is there in a flash, scolding them about respecting her kitchen equipment.
“Let ’em have it, Mrs. Kluck,” I mutter.
When we’re done kneading flour, water, and yogurt into a smooth ball, Mrs. Hameed gives each team sliced garlic, spices, and fresh coriander. We flatten out the dough with rolling pins and press these flavorings into it. The green leaves remind me of Sara’s artwork. If I’m stuck with her, I might as well make conversation. “Did you finish your art assignment? The one with the red flower?”
She shakes her head no. Sara rolls the dough halfheartedly. It’s misshapen and uneven, nothing like Mrs. Hameed’s example. She says, “I was excited about taking art this semester. But we have to stick to the assignments. No ‘doing your own thing.’” She stops rolling and makes air quotes with her fingers. “Mrs. Newman is making us work on a business flyer next. I never knew art could be boring.”
“Girls!” Mrs. Hameed makes us both jump. “Less chatting, more rolling. Your dough must be thinner.”
“Here. Let me do that,” I offer, taking the rolling pin.
Finally, Mrs. Hameed calls us to the demonstration kitchen. “Unfortunately, there is no tandoor oven in your classroom. Still, there is a way to make traditional naan.” She spreads water on some rolled-out dough.
I strain my neck to see what’s happening.
Sara nudges me. “Calm down. It’s just bread.”
“Just bread? Bread is my life.” Bread is my favorite thing to bake. It makes people happy. The smell of a freshly baked loaf can coax my brother out of the garage and a good mood out of my mom.
Mrs. Hameed slaps the dough water-side down on a griddle, where it cooks like a pancake. The dough bubbles, but the top is still pale. Then Mrs. Hameed flips the entire griddle over, bread and all. I’m sure the naan is going to drop onto the flames, but she explains that the water seals it to the metal. “Now I simply cook the naan over the fire.” Mrs. Hameed moves the dough over the blue flames of the stove. The bubbles brown and crisp.
When she’s done, we spread butter over our naan. It melts and pools over the hot bubbles of bread. As Sara and I eat, I watch Maddy and Stephanie. They are having way too much fun together. If my stomach weren’t so full, it would be tangled up like a mess of yarn.
“Attention, everyone,” Mrs. Hameed says as we pack up our extra dough. “I have an announcement. Poplar Springs Middle has an international festival coming up soon. We have been invited to showcase our cooking club.” Her smile is sunbeam-bright.
Mrs. Kluck harrumphs in the back of the room.
Stephanie’s hand goes up. “Is it a contest? Is there a cash prize?” She’s so excited, she bounces on her toes.
Sara’s mom explains that we’re supposed to come up with special recipes for the festival. Yes, there will be a contest element, “but they have not said anything about prizes,” Mrs. Hameed says. “Please see me when you’ve decided on your team.”
Sara looks at me. “So. You and me?”
Her face is so hopeful, but out of habit I say, “I need to ask Maddy first.”
Sara points to the demonstration kitchen. Maddy and Stephanie are standing together, talking to Mrs. Hameed. Their arms are linked, as if they’re the ones who’ve been best friends for years.
“I think Maddy already has a partner,” Sara says.
9
Sara
“I’LL BE BATMAN. You be Robin!” Rafey shouts.
“I’m always Robin. It’s not fair!” Tariq shouts back.
Ugh. Why are Saturday mornings so noisy? For once I’d like to sleep in and wake up at noon. Of course, now that I’m awake, I hear Baba’s voice in my head saying, Nonsense! No daughter of mine is going to sleep the morning away, in his Mr. T voice.
The twins gallop past my bedroom door, screeching. I put my pillow over my head, but it doesn’t help. They’re not the only ones being loud. Mama is banging spoons against pots in the kitchen. Morning is usually her favorite time of day, when she can sip her chai and plan the afternoon’s cooking. Something’s up.
I drag myself out of bed and put in my headphones. Selena Gomez croons in my ears as I pull out my sketchbook. The idea for my art assignment takes shape. My hand flows over the paper in broad strokes, a familiar feeling in my stomach as inspiration takes hold. Bubbly, like I drank a lot of Coke. I don’t know how long I sketch. Papers are crumpled and thrown away. Different color combinations tested and discarded. I’m not sure I have anything good, but it’s a start.
It’s after ten o’clock when I go down to the kitchen, my stomach grumbling. “You’re awake!” Mama says, her tone harsh. I stare at her. Or, rather, around her.
The kitchen is a mess. Papers are stacked on the table where paratha and eggs usually wait for me. Pots and pans are strewn about, filled with partially cooked food. The onions in one pan are still white and stiff, and the ground beef in another is pink, half cooked. I wrinkle my nose and hold my breath. Spices have spilled from the counter onto the floor. That turmeric is going to leave a stain. Without thinking, I get a paper towel and cleaning spray from under the sink.
“Mama, what in the world is going on?”
“The test! Your father gave me another lecture about how important it is.” She gestures at the citizenship booklet, sitting on the stack of papers—right on top of all her bills.
I
pull the booklet toward me. “All right, let’s go,” I tell her, mimicking that stern teacher voice she does so well at cooking club.
Mama frowns. “What—now? I’m busy.”
“Doing what?”
She waves in the general direction of the stoves. “Cooking. What else? That’s the only thing in my life, isn’t it? Cooking for you kids, then cooking for other people’s kids. And now teaching cooking to a bunch of schoolkids. I never thought this would be my life when I was in college.” I can’t believe what she’s saying. Mama’s frustration rarely gets the best of her positive attitude.
“College is overrated,” I say tartly, hands on my hips. It’s a dumb thing to say, because I totally don’t believe it, but I’m going for comedy here.
She doesn’t get the joke. “Kya? I should have stayed uneducated? Is that what you’re saying?”
Her outburst is so uncharacteristic, I can’t help but laugh. “Mama, you’re losing it!” I gasp.
“Don’t be disrespectful,” she says. But the corners of her lips turn upward.
There’s that smile. Finally, like the sun peeking out from behind gray clouds.
My stomach grumbles again. “How about this? I’ll get some breakfast while you finish all this cooking. We’ll meet in the living room in one hour to study. Got it?”
Mama gives me a quick, tight hug. “Shukriya,” she says. “You’re a good daughter.”
One hour later, we’re in the living room, where Mama is pacing and wringing her hands. It’s obvious that she’s studied almost nothing for the citizenship test. “Who signs bills that become laws?” I ask.
“Easy, the governor. I saw him just last week on the news, talking about a new law for small business.”
“National laws, Mama! Not state laws!”
A Place at the Table Page 6
