A Place at the Table

by Saadia Faruqi

  Mrs. Shainmark stops with a scone halfway to her mouth. “Really? Are you finding it as painful as I am, Henna?”

  I grip my hands tightly together and wait to see how Mama reacts to this mispronunciation. But she simply puts a patient hand on Mrs. Shainmark’s arm. “It’s ‘Heena.’ And yes, adjusting to this country has been a roller coaster.”

  I relax. It’s a relief to know that you can politely correct someone when they say your name wrong.

  As our mothers chatter on, Elizabeth and I exchange glances. Who knew Operation High Tea would work so well? We listen for a few minutes; then Elizabeth elbows me in the side and gets up from her stool. “Sara and I need to discuss a class project. We’ll be outside,” she says, then gulps down her last sip of tea.

  I nod emphatically. “Yes. Very important project.”

  Mama is hardly listening. “The citizenship test is really tough. Even high school students don’t know all the facts we’re tested on.”

  “Imagine having to learn a completely different version of history from your childhood. Here, it’s not the American War of Independence, but the Revolutionary War,” replies Elizabeth’s mom, biting into her scone.

  We slip our backpacks on and hurry out the door before dissolving into full-fledged laughter.

  The weather is perfect for homework. It’s been a rainy week, but today is dry. Sunlight twinkles through the trees. We don’t usually come to Main Street unless Mama and Baba have friends visiting from out of state. If our mothers cared about history at all, they’d know that this street dates back to the colonial times they’re supposed to be learning about. Old brownstone buildings line a winding hill, each one with an antiques shop, a boutique, or a restaurant. Elizabeth and I find an empty bench.

  “Phew! That was super weird!” Elizabeth rolls her eyes as she flops down on the bench, making her glasses slide down her nose. “But they hit it off,” she says as she pushes her glasses back up.

  I sit down next to her and open my binder. There’s a bright yellow paper tucked in the cover, the flyer for the International Festival. “I completely forgot about this,” I groan.

  “What’s the big deal? It’ll be fun.”

  “You don’t understand—my life is already full of cooking. I have zero motivation to come up with a recipe.”

  She gives me a cajoling smile. “I’m your motivation! You get to work alongside the great and creative Elizabeth Shainmark!”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Plus,” she continues, “think of your mom. Mrs. Kluck is already on her back for everything. If we do a good job with the recipe, it will make your mother so happy.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. “It will, I guess. She’s been so stressed-out lately.”

  “See? She needs something to brighten up her day, make her forget the plaid tyrant breathing down her neck.”

  I think of Mama’s pile of bills, and nod. “You’ve convinced me. Let’s do it. But we’ve lost almost a week, being mad at each other.”

  “You were mad,” Elizabeth points out, poking my arm. “I was just—awkward. I know not everyone celebrates Halloween, but I’ve never had a friend who didn’t dress up and trick-or-treat.”

  “Never? I know I’m not the only Muslim kid in this town.”

  She thinks for a second. “There was a girl at Watersville Elementary. Her dad was Egyptian.” She smiles to herself. “She had the best laugh and always wore bright white Adidas shoes, even with long dresses. Her name was Sariya. We were friends. But I never went to her house or anything. I missed her for a long time after she moved. I know she celebrated Halloween. She dressed up as Wonder Woman one year.”

  I shrug. “Maybe her family wasn’t very religious.”

  Elizabeth touches her Star of David charm. “I’m probably not the best person to talk to about religion. We only go to synagogue when my dad’s home.”

  The beads of my sleeve catch my attention, and I smooth them out. “I’ve never had a friend who was Jewish before either.”

  “Actually, my mom converted. It kind of makes me feel like I’m only half Jewish.” She leans close and lowers her voice. “She lights the Hanukkah menorah backwards.”

  “I thought you just light it,” I say.

  “To be honest, it’s kind of complicated. The first candle goes on the right”—she points to an invisible menorah—“but we light the candles left to right, so each night the newest candle gets lit first.”

  “That does sound complicated.” I shove the flyer into Elizabeth’s hand and take out my sketchbook. “So how about a recipe that combines our cultures? Like a mash-up?”

  Elizabeth nods so furiously that her glasses slip down her nose again. “Just like a samosa and a knish.”

  I bend my head down to draw. It’s a new sketch, one of Baba and the twins playing Jenga at home. It’s not colored yet, and the pencil lines are thin and barely visible. I draw over them, making the sketch darker, firmer.

  “That’s so realistic,” Elizabeth marvels.

  I don’t even mind that she’s watching me.

  “Since we’re talking about religion, can I ask you a question?”

  I stop sketching. Her voice is serious. Bad sign. “What?”

  “How come you don’t wear a headscarf like your mom?”

  Even though I hate the question, I give her credit for asking it. I stare at my drawing, trying to collect my thoughts. “It’s not . . . she’s never asked me to. It’s a personal choice, and she’s always told me I can choose to wear it, or not, when I’m older.” I pause. This is a topic we often discuss at Sunday school, and sometimes it gets loud because of all the different opinions. “Honestly, I wonder if I’ll ever be so brave as to wear it.”

  Elizabeth looks startled. “Brave? How come?”

  “It’s the first thing people notice about Mama. They’re judging her even before she opens her mouth to speak. I’m not sure I can live like that.”

  “I think I get it,” Elizabeth says. “My mom’s really shy. Sometimes it’s okay when people ask about her accent. But other times she just wants to buy a gallon of milk without having to explain herself.” She nudges me. “I think you’re brave.”

  I put down my pencil and glance back at the window, where I can see Mama and Mrs. Shainmark laughing over something. They lean toward each other, like they’re sharing a secret. I wonder if Elizabeth is someone I will one day share secrets with.

  “Thanks,” I reply. “Anyway, I know lots of women who never wear the hijab. Even my mama didn’t start wearing it until after she got married.”

  “Will you wear it after you get married?”

  I have to laugh. “Married? My parents won’t even let me stay home alone. Besides, all the boys in our school are completely ineligible. Either racist or dumb.”

  She shakes her head. “Micah isn’t.”

  I go back to drawing. “Yeah, he’s okay,” I mutter. “But he’s friends with Maddy, which is weird.” I’m looking down, but I hear Elizabeth take in a sharp breath.

  “He was my friend first. We go to Hebrew school together. Maddy’s only known him a few weeks. Besides, she’s not that bad.”

  “If you’re me, she is definitely ‘that bad.’”

  Elizabeth pulls out a graphic novel and almost literally sticks her nose in it. It’s A Wrinkle in Time. I want to ask her why she loves time-travel and space-bending stories so much, but I keep drawing. Inside I’m mad at myself for spoiling our good mood. Our mothers walk out of Bean Heaven, chatting on the stone steps of the building. I feel a little bit jealous of how easily they laugh together.

  14

  Elizabeth

  SCHOOL IS CLOSED on Election Day because Poplar Springs Middle is a polling station. I could have slept in. That’s what David is doing. He stayed up late playing video games. My brother the teenage robot won’t power on until lunchtime. Justin, on the other hand, is probably downstairs, still in his jammies and snuggling with Mom while she knits.

  I al
ways go with my dad when he votes. It used to make me feel grown up, walking into the big kids’ school, holding Dad’s hand. Now that I’m older, Dad takes me out for coffee after voting. Decaf mocha with whipped cream for me. Double espresso for him.

  There’s a knock on my bedroom door. “Ready, Els?” Dad asks.

  “How’s this for ready?” I’m wearing royal-blue leggings, a red shirt with a flag detail left over from the Fourth of July, and a white denim jacket.

  “Your grandmother would roll over in her grave, Miss America,” Dad says.

  My smile crumples.

  “Oh, no, Els. It was a joke.” Dad puts an arm around me. “Your nan would have thought you look adorable.”

  “I miss her,” I say. “We’re not going to England for family Christmas, are we?”

  Dad shakes his head. “Maybe next year. Aunt Louise doesn’t have enough room for all five of us, and hotels are expensive.”

  I never thought it was strange that our Jewish family celebrated Christmas with Nan, Aunt Louise, and our English cousins. I love Christmas—the tree with its ornaments, visiting relatives with their houses decorated for the holiday, and carols on the radio, which Mom sings along to as long as Dad’s not in the car. I never questioned it until everyone at Hebrew school started talking about bar and bat mitzvahs, which Mr. Yukht told us means “son or daughter of the commandments.” Can I be a real daughter of the Hebrew commandments if I celebrate Christmas with my English family? I try not to think about it too much.

  My birthday is in the summer, so my bat mitzvah is practically two years away. I’m sad that Nan won’t be here for it. She made a special trip for David’s ceremony. I took it for granted that she’d be at my bat mitzvah too.

  There’s always been a spot inside me where I keep Nan and England safe. It’s more powerful than a memory because, until now, I’ve always known I’ll go back. I’ll see her again. We’ll gather together for our traditional Christmas dinner of pheasant and Yorkshire pudding and sweet, creamy trifle.

  I wonder if Mom feels the same way I do: if she thought she’d have another chance to share a cup of tea, shop for bargains at Marks and Spencer, or walk in Nan’s garden. My whole life, I’ve known that sometime in the next year, I would get to help Nan pull warm eggs from the nests in the chicken coop and breathe in the lingering smell of coal in the air. Even though the village mine has been closed for decades, the scent is still there.

  Now those memories are like a gray winter tree, sharp and bare.

  “Let’s head out before the lines get too long,” Dad says.

  I follow him to the car. “I was hoping Mom would get to vote today,” I say as I buckle up.

  “Hmm?” He’s distracted, tuning to election news on the radio.

  “She was supposed to get her citizenship, remember?”

  Dad frowns at me in the rearview mirror. In his suit and slicked-back silver hair, he looks more like a school principal than my dad.

  “It’s been a rough year for your mother,” he says. “We’re lucky they let her postpone the test. She’ll reschedule as soon as she’s ready.”

  Not if she gets to London first, I think. What if she has so much fun with Aunt Louise that she never comes back?

  “When will she be ready?” I ask.

  How can I explain to Dad that when Mom lost Nan, she also lost a whole country, a huge part of herself? My dad grew up in three different states, all along the East Coast. He doesn’t understand how Mom can miss a place almost as much as she misses a person.

  But I get it. I feel England pulling at my heart, an echo calling to me like wind in a tree’s branches, saying, Come back, come back.

  “Let’s help Mom get on track with small stuff first,” Dad says. “You’re doing a great job helping with the cooking, Els. That chicken you made this weekend was delicious.”

  “It was a curry. I learned it in cooking club.” But I’m not ready to make polite conversation. “Dad, I wouldn’t need to take over cooking if you were home more often,” I say. “Mom’s always worse when you’re traveling. If you want her to get back on track so bad, do something.”

  Dad’s hands grip the steering wheel. “It’s not that easy, Elizabeth. We’re five people living on one income.”

  And three children being raised by one parent, since you’re never here, I don’t say.

  As we pull into the crowded school parking lot, I spot Maddy and her mom carrying signs. Mr. Montgomery is nearby, talking to voters.

  Dad must notice my grim expression.

  “Trouble between the Companions?” he asks. I have to give him credit for knowing what the people who travel with the Doctor are called.

  “Dad, Maddy’s not into Doctor Who anymore. She’s into swimming. And I’m into Salma Aunty’s Desi Kitchen.”

  Before we can pass the sign that says NO ELECTIONEERING BEYOND THIS POINT, Maddy waves me over. Her mom nods. Over her nurse’s scrubs, Mrs. Montgomery is wearing a sweatshirt with the incumbent county executive’s name on it.

  Dad takes my arm. “You can talk to Maddy after we vote. The last thing I need is a hard sell for their conservative candidate.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask as I wave back to Maddy.

  Dad considers me for a moment before saying, “You’re old enough to know. There’ve been some incidents of anti-Semitic and racist graffiti lately.”

  “Around here?”

  He nods. “At the high schools. The county executive hasn’t taken a strong enough stance against it, in my opinion. And my opinion counts. At least today.”

  “I wish Mom could help vote him out.”

  “Me too,” Dad agrees as we line up to check in.

  There’s a tug on my elbow. For a second, I hope it’s Maddy. But I turn to find Sara in line behind us. How does she keep showing up like that?

  “Hi, Elizabeth! I love your outfit.” She’s standing next to a balding man with a goatee. His white jacket has his name stitched on the pocket, SAFDAR HAMEED. He’s wearing khaki pants. And sandals, even though it’s November. Mr. Hameed would get along great with Micah.

  Before I know what’s happening, our fathers are shaking hands and talking politics.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask Sara. I lower my voice. “Aren’t your parents from Pakistan?”

  “My baba got his citizenship years ago.” Sara’s voice is loud. I bet everyone in line heard that. “He’s like Mr. America. Every Election Day, I get a big lecture on what makes this country the best in the world.”

  A man in front of us smiles at her, and Sara grins back.

  “Are you doing anything today?” I ask. “Maybe we can work on our recipe.”

  She shuffles her feet. “I have plans with a friend from my old school.”

  “Oh.” I’m a little disappointed. I didn’t know I was going to bump into Sara, but now that she’s here, I wouldn’t say no to an invitation to her house. I’d love to watch Mrs. Hameed cook in her own kitchen. “No probs.”

  Sara’s father interrupts. “You’re only going to the mall with Rabia. Elizabeth should come with you. I insist.” He widens his eyes and tilts his head at her, which must be parent code for: We talked about this. You need to make friends at your new school.

  “Great idea,” my dad says, clapping me on the back. “You have a free afternoon and a mall filled with things you don’t need.”

  “Are you sure it’s okay?” I ask Sara.

  She shrugs. “It’s just shopping.”

  “I can’t wait to meet your friend!” I link my arm through Sara’s and jump up and down like a kangaroo, until she jumps with me and we’re both laughing. I’m glad Maddy and Stephanie aren’t around to see us. They would not approve of our goofiness.

  “We can research for our recipe at the food court. They have stands from all over the world. Mexican, sushi, Chinese, bubble tea.” I count them off on my fingers.

  “Fast food is not my idea of inspirational,” Sara sniffs. “And what is bubble tea, exactly?
”

  “You’ve never tried bubble tea?”

  Sara shakes her head.

  “Trust me. You’re going to love it.” I wave goodbye as Dad gets his ballot. Hot chocolate with Dad and then bubble tea with Sara and her friend. This was going to be a great day.

  As we’re leaving, though, Maddy’s father spots us. He leaves his place with the other electioneers and stops us before we get to the parking lot.

  Mr. Montgomery isn’t as tall as my dad, but he is big. Maddy told me his nickname is Mack, because he’s built like a truck. The kind you wouldn’t want to get flattened by.

  He sticks out a hand for my dad to shake. “Voting red today, Josh?” he asks.

  Dad is slow to take his hand. “You know the rules, Mack. No informal polling.”

  Maddy runs up. I’m glad to have someone to talk to so I don’t have to listen to our fathers.

  “Do you want to come over?” Maddy asks. She takes in my Election Day outfit, but if she has a comment about it, she keeps it to herself. She’s dressed in jeans, a gray hoodie, and Sperry’s, the unofficial uniform of Poplar Springs Middle School students. The non-nerdy ones.

  “I feel bad about ditching you on Halloween,” Maddy is saying. “Stephanie really needed my help. She’s raising money for this charity. They do special events for—”

  I cut her off. “Sorry, I’m not free.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She sounds so disappointed, I almost ask her to meet up with me, Sara, and Rabia. But Maddy doesn’t have a great track record when it comes to getting along with Sara.

  “Let’s make plans over Thanksgiving break,” she says. “Will your parents let you go to the mall? We can go shopping. I’ll help you pick out some new clothes.” She pauses and gives my red, white, and blue outfit a not-so-friendly once-over.

  “I guess.” I kick my TARDIS high-tops into the sidewalk. Dad puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “Excuse us,” he says to Mr. Montgomery. “I promised Elizabeth an Election Day treat.”

  I wave goodbye to Maddy.