A Place at the Table

by Saadia Faruqi

  We get in the car, but Dad doesn’t start it. He sits, taking deep breaths in and out through his nose.

  “Are you okay, Dad? Did you forget to charge the car?”

  “It’s not the car. It’s that man!” He motions to the front of the school, where Mr. Montgomery is trying to convince voters to choose his candidate. “He’s a—”

  “A plonker,” I fill in a non-swear word for Dad. “Mom would call him a plonker.”

  15

  Sara

  THE MALL IS CROWDED for a Tuesday afternoon. Mama settles down at a table in the food court with her cooking-club binder. “Stop fidgeting,” she tells me as she looks over recipes. “Rabia will be here soon.”

  I see a girl in jeans and hijab waving madly at me. “There she is!”

  Mama nods absentmindedly. “Remember, stay on this floor and don’t leave the mall under any circumstance.”

  “What if there’s a fire?” I ask, with only a little sarcasm.

  Mama rolls her eyes. “Yes, Sara, you’re allowed to leave the mall if there is a fire. Or another emergency.”

  Rabia reaches us and grins as if she hasn’t seen us in forever.

  Mama looks at her. “Salaam alaikum, Rabia. That hijab looks very pretty.”

  I turn to inspect Rabia’s hijab. It’s brown with bright yellow-and-green flowers like an overgrown garden. Yup, it’s her usual style. She started wearing hijab last year, right after we came back from winter break. She told me she was going to do it, but it was still a shock to see her long hair covered for the first time. Her hijabs are always brightly colored, with flowers or geometrical designs.

  Rabia’s grin grows wider. “Wa alaikum salaam, Aunty, and thank you. Are you coming with us?”

  “You’re old enough to walk around by yourselves as long as you stick together,” Mama replies. “Now, shoo! I have work to do.”

  We link arms and walk away. I breathe in and out like I’m winding down after a tough race. It’s so nice to be with my old friend again. No stress, just being myself.

  Rabia gives me a sideways glance. “Remember the time we made those stuffed bears at Build-A-Bear Workshop and strutted them around the mall, so proud of ourselves?”

  I giggle a little. My bear was light blue with pink lips and a bow in her hair. I named her Bluey. She’s still sitting on the top shelf of my closet with a few other precious memories. “Do you still have yours?” I ask. Her bear was a matching one with yellow fur.

  “Nah,” she answers, but we both know it’s not true.

  Thinking back, I figure it was Nasreen aunty and Mama who started this annual tradition. After shopping, they’d take us to the play area, eat ice cream, and chat. Then a few years ago, Nasreen aunty stopped coming because she got a job at Iqra Academy. I sort of threw a tantrum when I discovered our annual mall tradition was in jeopardy. Mama agreed to take us just to keep the peace. Last year she had the flu, so Baba trudged along, complaining the whole time.

  I don’t think we’ve missed a year since that first trip when we were little. I squeeze Rabia’s arm, and she turns to me, eyebrows raised. “What?”

  “Nothing. I’m just glad you’re here.”

  “Stop being weird, Sara.” She looks around. “So, where’s this new friend of yours?”

  Before I have a chance to reply, Elizabeth, still in her bright red, white, and blue outfit, walks up with an older boy who is a taller, skinnier version of her. He’s all elbows and angles, even in his high school team jacket. She has an older brother?

  A grin breaks out on her face. “I was looking for you guys everywhere!”

  The boy says, “I’ll be at Game Stop,” and walks off. The back of his jacket, where it should have a football or basketball mascot, says GHS ROBOTICS.

  Elizabeth says, “Let me guess. You’re Rabia.”

  Rabia relaxes beside me. “I like this girl,” she says, and we all laugh.

  I jump in for introductions. “Rabia, this is Elizabeth, my friend from cooking club.”

  Rabia’s already walking. “Come on, ladies. We have shopping to do!”

  I follow, and Elizabeth falls in step next to me. On my left is Rabia, who represents the safe and comfortable life I’ve known since I was born. She’s not just my friend. Her family is friends with my family. On my right is Elizabeth, who is almost a head taller and twice as nerdy as either of us (in a good way, of course). She stands for everything new and interesting I’ve been experiencing recently. Middle school, cooking club, even the clashes with Maddy.

  Our first stop is Claire’s, where Rabia and I always get our fix of the latest bracelets and headbands. A big sign at the entrance announces FREE EAR PIERCING.

  “Ooohhh!” I exclaim. “Rabia, how about it?”

  Rabia scoffs. “You know we need an adult with us. Besides, I’m happy wearing one pair, thank you very much.” She walks into the store and inspects a wall of long, dangly necklaces.

  I can’t take my eyes off the display of earrings, a different color for every month. “I could get a second one. My cousin Lailah in Pakistan has three piercings in each ear, and one in her nose.” I turn to Elizabeth, wiggling my eyebrows. “How about it, Elizabeth? You with me?”

  Elizabeth shakes her head. “I’m not allowed to get my ears pierced.”

  My smile vanishes. “Really? Not allowed? Why?”

  She plays with the charms on her bracelets. “When you’re Jewish, you’re not supposed to harm your body. No piercings. No tattoos.” She pauses to think. “There are some girls at my Hebrew school with pierced ears, so maybe it’s only my family.”

  I have to smile at this. “I like that. Although . . . that means no ink when you’re in college, young lady!”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “I thought you wouldn’t be allowed either. Getting your ears pierced is a lot more permanent than dressing up for Halloween.”

  I see her point. “It’s a tradition for Pakistani girls to have their ears pierced when they’re little. Rabia and I had ours done together, when we were babies. Noses come much later, usually when girls get married.”

  “Yeah, it’s a cultural thing, not a religious thing,” Rabia adds from the necklace wall. She turns, holding up a multicolored necklace the size of a magazine page against her chest. “You likey?”

  I drag her away because I know Nasreen aunty wouldn’t approve. Next door to Claire’s is a candle store, where Elizabeth gets a small candle marked “Tranquility” for her mom.

  “That’s it? You guys disappoint me!” Rabia teases, selecting a giant candle in strawberry cinnamon fragrance. “For our family bathroom.” She laughs and walks up to the counter to pay. I know she gets a weekly allowance, unlike me. I also know she usually spends it all on gifts for other people.

  I watch as Rabia and Elizabeth talk easily with each other. It’s amazing how I’m the only one who gets tongue-tied at meeting others. Still, I’m happy that they’re getting along. This is turning out to be an excellent day.

  “I’m starving,” Rabia announces. She leads us back to the food court, where workers are standing on ladders, putting up a gigantic Christmas tree.

  “Already?” Elizabeth groans. “It’s not even Thanksgiving yet. Do they have to make it so over-the-top?” We pass more workers, hanging a sign that reads SANTA’S WORKSHOP. Elizabeth humphs. “No, I do not want some mall Santa asking me if I’ve been good this year. That’s just creepy,” she says.

  I turn to her in surprise. “You don’t celebrate Christmas?” Then I check myself. “Of course you don’t. You’re Jewish. Sorry.”

  Elizabeth shakes her head. “It’s okay. We have Hanukkah at home, but we celebrate Christmas in England. Or, we did, before my nan died. She had a real tree and everything. On Christmas morning, there were pillowcases full of presents at the ends of our beds. That’s an English tradition. It’s way better than stockings by the fireplace. In England, no one talks about the fact that my family is Jewish. Or that my mom converted. It’s like they’re preten
ding it never happened.”

  I imagine her sitting in an old English house, sipping hot chocolate while snow falls outside, drawing a tiny menorah on a notepad, a Hanukkah celebration for her alone.

  “I don’t know what we’re doing this year,” she says.

  I put out an arm to hug her sideways, and she hugs me back. Rabia gives me a glance but doesn’t say anything. I wonder if she has anyone to hug sideways at Iqra now that I’m gone. I reach out with my other arm and hug her, too. The three of us giggle as we stumble, then straighten up again.

  At the food court, we get slices of gooey cheese pizza and find a table not too far from where Mama’s sitting, engrossed in her folders. “What’s Aunty working on?” Rabia asks as she stashes her bags under the table and takes a long sip of Coke.

  “Our school is having an international festival, and the cooking club is part of a showcase,” I tell her.

  “Have you decided what you’re going to make?”

  “Still working on it,” I reply. “Something fusion, for sure.”

  Rabia points to our empty plates. “How about pizza? Like with chicken tikka or malai boti toppings.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Elizabeth says. “What’s malai boti?”

  I slap her arm lightly. “They’re like kebabs, but the meat has a creamy texture. All the Pakistani joints sell them.”

  She opens her eyes wide. “Yum! Let’s do that.”

  “It’s too common. We need something unique.” I have to grin at her expression. “Stop drooling, please!”

  Rabia slurps the last of her Coke and stands up. “Okay, let’s get back to shopping. I still have to buy a couple of tunics for school.”

  We head to Sasha’s, a clothing store that Rabia and I discovered a couple of years ago, tucked into a corner of the mall. Rabia rushes to the clearance section at the back. I hang out in the front of the shop, checking out some new tops. There’s one that’s caught my eye: a brown-and-green-striped tunic with bell sleeves and a small collar at the neckline.

  Elizabeth stays with me. “That would look great on you,” she says.

  “Maybe.” I finger the rich fabric of the tunic. “I think I love everything in this store, actually.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s so hard to find what my mama calls modest clothes in the regular stores. You know, long enough to cover your butt, half sleeves or longer, not so tight you can’t even breathe.”

  “I know what you mean.” Elizabeth takes a tunic off the rack that says BOGO and holds it up. “Some of my Doctor Who tees are getting too small in certain areas. I don’t like showing off all this.” Elizabeth smirks, juts one hip out like a model, and waves a hand down the front of her chest.

  I shake my head at her silliness. “It’s a choice. Like Rabia wears hijab, but I don’t.”

  “Did I hear my name?” Rabia pops out from behind the wall of clothes, holding a bunch of bags. I try not to think of Mama and her bills. It’s not Rabia’s fault her parents have good jobs.

  Elizabeth turns to her. “Do you think I’d look good in this tunic?”

  “Try it on!” she commands.

  Before I know it, Elizabeth has pulled on the tunic over her T-shirt. She struts around the rack like a fashion model. I giggle. Rabia claps. If I had a cell phone, photos of this would be all over Instagram.

  Before I can tell myself I’m being silly, I slide a matching tunic off the hanger and pull it over my clothes. Still giggling, I join Elizabeth and we catwalk up and down the aisle between metal racks, almost knocking down a mannequin. Rabia’s claps become louder.

  When we pay, the cashier smiles at us in our identical tops. “You two look adorable,” he gushes as he reaches to scan the tags on our sleeves.

  We’re still giggling and posing as we walk out of the store.

  “Elizabeth!”

  I stop cold. I’d recognize that voice anywhere. Maddy is standing in our path, gaping at us. I’m not sure why, until I look at Elizabeth and realize it must be the identical tunics. Suddenly I’m glad we’re not on Instagram. Maddy’s reaction tells me something is very wrong.

  Elizabeth’s smile disappears. “Oh, hey, Maddy. Hey, Stephanie.”

  I hadn’t noticed Stephanie with Maddy. She’s wearing jeans and a white top. The absence of her usual pink cupcake apron makes her almost unrecognizable, like an alligator outside of its swamp.

  Maddy comes closer to Elizabeth. “You told me you weren’t free.”

  “I’m not,” Elizabeth says. “I had plans with Sara.”

  “You’d rather hang out with a bunch of Arabs than us?” Maddy hisses.

  “Maddy!” Stephanie shrieks. “You can’t say stuff like that.”

  Elizabeth frowns but doesn’t respond.

  My mouth is frozen so tightly shut, I can’t even tell Maddy that not all Muslims are Arabs. Stephanie pulls her away, murmuring something under her breath. Maddy goes, but not without one last insult. She points at me as if I’m a criminal and she’s a judge. “Go back to where you belong.”

  16

  Elizabeth

  I STAND FROZEN—half inside the store, half out. Before I can speak, Rabia rushes after those girls, shouting, “Go back to Abercrombie and Witch, where you belong!”

  Stephanie drags Maddy away. I wish I could hear what she’s saying. From her angry gestures, it looks like she’s telling Maddy off. I hope so. I can’t believe Maddy just said that to Sara. It was wrong. More than wrong. It was racist. Sara belongs here as much as anyone.

  When I finally catch my breath, Sara is glaring at me. “You want to know why I’m so cautious with people, why I don’t talk at school? It’s because this is what happens.” Her voice is shaky and quiet, as if it’s taking all her effort not to scream. Her eyes are sizzling mad.

  I step back into the store and pull off my new top. This shirt suddenly feels itchy, like Maddy’s words are sticking to my skin.

  Sara puts her hand on my arm. Her touch is gentle, but her voice is sharp. “Some of us look like this all the time.” She holds up the bell sleeve of the tunic. “It’s not a costume I get to take off when people are rude. Or racist.”

  Rabia comes into the store, tapping a foot at us. “Come on, you two. Forget them. We still have half the mall to check out.”

  Sara ignores her. “You didn’t stand up for me, Elizabeth,” she says, so loud that the cashier leaves his desk and moves in our direction. His smile is gone, probably because we’re disturbing the peaceful environment of his store.

  Rabia leans close to Sara. “Elizabeth’s not used to hearing comments like that. Let’s get froyo and forget it.”

  But Rabia is wrong. I have definitely heard comments. A memory washes over me—Maddy’s sleepover birthday party in fourth grade, when her favorite younger cousin asked if I’m going to hell because I’m not Christian. I remember how quiet the room got, just for a second, long enough so I knew everyone heard her question. What if Maddy had stuck up for me in that moment and told her cousin off? I try to imagine it, but I’m not Doctor Who. I can’t go back in time and change what’s already happened.

  As we walk through the mall, I focus on the sunshine pouring in through the skylights and try to think things through. I’m glad Stephanie yelled at Maddy. Has Maddy always been like this? Was I too little, or too clueless, to notice before now?

  Sara walks beside me silently, her shoulders slumped. She’s right. I should have stood up for her. “Are we friends or not, Elizabeth?” Sara finally asks.

  My chest feels tight, like my ribs are a real cage, squishing my lungs and heart. We were having so much fun today, me, Sara, and Rabia. I haven’t laughed like this with Maddy in a long time. Probably because being around Maddy doesn’t feel good anymore.

  “We’re friends,” I tell Sara firmly.

  The sizzle in her eyes fades. Relieved, I pull some cash out of my pocket and wave it at both girls. “My dad gave me extra money so I could treat you to bubble tea.”

  Rabia
says, “Oooh, fun!” She nudges Sara playfully, but Sara’s face is still weighed down by a frown.

  As the three of us walk back to the food court, Sara suddenly tells me, “If we’re going to be real friends, not just cooking partners, that means we stick up for each other. If someone from school tells me to go back where I came from or asks if I live in a tent, you don’t get to stand there with your mouth hanging open like an old goat. Tell them to shut up. And I’ll do the same for you.”

  “I’m really sorry,” I say. “I’ve never heard Maddy say anything like that before. Her dad, yes. Other people in her family. But never her.” I’m doing my best, trying to find the right words. “You’re right, I should have said something. I guess I was too shocked to speak.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “I’ll do better next time,” I promise. And I mean it. “But if we’re going to be real friends, not just cooking partners, I need something from you, too.”

  “What is it, then?” Sara prompts me.

  Rabia looks from one of us to the other, as if she’s watching an entertainingly tense moment in a TV soap opera. All she needs is some popcorn.

  I say, “We’re allowed to ask each other stuff. If I ask you why you can’t trick-or-treat, you don’t have to answer me, but please don’t get mad that I asked. And you can ask me anything.”

  “Oooh, good one,” Rabia says, clasping her hands together. “Can I have that one also?”

  Sara pokes her arm. “I already tell you everything, Rabia.” She turns to me. “Do I get to ask what’s so great about this doctor show you’re obsessed with?”

  “It’s going to take longer than one helping of bubble tea to explain the intricacies of the TARDIS,” I say. “That’s Doctor Who’s time machine,” I tell Rabia.

  “I’m already confused,” Sara jokes. That’s a good sign.

  I ask, “What if we get frustrated with each other? Like, really bad, almost-fighting kind of frustrated?” I can’t believe Halloween was only a week ago.

  Sara shrugs. “We say, ‘I’m mad at you right now, but I’ll get over it.’”

  “I like that,” Rabia says.