“Your nan could never understand why Louise and I loved this show.” Mom sighs. “She thought it was scary, no matter how fake the special effects were.”
It’s been such a great few days with Dad home. Now that I know Mom isn’t going anywhere, it’s time to convince my father that we need him here, and not only on the weekends.
23
Sara
MY HEAD IS ACHING. I had a nightmare just before dawn and wasn’t able to get back to sleep. On the Monday after Thanksgiving break, school feels too bright, too loud, too . . . everything. I wish I could crawl back into my room and pull the covers over my head. Instead, I’m in Ms. Saintima’s language arts class, trying to focus.
The weekend was brutal. Baba worked late and Mama had a ton of catering orders. My job was to keep the twins entertained. I took them cycling in the neighborhood, wrapped in our jackets and scarves. I watched superhero videos with them on my laptop in my room, closing the door so that Mama and Baba weren’t disturbed by their laughter. I even taught them how to bake brownies on Sunday, and I didn’t get a bit mad when Tariq spilled batter all over the counter.
Okay, I got a little mad. But he gave me a lopsided grin and cleaned up like an angel, so I rolled my eyes and said, “Good job.”
“Antonio said there’s a new ice cream shop across the highway that sells the most amazing brownie sundaes,” Rafey told us. “Can’t we have those instead of these homemade brownies?”
I smiled even bigger and replied, “Nobody makes brownies like me.” I didn’t let on that I’d seen the menu of that new shop and the sundaes cost almost ten dollars. Dollars we can’t waste on dessert.
As Ms. Saintima settles our class down, I keep thinking of the dream from the night before. Mama and Baba were fighting loudly. Rafey and Tariq were running around the house, their faces twisted like monsters. And the walls of our living room were plastered with white papers. I took a closer look at the papers, scrunching up my eyes to read the tiny red words. LOAN PAST DUE. LOAN PAST DUE.
Ms. Saintima’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts. “Poetry today,” she announces. The room bursts into a mixture of cheers and groans. “Food poems,” she clarifies, raising a hand to stop the chatter.
I wipe a hand over my eyes, wishing I’d asked Mama for some Tylenol at breakfast. Elizabeth is turned in her seat, wiggling her eyebrows at me. “Food poems!” she whispers.
I don’t see why this is a big deal. Who even writes poems about food, anyway? But Elizabeth’s not alone in her excitement. Micah grins at me, rubbing his hand over his stomach in a totally exaggerated way. Across the room, I notice Stephanie sitting up straighter, ready to write an advertisement about her latest cupcake flavor, I’m sure. I have to smile. All this because of Mama and her afterschool club. Well, mostly.
I’m surprised to realize that I don’t hate cooking as much as I used to, at least when I’m in the kitchen with a friend. I sit up and get ready to take notes. Ms. Saintima’s activities are always interesting.
“Who loves hot dogs?” she asks. A number of hands go up, but not mine.
“Hot dogs are gross,” Stephanie calls out. I agree, but I’m not going to say so.
“Well, we’re reading about them, not eating them.” Ms. Saintima switches on the smartboard, and a poem pops up. “Good Hotdogs,” by Sandra Cisneros. Our teacher perches on the edge of her desk in her bright batik pants, careful not to upset the stack of fantasy novels on the corner. We all settle down to listen. Ms. Saintima’s accent, with its hint of something special from when she grew up in Haiti, adds music to the poem. The rhythmic words take ahold of me, like Selena Gomez’s latest single, luring me to the table.
My headache grows lighter, and my eyelids get heavy. To stop myself from dozing, I focus on the poem. It’s about a girl and her older sister who get to leave school and go to the hotdog store for lunch. We figure out it happened a long time ago, because it costs the girl fifty cents for a hot dog, fries, and a soda. Every one of my senses is tingling as Ms. Saintima asks us to imagine pulling the door of the store open and breathing in the steamy, meat-scented air. She has us close our eyes while she rereads the description of the hot dog slathered in toppings and wrapped up with crunchy french fries. I’m ashamed to realize that my mouth is watering.
“Why do you think the poet is telling us about a hot dog she ate when she was a kid?” Ms. Saintima asks.
Micah raises his hand. “It was a really, really good hot dog. It’s right in the title.”
Our teacher chuckles. “Fair enough, but what made it stick in her mind?”
I take a deep breath and raise my hand. “At the end it says, ‘We’d eat, you humming and me swinging my legs.’ It’s a happy memory of being with her sister.”
Elizabeth turns again to look at me, her face slightly shocked. I don’t think I’ve ever said anything much in class before. She gives me a thumbs-up. Raising my hand in class, making friends with Elizabeth and Micah; I’m very different from the girl I was at the start of sixth grade.
“Good eye, Sara. Everyone, that’s your assignment for today,” Ms. Saintima says. “A food memory. Yes, your goal is to use all five senses to describe your food, but also think about who you’re sharing the food with, and how you feel in that moment. If your family has a special food tradition, that would be a great topic to write about.”
Immediately, my headache comes back. It’s not that I can’t write poetry. At Iqra, we started doing simple poems in fourth grade. Ms. Saintima would never call on me to read my poem aloud unless I wanted to. Which I wouldn’t. But my mind isn’t on food at the moment. Mama’s bills scurry through my mind like noisy, demanding children. LOAN PAST DUE.
I pick up my pencil and doodle. What’s my best food memory? Everything I remember about food is associated with hard work. I remember Ms. Saintima telling us many weeks ago that writing poetry could begin with something as simple as coming up with some words to describe your feelings. Almost like brainstorming, but in rhythm. I try.
Fragile rice cooked with spices.
Chicken adorned with garlic and ginger.
Frowns and pursed lips.
A sweaty hijab.
Money.
“Ugh, this is terrible!” I whisper to myself, throwing my pencil down on the desk. A few kids look up and stare at me. I scowl at them, and they look away. That’s more like the old Sara, I can almost see them thinking. I go back to my notebook, determined to try again. For several minutes, the only sound in the classroom is pencils scratching against paper, and the ticking of the clock on the wall.
Soon, Ms. Saintima looks around the room. “Who’d like to read their draft out loud?” she says in an encouraging tone.
I swallow and look away. Elizabeth raises her arm straight into the air. Ms. Saintima nods in her direction to give permission.
“Ahem,” Elizabeth begins. “ ‘Mushy Peas.’”
Micah makes a sound in his throat. “Mushy peas? That sounds disgusting.”
Elizabeth frowns at him and continues.
“One pound fifty pence
for mushy peas.
Our shopping done,
we climb
a flight of stairs
to the fish market,
then the stall
that smells of vinegar.
Two orders of mushy peas
slathered in tangy mint sauce,
bright green heaven
in Styrofoam cups.
We walk
through the old market square,
Nan and me
window shopping.
We eat, never thinking
this is the last time.”
When Elizabeth finishes, everyone claps loudly, including me. She smiles, but her eyes are a little sad. I know she’s remembering her grandmother.
“Okay,” Micah admits. “Mushy peas don’t sound too bad, but I still wouldn’t eat them.”
Ms. Saintima is about to say something, but the bell rings. “Work on your p
oems tonight, please. I’ll collect them tomorrow.”
In the hallway, Elizabeth asks to see my poem. “I know you were writing something. Show me!”
I clutch my notebook as if she’ll grab it from me. “It’s really bad. And very short.”
“I don’t care,” she insists. “I read everyone the poem about my grandmother. I’m dying to see what your favorite food is.”
“It’s not a food I’ve ever had. More like my dream of the perfect pizza.” Slowly, I open my notebook and show her my poem. It’s not a poem yet, just the start of one. She reads it soundlessly.
Pizza with bihari beef
trapped in gooey cheese
telling me I’m the queen
of the food court,
my best friend’s laughter
the only topping
I could ever need.
Her face is comical. “Pizza? I was sure you’d write a poem about samosas or curry. Even tindas.”
“Pizza’s my favorite—what can I say?”
“But why?”
I struggle to explain. “Pizza is . . . delicious.”
Micah comes up behind us. “You know it!” He puts up his hand for a high-five, but we both roll our eyes at him.
I keep talking, my voice becoming louder. “I don’t always have to eat immigrant dishes, do I? I can enjoy American foods once in a while.”
“Pizza is immigrant food,” Micah reminds us. “Italian, remember? Except for Chicago-style deep dish. That’s one hundred percent American.”
I nod vigorously. “Exactly. Pizza changes to suit the culture of the people eating it. It’s basically like America itself. We all come from different places, and then we settle here and try to be American, but still retain our distinct flavors.”
I’m proud of my analogy, but Elizabeth and Micah look puzzled. “What are you talking about?” Micah asks. “Pizza is like America, even though it’s Italian?”
“Exactly. It’s Italian but it’s also American. Like my family is Pakistani but also American.”
Elizabeth smiles. “And I’m British on one half, and American on the other!”
Micah raises his hand. “Make my pizza half Jewish and half Puerto Rican.”
I tell him, “My favorite afterschool snack for my brothers is shredded cheese and red pepper flakes on packaged naan from the grocery store. I heat them in the toaster oven and voilà—naan pizza!”
Micah is hanging on my words like a hungry man visualizing a banquet. “I wish today was pizza day,” he says, licking his lips. “Hey, where can we get that packaged naan? Your pizza idea is genius. My mom’s working when I get home from school. I can never find anything good to snack on.”
“You can always eat mushy peas,” I tease.
He groans. “Okay, don’t tell me. I will ask Google. She’s my friend.”
Near the water fountains, a bunch of boys are gathered together, laughing. I see Ahsan Kapadia in the crowd. He gives me a little half nod, half smile. Almost as if he’s saying, Look at us, away from Iqra Academy and already making new friends.
I nod back. Then my smile freezes, because just behind him, Maddy Montgomery is giving us the blackest scowl I ever saw. “What’s up with all the Arabs at this school?” she practically screeches. “It’s like Saudi Middle over here.”
I’m not sure who she’s talking to. Micah and Elizabeth look shocked. Ahsan’s smile disappears. His shoulders slump. He turns from the other boys and walks away.
“Ignore her,” I manage to utter, even though my eyes are smarting.
Elizabeth’s mouth is set in a thin, straight line. “No. I can’t ignore her anymore.”
24
Elizabeth
“YOU SHOULD COME to cooking club today,” I tell Micah as we walk to the cafeteria. “Sara won’t give me details, but we’re making dessert.”
“Chocolate lava cake?” Micah asks.
“I doubt it. I don’t think there’s much chocolate in Pakistani cooking.”
“Pass,” Micah says as we walk through the double doors into the lunchroom. “Unless it’s ice cream. If it’s ice cream, text me.”
“You’re going to be waiting a long time for that text. No phone until I turn thirteen, remember?”
“I pity you,” he says. “My phone is where I keep all my favorite drum solos. Stewart Copeland is my dude.” Micah drums his fingertips on his lunch bag.
I lead him through the noisy cafeteria, avoiding Stephanie and Maddy’s table.
“This is dumb,” he says. “Can’t you just tell her to stop acting like a jerk, have a fight, and go back to being friends? That’s what my brothers and I do. I have the scars to prove it.” Micah stops and makes me look at a small gray dot on his knee. “Nathan stabbed me with a pencil when I was seven,” he says.
I shake my head. “It’s not that simple.”
But it used to be. Until last year, my friendship with Maddy was perfect. We were the Companions. She was loud and loved being silly and having dance-offs in the basement. Plus, Maddy was the only person at school who would gush about Doctor Who with me. Who I could be myself with. Not like at home, where Mom was always asking me to calm down, keep quiet, or act my age.
Micah sniffs the air. “Ribique today. God bless Cookie for packing my lunch.” He lifts his brown bag to his face and kisses it.
My mind is not on lunch—it’s on Maddy. When she made another dig at Muslims yesterday, I thought back to fifth grade. This popular kid, Troy Jansen, sat behind Maddy. He started complaining that her hair was so short that he had to stare at her neck freckles all day. He started calling Maddy “Neckles.” It was mean, but all the boys still wanted to play touch football with Troy at recess. All the girls still laughed at his jokes. Except Maddy. And me.
That’s when Maddy started growing her hair long and wearing the same thing as everyone else. Maybe it’s also when Maddy decided that popular equals mean.
As Micah and I take our seats, I feel a tap on my shoulder. Stephanie.
“Hi, Steph.” Micah grins hungrily. “Giving out samples?”
Stephanie shakes her head. Her high blond ponytail flips back and forth. “Not today.”
She’s traded her usual pink-and-white Sweet Stephanie’s shirt for a cartoon of three adorable green peas, still in their pod.
“Can I talk to you, Elizabeth?” Steph asks. “I need to ask you a favor.”
“Sure, I guess. Unless you want me and Sara to back out of the recipe contest, because that is not happening.” I raise my eyebrows mischievously.
“Would you do that for me?” she jokes right back. “You two are our biggest competition. But seriously . . .” Stephanie lowers her voice. “I need to talk to you about Maddy.”
I let Stephanie pull me to a half-empty table. We sit side by side on the bench and turn to face each other.
“It’s about what happened at the mall,” Steph begins. “I’ve been trying to tell Maddy to apologize. I can’t believe what she said to Sara. Will you talk to her?”
My jaw wants to clench, to keep the words in, but I say, “You’re her new best friend. Anyway, why do you care? You never even talk to Sara.”
Steph looks at her hands. “I’m not a bad person, Elizabeth. And I actually like Mrs. Hameed. A lot. She’s the best cooking teacher I ever had. The point is, Maddy shouldn’t talk to anyone that way.”
I can’t believe we’re agreeing on something. “So, what are you going to do?”
“The thing is, she won’t listen to me. She says I should stick to my charity work.” Stephanie motions to the logo on her shirt. Underneath the cartoon, it says PROJECT SWEET PEAS. “If you don’t talk to her, it’s going to get worse.”
I wonder if Steph heard about Maddy’s outburst yesterday.
I get it now. This is exactly what Sara’s been saying. If I don’t talk to Maddy, get her to understand why she has to apologize, nothing is going to change. Maybe some other kid, someone like Troy Jansen, will tell Sara to go back where she came
from. And then they’ll say it to Micah, or Ms. Saintima.
“I’ll try,” I tell Stephanie.
She doesn’t clap her hands or bounce up and down with her usual glee. She says, “I knew I could count on you.” Steph isn’t my favorite person, but it makes me feel good when she says that.
When I get to our table, Sara is pulling at the edge of her sleeve. “What was that all about?” she asks.
I don’t want her to know I’m talking to Maddy until after I do it. “Steph’s charity work,” I fib.
* * *
That afternoon, Mrs. Kluck lets us into the FACS room and rushes away, mumbling something about the janitor. Sara and I settle into our cooking station. Class is always more relaxed when Mrs. Kluck’s not here. Stephanie keeps glancing my way.
I’m too distracted to cook. The things Maddy said at the mall, the things she shouted in the hallway the other day, take up all the space in my brain. Go back to where you belong. Nobody wants you here. What’s up with all the Arabs at this school? How many times have I felt like nobody wanted me around? It’s the story of my whole summer at sleepaway camp.
“What’s this dish called again?” I ask Sara.
“I told you three times. Doodh ka halwa.” She pronounces each syllable carefully, then points to the milk on our counter. “It’s milk curd.”
“Like lemon curd?”
Sara crosses her arms. “It’s not at all like lemon curd. I tried to talk Mama out of doing this recipe. It’s made from curdled milk.” She throws up her hands, so I know her mother didn’t listen to Sara’s advice. “Everyone is going to be so grossed out.”
“What about Mrs. Kluck?” I ask. “She has a huge sweet tooth. I know your mom’s been buttering her up—bringing her Pakistani candy, making her sweet chai tea.”
Sara gives me a not-so-patient blink. “Chai literally means ‘tea,’” she corrects.
I wince. “Sorry. Still learning.”
Normally, I’d be smiling and laughing as Sara and I cook together, but I keep glancing at Maddy’s station, wondering when I’m going to find time to talk to her, and what I’m going to say.
A Place at the Table Page 16
