A Place at the Table

by Saadia Faruqi

  “How about Halwa Cuppa Tea?” Mrs. Shainmark exclaims.

  Mama nods. “Perfect!”

  “Can we go home, please?” I beg Mama. My head is starting to pound. We put on our coats and say goodbye. Outside, everything seems strange and downcast, as if a storm is coming.

  Elizabeth’s grandmother gives me a warm hug, her necklace digging into my neck. “I’m so glad you’re Elizabeth’s friend,” she tells me, the corners of her eyes crinkling in exactly the same way my own nani’s used to. I don’t have the heart to tell her that right now we’re having a bit of a crisis.

  Can you be friends with someone when you’re so mad at them you want to scream until your breath is gone?

  “Kya hua?” Mama asks in the car.

  “I’m tired.” It’s true. I am so exhausted from feeling stressed-out and worried—even angry—all the time.

  At home, I ignore the half-done poster on my desk and crawl into bed without even changing. I’m sure I won’t sleep a wink, but I’m wrong. I fall asleep, only to be chased in my nightmares by a screaming Mrs. Kluck riding her ice cream machine like a horse.

  On Monday morning, I rush to the FACS room before first bell, but Mrs. Kluck is already there, setting up for a class. A few kids are waiting outside. I see one of the Muslim girls from the mosque, so I know it’s an eighth-grade group. She smiles at me, but I can’t smile back.

  Throughout the day, Elizabeth and I keep running into each other in the hallways. She waves at me each time, but I can’t wave back because I’m sick to my stomach. What’s going to happen when Mrs. Kluck sees the ice cream machine? I wish I’d never joined the cooking club or become Elizabeth’s partner.

  “What’s up with you two?” Micah jokes at lunchtime. “You look like someone just ate the last jelly donut on earth.”

  Elizabeth shrugs. “Everything’s fine. Right, Sara?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  Elizabeth touches the charms on her bracelets. The motion is so familiar now. She’s as anxious as I am, no matter what she says. “Why do you always expect everything to go wrong?” she asks.

  Micah drums on the table with his fork and spoon. “Els, don’t be so harsh.”

  “I’m being realistic,” I say to Elizabeth. “You’re pretending everything is fine when it’s not. Even if the sky fell on your head, you’d tell everyone, ‘No big deal. Ignore the massive head wound. I’m great.’” My voice rises more than I mean it to.

  Elizabeth crosses her arms. “It’s better than acting like everything is a red-alert disaster.”

  I stand up so quickly, my milk spills all over the table. I quench my instinct to clean it up. “Sometimes. It’s important. To make a big deal,” I hiss. “Especially when our actions affect other people, like our families.”

  “What do you know about my family?” Elizabeth says, but her voice is thin and tearful.

  “C’mon, you two.” Micah stops drumming the table and gives us a stern face.

  I bite my lip. I shouldn’t have mentioned her family. I’ve seen how she worries about her mom, how she wishes her dad was around more. She’s always trying to help make things right at home.

  The laughing kids and the bland smells of the cafeteria press at me like a fog. I stand up and leave before I puke.

  * * *

  In last period, Mrs. Newman gets a call on her wall phone. She motions me over with a wave of her bangled arm and whispers, “You’re wanted in the principal’s office.”

  My knees shake. “Why?” I squeak, but I already know. My nightmare is about to come true.

  There’s a crowd of cooking-club girls inside the principal’s office by the time I get there. Elizabeth stands in the corner, elbows pressed to her sides, looking as aghast as I feel and paler than usual.

  Mama and Mrs. Kluck are almost toe to toe, arms akimbo. Mrs. Kluck looks like a ferocious tiger. Mama’s in an old shalwar kameez and the threadbare pink leopard hijab that she keeps in her purse for emergencies—the one she wears when she needs to run out for an errand without warning.

  She’s been called to the school without warning.

  Principal Harrison is the only calm presence in the room. He holds up his hands and calls for quiet.

  “Mrs. Kluckowski reports that someone used the new ice cream machine without permission.” Mrs. Kluck’s nostrils flare and her eyes bug out, prompting Principal Harrison to add, “This is a serious matter. At Poplar Springs Middle, we treat our equipment with respect.”

  Elizabeth hangs her head so her brown hair shields her face. I grip my tunic sleeves tightly and pray under my breath.

  Mrs. Kluck can’t hold it in anymore. She interrupts loudly. “Someone vandalized my machine!”

  I bite my lip to stop myself from protesting. We definitely didn’t vandalize anything.

  Principal Harrison puts up a weary hand. “There was no mechanical damage, Mrs. Hameed. The machine just needs cleaning.”

  Mrs. Kluck’s face is bright red. “Just needs cleaning? That is a delicate piece of equipment. I can’t spray it with Fantastik and call it clean. It has to be professionally sanitized.”

  “Better call the ice cream police,” someone whispers loudly from the crowd. A few of the kids giggle. Was that Maddy?

  To be honest, I can almost understand what Mrs. Kluck is talking about. Cleaning kitchen equipment is a big deal in my house too. Mama spends almost the same amount of time washing her pots and cleaning her blender as she does actually cooking. Cleanup is a critical part of cooking, she always tells me.

  Mrs. Kluck puts her hands back on her hips. “Rancid milk is stinking up the insides. That’s what happens when milk and sugar are left to pool for three days. My own classes haven’t even had a chance to use it.”

  Mama takes deep breaths. Her jaw is tight. “I was there on Friday. Nobody used the machine during my class. The room was clean when we left, and I’m sure I locked the door.”

  Mr. Harrison rubs his forehead and gives Mama an apologetic look. “Still, Mrs. Hameed. The classroom was your responsibility. I trust that you make sure students don’t touch anything that they don’t have prior approval to use.”

  Elizabeth sniffles next to me as Mama says, “I know that. I trust all my kids. They wouldn’t do anything like this.”

  Mrs. Kluck scoffs and wags a finger at Mama. “I’ve seen what happens in that cooking club,” she says, practically spitting. “I’m surprised no one’s lit the classroom on fire. They’re barely supervised.”

  “That’s not true,” someone shouts. It’s Stephanie, glaring at Mrs. Kluck with her arms crossed defiantly over her chest.

  “Yeah,” Maddy adds. “Mrs. Hameed is a great teacher.”

  I throw a shocked glance at her.

  “Mrs. Kluckowski, let’s not say anything we’ll regret,” warns the principal. He faces us. “Girls, this is a very serious matter,” he says again. “Does anyone know who used the ice cream machine?”

  Elizabeth stares at her ridiculous time-machine shoes. I catch a glimpse of the dark circles under her eyes. She shuffles one foot forward. Is she going to tell? Should I?

  No one else moves. The entire class is as still as a mass of mannequins after the mall closes. Elizabeth’s breath rattles unevenly beside me. I want to move, but my feet are stuck to the ground.

  I keep hoping Elizabeth will be brave and stand up for Mama. But I remind myself to get real. Elizabeth didn’t stand up for me at the mall. When Maddy said, “Go back to where you belong,” she did nothing. Mrs. Kluck might as well be saying Go back to where you belong to Mama right now. She is like Maddy’s parents, like our old neighbor who complained that our house smelled, like every person who makes my family feel like outsiders. That’s been Mrs. Kluck’s problem since Mama took over the club. She never used the term “PLU” like Maddy, but I bet she feels it in her bones.

  Mama adjusts the edges of her hijab. “I don’t know who did it, but if it’s one of my students, I’ll make sure there are consequences.”
I can’t bear the firmness of her voice. She will be the one who suffers the biggest consequence.

  Mrs. Kluck isn’t satisfied. “Your cooking club should be banned,” she threatens. “That’s the consequence I’m recommending to the school board.”

  The girls all start shouting. The dismissal bell rings. Mr. Harrison holds a palm up and closes his eyes. “We’ll discuss this later.”

  Mrs. Kluck gives Mama one last glare and storms off, leaving us all looking dazedly at each other.

  Maddy looks shattered. She actually makes eye contact with me, dips her head, and mouths, Sorry. Sweet Stephanie has lost almost all her annoyingly upbeat attitude. Mr. Harrison checks his watch. “I’ll call you this evening, Mrs. Hameed,” he calls out as he leaves. “I’m sure Mrs. Kluckowski will listen to reason once she calms down.”

  Mama looks like she’s about to cry, but she straightens up, squares her shoulders, and addresses the class.

  “Settle down, children,” she says so quietly, I strain to catch her words. “I will email your parents tonight with an update.”

  “What about the International Festival?” Maddy asks. “What about the recipe contest?”

  “And the TV spot?” Steph adds, her voice trembling. “I was hoping . . .”

  Mama shakes her head slowly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

  The enormity of what’s happened is hitting me in waves. Big red words—LOAN PAST DUE—flash in my mind. Mama taught this club in order to make some much-needed extra money, to pay her bills. No wonder she looks as if she’s been flattened by a Mack truck.

  “I hate whoever messed with that stupid ice cream machine,” someone to my left grumbles.

  Elizabeth looks at me. She takes a step toward Mama.

  “I . . . We . . .” she stammers, then stops.

  There’s a huge bubble in my stomach, but this time it’s anger. Not only at Elizabeth, but at myself, too. Angry that my dumb mistakes could cost my mama her job. How could I have been so stupid, so reckless? I feel the anger growing inside me, filling up my eyes and mouth and nose. I can’t take it anymore. I stumble away from her and out into the hallway with the other girls.

  “Sara, wait!” Mama calls. Does she see the tears that are almost blinding me? Does she know what I did? How badly I let her down?

  I can’t face her. I just can’t.

  28

  Elizabeth

  BEFORE MRS. HAMEED can follow Sara out, I touch her sleeve. “Wait.”

  “What is it, Elizabeth?” Mrs. Hameed’s eyes are glassy and tired, reminding me of my mom.

  I take a deep breath and let it out. “I used the ice cream machine on Friday after class. I’m really sorry.”

  Mrs. Hameed touches the spot on her throat where her pink leopard headscarf is gathered. “You did what?”

  Now that I’ve confessed, the words tumble out. “It was me. Sara had your FACS room key, and we went back inside after you left on Friday because we needed to test our recipe.”

  “So that’s where the key went. I thought I’d lost it,” she murmurs.

  “It’s not Sara’s fault,” I explain. “The whole thing was my idea. Sara kept telling me no, but I didn’t listen.”

  Mrs. Hameed’s entire body sags like a soufflé that’s lost its air. “Thank you for telling me, Elizabeth. I wish you and Sara had spoken up straightaway.”

  I wish I had too. And I wish I’d never talked Sara into using the machine. Once I decided ice cream was the winning ingredient for the contest, I blocked out every other thought. I didn’t consider how angry Mrs. Kluck would be that we used her brand-new machine. I didn’t consider that Mrs. Hameed might get blamed. And I didn’t consider Sara.

  Mrs. Hameed puts a hand on my shoulder. “We will figure this out. Sara’s father always says his favorite type of problem is a fixable one.”

  “What if they shut down the club?” I ask.

  “Let me worry about that. Right now, we must find Mrs. Kluckowski so you girls can apologize. I’ll let your mother know you’ll be home late.”

  As I follow Mrs. Hameed out of the office, dread hangs over me, as heavy as the smell of burned popcorn.

  Sara is sitting on the floor in the hallway, hunched over her sketchbook. Her face is blotchy. She’s been crying. “Come, Sara,” Mrs. Hameed commands, handing her a tissue. “You had a part in this too.”

  * * *

  Talking to Mrs. Kluck isn’t the doom-filled explosion of fury I’m expecting. She sits at her desk as I make my confession. Next to me, Sara is silent, eyes glued to the wall behind Mrs. Kluck.

  “I am disappointed in you girls,” Mrs. Kluck says, her words all scratchy. She must have hurt her voice when she screamed at us in the principal’s office. “You took advantage of your club teacher, Elizabeth, and your mother, Sara. That is unacceptable. But I also made some . . . unfair assumptions.”

  I shoot Sara a surprised glance, but she ignores me.

  Mrs. Kluck clears her throat, and I almost offer her a cough drop. “The previous leader of the cooking club was ‘borrowing.’” Mrs. Kluck makes air quotes with her fingers. “She used school equipment for her catering business, without permission. When she was let go, it was my opinion that the cooking club should be disbanded.”

  Mrs. Hameed listens calmly to Mrs. Kluck admit that Chef Elaine was fired for stealing. No wonder Mrs. Kluck flipped out when she saw someone had used the ice cream machine. No wonder she always watched Sara’s mom so carefully.

  “I understand, Mrs. Kluckowski,” Mrs. Hameed says. “Girls, I’d like to speak with your teacher.” When we don’t move, she adds, “Privately,” and shoos us out of the room.

  I stand in the hallway, leaning so my backpack is pressed against the wall. Sara stands across from me. Some band kids pass between us, staring. Haven’t they ever seen a kid cry at school before?

  “We survived the plaid tyrant,” I say, trying to get Sara talking. Her face stays frozen, expressionless.

  She doesn’t even twitch an eyebrow.

  When the band kids are out of sight, Sara lets me have it. “All I wanted was to be quiet, do my work, and not get in trouble at this school. I was invisible, and I was fine with that until you came along.”

  “I said I was sorry.” I kick my TARDIS high-tops at the floor. “But it’s not like I was the only one there. You were with me.”

  Sara crosses the hallway, coming closer. “Why didn’t you say something in Mr. Harrison’s office? You let Mrs. Kluck talk to my mother like that, in front of everyone.”

  “I was scared,” I admit.

  I think about all I’ve learned over the last few weeks. What if it had been my mom in the principal’s office instead of Mrs. Hameed? Would Mrs. Kluck have let her anger boil over if our club leader was someone like my mom, who speaks perfect English? Who is white? Sara’s always talking about respecting her parents. It must have hurt her heart to see a teacher yell at her mom, especially in front of a bunch of kids.

  “I told your mom that the whole thing is my fault. You’re off the hook.”

  “I don’t care about myself,” Sara cries. “My mama needed this club. She needed the money.”

  “Money?”

  “Yeah, remember that stuff? People use it to pay for groceries, clothes. It takes money to run a business, Elizabeth. My mother can’t afford to lose this teaching job.”

  The door opens, interrupting us. Mrs. Hameed comes out. We follow her through the building in silence.

  I’m surprised to see Mrs. Hameed put an arm around Sara’s shoulders. When my mom is angry with me, she shuts off like a broken oven light. I try to see what’s going on, how Mom is feeling inside, but it’s too dark in there. I can’t tell her what happened. There’s no way she’ll understand. Tomorrow, when I walk into school, everyone will know Sara and I went into the FACS room without permission and used the new ice cream machine. For most kids, it will be a day’s worth of gossip. But when the cooking club finds out I stood there and let Mrs. Kluck bl
ame everyone, they’re going to hate me.

  Outside, Mrs. Hameed says, “Elizabeth, your mother is waiting.” She points to the carpool lane.

  In the car, I pull the hood of my sweatshirt over my head. I yank the strings and pull the fabric closed over my face. Mom asks what’s wrong, what she can do to help, even what I’d like for dinner. But there’s nothing—there’s no one who can comfort me. I go to my room and pull down the shades.

  * * *

  Justin opens my bedroom door an hour later. “Aren’t you coming down?” he asks. “Bubbe says we have to do candles at sundown.”

  “No.”

  Robin noses his way into the room and jumps onto my bed.

  “But it’s the last night of Hanukkah,” Justin whines. “Mom has a surprise for us. And Dad’s leaving in the morning.”

  If Bubbe talked to Dad like she said she would, it didn’t make a bit of difference. Dad’s taking off for another business trip. Who knows how long he’ll be gone?

  Justin pulls my arm. “Come on.” He drags me off the bed, which makes Robin bark. The only way to stop the noise is to get up.

  Everyone is sitting around the table. Dad came home early from work, since he’s leaving tomorrow before breakfast. He helps himself to a piece of gelt from the candy bowl, peels the gold foil, and pops the chocolate coin into his mouth before reciting the prayers in Hebrew. Then we all say them together in English. My favorite part is when we thank God for working “miracles for our fathers, in days of old.” I wish there were a prayer to ask for another small miracle, a small light to revive the friendship Sara felt for me. As long as I’m asking, a prayer for Maddy, too, so she’ll see that there are no “people like us.” Only people.

  And there is a kind of miracle that happens. As we watch the candles burn and play our last game of dreidel, Mom goes into the family room. Instead of sitting down to knit, she pulls three silver-wrapped packages from behind her chair. Mom hands one package to David, one to Justin, and the last to me. Justin rips open his wrapping paper. David holds his present on his palms, weighing and poking it. “Squishy,” he says, raising a curious eyebrow.