A Place at the Table

by Saadia Faruqi

  I know what she means. Every day that Mom didn’t leave the house, every day she spent knitting on the couch, pulled her deeper into sadness.

  Mom takes my chin and tilts my head up. “I don’t want you to be like me. Not in that way. In England they say, ‘Stiff upper lip.’”

  “What does that even mean, Mom?”

  “It means act as if everything is fine, even when it’s not.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “No,” she says. “And neither do I.”

  I take a shower, then make tomato soup from scratch for lunch. As I puree tomatoes in a blender, Mom leans on the kitchen counter, sipping her tea.

  “You know that comes ready-made in a tin,” she points out.

  “Canned soup isn’t made with love,” I say.

  “Love is messy.” She points to the tomato-splashed spoons, pots, and measuring cups piled in the sink.

  “Worth it,” I reply.

  It’s three o’clock by the time the dishes are clean and we’re ready to eat. We sit at the table together, but before I can take a taste, the doorbell rings, sending Robin into a barking frenzy. Mom gets up to answer.

  “Maddy!” I hear her say in her brightest voice. “I’m so glad you’re here. Elizabeth could use a friend.”

  Maddy comes in and stands next to the table, waiting for me to look up from my soup. A few months ago, she would have plopped down next to me as if she lived here.

  “Hi” is all I say. I pull a chair out for her without getting up from my seat.

  “I’ll get you some soup,” Mom offers. “Elizabeth made it.”

  Maddy lowers her voice. “Everyone at school is saying you kissed Micah and got mono.”

  “Gross. Micah’s like my honorary brother.” I shudder. “Wait. Is Micah sick?”

  Maddy shakes her head. The ponytail is gone. Her hair hangs loose and dark around her shoulders, longer than she used to wear it, but she looks more like the old Maddy. “No. It’s the usual stupid rumor. He left Tuesday to go to Puerto Rico for winter break.” She sits across from me. “And also, I know you’re not sick.”

  I sip my soup. I don’t owe her an explanation.

  She says, “Remember in fourth grade when you said you put your math assignment in the homework basket, and Mr. Hartack said you didn’t, and he tipped your desk out and dumped everything on the floor?”

  I was so embarrassed. And Mr. Hartack was so mean.

  “You didn’t come to school for two days,” Maddy says.

  “I told my mom I wasn’t going back until they let me switch math teachers.”

  Mom brings out an extra soup bowl and a box of saltines. Maddy takes a sip from her spoon. “This is delicious, Els. Really. Steph always says you and Sara are the ones to watch out for in the recipe contest.”

  “Can we not talk about that?” I was enjoying this moment of no drama with my former best friend.

  Maddy puts both hands flat on the table. “I need to talk about it. I’ve been thinking about what you said. I’m so sorry for what happened at the mall.” Maddy’s face squishes into a grimace. “Stephanie told me I shouldn’t have said those things, but I didn’t get it. I thought, This is middle school. People are mean all the time.”

  “But not you, Mads. You’re not mean. You weren’t before.” I can’t believe Maddy is finally apologizing.

  “I really wanted us to stay friends. I wanted it to be the three of us, you, me, and Steph. It hurt my feelings that you wanted to spend time with Sara and not me. I kind of snapped.”

  Tell me about it.

  Maddy leans down to pat Robin’s head. She slips him a cracker. “Can I tell you something? Ever since we moved up from elementary school, my parents have been nagging me to make new friends. They say Steph is more like us.”

  There it is again. People like us. “Not Muslim, like Sara,” I say.

  Maddy’s chin drops to her chest. She nods slowly.

  “And not Jewish, like me.”

  “I guess. I never thought about it before. You’re normal. I mean, aside from the Doctor Who obsession.”

  I don’t smile. “Maddy, I don’t want to be your kind of normal. Not if it means making fun of kids because they have brown skin, or dress a certain way, or their parents are immigrants. Don’t you get it? That’s racist.” I force myself to say the word.

  “That’s what Steph said too.” Maddy closes her eyes for a second. “You’re my two best friends. Maybe you’re right. You’ve known me forever, and Steph is a really good person. Did I tell you she doesn’t keep any of the cupcake money? It all goes to the NICU charity. Steph told me she was a preemie, and they weren’t sure she’d survive. That’s why she bakes. To raise money for families with preemies.”

  “That explains a lot,” I admit. I try to picture Stephanie Tolleson as a tiny baby, small enough to rest in my palm. Once the image is in my mind, all my mad feelings about Steph dissolve. I realize I never looked past her blond ponytail and perfect smile. “I guess I didn’t bother getting to know her.”

  “She called a cooking-club meeting at lunch today. Everyone was there, except we couldn’t find Sara.” Before I have time to wonder where Sara ate lunch, Maddy rushes on. “All of us are mad at Mrs. Kluck for being so gross to Mrs. Hameed. So I came up with a great idea.” She pauses to make sure I’m paying attention and crinkles up her freckled nose. “Trust me. You’re going to love it. What if we have the last class before winter break at Sara’s house and cook for Mrs. Hameed? We can bring all the ingredients and show off what we’ve learned. Steph found a biryani recipe and assigned everyone something to bring.”

  Wait. Maddy likes South Asian food now? When did that happen? I think back over the last couple of classes and realize Maddy’s been complaining a lot less.

  I’m starting to grin. “I love this idea,” I say. “As long as we clean everything up. And I mean everything.” I look right at Maddy. “But you still need to apologize to Sara. It’s not enough to say you’re sorry to me.”

  “Can I help with this plan?” Mom says, coming in from the kitchen. “Sorry for eavesdropping, but the Hameeds are my friends too. Let me call Hina and let her know what you’re planning.”

  We talk over details with my mom. My mood is as light and sunny as a lemon meringue pie. I think this is going to work. I can’t wait to go back to school and plan our cooking-club party.

  31

  Sara

  THAT ENTIRE WEEK, I go to Mrs. Newman’s art room instead of the cafeteria and paint away my misery. The bubbles in my stomach scatter and settle down when I’m working. The poster fills my mind, leaving no room for anything else. The bold flags in the border, the faces of the kids in the middle, give me strange comfort. Mrs. Newman sometimes checks my progress but mostly leaves me alone. The art consumes me in a deeper way than it has before, the colors on the poster more real, throbbing with all the emotions in my heart. Once, I coat my brush with red and think of Elizabeth’s advice about using a warm color for Mama’s business flyer. Another time, I mix my palette with peachy tones and I’m reminded of the color in her room. No matter how hard I try to avoid thinking about Elizabeth, her friendship warms me like a mug of hot chocolate.

  Painting isn’t my only therapy. That week, I spend hours talking with Rabia on Google Hangouts. We don’t discuss Iqra or Poplar Springs Middle. We talk about other things, like the first-grade field trip we made to the Smithsonian Museum, when I got so scared of the life-size dinosaurs that I cried in the bathroom. We talk about how Rabia’s neighbors all have Christmas lights strung on their houses in the most intense competition she’s ever seen. We complain about our parents insisting we speak Urdu even though we butcher it completely. We even go over the Arabic alphabet again like we’re little kids, singing “Alef Ba Ta” over and over. And of course there are at least a dozen America’s Got Talent episodes, the ones where Simon is the meanest.

  “I wish you’d come back to Iqra.” Rabia sighs more than once.

  I realize
I haven’t told her the real reason why my parents moved me to Poplar Springs. Money isn’t something Rabia’s family worries about. I finally open up and share all the details. The bills. Mama and Baba’s arguments. The ice cream machine fiasco. At one point she even brings her Cheetos to eat as I pour my heart out. I should be offended, but it feels okay, like we’re still telling each other stories.

  Talking about everything with Rabia makes it seem less heavy.

  The bubbles in my stomach have completely disappeared by Friday afternoon. When I get home from school, I find Mama in the kitchen, her citizenship study guide open on the counter as she stirs a curry on the stove. She’s dressed in black trousers and a long, colorful kameez. Her hijab hangs on the back of a chair.

  “Salaam,” I say, glad to see she’s doing okay after this rough week. “Are you going somewhere?”

  She gives me a mysterious smile. “Nahin.”

  “You’re wearing lipstick,” I point out.

  She picks up the booklet and sticks her nose into it. “Just studying,” she replies, which makes no sense at all.

  I forgive her because I’m starving. I grab some zeera cookies from a plate on the counter and take the booklet from her. “What territory did the United States buy from France in 1803?”

  Another smile. “Louisiana,” she replies confidently. “You know how I remember that? Your father and I visited the French Quarter in New Orleans when you were a baby.”

  “Really?” I crinkle my eyebrows. “I didn’t know we ever went on vacation.”

  She sighs and goes back to the pot on the stove, which is giving off a sweet, milky fragrance. I see the rice bin on the counter and guess that she’s making kheer.

  “Money has been tight recently. You know that.”

  I nod fast. Are we really going to have a conversation about money? Finally? I can hardly breathe as I wait for her next words.

  RRRING! The doorbell breaks the spell. I go to open the door, and my mouth drops in shock. A group of girls stands on our front porch, with Mrs. Shainmark behind them. Elizabeth, Maddy, Stephanie, and all the others from our cooking club. Plus Rabia.

  “Surprise!” they yell. Their faces are happy, even Maddy’s.

  “What’s going on?” I whisper.

  Mama comes up behind me, draping her hijab quickly around her head. “Welcome to our house,” she gushes, and now I know why she’s wearing lipstick. This is not a surprise for her, apparently.

  Mrs. Shainmark takes pity on me. “The girls asked to have the last class at your house, since the FACS room isn’t full of great memories.”

  “It’s our final class before the festival, and we want to celebrate everything we’ve accomplished,” Stephanie adds, beaming at me.

  Maddy is standing right beside her, and I look away quickly. I take in the scene in my tiny foyer. The girls from our cooking club all talk excitedly. Rabia stands a little bit to the side, looking skeptical but also highly amused. Elizabeth has her arm around Mama, but she’s looking at me, as if sending a silent signal to my brain.

  I want to break into tears, but Mama beats me to it. Her eyes are already wet. “Girls, you are awesome!” she whispers.

  “Let’s make some biryani!” somebody shouts from the back. I think it’s Maddy. I want to tell her not to enter my house, want to stand in the doorway with my arms held out to block her, but Mama would faint at such a lack of hospitality and respect.

  The girls move inside like a wave in the ocean, taking Rabia with them. A few of them are holding grocery bags. Stephanie has a bag of Zebra basmati rice in her arms. Did they actually go to a Pakistani store for Mama? For me?

  Elizabeth and I let the other girls pass, and in a minute we’re alone in the foyer. I reach out to hug her. It’s awkward and quick, but it feels right. She hugs me back and says, “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

  “I’m still upset with you,” I tell her severely.

  “I know. But it wasn’t a hundred percent my fault.” She has a pleading look on her face.

  I sigh. “ ‘It takes two hands to clap,’ as Baba always says. I was right there with you. I had the key. You didn’t force me to do anything.”

  She relaxes. “Thank you for saying that. I don’t want to fight. We’ve got to stay friends. We complement each other.”

  Rabia walks back from the kitchen. “Good, you’ve made up. Let’s cook some food!”

  I look from Rabia to Elizabeth and back again. My two friends, so different from each other, stuck with weird old me in the middle. I hold out my hand to Rabia. “Thanks for being here.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “I wasn’t expecting a bunch of Poplar Springs girls to be so nice, but I’m happy to be proven wrong.”

  “Even Maddy?” Elizabeth says hopefully.

  Rabia is quiet for a minute, staring at the palms of her hands. She does this when she’s thinking deeply and isn’t sure how to frame her words. The sound of giggling girls floats to us from the kitchen. “What Maddy said to Sara in the mall was . . . terrible. But my mama always taught me—all her students—that in the same way we seek forgiveness from God, we should also forgive others.” She finally looks up. “Has Maddy apologized?”

  Elizabeth nods, and whispers, “To me. But not to Sara. She knows what she said was wrong. Maybe she’s waiting until she can talk to you alone.”

  I smell chicken cooking on the stove. Biryani spices hang in the air around me. I hold out my hands, one to Elizabeth on my right, and the other to Rabia on my left. They reach out too, and we stand in a little circle of linked hands. I say, “We have a competition to win.”

  32

  Elizabeth

  AS WE CLEAN UP the Hameeds’ kitchen, everyone gets a chance to describe their recipes to the whole group. We give each other feedback and ideas for different spices to try. It feels less like a competition and more like the way a class should be, all of us working together.

  As the other girls start to leave, Maddy and I stand on the Hameeds’ front steps. Steam rises from the containers of chicken biryani we’re both holding. I shiver in the cold. Mom is still inside, chatting with Mrs. Hameed. I could have stayed inside too, but I wanted to talk to Maddy alone. I don’t know if we’ll be friends again, not the way we were before, but I’m relieved that we’re speaking to each other.

  “This was a great idea, bringing everyone to Sara’s house,” I tell her. “Sixth grade has been rough for her. She used to go to a religious school. Less than a hundred kids in all the grades.”

  Maddy’s mouth opens in surprise. Her breath makes a cloud of steam when she says, “No wonder she hardly ever talked.”

  “Right? From a hundred kids to nearly a thousand just like that.” I snap my fingers, but it’s so cold that they don’t make a sound. Maddy laughs. Her cheeks are pink from the chill. It makes her freckles stand out.

  “Remember when I tried to teach you how to snap?” she asks.

  Fourth grade.

  I say, “Remember when I tried to teach you how to blow a bubble?” Fifth grade.

  “We both ended up with gum in our hair.”

  “Peanut butter shampoo!” we say at the same time.

  “You busy this weekend?” she asks.

  “Yeah. Sara and I have to figure out how to make ice cream without an ice cream maker.”

  “Steph and I are still tweaking our recipe too.”

  I motion to the Hameeds’ house. “How did you talk your parents into letting you come here?”

  Maddy tucks her chin into the collar of her pale-blue parka. It’s North Face brand. Popular-kid approved. “I didn’t tell them,” Maddy says. “Stephanie’s mom drove me.”

  I wonder if Maddy’s parents are even coming to the International Festival. If they do, I hope they are polite, for Maddy’s sake.

  Steph bounces out of the house, cell phone in hand, as a big SUV pulls up to the curb. She gives me a quick hug. “Bye, Elizabeth.”

  Maddy waves before she gets in the car. “Go
od luck,” she calls. “I mean it.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Sara comes over with her mom so we can give our ice cream a final run-through.

  “So can we make the name official?” I ask Sara. “Halwa Cuppa Tea?”

  “Can’t think of anything better,” she says, and writes the name down in her notebook with plenty of swirls.

  I know she’s stalling. We still don’t know how we’re going to make a big batch of ice cream without Mrs. Kluck’s machine. We sit together at the kitchen table, leafing through Sara’s recipe notebook.

  David pops a Hot Pocket in the microwave, which makes us both stick out our tongues in disgust. “You don’t know what you’re missing,” David says.

  I love looking at Sara’s notebook, remembering all the changes our recipe has gone through. We admire Sara’s doodles of each dessert we tried, and laugh at the exploding s’mores parathas. She shows me sketches for the International Festival poster and for her mom’s business logo.

  “Did you show it to her yet?” I ask in a low voice. In the family room, a few feet away, Mrs. Hameed is quizzing my mom on the citizenship booklet. I hear laughing, so I’m not sure how much work they’re getting done.

  “Not yet,” Sara says. “Let’s focus on the ice cream problem. Can’t we just pour the mixture into plastic bags and stick it in the freezer?”

  “Then it won’t be creamy,” I argue. “You’re supposed to churn it. Otherwise it gets gritty and crunchy.” I shudder. “If we want to win, we have to do it right.”

  “For once, I agree with my sister,” David says as he sits at the table. He chomps on his sad excuse for a pastry. “Mmm. Pepperoni pizza.”

  Robin Hood looks up at David, a mixture of hope and longing in his eyes. David breaks off an edge of crust and tosses it to the dog. “As I was saying,” he continues, “you’re correct. Ice cream has to be churned or it forms ice crystals. And crunchy ice cream is gross.”