Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Farah’s Holy Hummus Recipe
Glossary
Glossary of Arabic Words
About the Author
About the Illustrator
Copyright
Back Cover
CHAPTER 1
“Faw-wah, where’s Mama?” asks my little brother, Samir. He is holding his green light-up sneakers with Tommy Turtle on the sides. Mama bought them at a yard sale because they looked new. But right now, they look awful. The bottoms are caked with mud.
“You should have worn your boots outside,” I tell him. It’s the last day of winter break. The snow has turned all mushy and brown.
“Biddee Mama!” he says.
“On the phone,” I explain. I don’t say it will probably be a long time before she’s done. That’s because she’s talking to Mrs. Liu, the mother of my Official Best Friend, Allie. And they’re talking about their favorite subject—the Magnet Academy.
For two years, our moms have been talking about Magnet. But lately, because our applications are due in six weeks, it’s been even worse than usual. Allie and I are fifth graders at Harbortown Public School. For middle school, we’re hoping to get into Magnet. It’s a public school, but with a special focus on science and math. Allie and I have heard that Magnet students end up getting jobs as astronauts and chemists and heart surgeons.
Samir groans, snapping me out of my thoughts about Magnet. “I want clean sneakews for school tomowwow!”
“Come on,” I tell him. We head to the kitchen. If Mama is still on the phone, I can clean the sneakers for him. I help my parents a lot in taking care of Samir.
Baba is flipping pancakes at the stove. He likes to make breakfast food for dinner, or dinner food for breakfast. Sometimes he even grills hamburgers at nine in the morning. He says the chef makes the rules.
Mama is leaning against the counter, her cell phone to her ear. “What science classes should they take?” she says. Pause. “Yes, I agree. And we’ll sign them both up for Latin, of course.”
Allie and I are really excited for Latin. One of the reasons Allie and I are Official Best Friends is because, in second grade, Harbortown labeled us “gifted” and put us in Advanced Academic (AA) classes. The school says “gifted” means that we are really smart. But for us, “gifted” means we just get more homework than everyone else.
Even though I don’t like the word gifted, I am thrilled about going to Magnet. I’ve already thought of a dozen ideas for my essay. But I refuse to work on it tonight, I decide. This is the last day of my winter break. I want to enjoy it.
Of course, I think, as I start looking under the sink for a scrub brush, cleaning Samir’s muddy sneakers isn’t exactly fun.
Baba flips a pancake and tells Mama, “Food’s almost ready.”
Mama nods at Baba. “Maybe we’ll get our families together for dinner soon,” she says into the phone. Pause. “Thanks. Good night, Lin.”
After Mama hangs up, she sings to herself in Arabic, looking all dreamy. She snaps out of it when she asks me what I’m doing under the sink. I point to Samir.
“Your shoes, Samir!” she exclaims, horrified. “How can you wear these to al-madrasa tomorrow?”
“Sowwy!” He has trouble pronouncing his r’s. It’s not a huge problem, compared to all the health problems he’s had.
“Thanks, Farah, but I’ll clean them myself later. Go put them by the back door,” Mama says. “Ready to eat?”
“Yes!” we say together. Eating Baba’s pancakes is even more awesome than hearing him say “bancakes.” In Arabic, the letters p and v don’t exist. Baba just replaces them both with the letter b. It’s the closest he can get when he’s speaking English. Mama came to the United States when she was my age, but Baba came when he was twenty-eight.
“Farah has to comblete her abblication for Magnet,” Baba says. He puts a plate heaped with fluffy pancakes on the table. “Did you start?” he asks me, pouring everyone a glass of juice.
“I just have to write the essay,” I say. I use my knife to saw through a stack of three pancakes, oozing with syrup.
“What are you witing about?” Samir asks.
“Why Magnet should accept me. I’m not sure what to say: Because I’m smart? Or because I’m awesome? Or because I’m amazing…”
“Or maybe because you are so confident,” Baba says with a grin.
Samir pats my shoulder. “Those are good ideas,” he says seriously.
In Samir’s world, I’m like a hero. Most kids think little brothers are annoying. Not me. I’m glad that he thinks I’m his cool big sister.
Samir is six years younger than I am. My parents were excited for another baby, but Samir arrived too quickly: three whole months early. Even though I was only in preschool, I knew this was bad news.
He stayed in the hospital for three months. The doctors thought he might not live. Mama and Baba made a promise then. If Samir would just be okay, they would donate a new stained-glass window to our church. That’s St. Jude’s, the Orthodox church that all the Arabs like us attend.
And Samir did come home, looking like a tiny, bald bird. So my parents bought the window, which is taller than my dad—and really expensive. In fact, we’re still paying for it. It’s one reason why my parents worry about money. Another reason is all Samir’s therapy, which costs tons of money. He needs extra help, and luckily Harbortown is great. He gets pulled out of kindergarten class to work on his speech. And once a week, an occupational therapist helps him. They work on holding a pencil and printing his letters.
“Well, Farah?” Baba says to me now. “When will you finish it?”
“Baba,” I whine, “it’s the last day of winter break. I’ll start it this week, I promise!”
“Inshallah, you will—” Mama says.
“I know, I know,” I interrupt her. “Inshallah I will get accepted.”
“We will bray,” Baba says, then stuffs a forkful of pancakes into his mouth.
CHAPTER 2
Before Baba leaves for work at the quarry the next morning, he wishes Samir and me good luck on our first day of the quarter.
“Wish me luck too,” he says. “I’m hoping to get a raise this year. I will find out maybe this week.”
“Good luck!” we both sing out.
“Baba, can you check on the labyrinth on your way home?” I ask. Over the summer, the Harbortown Library hired an artist to build a labyrinth. It’s a large walking maze shaped in a circle in the library’s back field. I’ve been waiting for months for them to complete it. I really want to know if it’s close to being done.
“Okay. Take care of your brother, Farah.” Baba winks and heads out the door.
Samir and I are eating hummus for breakfast when Mama puts the Magnet Academy application on the kitchen table next to me. “When you get home after al-madrasa,” she says, “you need to work on this.”
I roll my eyes, making sure she doesn’t see me. It’s annoying whenever someone reminds me of somet
hing I already know I have to do.
Fifteen minutes later, Samir and I are sitting on the bus. Suddenly everyone starts talking excitedly. It’s because at the second stop, there’s a new girl. At first I think that she must be getting on the wrong bus. She wears bright-pink lip gloss. She is taller than our bus driver, Ms. Juniper, and has long, red hair in thick curls.
If she does belong on our bus, I feel sorry for her. There are many reasons Bus Sixty-Two stinks.
Jake Montana, who picks his nose, rides the Sixty-Two.
So do the Beckinson twins, who fight the whole ride and pull each other’s hair.
Bridget Greko also rides the Sixty-Two. (But I don’t really want to talk about her. We stopped being friends a long time ago.)
I better not forget Winston Suarez, who tattles on everybody. Including me when I used to sneak up to sit with Samir. My little brother was just starting kindergarten and was new to the bus. But older kids have to sit in the back. Winston squealed to Ms. Juniper, who is shaped like a giant bowling pin.
Another thing: We have the worst bus driver in Harbortown. “Older kids sit in the back!” Ms. Juniper bellowed at me that day from her tiny bowling-pin head. “But he’s my little brother!” I protested. “Move on back!” she shouted.
So if you’re going to be a new kid, Bus Sixty-Two is probably the worst welcome.
Jake pulls his finger out of his nose and uses it to point to the new girl as she climbs aboard. “Who’s that?” he asks me.
“Don’t know,” I say.
“I thought you knew everything, Farah Rocks,” he says.
I’ve been called Farah Rocks since kindergarten. Our last name, Hajjar, means “rocks” in Arabic. We got that name because my baba’s family were stonecutters in Jerusalem.
The new girl looks like she doesn’t want to be here. I want to tell her it will soon get worse, because this is Bus Sixty-Two. But she’ll figure it out when the Beckinson twins start fighting.
Samir sits two rows ahead of me, swinging his legs. “Kapow!” he says under his breath. That’s what Tommy Turtle says on his show. “Kapow! Kapow!”
When the new girl walks by, she stumbles over his feet. “Hey!” she snaps. Her voice is whisper-weird, like she has a sore throat. “Watch it!”
“Sorry,” I say, quickly standing up.
But before I get there, Samir reaches out and tugs on one of her long, shiny, red curls. “Pwetty!” he says.
“Are you making fun of me?” she growls. And then she does something you’re not allowed to do on the bus—or anywhere. She smacks his hand away from her hair. Hard.
Samir yelps and pulls his hand back. Everyone else goes quiet, staring at us. I notice Ms. Juniper glance back in her long mirror, maybe surprised that it’s suddenly as silent as a cemetery.
“What are you—an idiot?” the new girl asks Samir.
“Hey!” I say. I feel like I’ve been punched.
Samir curls up in his seat like a shrimp and tucks his hand under his chin. He always does that when he’s upset.
I step into the bus aisle to defend my little brother. I have to look up at the new girl because when I look straight ahead, I am staring at the buttons of her red coat. “He thinks your hair is pretty!” I explain.
“Sit down,” she says fiercely. Her mouth looks like a pink slash across her face.
I stay on my feet.
“Sit down,” she whispers again. What a terrible, scary whisper.
Holy hummus, I think. And then I sit down.
She keeps walking toward the rear while people around us snicker. The Beckinson twins say together, “Duuuuude.” The kindergarten kids look back at me, wide-eyed. Winston stays quiet for once. Doesn’t he think this would be a good time to tattle?
The new girl sits in the back next to Bridget, who phony-gushes, “I love your hair!”
I move up to sit with Samir and hold his hand for the rest of the ride. He seems terrified. When we get to school, I rush us both off the bus before everyone else.
“Wait your turn!” hollers Ms. Juniper, but I ignore her today.
CHAPTER 3
At lunch, Allie shares what she’s learned about the new girl. “Name: Dana Denver,” she begins, as we unpack our lunches. “She’s in my health class. Mr. Montgomery had her introduce herself.” Health and PE are the only classes that are not AA and that Allie and I don’t have together.For those classes, we switch teachers.
Allie pulls her red plastic chopsticks out of her lunch pouch. “Dana just moved here from Texas.”
My brain rattles off some facts. Texas, the Lone Star State. Looks like it has a chimney. Second-largest U.S. state in terms of area. Capital: Austin. A few years ago, Baba bought me a U.S. map place mat. I studied it every morning while eating my hummus. Eventually I memorized all fifty states.
“She’s so tall,” Allie says. “When Mr. Montgomery asked her to stand up and tell everyone about herself, I thought she was already standing up!”
I burst into giggles.
“So what happened on the bus?” Allie asks.
I tell Allie the whole story. When I’m done, her mouth drops open. “Wait, you sat down?” she asks, horrified.
I am also suddenly horrified.
“Well, what was I supposed to do?” I grumble. “Fight her? She’s taller than most adults I know.”
Allie thinks about it. “No,” she says finally. “Fighting gets you suspended from the bus.” Then she asks, “Didn’t Bridget do anything?”
“No,” I grumble. “You know how Bridget is.”
“You always think she’s so terrible,” Allie says, rolling her eyes. “She’s in my health class too. She’s pretty nice to me.”
Bridget used to be our friend, until she changed in third grade. I guess I was hurt by it more than Allie. I change the subject, because I don’t like talking about Bridget. “What else did Dana say?” I ask.
Allie ticks her fingers on her left hand. “Plays basketball. Broke a record for swimming at her old school. Favorite color is denim—”
“Denim is not a color!” I interrupt.
“Fact. Also, she rides horses. She just got her own pony for Christmas, but they left him in Texas.” Allie pauses, her chopsticks poised in the air. “I think maybe that part is made up. Who buys a horse and then leaves him in Texas?”
We both think about it for a bit, then agree that Dana must be lying about owning a horse.
“Well, Dana and her imaginary horse won’t be at Magnet. I’m so excited for next year,” says Allie.
“Yeah,” I say happily. “And we won’t have to deal with that anymore.” I point to the Beckinson twins, who are having a sword fight with their corn dogs.
“Bonus!” she agrees. Together, we watch Winston, who raises his hand to tattle on them. The lunch monitor, who walks around handing out napkins and sporks, waves Winston away. She’s heard him tattle a million times.
However, my smile falls right off my face when I turn my head and see Dana. She’s standing by the window and staring outside. My heart starts pounding. I know what she’s looking at. Right now, Samir’s kindergarten class is on the playground.
Dana points outside while speaking to Bridget and some other girls at their table. Whatever she says makes them all crack up.
I have to know what she’s saying. I stand up and pretend as if I’m going to throw my napkin in the trash can, which is next to Dana’s table.
Even though her back is to me, I hear her now. “Why do they have those kids at this school?”
I imagine what she is seeing. Maybe Samir is sitting on the mulch, his hand tucked under his chin. Maybe his friend Ana is having a hard time climbing the steps to the slide because of her leg braces. Maybe Thomas is sitting in his wheelchair, drawing a picture.
Dana shudders, as if something is gro
ssing her out. The other kids gather at the window to watch and roll their eyes. Bridget is there too. As I learned a long time ago, she never misses a chance to be popular, even if it equals being mean.
Suddenly Dana turns her head and sees me. I hurry back to my table. There is a tight ball of fear in my chest.
“What’s wrong, Farah?” Allie asks.
“The new girl—I think she’s making fun of some of Samir’s friends,” I say.
Allie shakes her head. “I doubt it.”
“I don’t think so,” I say. I’m laser-sharp about how other kids look at Samir’s friends. When she said “those kids,” I know what she meant.
“Well, then you should tell someone,” she says logically.
Right.
I walk up to the lunch monitor. “Excuse me?”
“You need a spork?” she asks me tiredly.
“No. Um, that girl right there—” I say, turning to make sure Dana doesn’t see me pointing. “She’s making fun of the kids on the playground.”
“Sweetie, that’s not a huge deal. Please sit down, okay? The bell’s about to ring.” And she walks away, just like that.
I stand there, stunned. The lady looked at me as if I was Winston, complaining about small stuff.
I report back to Allie, who shrugs. “Forget it,” she says. “Nobody got hurt. Let’s go.”
“But, Allie, she’s making fun of my brother.”
“Well, we can tell Dana’s teacher.”
I think about what to do as I pack up my lunch. I could talk to her teacher, but what would happen? He’ll just talk to Dana. She will say she didn’t do it. I’ll say she did.
Maybe they’ll call in her mom for a conference. She’ll say Dana is an angel. I’ll say she’s not. Nobody will be able to prove anything. They might even tell me what the lunch monitor just did, that it’s not a big deal. And that means nothing will be solved. Even worse: Dana will hate me for complaining about her.
“Come on, Farah,” Allie says. “We’re going to be late for class.”
Farah Rocks Fifth Grade Page 1
