I take a long, long nap. Just before I fall asleep, my last thought is: I have to find another way.
• • •
That night, after dinner, I sit at the kitchen table with Samir. We are practicing his sight words. I help him write the whole list of words on index cards with a marker.
“Thank you for helping your brother, Farah,” Baba says as he washes the dishes carefully.
“Why are you doing dishes?” I ask, thinking of how Baba breaks them all the time.
“Your mother is going to the library for her book club,” he says, smiling. “Don’t worry—I will be bery, bery careful.”
“So you fixed the car?” I ask.
“For now, yes. I still don’t know what the real problem is. But your baba does have some skills with cars. Back in the old country, I used to—”
Just then, a coffee mug slips out of his hand and crashes to the tiled floor. It shatters into approximately a bajillion pieces.
Baba blinks and looks at us helplessly.
Samir and I giggle wildly and, after a second, Baba joins in.
“Tell Mama to buy plastic stuff,” Samir suggests, while I fetch the broom.
Baba won’t let me sweep up the shards. He’s afraid I’ll get hurt. I sit down again and watch Samir practice his words. I stack the cards into two piles: words he knows and words he needs to study more.
Samir gets frustrated sometimes by sight words. They’re words like and and the that you see most often when you are reading. Those ones are easy. Some of the harder ones are words like about, should, and around.
He moves quickly through the first pile, reading each one out loud to me. He gets some of the words in the second pile, but he doesn’t recognize most of them.
“Good job,” I tell him.
“Not weally,” he mumbles.
“You’re reading, Samir! You’ve got this.”
“I’m not weally weading yet.”
“Sure you are!” I insist.
“No, I’m not. A lot of kids in my class wead awesome but not me.” He sighs and goes to the counter, sticking his hand in the bowl of M&Ms that Mama leaves for him sometimes. That’s his favorite candy of all time.
I watch Samir shuffle through the cards. I can see the frustration growing in his big brown eyes. How can I help him feel better about reading?
He’s so smart, but his learning challenges mean he sometimes has to work harder than other kids. Just writing the words on the card in neat letters is a big deal for Samir. At one point, he had to learn and practice how to hold a pencil. It’s more challenging for him than for other kids because he has smaller muscles in his hands. They weren’t strong enough for a long time.
I hate that he feels like he’s not doing as well as he should. That’s when an idea pops into my mind, like the goddess Athena springing from Zeus’s brain.
I get yesterday’s newspaper from the living room, then find a yellow highlighter in the kitchen “everything drawer.” I hand him both.
“Here—let’s play a game,” I say. “If you find a word you can read, highlight it.”
He grabs the marker.
I open to the sports page, where there is an article about the Harbortown Hurricanes, our soccer team.
Samir excitedly scans the article. “Here’s one! And here’s another one, Faw-wah!” He slides the neon yellow marker across words he recognizes. Before I know it, almost half the page is highlighted in bright yellow.
“Look, Baba!” I say. I hold up the newspaper page to my father. “Samir read so many words on this page.”
“Excellent, habibi!” Baba says.
“Pretty soon, he will be able to read the whole newspaper,” I say to Baba. Samir seems to glow with pride.
“Your sister is a good teacher, I think,” Baba says.
Samir nods. He starts to stack his cards up and secure them with a rubber band. “You should help Ana,” he says. “She has to learn these wouds too. It’s our summeh homewowk.”
Ana has been Samir’s friend since they were preschoolers. Like Samir, she gets pulled out of class for special speech therapy. She also gets occupational therapy because she has cerebral palsy.
“I can help Ana anytime,” I tell him.
“Hew mom got hew a tutah.”
“A what?”
“I think a tutor?” Baba pronounces it like TOOT-OOR. “Mrs. Bergman was telling Mama about that at the yard sale. They pay her by the hour.”
“She helps Ana with her wouds and with math and stuff like that,” says Samir. “Like how you help me.”
“How much do they pay the tutor?” I wonder.
Baba shrugs. “I think she told Mama about fifty dollars an hour.”
I wish I could do that, I think. I could pay for Camp Crystals in no time at all.
CHAPTER 7
The labyrinth is a special place that the Harbortown Library made for our community. It’s a maze shaped like a circle, made out of stones that are set into the ground. You start at the outer edge of the circle and wind your way slowly to the center, where there is a bench. That’s where Mama and I like to sit and talk.
Our first talk there happened a few months ago. It was after my parents found out that someone at our school had been bullying Samir and me. They also found out I’d been lying to them about it. My lies almost cost me a chance to go to the Magnet Academy. And worst of all, my lies upset my parents and Allie—but we’re okay now.
We sit quietly for a little while. Samir is at his speech therapy session, which will last another twenty minutes.
Mama and I like to sneak away whenever we can to enjoy this special spot. The sun shines down on my face, but it’s early enough in the day that it’s not too hot yet.
We hear a shrill voice calling from a distance. “Salaamu alaykum.” We both turn to see Mrs. Khoury and Lana standing at the entrance to the labyrinth.
Nothing separates us but stones that lie flat in the ground like tiles. But it feels like there are walls and walls between us.
Mama takes a deep breath. I hear it, and I almost smile. It’s her way of steadying her nerves.
“Wa alaykum al salaam,” we both respond politely.
“Why are you out in the sun?” asks Mrs. Khoury. “The library opened at ten.”
“We’re just getting some fresh air,” Mama replies.
Mrs. Khoury is wearing high heels and a skirt with a sparkly top. On her wrist are gold bracelets that look like shackles.
Lana looks like her mom. She’s dressed like she’s about to go to a party, not to the library on a Wednesday morning. She wears pink capri jeans that are super tight and a T-shirt with a fancy logo on it. Her hair is pulled up and styled with a sparkly clip.
I picture myself and Mama the way Mrs. Khoury must see us. We’re both wearing jeans. Our hair hangs down our backs in long braids. Mama is wearing flip-flops, and I’m wearing sneakers.
“Well, have a good day!” Mrs. Khoury calls cheerily. “We’re here to sign up for the summer reading program and to get more books for Lana. She reads for hours a day, you know!”
“Wonderful,” Mama says.
“She got accepted to Riverdale Prep,” Mrs. Khoury adds. That’s a pretty fancy private school here in Harbortown. The tuition is more than… well, more than anything I can imagine owning.
“Mabrouk,” Mama says.
Lana smirks as she walks away. The front doors of the library slide open and swallow them up.
“She doesn’t know I got into Magnet, does she?” I ask.
Mama shrugs. “We wish her the best. Right, Farah?”
“Sure… right.”
She tilts her head to the side. “Farah?”
“Oh yes. Absolutely!” I say with more gusto.
“That’s better.”
Several minutes l
ater, we walk hand-in-hand back through the labyrinth to the parking lot. It’s almost time to pick up Samir.
I slide into the back seat of the car. Mama turns the key to start it, but all we hear is a metallic clanking.
“Not now,” Mama mutters.
She pulls the key out, and we stare at each other in the rearview mirror. I know not to say a word.
After a moment, Mama puts the key back in and gingerly turns it.
Clank. Clank. Clankety-clank.
Ten minutes go by while Mama tries three more times.
Finally, she picks up her cell phone and calls the speech therapist. “I’m having car trouble, and I’ll be a little bit late,” she explains softly. “No,” she says into the phone, “hopefully, not too long. Please tell Samir not to worry.”
Then she calls Baba, who reminds her what to do. She puts him on speaker as we both climb out of the car. “Oben the hood. Now look for that small stick with the loob on the end. It’s called a dibstick.”
I find the dipstick and pull on it. It comes out of the tube like the sword in the stone in the legend of King Arthur.
“Got it,” I say.
“Is there oil on it?” Baba asks.
“It’s bone dry,” I say.
“Okay, that’s the broblem. It keebs leaking.” He asks Mama if she remembers how to fill the oil tank.
Mama hurries to the trunk and pulls out a quart bottle of oil. She tells Baba she can do it from here and hangs up.
“You see,” she explains to me, “if there is no oil, the engine can’t turn over.”
“So we just keep putting oil in, right?” I ask.
“No.” She sighs. “There is a reason why it keeps losing oil. And fixing that problem is the real issue.”
And just then, as both of us lean over the engine, Mama holding a quart of oil—that is when Mrs. Khoury and Lana decide they’ve had enough time at the library.
“Maryam, what are you doing, my dear?” Mrs. Khoury asks my mom, looking baffled. With a classy beep, she uses her key fob to unlock the doors of her big white SUV and another button to make the rear trunk open automatically. Lana stashes a bag of books back there and then stands next to her mother.
They both stare at us like they’re at the zoo, and we’re giant, slithering snakes in a glass cage. We fascinate them. But we also gross them out.
I want to disappear.
“Well, my car is not cooperating today, as you can see,” Mama tells her. “We’ll be fine in just a minute.”
They continue to watch, like they don’t believe her.
Mama finishes pouring in the oil, then she caps it and hands it to me. “Trash can, Farah,” she says quietly. I trot over to the black bin by the library entrance and slam the quart into the can.
When I approach the car, I hear the hum of the engine working. I wave bye to the Khourys and climb in.
“You still sit in the back seat, Farah?” Lana says through the open window. “Oh man, I’ve been sitting up front for a whole year.”
She laughs as if it’s a fun joke between us.
I don’t think it’s so funny. As we pull away, I start to sink into the back seat. But then I look at Mama, who drives with her chin up and eyes forward, like a warrior.
And I sit up straight too. I’m not going to hide from anyone, especially Lana.
CHAPTER 8
“Oh, but you have to go to Camp Crystals,” wails Lauren.
I look at her and cringe. I wish her voice weren’t so loud. It feels like half the people at Enrique’s neighborhood pool swivel their heads to look at us.
It’s Day Seven of summer vacation. Enrique’s father has let him invite some friends over to their neighborhood pool. Soon they’ll be leaving for Puerto Rico until the end of August. A lot of our classmates, especially Enrique’s teammates, are throwing themselves off the diving board. Kids are splashing around in the giant pool or eating snowball cones from the snack bar.
Winston, Enrique, Allie, Lauren, Adaego and me—those of us who got accepted to Magnet—are talking about our summer plans.
Everyone, it seems, is going to Camp Crystals, except for Enrique (because he’s going to Puerto Rico) and me (because I’m poor).
“Farah, we’re going to grow crystals,” says Winston, who is wearing long pants and a long-sleeved shirt. He has a sun allergy, which is a real thing.
“I know, Winston,” I say, trying not to roll my eyes. “It’s the name of the camp.”
“And we might take a trip to the Smithsonian, in Washington, D.C.!” he adds.
“She knows, Winston,” say Allie and Enrique together.
Then Allie changes the subject, and we spend the rest of the afternoon playing Marco Polo and eating pizza.
Later, as we’re leaving, I wish Enrique a safe trip. He gives me a high-five. “Hope you get to go to summer camp, Farah.”
“I’m trying to earn some money,” I say. “But I don’t think it’s going to happen.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true. I need too much.” I shrug. “I thought about trying to find some younger kids to tutor because tutors can make fifty dollars an hour.”
“Whoa!” He leans back like he’s been knocked over.
“I know!” I say, nodding. “But I’m not a professional teacher or anything. I’m eleven years old, and my entire experience is helping Samir with his homework.”
Enrique’s eyebrows furrow together. “You know, my aunt is always saying she wishes there was an older kid around to help my little cousin.”
“Talk to me, Enrique,” I say.
He explains that his little cousin Esmeralda is in first grade. She doesn’t want to sit with her mom to review her homework or practice reading. “My aunt thinks she would pay attention more to an older kid than to her.” He looks down at me. “Pretty sure she can’t pay you fifty bucks an hour, but she’ll pay you something.”
He promises to give my home phone number to his aunt.
“Thanks so much!”
“Sure,” he says. “Let me know what happens, okay? I’ll be wondering.”
“I will,” I reply.
“Hey, anything you want from Puerto Rico? I’m bringing some postcards for Adaego for her collection and a pandero for Winston.”
“Some rocks?” I ask.
He laughs. “Of course. Why did I even bother asking?”
• • •
My plan for making money makes Mama nervous. She isn’t too happy with the idea.
“It’s a good plan,” I tell her. “I’ll have my own business.”
“Farah, you have to take this seriously. People will pay you good money to do this work,” Mama warns me.
“I know.”
“You have to prepare. Make sure you are ready to work hard for the full hour,” she says.
I nod. Holy hummus, I wonder. Does Mama think I’m planning to play around for an hour? I feel almost insulted.
It’s very serious to me. I have a mission. A goal. I’m going to Camp Crystals, no matter what.
So when Enrique’s aunt, Ms. Rivera, calls, Mama speaks to her to make sure everything will be okay. The next day, Day Twelve of summer vacation, I have my first session with my student.
Enrique’s cousin is Esmeralda. She is in first grade at a different school.
“You’re not in Puerto Rico with the rest of the family, I guess,” I say to Ms. Rivera, who greets me at the door.
“There are about eight hundred of them there, so I doubt they’ll miss me,” Ms. Rivera says with a grin.
I enter the house and sit at the kitchen table. Esmeralda comes in, looking like her hair weighs more than she does. It is long and licorice-black, and it hangs in two braids down her back.
“Wow, your hair is even thicker than mine,” I blurt out.
Her mom laughs. “It’s hard to comb it, that’s for sure,” she says, “but I don’t have the heart to cut it.” She explains that she has some phone calls to make for work. “I’ll just be in the next room.”
Esmeralda is fun and very smart. We mostly just practice her numbers, from zero to twenty, until her mother asks me to challenge her. “They’re starting addition next year,” she explains.
I use some of her blocks to represent numbers. I make two piles, two blocks in each pile, and then combine them. Then I show her how to write this in number form: 2 + 2 = 4. She has fun for a while and even starts doing subtraction. She makes a pile with five and then takes away one, and then two more.
When we get to review her sight words, though, Esmeralda has a hard time. “This doesn’t make any sense,” she whines.
I put down the stack of flash cards. I understand why Esmeralda’s annoyed. Sight words are words that you just have to recognize. They’re hard to figure out in the normal way, by just sounding out the letters. Like, cat and bat and flat all have As that sound soft, like “aaaah.” But then “what” sounds like a soft U. It should be spelled “wut,” but that’s just my opinion.
Esmeralda is right—it makes no sense. That’s why you just have to memorize them.
“Let’s keep trying,” I tell her, reaching for the first card in the pile.
“I’m tired, Farah,” she says, putting her head on the table. I giggle because she does it so dramatically.
Her head pops up, and she squints her eyes. “What’s so funny?”
“Sorry, but you just sounded like those ladies in the black-and-white movies.” I stand and put my arm across my eyes. “I’m soooo exhaaaausted!” I say in an out-of-breath voice.
She starts to smile, then stops herself. I can see she’s pressing her lips together.
So I gasp loudly and pretend to faint on the floor in a sudden whoosh.
Farah Rocks Summer Break Page 3