A Place at the Table

by Saadia Faruqi

  “You okay?”

  I turn around and put a hand on my stomach. “Girl stuff.”

  “TMI,” Micah calls back.

  I congratulate myself on my brilliance. A couple of weeks ago, Angela Lee got her first period during PE. “I’m having a female issue,” she informed Mr. Graff. “Can I go see the nurse? She has an extra set of clothes.”

  Mr. Graff wrote Angela a pass without a word.

  I have never been so glad to be a girl. I’ll have to fib when I tell the nurse I got my period and that I need to borrow fresh clothes, but it’s worth it to keep the secret of the underpants safe.

  5

  Sara

  ART IS USUALLY my favorite class, but Mrs. Newman is watching me intensely. What’s her problem? I look at my pad and pretend to sketch, but my drawing of the garden is complete. I don’t want to ruin it by adding even one more stroke of pencil.

  She moves on to another student. The colorful bangles on her arms—there must be twenty at least—jingle like noisy bells.

  “People, take your time,” Mrs. Newman trills. “There’s no need to hurry. Slow and steady hands make good drawings!”

  I’m sure she’s talking about me. A few students giggle, but most are busy with their own work. The new project Mrs. Newman assigned is not as interesting as I’d hoped. More like super boring. Make a flyer for a local business? Come on! That isn’t really art.

  Is it?

  There’s a familiar calm in the room, but the jingle-jangle of Mrs. Newman’s bracelets always gives me a slight headache. I raise my hand.

  “Yes, Sarah?”

  She’s pronounced my name wrong again. Baba says Americans have a hard time understanding foreign concepts, which always makes me want to shout, I’m not a foreign concept! But all I can do is grimace and stay quiet, because it’s no use.

  “Can I go to the bathroom, please?” I beg with a little wiggle, as if I’m holding in my pee with great effort.

  Mrs. Newman frowns, but even her disappointment is pretty. Brown curls wave about her face as she shoos me to the door. “Don’t take too long, or I’ll need to assign some extra art homework just for you!” she teases.

  I hide a smile. She hasn’t figured out that I don’t mind extra work, especially in art. Anything to keep me from packing curry dinners at home. I rush to the door before she changes her mind. Freedom!

  The bathrooms are down the hall. I don’t really need to go, so I drink long sips from the water fountain and read the flyers jumbled together on the bulletin board. Maybe they’ll give me inspiration for the art assignment. Jazz band is holding auditions on Friday. Debate club is searching for members. Whoever made these flyers has zero imagination.

  The nurse’s door across from me bangs open. A tall girl wearing glasses and a too-big sweatshirt slinks out. Elizabeth. She looks startled to see me.

  “Hi,” she says. There’s a sheepish look on her face.

  I look her up and down. She’s wearing ratty gray sweatpants with POPLAR SPRINGS printed in green down one leg. That’s strange. She usually dresses in jeans or corduroys.

  I debate for a second. People don’t typically say hi to me in the hallways. But she talked to me in cooking club last week, so I mumble a quick hello.

  “You’re Sara, right? I loved your mom’s class!” She leans forward, like she’s sharing a secret. “Do you know what we’re making on Friday?”

  My eyes must be popping out of my head. First, she’s used the absolute correct pronunciation of Sara, which is almost a miracle. Second, she seems genuinely excited about Mama’s cooking, which is . . . also a miracle. I have to admire this level of enthusiasm, even if I can’t understand it.

  “I’m not sure,” I reply, keeping my face straight so she doesn’t think I’m being friendly. Then I remember that Mama needs her to be happy about the cooking club. I add weakly, “I think something with chicken.”

  She says “Awesome” with a smile so dazzling, it could power the entire school during a blackout. Wow, this girl is really interested in food.

  There’s an awkward silence as we size each other up. I don’t really want to talk to her, but she stands there expectantly. “You’re Elizabeth, right?” I finally ask, even though I know her name.

  She nods. “We have language arts together.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I look back at the nurse’s office. “What happened?”

  “What? Oh . . . nothing. I’m fine. I needed to . . . um . . .” Elizabeth’s cheeks go bright pink. I resist the urge to lean closer. White people blushing is such a scientifically curious phenomenon. How must it feel to have your entire face turn red? When I’m embarrassed or nervous, I just go hot, but at least I can hide my feelings. Blushing is like having your secret emotions exposed to the world.

  “I told the nurse I got my period so I could get out of PE.” Her words come out in a rush. She widens her eyes and presses her lips together. “I can’t believe I told you that.”

  “Oh, okay,” I say, trying to act mature, but inside I’m amazed at how open she is. When I got my first period over the summer, Mama was so hush-hush about the whole thing, as if I should keep it super secret.

  “What about you? How’d you get out of class?” Elizabeth asks.

  “I got my period too,” I say boldly. We stare at each other for a shocked second. “Just kidding—Mrs. Newman’s bracelets were driving me nuts.” We burst out laughing.

  Together, at the same time.

  I catch my breath. I can’t believe it. I’m actually laughing at a joke with another sixth-grader. I never thought I’d do that with anyone other than Rabia.

  The bell rings, and the warm feeling leaves me with a whoosh. A rush of students surrounds us, and the laughter dies in my throat.

  “There you are, Els!” A loud, tinny voice attacks us from behind. Maddy, of course. Her words could wake the dead with their harsh, judgmental tone.

  Elizabeth greets her friends. Maddy ignores me, but a boy from language arts class—Micah, I think—smiles at me. I stay focused on the bulletin board, as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Actually, some of the announcements are quite cool, even if the designs are boring. For instance, there’s an international festival coming up in December. Students are encouraged to explore their cultural backgrounds and create displays.

  I begin to walk away, to create a little distance between me and Elizabeth’s friends. I’m already thinking about the festival. Is this for real? What cultural background do the white kids in school have? Do they even know where their ancestors came from?

  “Maddy, calm down,” I hear Elizabeth behind me, and I jog a few more steps ahead, letting other kids swirl around me.

  “She is so uncool. Why were you even talking to her?” Maddy’s voice jars me.

  “Hey, Mads. Ease up. I’ve got enough cool to spread around.” Micah grins, putting an arm around both girls’ shoulders. I like his dark, curly ponytail and how laid-back he is.

  Elizabeth lowers her voice, but I hear her loud and clear. “I was just asking about cooking club. It’s not like we’re friends or anything.”

  My lips tighten. So much for thinking we hit it off.

  Maddy says, “Her mom’s not even American. My dad says they should only hire PLU at this school.”

  “What the heck is PLU?” Micah asks.

  Maddy tosses her ponytail. “Oh, you know. ‘People like us.’”

  I stare straight ahead. It’s not the first time I’ve heard something like this. Three years ago, our family went to a carnival in D.C. A group of men in baseball caps in line behind us had grumbled, “There should be a separate line for immigrants,” and “It’s not right Americans gotta wait longer because of these people.”

  And last year when Rafey was sick with pneumonia, and Mama and I took him to the urgent care clinic, a white doctor told us he only treated Americans. PLU. We’d had to leave and go to the emergency room to get poor Rafey treated. Mama sat frozen as she drove to the hospital,
but as I sat in the back, comforting Rafey, I couldn’t stop the tears falling down my cheeks.

  Not anymore. I’m older. Stronger. Just ignore, I tell myself. I-G-N-O-R-E.

  “My mom’s not a citizen either,” Elizabeth says to Maddy, so quietly I can hardly hear her. The crowd of students thins, laughing and talking on their way to the next class. I stand frozen in the middle of the hallway, unable to breathe. Calm down, Sara, I tell myself. This mean talk is pretty normal. You should be used to it by now.

  I think of the way Mrs. Kluckowski spoke to Mama outside the FACS room before the rest of the class showed up, all snide and superior. I remember the time the clerk at the grocery store snarled, “Stupid Arabs!” at Baba as he struggled to find change in his wallet. I think of all the times since I came to this school when a teacher has scoffed at me or a student has glared. The message is clear: You’re different. You’re not wanted.

  I blink to clear my eyes of tears, flip my hair over my shoulders, and walk back to the art room to get my backpack. Hopefully Mrs. Newman will have forgotten all about me.

  * * *

  At home, the twins play with Legos as I do math homework at the kitchen table. “Guys, keep it down!” I yell, not for the first time. “I’m doing complicated stuff here.”

  Tariq drops a handful of Lego bricks so they clatter on the floor. “Sorry, can’t hear ya!”

  I resist the urge to kick him under the table. He’s a big crybaby and will go running to Mama, so I smile sweetly instead. “Of course you can’t hear me. You have donkey ears instead of human ones.”

  Rafey’s mouth drops open. “She called you a gadha!”

  Mama chooses that exact moment to enter the kitchen carrying an armful of paperwork. “Sara! Bhai ko sorry kaho!”

  “He should apologize for making so much noise when I’m doing my homework.”

  “You can do homework in your room,” protests Tariq, shuffling the Legos so they click and rattle.

  “Stop it!” I cover my ears with my hands. Juvenile, I know.

  Mama dumps her papers on the table with a thump. “Everyone, quiet!” she says, in English this time, loud and clear. We all gulp and quiet down. “Boys, go into your room to play. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

  My brothers make faces at me as they put their toys in the box and leave. I glare back at them.

  Mama sits next to me at the table. “Kya hua, jaanoo? Having a bad day?” she asks gently.

  I shake my head. “Nothing more than usual,” I mumble, going back to my worksheet. There’s no need to tell her about Maddy and the mean things she said. And even though Elizabeth and I laughed together for a minute in the hallway, she still acted like she didn’t care when Maddy showed up.

  Middle school stinks. I’d better get used to it.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Mama.” I clear my throat and scribble on my worksheet to show her I’m extremely busy.

  She stares at me for a few seconds, then shrugs. “I’m here if you want to talk,” she tells me, but her tone is distracted. I look up. She’s focused on the papers in front of her, a frown on her face. They’re bills, lots of them.

  “What’s all this?” I ask, pushing away my homework. Some of the bills have big red letters on them, the amounts underlined in black. I crane my neck to read.

  “Kuch nahi,” she replies quickly, putting her hands over the words.

  “That doesn’t look like ‘nothing,’” I protest. “That looks like several thousand dollars you owe some bank.”

  Mama pushes me away. “Go back to your homework, Sara. Bills aren’t your concern. Your baba and I are going to deal with this. We never want you to worry about money, okay?”

  “Ugh. I’m not a baby anymore. I’m part of this family, and I deserve to know what’s going on!” I can be very stubborn when I want to be.

  She rubs a hand on my cheek. “Of course you’re not a baby. You’re my big girl.”

  I want to stomp my foot, but that’s probably babyish. This is so frustrating. Mama and Baba think I’m old enough to go to a big public school. They think I can help out with the family business, prepping pounds of veggies, mixing all the spices, packing hundreds of foil trays before a big party. I do all those things for the family, but I can’t be trusted with a bunch of bills?

  “What do you owe that bank for?” I demand. I narrow my eyes into slits and my lips into a thin, straight line. Maybe Mama will figure out I’m serious.

  She sighs. “My catering business,” she says. Her long black hair falls forward, covering her face. “I took out a loan last year to grow the business. Get more supplies. Advertise in the paper. That sort of thing.”

  “How much?”

  “Enough that we couldn’t pay the fees for your private school this year,” she whispers. “Baba didn’t want you to know.”

  This is huge. This is unbelievable. Here I’d been assuming they’d made me switch schools because Poplar Springs was so much closer. Here I’d been acting like a martyr all these weeks.

  Mama looks so small sitting there with the papers spread around her. Her signature smile is completely gone.

  “How will you pay it back?” I finally ask.

  She looks up at me and squares her thin shoulders. “I’ll think of something,” she replies, smiling bravely. “You just worry about that long division. It won’t solve itself, you know.”

  6

  Elizabeth

  ON THURSDAY, I open my lunch and take out a PB&J on stale wheat bread. The food situation at my house has to change. I wish Doctor Who would swoop in, park his TARDIS at our front door, and introduce my mom to culinary delights from across time and space.

  “What’s wrong, Els?” Micah asks, drumming the cafeteria table with a plastic knife and fork.

  Maddy says, “You’re glaring at your sandwich like it just broke up with you.”

  “My advice?” Micah says. “Stuff the whole thing in your mouth and chew real hard. That’ll teach it a lesson.” He demonstrates by shoving today’s cafeteria lunch into his mouth. Tuna salad on a bun with lettuce and a soggy slice of tomato. His lips barely close over it.

  Everyone laughs—Micah, Maddy, and the band kids who take up the other half of our table. But I am not amused.

  “You don’t understand. If I’m forced to eat another chicken finger, another PB&J, if I even smell another Hot Pocket, I am going to barf.” I put down my sandwich and sigh. “The only thing keeping my taste buds alive is that tomorrow is Friday.”

  Micah closes his eyes and puts a hand over his heart. “God bless Pizza Day.”

  “No.” I shove his arm. “I’m talking about cooking club. I hope we’re making parathas. I watched this amazing Pakistani chef make them on YouTube.”

  Salma Aunty’s Desi Kitchen is my current YouTube obsession. Every night when my homework is done, I ask Mom if she’s in the mood for a Doctor Who rerun. If she says no—lately, she always says no—I go online and watch Salma aunty. I like her big smiley cheeks and the way her pink hijab matches her manicure.

  I had to look up the word desi. It means “South Asians living abroad.”

  My favorite episode is parathas. Salma aunty chatters happily as she rolls her dough out like pizza, but instead of tomato sauce, she tops it with special butter called ghee. Then she dusts the dough with flour and does this complicated folding, squishing thing before rolling it into flat circles and frying the parathas. They look drool-worthy, like flaky pancakes.

  “You watched Indian cooking on YouTube?” Maddy’s hair is pulled back so tight, her eyebrows practically jump up her forehead.

  I push my bangs away from my glasses. “Pakistani, not Indian,” I say. “There’s a difference.”

  “What difference? They’re all a bunch of foreigners.” Maddy tosses her ponytail and dips a spoon in her yogurt, like what she’s saying is no big deal.

  “My mom is a ‘foreigner,’” I say.

  “Your mom doesn’t count. She’s English,
” Maddy retorts.

  My shoulders crunch together. Maddy doesn’t know what it’s like when your mom is from another country. Mom may speak the language, but it’s been hard for her to make friends, and drive on the opposite side of the road. Plus, people always ask her where she got her beautiful accent.

  “And Puerto Rico?” Micah asks. “Is that on your list or off?” Micah has stopped drumming the table. He’s holding his plastic utensils in two tight fists. He tells me, “Cookie says Americans like to forget that Puerto Rico is part of the U.S.”

  Cookie is his abuela. She got her nickname because she’s such an amazing baker.

  “Whatever. We were talking about cooking,” Maddy says. She puts her spoon down and busies herself tightening her ponytail, as if she’s bored with this conversation. But I know better. Maddy only fusses with her hair when she’s worried about something. “I’m dropping out of the club,” she announces.

  I stop chewing my sandwich. “Why? I thought you were excited. ‘I get to be with my two best friends.’ Remember?” A whine slips into my voice.

  Maddy says, “I could deal if the food was edible. And my parents don’t like it that the teacher hardly speaks English.”

  “What about Stephanie?” I ask.

  Maddy twirls her dark hair around one finger. “She wants me to stick with it too. But she has other friends in the class. It’s not like we’re partners or anything.”

  I shudder at that thought.

  “Your mom can pick you up on Friday, right?” Maddy asks.

  I shrug, because this is sixth grade and I am not going to yell at Maddy or, worse, cry in the middle of the cafeteria.

  “Sure, I’ll tell my mom,” I mutter. “And I’ll find another partner. No big deal.”

  Maddy must hear the sarcasm in my voice, because her freckled nose crinkles and her mouth twists into a smirk. “You should ask that kid Sarah to be your partner. If you can get her to talk.”

  Micah throws me a sympathetic glance.

  “Hey,” I say, grabbing his muscular arm. “You like to eat.”