A Place at the Table

by Saadia Faruqi

  “Sorry, Els. Ms. Khouri’s advanced percussion group is on Fridays. Got to practice if I’m going to be a rock legend.” Micah tosses his curls. A couple of strands come loose from his ponytail and tumble to his forehead.

  “You’ve got the rock-star hair down,” Maddy says.

  What am I going to do? Even if Mom remembers to pick me up tomorrow, I have no cooking partner. Do I even know any of the other kids? I was so worried about Maddy and Stephanie last week, I hardly talked to anyone else. I’m not about to ask some eighth-grader if she can be my kitchen big sister.

  * * *

  The next day, I slide into the FACS room, put my backpack on the sewing tables, and sit down. The other kids won’t notice me back here. Everyone is gathered around Stephanie, who’s wearing a Sweet Stephanie’s apron with a grinning pink cupcake on the front. She’s peeking into the grocery bags Mrs. Hameed brought.

  Sara’s mom tries to greet the kids, but Mrs. Kluck talks over her. Everyone knows—because she makes such a big deal about it—that Mrs. Kluck has been at Poplar Springs Middle since it opened. She acts like the FACS room is a kingdom and she’s wearing the crown. At last, Mrs. Kluck sits at her desk and pretends to grade papers.

  Mrs. Hameed adjusts the blue fabric of her hijab and pulls papers out of a binder. She holds up a flag-covered booklet in one hand and frowns at Sara before stuffing it into her purse. It looks exactly like Learn About the United States, my mom’s citizenship study guide.

  “Maddy?” Mrs. Hameed calls, taking attendance. “Madison Montgomery?”

  Someone pokes my arm. Sara. Why is she sitting next to me?

  “Where’s your friend with the sensitive taste buds?” she says in a mocking whisper.

  I should stand up for Maddy. She is my best friend. But she’s not here. She bailed on you, remember? I tell myself.

  “She’s not coming,” Stephanie calls out.

  Mrs. Hameed checks the attendance list. “Maddy, Jordan, and Ethan are absent, correct?” Her face crumples, squished like the paratha dough I saw on YouTube.

  Three people didn’t come this week? No wonder Mrs. Hameed looks so miserable.

  From her desk, Mrs. Kluck clicks her tongue.

  Mrs. Hameed straightens her spine and lifts her shoulders, reminding me of the way Nan always told me and my brothers to stop slumping like lazy Americans and use our good British posture.

  “Let’s see. Jordan and Ethan were working together. And Maddy . . .” Mrs. Hameed consults her class list. Then her attention lands on me. “Elizabeth, not to worry. We will find you a partner.”

  Sara’s hand shoots into the air. “I’ll be Elizabeth’s partner.”

  I spin to face her, my mouth open.

  “Don’t get excited,” Sara whispers. “I’m just trying to get Mrs. Kluckowski off my mama’s back.”

  I should thank Sara for saving me from social isolation, or at least from being stuck with a pair of older kids who don’t want me in their kitchen. But all I can think about is what Maddy will say when she finds out who I’m cooking with.

  7

  Sara

  IT WAS A MISTAKE to raise my hand so quickly. All nine of Mama’s remaining students turn to stare at me. I want to hide under the table, but it’s too late.

  I tell Elizabeth, my heart thumping, “It doesn’t mean we’re friends or anything. Just kitchen partners.” It’s best to be clear about these things.

  Let’s face it: I’ve always been a coward, preferring to hide behind my sketchbook or iPod. But Elizabeth looked so hurt when Stephanie said Maddy wasn’t coming. I remember the very loud, very disrespectful remarks Maddy made in the first cooking class. Why anyone would miss her is beyond me.

  Mama smiles gratefully at me and scribbles something in her notepad. “All right, then, Elizabeth and Sara will partner up, and we can get back to our delicious food!”

  I try not to groan at her tone. Mama is trying too hard, which is probably a result of Mrs. Kluckowski sitting at the back of the room, arms folded over her chest like a cranky army sergeant. I nod toward her. “What’s she doing here again?”

  Elizabeth pushes her glasses up her nose and leans closer to me. “My older brother says everyone calls her Mrs. Kluck, but no one’s brave enough to say it to her face.” She lets out a snort of laughter. “She’s kind of terrifying.”

  I want to giggle at the nickname too, but stop myself. Mama and Baba would be furious if I ever shortened a teacher’s name, even a teacher as grumpy as this one. The sour expression on Mrs. Kluck’s face makes it look like she swallowed a whole spoonful of achar.

  FACS is a stupid name for a class. When I got my course schedule, Mama explained it’s a new, fancy name for home economics.

  “What’s that?” I’d asked, puzzled.

  “Oh, something we old people used to study in school,” she mocked. I made a face at her weak attempt at a joke.

  Now, of course, Mama doesn’t look like she’s ever joked in her life. With a very calm and collected look, she explains that we are making a simple chicken curry that could be eaten with rice or naan, or even by itself. “As I explained in our last class, onions form the base of most Pakistani curries,” she intones like a college professor.

  “Why’s your mom speaking like that?” Elizabeth whispers. “She loves talking about food.”

  I’m surprised that Elizabeth has picked up on it. “How do you know she’s not always this serious?” I whisper back.

  “Your mom is friendly. Last week she kept a smile on her face, even when kids were giving her a hard time.”

  Mama is definitely like that. Always smiling. The thought of the big stack of bills on the kitchen table rises in my mind. Another person would have been crying at the idea of debt, or at least getting angry or stressed out. But not her. “That’s my mama,” I say proudly.

  Elizabeth tilts her head toward Mrs. Kluck. “I bet it’s because of her. What do you think they were talking about before class started?”

  I look at her, uncertain. Does she want to be my friend? Sometimes she gives me signals, like asking me what we’re cooking in Mama’s class. But then she tells Maddy we’re not friends.

  The idea of making a new friend—a white girl at that—is scary and exciting, like standing in front of a roller coaster, not knowing whether I should get on or stay back. All my friends in elementary school were Pakistani and Indian. People like me. People who understand what it’s like to be different.

  Elizabeth is still looking at me with her eyebrows wiggling. Thankfully, I don’t have to answer her. “Elizabeth,” Mama calls out, and Elizabeth jumps. “Will you and Sara be in charge of these spices, please?”

  Soon, everyone is busy. Some girls are measuring turmeric and coriander; others are chopping onions and tomatoes. I help Elizabeth grind spices, then hang back as the rest of the group gathers to watch Mama.

  “When the oil is hot, we fry the onions in the pot,” Mama tells us. “And once the onions are soft, we’ll add the tomatoes and spices to make a curry base.”

  I look around. I could cook this curry in my sleep, but some of the girls can’t take their eyes off the bubbling pot in the mirror above the cooking area. Could Mama actually be winning the class over? They’re starting to like Mama’s food, a little voice inside me whispers, almost disbelievingly, and it’s oddly comforting.

  When I was nine years old, our neighbor Mrs. Miles told everyone she was moving away because she couldn’t stand the smell of curry at all hours of the day. I was so confused. She had always been nice to us, waving from her porch and letting the twins play with her little white dog. Did the smell of curry bother her that much? To me it always felt like home and weekday evenings.

  Later, I found out the truth. Mrs. Miles’s son made her move to a retirement community. But her comment still cut, reminding me of the thorns I drew in my garden sketches. Raw, and doubly painful because they’re attached to flowers. Barbed comments hurt more when they come from a neighbor or a friend.


  Mama calls a girl in the front to turn the onion mixture into a thick paste using a potato masher. “You can also use a blender to do this,” she tells us. “But I’m old-fashioned. There’s nothing like a good mashing to bring the curry base together.”

  Everyone oohs but I can hear a loud sniff from behind me. Mrs. Kluck. I spin around to glare at her, and she glares right back. Yikes.

  Mama puts the chicken pieces into the pot and asks Stephanie to stir. For once, Stephanie’s air of confidence dips. “I’m more of a baker,” she says, taking over the spatula as if she’s never held one before.

  Elizabeth takes a deep breath next to me, half closing her eyes. “This must be what heaven smells like,” she murmurs.

  “I hope not,” I say, low enough that only Elizabeth can hear. “A heaven full of spicy flavors that stick to your clothes and make you sneeze? No, thanks!”

  Elizabeth laughs, and I laugh back. Mama looks at us. The corners of her mouth turn up.

  Elizabeth whispers, “Mrs. Kluck can’t deal with the fact that your mother is teaching us to cook real recipes. My brother told me that all she ever makes in FACS is boring stuff. Strawberry jam and chocolate chip cookies. I could make those with my eyes closed.”

  I nod in sympathy, even though the thought of strawberry jam on some toasted bread isn’t too bad.

  Mrs. Kluckowski coughs loudly from the back, and I straighten immediately. I have to be the perfect cooking student. I don’t want Mama to get in trouble because of me. I raise my hand. “Should we start on the rice while the chicken is cooking?”

  Mama sends me a grateful look. “That’s an excellent idea, Sara,” she says. “Let’s see how much you all remember from last week.”

  Without Maddy here, I notice that the other girls are more relaxed, less rude. Even Stephanie is peering into the chicken pot with a look of curiosity. The others seem genuinely interested in what Mama’s teaching them. My stomach rumbles, and I suddenly have a craving for chicken curry. I’ll die before I admit it to anyone, but it’s my favorite food. When the chicken and rice are ready, Mama ladles it onto plates. I’m the first to dig in.

  Elizabeth is right beside me, using prepackaged naan Mama heated on the stove to soak up the curry. She watches as I take a big bite. “Didn’t you say you don’t like your mom’s cooking?” she asks, smirking.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” I mumble.

  “Admit it: you secretly love this dish.”

  I swallow a mouthful and wipe curry from my chin. “Shhh! Don’t tell my mother!”

  After we clean up, Mama’s students walk out the door, clutching their food boxes. Stephanie’s white apron has splotches of curry on it, making the giant pink cupcake on the front look like it has orange swirls. I notice her website URL is on there too. I want to hate her, but I have to admire her guts. She’s annoyingly focused on her business, always selling.

  Mama should learn from her. The thought pops into my head like a lightning bolt, and I shake my head to clear it. What am I thinking? My dear, sweet mama learning from someone as obnoxious as Stephanie Tolleson? Never.

  Still, I consider the happy-faced cupcake on Stephanie’s apron for a long time. I’m suddenly thinking of my art assignment, how I have to make a flyer for a local business. Mama’s stacks of packaged food containers pop into my mind. They don’t have any labels on them, other than the customer’s name. No website address like Stephanie’s apron. Nothing to tell the buyer who made all that food they’re enjoying.

  “Earth to Sara!” Elizabeth waves a hand in front of my face. I blink. The room is almost empty. She’s the only person left, except for Mrs. Kluck—who sits at her desk pretending not to watch Mama’s every move. Does she think we’re going to sabotage her kitchen?

  Elizabeth is too busy chattering to notice. Maybe she thinks if she keeps talking, I won’t realize no one’s here to pick her up. “I’m so full, I can’t eat another bite,” she says. She picks up her container of chicken curry and inhales. “Can you believe we made something this delicious? We’re a good team. I know my way around measuring spoons and utensils. And you’re an expert on spices. Even with the chili powder, it wasn’t that spicy. You’re like a younger version of Salma aunty.”

  I wrinkle my eyebrows. “Who?”

  “She’s a YouTube chef. I’m addicted to her videos. She has so much fun cooking, but she likes eating even more. I bet if Maddy watched Salma aunty, she’d appreciate Pakistani food.”

  “Yeah, right,” I say, rolling my eyes. I seriously doubt that Maddy would ever like anything Mama cooked.

  I lift chairs up on the tables while Mama stands at the sink, washing pans.

  Mrs. Kluck—I decide to use the nickname, although I would never say it in front of Mama—bustles into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. As she passes by, she warns us, “Be sure you clean underneath there. Don’t leave food on the floor for the janitors. It’s not their job to clean up after clubs.” She says the word “clubs” as if she really means “diseases.”

  “I’ll help you, Sara,” Elizabeth says. She asks Mrs. Kluck where to find a broom and dustpan. Our teacher motions toward the back closet like a queen waving to a lowly servant.

  “Thank you,” I whisper to Elizabeth. As I put more chairs up on the worktables, she sweeps underneath. Despite Mrs. Kluck’s complaining, all that’s there is a bit of onion skin and a few gum wrappers.

  “Don’t mind her,” Elizabeth whispers. “She’s been here so long, she acts like the FACS room is her royal palace.”

  I watch Mrs. Kluck pour herself a mug of coffee. She doesn’t offer any to Mama, even though they’re standing barely three feet apart.

  Elizabeth’s broom knocks Mama’s tote bag with a loud thump, and I jump. “Whoops,” Elizabeth says as papers tumble to the floor.

  Did I imagine it, or did Mrs. Kluck chuckle?

  “What is her problem?” I mutter, leaning down to pick up the papers. Elizabeth squats, helping me gather them. Underneath the pile is that citizenship booklet. I brush a bit of coriander off the flag on the cover. Elizabeth’s eyes meet mine.

  “We have this book at home,” she says.

  “You—what?” I gape at her.

  “My mom’s from England. She never got her citizenship. She said this was the year she’d do it.” Elizabeth lifts her shoulders and drops them again. “Stuff got in the way. She hasn’t studied in a long time.” She pushes her glasses up, and I pretend not to notice her eyes filling with tears. “It’s no big deal,” she says, but I can tell it is a very big deal.

  I nod so hard, my hair flies up. “I didn’t know you were British,” I say. “You don’t have an accent.”

  Her laugh is short and as bitter as dark coffee. “I’m only half British. When we visit England, everyone calls us Yanks. But Americans hear my mom’s accent and assume I was born in England. Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong in either place.”

  I can’t help but stare at her. When we stand up, Elizabeth hands me the papers. “I’ll shut up now,” she says.

  “Don’t feel bad.” I take a deep breath. Before I can talk myself out of it, I admit, “It’s nice to know I’m not the only one feeling weird around people.”

  “Maddy says I talk too much,” she confides.

  Maddy has a lot of opinions. All of them negative. I bite my lip before I say that out loud.

  Elizabeth seems to know what I’m thinking. “Maddy isn’t that bad. We’ve been friends a long time, but she’s only in one of my classes this year, so I hardly ever see her. I hope she comes back to cooking class.”

  “I feel like we’re doing fine without her,” I say boldly.

  Mama walks up to us before Elizabeth can respond. “Ready, Sara?” Mama says, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Elizabeth, hasn’t anybody picked you up yet?”

  Elizabeth checks the clock. “My mom should be here soon.” She gives Mama an apologetic smile. “I’m not allowed to have a phone yet. I’m asking for one for my ba
t mitzvah.”

  I grimace and give Mama the side-eye. “Your mom’s not the only one who’s old-school.”

  Elizabeth is still talking to Mama. “Are you getting your citizenship soon? My mom is too. Or—she’s supposed to. I hope.”

  At her desk, Mrs. Kluck chokes on the coffee she’s been sipping. I jump in: “Elizabeth’s mom is an immigrant too, Mama. From England.”

  “I see,” Mama says. “You two have lots in common, then. How long—?”

  Before Mama can finish her question, there’s a knock on the classroom door. This must be Elizabeth’s mother. The two look exactly alike, if you take away Elizabeth’s glasses. Her mom has a short, less unruly version of Elizabeth’s hair and sky-blue eyes instead of Elizabeth’s brown.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she says. She has a soft, lilting accent. I imagine a lonely queen in a cliff-top castle, looking out at her subjects below. “I should wear a chauffeur’s cap for all the time I spend shuttling you and your brothers around.” She smiles.

  “It’s all right, Mom. I helped clean up.”

  Mama gives Mrs. Shainmark a friendly nod. “Elizabeth’s been a big help,” Mama says, and there goes Elizabeth, blushing again.

  We all say goodbye to each other, even to Mrs. Kluckowski, and leave. Elizabeth waves to me, and without thinking about it, I wave back.

  8

  Elizabeth

  THE SECOND MOM AND I pull into the driveway, Justin bolts out the front door. Robin Hood is at his heels, jumping and barking. I hold the pizza Mom and I picked up after cooking club out of Robin’s reach.

  Justin skips around Mom. “I have a big surprise!”

  The door flies open again.

  “Daddy!” I screech.

  Mom jogs up the steps and into our father’s arms. Dad is so tall and broad-shouldered, he fills the doorway. David stands behind him, like Dad’s skinny shadow.

  “I caught an early flight. Couldn’t wait to see my family,” Dad explains, taking the pizza from me. He’s a sustainable-building consultant. Sometimes he goes away for two weeks at a time, visiting green-building sites in other cities. He says he’s trying to cut back on travel, at least until Mom feels better, but I have seen zero evidence of that. “I hope you ordered mushrooms,” Dad says.