A Place at the Table

by Saadia Faruqi

  She bites her lip. “Let’s see. The Supreme Court?”

  “Mama! We learned this in elementary school. The president signs bills into laws! The president!”

  She runs her fingers through her untidy hair, making me wonder if she’s brushed it since the night before. Her shalwar kameez is wrinkled, with smudges of turmeric dotting the hem. “Did you forget that I didn’t grow up here?” she asks.

  “How could I?” I flip some pages. “How many members does the House of Representatives have?”

  She stops to think. “Fourteen. No, sixteen!”

  I stare at her. “Mama, that’s not even close. It’s in the hundreds.”

  She continues her pacing and almost collides with the coffee table. “Oh. Okay. One hundred?”

  “NO! That’s the Senate. The House has four hundred and thirty-five!”

  She turns to look at me, perplexed. “That many? Isn’t that too much?”

  I flip more pages, trying to hold on to my sanity. “Forget it. Who wrote the Constitution?”

  She wrings her hands. “How am I supposed to know that?”

  I make a frustrated sound. “By reading this booklet!” I yell. “Mama, you’re impossible!”

  For once she doesn’t lecture me about yelling at an adult.

  On Sunday, Baba takes us to the mosque. Actually, he takes Rafey and Tariq to Sunday school at the mosque, but I tag along by begging in my nicest voice.

  “I thought you were going to help your mama study,” he grumbles. He’s wearing a bright yellow T-shirt that’s tight across his belly, and jeans that are baggier than they need to be.

  “I did help. We practiced for a long time yesterday.” There was more arguing than practicing, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Please?”

  “Theek hai, chalo,” he agrees. I hide my delight. I miss the mosque, Iqra Academy, and all my friends so much, it hurts. I’m dying to see everyone, hug everyone, put my face down on the prayer-hall rugs and breathe in that musty smell mixed with the perfume of all those who prayed there before me.

  Baba looks at me with narrowed eyes, but he hugs me as we get in the car and asks, “You okay?”

  I nod and shrug like it’s no big deal.

  The mosque is about thirty minutes away, closer to the mall, where buildings are taller and farms are fewer. It’s really just a big warehouse that a bunch of families bought and refurbished a long time ago. It’s painted dull brown on the outside, but the inside is really nice. There’s one huge hall laid with light-green carpet for praying, a long and narrow dining room laid out with rows of tables and plastic chairs, and another smaller hall for Sunday school. Rafey and Tariq are met at the door by a small, thin woman with graying hair, her smile as warm as honeyed paratha.

  “Nasreen aunty, salaam alaikum! You look so pretty!” I say. It’s true. She’s wearing a crisp white shalwar kameez with tiny orange flowers on the dupatta.

  “Walaikum salaam, Sara. How nice to see you!” She hugs me tightly. “Ever since you left for middle school, you’ve just disappeared.”

  I hug her back. She smells like chai and ginger, sort of like Mama. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to come more often.”

  “You better!” Nasreen aunty was my teacher for math, English, and social studies at Iqra for three years. She’s also Mama’s best friend and Rabia’s mom. I look around eagerly. “Where’s Rabia?”

  She points to a table in the corner. “Sulking in the back somewhere. I told her to teach the little kids their alphabet, but she said she needed a break from all the Arabic. Maybe you can talk some sense into her.”

  I doubt it. Rabia can be very stubborn. But I head over to where she’s sitting. When she sees me, she throws her arms wide enough to hug a bear.

  “Rabia!” I squeal.

  She’s the same Rabia I’ve known since forever. Brown skin like mine, dressed in jeans and a long red tunic, a black gem-studded hijab on her head. She could be my twin. Plus the hijab, of course.

  We hug, then laugh, then hug again. Seeing each other on grainy Google Hangouts is not the same as being face-to-face, close enough to smile together.

  “You totally forgot all about me, you meanie!” she cries, and the tone of her voice makes me think that she’s been missing me. A lot.

  “It’s the fault of those terrible middle school teachers and their homework,” I say. “And the students are awful, all white and superior.”

  She pauses, her eyes scrunched up as if she can’t figure out whether I’m joking or not. “Wait, is it true? Are they really awful to you?”

  I shrug. “Nah, it’s okay. Most of them just ignore me. Except Elizabeth.”

  “Who’s Elizabeth?”

  “No one. Maybe my friend.” I stop, thinking. “I’m not sure yet.”

  Rabia slaps me lightly on the arm. “You’d better not make new friends and forget all about me!” she warns, and I heave a sigh of relief that she’s still my best friend.

  We put our jackets on and sneak out to the empty playground. Rabia sits on the swings, lifting her face to the sun with half-closed eyes. “It’s been weird since you left,” she admits.

  “Really?” I know exactly what it’s like to sit alone in class, watching other people with their friends. “Sorry, I guess.”

  She shrugs. “It’s getting better. Although we all miss you. The other day in art class, we were watching a documentary about French impressionism and one of the girls said you’d have known all the names of the painters.”

  I smile a little because I probably would have. I sit on the other swing and take out my sketchbook. It’s been a long time since I just sketched.

  “Anything interesting?” Rabia asks.

  I turn the page to show her my sketch from this morning. It’s a rectangle with a henna-inspired border and a cooking pot in the middle with steam rising from it. HAMEED’S KITCHEN, it says on the bottom in Arabic-style script. “What do you think?”

  She opens her eyes wide. “I didn’t know your mom had a name for her catering business!”

  I slap the sketchbook shut. “She doesn’t. I made it up,” I mutter. “It’s stupid.”

  She tries to move my hands. “No, it’s not! I really like that design on the border. Have you shown Aunty yet?”

  I stand up. Baba’s waving to me from the front of the building. “I have to go,” I tell her, relieved.

  She pouts at me as I leave. “I want to see that when you’re done with it, young lady!” she calls.

  “I’ll think about it,” I tease, and she sticks her tongue out.

  * * *

  At school on Monday, every time I pass Elizabeth in the hallway, she’s giggling with Maddy. I’m surprised she’s forgiven that girl for choosing someone else as her cooking showcase partner.

  Finally, I gather up courage and wave, but they don’t notice. Her friend Micah sees me, though, and waves back at me madly, like he’s trying to hail a taxi. He’s funny.

  Spending time with Rabia has somehow made me even lonelier. The bright lights of the school hallways feel garish after the mosque’s warm yellow bulbs. And the mass of students with their loud laughter seems rude after my Muslim friends’ kind smiles. Someone in a red hoodie and blue jeans torn at the knees almost bumps into me. “Sorry,” he mutters, and I recognize Ahsan Kapadia from elementary school at Iqra.

  “Hi,” I start to say, but Ahsan has already disappeared around the corner with a bunch of other boys. I guess I’m the only one who didn’t get the “How to Make Friends in a New School” memo.

  On Tuesday, as soon as the last bell rings, I head to the water fountain. I need to wake myself up with a few splashes of water on my face. I nearly fell asleep during social studies. Kids stream out of their classrooms and hurry noisily past me. I take a big gulp of water and look up at the bulletin board. There’s the International Festival flyer again. The bright yellow paper catches my eye. There’s some fine print at the bottom. I lean forward, trying to read it, wondering if I can sue the school i
f I go permanently cross-eyed. I can just imagine the headline in the town newspaper: “Girl Loses Eyesight After Reading Recipe Competition Rules.”

  “What’s so interesting?”

  I turn around so fast, my hip bangs into the water fountain. Ouch. Elizabeth is standing next to me, laughing.

  I throw a mock-angry look at her. “And what are you doing outside the nurse’s office again? Having another period scare?” I ask.

  She blushes. Again. She moves closer to me to let other kids pass. “How was your weekend?” she asks.

  I shrug. “My mom drove me nuts with her citizenship test. She doesn’t know even the basic facts, like each state has two senators.”

  Elizabeth throws up her hands in exasperation. “My mom won’t even pick up her study book. Does she think she can walk into that test and pass just because she speaks English?” She pauses. “Not that your mom doesn’t speak English. That’s not—I meant, because my mom grew up speaking English.”

  I smile again to show her I understand.

  She looks down at her hands, where she’s playing with the charms of her bracelets. “I’m not even sure my mom wants to be American anymore. She doesn’t get how important it is.”

  How important it is to me, Elizabeth doesn’t say, but I know how she feels.

  An idea drops like a ton of bricks on my head. I reach out and grasp her hand. “Don’t you see? This is perfect!”

  She wrinkles her eyebrows. “What’s perfect? I feel like it’s the actual definition of imperfect.”

  The end-of-school rush of kids is getting thinner. I pull Elizabeth with me toward the front doors. “We both have the same problem. Moms who need to study for the citizenship test. Moms who are driving us nuts. Moms who have already met once.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes open wide, and her mouth stretches into an O as she figures out what I’m hinting at. “They could practice for the test together. Study buddies!” she exclaims, as if it’s all her idea.

  I roll my eyes. “Bingo.”

  “Sara, you’re a genius.”

  Finally, someone who understands me. “I know.”

  10

  Elizabeth

  HALLOWEEN IS NEXT WEEK, but Maddy and I still haven’t picked our costumes.

  “What about Alice in Wonderland?” I suggest at lunch. “There’s a ton of characters to choose from. The Mad Hatter. The Cheshire Cat.” Micah leans close to me, tilts his head, and does his best impression of a grinning cat. I push him away. “I’ll go as Alice. You’d make a great Red Queen, Mads.”

  It’s a mean thing to say. The Red Queen is bossy, impatient, and orders people’s heads chopped off unless they do what she wants. Actually, she’s a lot like Mrs. Kluck. Maddy isn’t as bad as that. She’s been spending more and more time with Stephanie, even at lunch. I miss her, but I don’t know how to tell her, and my suggestion comes out as a veiled insult.

  If Maddy caught my burn, she ignores it. “You only want to go as Alice because she’s British,” she says. “Anyway, I’ve been meaning to tell you. Steph is baking for a charity event on Halloween. She wants me to help serve cupcakes.” Maddy smiles like this is the best news ever.

  My mouth is too dry to speak. I touch my Star of David, then each of my British charms, which usually calms me down. But I can’t stop shaking my head.

  “Is she making you wear a cupcake costume?” Micah teases Maddy.

  “Don’t give Steph any ideas,” Maddy says. “The uniform is jeans and a Sweet Stephanie’s apron.”

  “That’s no fun,” he says. “But at least you get to eat cupcakes.” Micah raps his drumsticks on the table. “Band room. See ya later.”

  Now that Maddy and I are alone, I take a sip of water and choke out, “You can’t skip trick-or-treating. We have to come up with costumes, carve pumpkins together, trade candy with Justin. Those are, like, friendship traditions.”

  Maddy leans back, arms across her chest. “I told Steph you wouldn’t understand.”

  I don’t care that I’m pouting. “That’s not fair.”

  Stephanie interrupts us. “What’s not fair?” She’s been walking around the lunchroom with a tray of chocolate milk containers—lined up to hide the mini cupcake samples she is definitely not supposed to be giving out right now.

  “Elizabeth doesn’t want me to volunteer at your charity event,” Maddy says.

  “That’s not what I said,” I protest.

  “It’s for a really good cause,” Stephanie says in her snottiest tone.

  Maddy nods, her dark ponytail bouncing up and down. Lately she’s been wearing her ponytail higher up, exactly like Stephanie.

  Maddy leans toward me and says, “It’s a Halloween party for sick kids. Kids who can’t trick-or-treat.”

  Now I feel like the worst person ever.

  “Maybe I’ll ask Sara to go with me,” I say, secretly hoping Maddy will be jealous.

  “Great idea!” Steph says. She gives me a knowing look. “Sara could use a friend.”

  “To show her American holidays and stuff,” Maddy adds.

  Steph gives her head a small shake and raises one blond eyebrow at Maddy. They’re not supposed to be having secret, wordless conversations. Maddy is my best friend.

  How could she do this to me? Maddy knows how much I love Halloween. I’d ask Micah to go trick-or-treating, but he always helps his family host a giant haunted house. Every year, they buy a new decoration for their lawn. Not cheap cardboard gravestones, but full-on motorized zombies that creep across the driveway by themselves. He told me it freaks out the little kids in their neighborhood.

  “That’s settled, then!” Stephanie flounces away.

  I wish Micah were still here. I’d tell him, “If Halloween doesn’t work out this year, at least I have Purim,” and he’d know exactly what I meant.

  Micah and I agree that Purim is the best Jewish festival. Every spring, our synagogue celebrates the story of Esther. There’s a special book that tells what happened when an evil man named Haman tried to kill off all the Jews in Persia—even the Persian queen, a young Jewish woman named Esther.

  Everyone dresses up as Queen Esther, her husband the king, or Haman. Lots of kids reuse their superhero and princess costumes from Halloween. I always go as Esther, tweaking my outfit each year. Last spring, Bubbe helped me bedazzle my purple cape.

  Micah’s favorite character is Haman. “The villain always has the best part,” he says. “Also, the best cookies.” We both love hamentaschen, triangle-shaped cookies that are supposed to resemble Haman’s hat.

  During Purim, our congregation gathers at the synagogue to listen to the Megillah, the scroll that tells Esther’s story. We boo and spin noisemakers whenever Haman’s name is mentioned. Micah is a goof, shaking his fist at everyone. Last spring, he tried to convince me to go as Haman. I still have the sheet of stick-on furry mustaches he gave me.

  What does Halloween have that Purim doesn’t? Endless costume options, running around in the dark, and bags full of candy, that’s what. I make up my mind. At cooking club, I’m going to ask Sara if she wants to go trick-or-treating with me.

  * * *

  On Friday afternoon, our recipe is tarka daal—spicy lentil soup with a fried onion garnish. While Sara and I put ingredients into our saucepan, I lead into my question. “Sara, do you like costumes? You know—cosplay, theater stuff.”

  She stops stirring. “Who doesn’t? We still have a giant tub of hats and costumes in our basement. My brothers run around in their superhero gear all the time. It is so annoying.” She pauses to wipe her eyes on the sleeve of her tie-dye tunic. “Wait. What does this have to do with daal?”

  “It doesn’t,” I admit. “It has to do with Halloween.”

  She focuses her attention on the chopping block, which is covered in onions, garlic, and cumin seeds. Maddy’s probably complaining to Stephanie right now about the spicy smell. I sneak a glance at their station. I swear their high ponies bounce in unison—one dark, the other blond.
>
  “Do you want to go trick-or-treating together?” I ask Sara. “I usually go with Maddy, but she’s helping Stephanie with some catering thing. I was thinking of going as Alice in Wonderland.”

  I stop talking. Sara is banging her wooden spoon against the sides of the pot so hard, some lentils pop out.

  “I don’t do Halloween,” she says. Her voice has a hard edge.

  “That stinks. Is it a religious thing?”

  She glares at me as if I just tore up her favorite princess costume. “Don’t you know anything about Muslims? We cover our hair and fast from sunup to sundown all year long and we’re not allowed to do anything fun.”

  “I guess that means no?”

  “You guessed right.”

  “Sorry I asked,” I mumble. I busy myself at the sink, washing the cutting board, so I can avoid talking to her. Sara goes back to stirring our stew. She hardly says a word for the rest of class. It makes me realize how much we usually laugh together, rolling our eyes every time Mrs. Kluck glares at Sara’s mother.

  Today, whatever friendly feelings I have toward Sara are smothered by her silence, like when you order a delicious salad at a restaurant and it’s slathered in a dressing so oily that you can barely eat a bite.

  Mrs. Hameed demonstrates how to fry the onions and cumin, then dumps the mixture into the stew. It sizzles impressively, popping like fireworks. The class oohs in appreciation, but Sara stands rigid next to me. I ask, “When are we meeting to work on our showcase recipe?”

  She replies tartly, “I was going to say Wednesday after school, but you’ll be out begging strangers for candy, so forget it.”

  Why is she being so mean? I try to calm myself down by touching my charms: star, Union Jack, teacup, TARDIS. Then I say, “Your mom expects us to have a recipe. I don’t want to let her down.”

  “Whatever.”

  Why did I ever agree to partner with Sara Hameed? Maddy’s right. Sara thinks she’s better than everyone else at this school.

  I leave without saying goodbye. I’d rather stand outside in the cold, waiting for my mom in the carpool line, than stand inside getting the silent treatment.