I wonder if being friends is going to be as hard for our moms as it is for us. Will they argue over dumb stuff, like whose house they’re going to study at? Will someone give my mom grief when they see her hanging out with a lady in a hijab? I suddenly wonder what Mrs. Montgomery would say if she saw my mom and Mrs. Hameed together.
I can’t blame Mom for wanting to go back to England, where she blends in. Where no one notices her accent or who her friends are.
The bubble tea stand is humming with activity. I order my usual green milk tea with tapioca pearls. “Those are the bubbles,” I explain. “You suck them up through this extra-wide straw.”
Rabia and Sara both get mango milk tea with bubbles. “Desi people love mangoes,” Rabia tells me with a wry grin.
We drink and talk about school. The differences between Poplar Middle and Iqra. The pains of being the kids of immigrants. “What do you think?” I ask, holding up my bubble tea. Rabia’s cup is almost empty.
Sara studies the dark tapioca bubbles at the bottom of her cup suspiciously. “Tea isn’t supposed to have chewy bits.”
“I’ll finish yours,” Rabia says, happily taking Sara’s half-finished drink.
As we throw our cups away, my brain starts worrying about what’s going to happen at school tomorrow. Will Maddy repeat the awful things she said? I know Sara expects me to stand up for her, but what does that mean, exactly? Does she think I’m going to walk up to Maddy in the lunchroom and say, Maddy Montgomery, you said something really hateful to my friend?
For the rest of the week, I avoid Maddy as much as possible. I am moving on. That’s what Bubbe says when someone annoys her. “I’ve got no time for drama. Moving on!” But it’s not easy. Maddy’s locker is near mine. She’s in my gym class. Until this year, we practically lived at each other’s houses on the weekends. A few weeks ago, I didn’t want to do anything unless she was doing it too. Now I’m not even sure I want to be her friend.
17
Sara
THAT FRIDAY, I meet Mama in the school parking lot as soon as the last bell rings. She makes me drag a twenty-pound bag of potatoes to cooking class. “Why can’t everyone bring their own ingredients from home?” I complain. The bag is so heavy, my muscles strain the sleeves of my extra-long denim blouse.
“Choup!” Mama shushes me. “A little exercise isn’t going to kill you, Sara.”
“It might,” I grumble.
“Hurry up—I want to get the potatoes boiling before class begins.” She hands me a key chain with a faded yellow pineapple charm. “Mrs. Kluckowski won’t be here today. She gave me an extra key for the FACS room. Go ahead and unlock the door. I have more groceries in the car.”
It takes us two more trips to get everything unloaded. I make sure I complain the whole time. Mama doesn’t ask for the pineapple key chain, so I slide it inside my backpack to give it to her later. We immerse the potatoes in pots of boiling water, then set out cilantro, green onions, and spices, plus yogurt and mint bunches for the chutney. By the time Elizabeth and the other kids get to class, the water is bubbling fiercely.
“Why didn’t you wait for me after language arts?” Elizabeth complains.
I’m about to snap back that I was busy lugging a toddler-size bag of potatoes, but I don’t. Elizabeth expected me to wait for her so we could walk to cooking class together. A few weeks ago, I didn’t have one friend at this school. No one to talk to other than “Would you pass me that charcoal pencil?” in art class or “Are you done with the protractor?” in math. Now I have someone to look out for me, someone who worries when she sees me rushing off after class. It’s weird, but also nice.
“Sorry. I had to help Mama with class prep today.” I flex my biceps. “See how big my muscles are?”
She slides into the seat next to me. “Uh . . . wow?”
There’s a slight noise from the doorway, or maybe I’m just on hyperalert. It’s Maddy, a frowny look on her face, as if this is the last place she wants to be. I get it. It’s the last place I want her in, but nothing about this afterschool club seems to be my choice.
Stephanie follows close behind Maddy, like a stern mother hen. “Remember what I told you,” she whispers, loud enough for everyone to hear. “BEHAVE!”
The other girls look at the pair oddly, but I don’t even try to hide my disgust.
“We have got to make a better showcase recipe than those two,” Elizabeth whispers.
“You bet,” I whisper back.
Mama calls us to attention with a little clap of her hands. “We’re making aaloo tikkis today, class,” she announces. “These are little potato cutlets, very easy to make. You can also call them aaloo kabab or potato kabab.”
There’s a murmuring in the room, like the buzz of excited bees before they embark on their morning mission to the garden, but it’s quiet in Maddy and Stephanie’s station.
While Mama tells the class the correct and incorrect ways of cooking vegetables—the microwave makes them soft but also wrinkles their skin—I zone out. This is child’s play for me, and I have other things on my mind. I take out my sketchbook and make some last adjustments to my flyer. It’s due Monday and I’m not sure about the colors yet.
Elizabeth jabs an elbow in my side. “That’s awesome!” she whispers, nodding at my sketch.
I roll my eyes at her, but a warmth spreads in my chest at her words. “I can’t decide between red or blue lettering,” I whisper back.
She thinks. “Definitely red, but make it browner, like turmeric or cinnamon. The color red is supposed to make you hungry.”
I didn’t know that. I take out my maroon marker and color in the lettering of HAMEED’S KITCHEN. Elizabeth’s right—the color is perfect.
While the potatoes boil, Mama shows the class how to make chutney. She throws mint leaves and a tiny bit of yogurt into the blender, adds lemon juice, and presses the button. Elizabeth is leaning forward, as if there’s some sort of magic happening in the front of the FACS room.
I put away my sketchbook when Mama places the boiled potatoes on plates and passes them to everyone. “Be careful—don’t burn your hands,” she warns. “Let them cool by running water over them, then peel and mash them, please.”
Before long, we’ve peeled and mashed, mixed in spices, and made the round tikkis. Mama shows everyone how to coat them with eggs and breadcrumbs, then fry them in a shallow pan with a little oil.
“I prefer to use chickpea flour instead of breadcrumbs,” I tell Elizabeth.
Mama overhears, reminding me once again how sharp that woman’s hearing is. “Sara is right. We can use many other things as substitutes,” she says. “That reminds me: Mrs. Kluckowski isn’t here today, but she asked me to make an exciting announcement.”
Mama goes back to the frying pan in the demonstration kitchen. The first batch of tikkis is browning nicely. “Sara, there’s a paper on my desk. Why don’t you read it out for everyone while I flip over these tikkis before they burn?”
I get the paper from her desk and stand in front of the class, feeling awkward. Maddy’s looking down at her nails as if Mrs. Kluck’s announcement is written on them, and I suddenly wonder if she’s embarrassed to look at me after her outburst in the mall.
I clear my throat and read. “ ‘Poplar Springs Middle School is proud to welcome celebrity chef Alfonso Morgan as a special guest at this year’s International Festival. Chef Morgan is the author of three acclaimed cookbooks and host of the local television show Let’s Get Cooking! on WBAL. Chef Morgan will offer advice and encouragement to all students taking part in the International Festival recipe showcase. The creators of one recipe will be his guests on an upcoming episode of Let’s Get Cooking!’”
Chatter breaks out in the class. Stephanie cheers and says something about raising awareness and peas—huh?—but Maddy looks sullen and grumpy. The other kids in our class are so loud, Mama shouts, “Time to eat!” twice before anyone listens.
Our potato tikkis have browned beautifully on bot
h sides, sizzling with the aroma of cilantro and olive oil. Mama passes around dollops of mint chutney to put on top.
I turn to Elizabeth and clutch her arm. “If we win the competition, we’ll be on TV!”
She gives me a blank stare. “That would be cool.”
“Don’t you get it? This would be perfect for my mama. If we win, we could get aprons like Stephanie’s and advertise Mama’s catering business to the entire city.”
Elizabeth nods. “That would be awesome for your mom.”
“We have to win this thing!”
She grins brightly. “Let’s do it!”
The next day in art, Mrs. Newman collects our flyer sketches. “Very good, Sarah,” she whispers as she picks up my sketch. “I like the border you’ve made.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. Everyone is peering at my flyer now. My face is getting hot.
Mrs. Newman stops me after class. “Sarah, I really liked what you did with the flyer.” She waves her bangled arms to show her excitement.
An unexpected memory of Mama smiling politely at Mrs. Shainmark in Bean Heaven crosses my mind. “It’s Sa-ra, not Sarah,” I say before I lose my nerve.
“Pardon?”
I take a deep breath and try again. “My name is pronounced Sa-ra, not Sarah, the way you say it.” Then I shrug. “It’s no big deal, really.”
She looks horrified. “Why didn’t you tell me before? I’m so sorry.”
“That’s okay. It’s a common mistake.”
She leans forward and touches my shoulder. “Well, Sa-ra, as I was saying, I really like your flyer and I’d like to give you a special job.”
I narrow my eyes. “What special job?”
“The International Festival needs a big sign for the entrance, and I think you’re the perfect person for the task! You can use the henna patterns and the other cool ethnic designs you’ve been adding to your drawings. Be creative—do whatever you like with it.”
I don’t particularly like her use of the word “ethnic,” but I forgive her because I know she’s trying her best. In any case, I can’t believe what she’s saying. My art is good enough to be showcased in front of the whole school? And a celebrity chef? “Are you sure?” I whisper.
“Of course I’m sure. Your flyer stood out from the class. And of all the portfolios I asked students to submit on the first day of class, yours was the most impressive!” She’s grinning broadly, but I’m pretty sure she’s dead serious. “I’ll email you instructions for the sign by next week. And I’ll give you all the art supplies you need. Come get them from me after school.”
My mind is already speeding, thinking of designs and patterns and colors. The bell rings and I skip out, barely resisting the urge to give Mrs. Newman a hug. It’s only when I’m sitting in Mama’s car that afternoon, sketching out my ideas, that a horrible thought dawns on me: How will I make time for this project when Elizabeth and I have to plan our fusion recipe?
18
Elizabeth
HEBREW SCHOOL AND I have an awkward relationship. It’s not quite an orange-juice-and-milk situation, but it’s not a PB&J, besties-forever vibe either.
It’s where I first met Micah, when we were both new to our synagogue’s Sunday morning religious-ed program. On the first day, I was trying to spot kids I knew from Watersville Elementary. There was Lisa Greenbaum—in my grade, but not in my class—and Ari Marks, who played kickball every day at recess and was always in trouble for tracking mud inside. They waved at me, but there were no excited hugs, and neither one of them sat by me.
Mr. Yukht, our teacher, said we were the nicest group of kids he had ever met, even though he’d only known us for five minutes. But he meant it. Mr. Yukht has moved up with our class every year. He says he’s sticking with us, so we all have to invite him to our bar and bat mitzvah parties. He’s bald and wears khakis like a regular man teacher, but his red high-tops and suspenders make him super cool, at least to me and Micah.
There may be other kids like us at our Hebrew school, but Micah is the only one I’m comfortable talking about it with. He makes me feel like I’m not the only person in Mr. Yukht’s class who gets mixed up when our class talks about Jewish holidays.
After Mr. Yukht wraps up the day’s lesson, we stand in line, waiting to high-five him on our way out. Then Micah and I head to the synagogue’s main entrance.
“Where’s your dad taking us for lunch?” I ask Micah. “I vote IHOP.”
Micah shudders so dramatically, his curls shake. “You call those pancakes? Have you been to the new crêpes shop on Main Street? Those are pancakes.”
I’m about to argue when Mrs. Gruver steps out of her office and puts her long, skinny self between me and any chance of escape.
“May I speak with you, Elisheva?” she says, tipping her head down so she can stare at me disapprovingly over the tops of her glasses. I wonder if she knows her chin squishes into her neck when she does that.
I widen my eyes at Micah.
“I’ll tell my dad you’re with Mrs. Gruver,” he says with a meaningful nod.
Mr. Perez is not a fan of our principal. “Hebrew school should be something you kids enjoy,” he says. “She’s too strict. Takes all the fun out of it.”
Easy for him to say. He’s never been to Hebrew school. Micah’s dad grew up Catholic. Unlike my mom, he never converted to Judaism. Micah’s mom, Ms. Rosen, is the religious one at their house.
I follow Mrs. Gruver into her office. There’s a giant picture over her clean white desk of her son, Noah, at his bar mitzvah. Mrs. Gruver and her husband stand behind Noah at the bimah. She’s smiling and wearing a pretty floral dress. The way Mrs. Gruver is scowling at me right now, it’s hard to believe she ever smiled in her life.
Mrs. Gruver sits down and interlaces her hands. Does she think that makes her look religious? More like a principal? I look up and realize that she’s waiting for me to make eye contact.
“Sit, please.”
I park it in the gray office chair across from her.
“Elisheva, where were you on Friday night?”
Friday night? She must be talking about services. My family only ever goes when Dad is home, which is not something I need to share with Mrs. Gruver.
I push the toe of one TARDIS high-top into the other until she speaks again.
“It was your family’s turn for Oneg Shabbat. It may not seem like a ‘big deal,’ bringing fruit and cookies for Friday-night services, but it’s important to our school, to our community.”
That’s what this is about. Hospitality.
Instantly, I think of Mr. Yukht. Back in September, he explained how our congregation supports the Hebrew school and how we return the favor by bringing treats on Friday nights. I know I handed Mom the sign-up sheet. I remember her writing “Services: Cookies” on the family calendar in big letters.
Tears start to prickle in my eyes, but I will not cry in front of Mrs. Gruver. “We forgot,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
I pull my shoulders back and sit up straight, ready to hear my punishment. I feel better facing Mrs. Gruver with the good British posture Nan taught me. Sometimes when we were visiting England and Mom was out for a hen night with Aunt Louise, Nan would put on fifties music, get a stack of novels for each of us to put on top of our heads, and David, me, Justin, and Nan would dance around her parlor until the books dropped, or one of us laughed, or both. Usually both.
Mrs. Gruver shakes her head slowly, disappointed. I’m in big trouble. But then she mumbles, “Once a shiksa, always a shiksa,” and I know it’s not me Mrs. Gruver is disappointed in. It’s my mom.
Mrs. Gruver writes something on a slip of paper, folds the note, and creases it with the back of her painted thumbnail, which creeps me out. Then she gives me that glare over the tops of her glasses, seals the paper in an envelope, and hands it to me. “Give this to your mother.”
I know what shiksa means. A woman who’s not Jewish. It’s what Bubbe calls my mom. She thinks it’s funny, what she ca
lls a term of endearment. Whenever we invite Dad’s cousins to Passover Seder at our house, Bubbe will get up from the table and say, “The shiksa needs my help in the kitchen.” I know it hurts Mom’s feelings. It makes her feel like she’s never going to get the whole being-Jewish thing right. And getting chewed out by Mrs. Gruver for forgetting Oneg Shabbat isn’t going to help. Besides, Hebrew-school assignments are my responsibility, not Mom’s. If I’d paid attention to the family calendar, I would have remembered about the cookies. It’s one more thing I’m supposed to do for myself, one more thing to prepare and remember and take care of.
A sob escapes my throat.
“What is it, Elisheva?” Mrs. Gruver is patting my hand.
I can barely get the words out. “My grandmother died this summer. She was my mom’s mother, and that’s how come we forgot. I know it’s not an excuse.”
Of all people to fall apart in front of, why did it have to be Mrs. Gruver?
She passes me a tissue, says something in Hebrew, then translates, “May God console you. I’m so sorry to hear this, Elisheva. I didn’t know. Can I do anything for your family?”
I shake my head.
Gently, she slips the note out from under my hand. “How about I reach out to your mother? I’ll call her. And we’ll give you a new date for Oneg Shabbat. Maybe in the spring?”
“Can you send her an email instead?” I get it. Mrs. Gruver is trying to be nice. But I can’t tell her that my mom hates talking on the phone unless you’re Aunt Louise. And just like that, I’ve gone from crying to furious. Why can’t I have normal parents? A mom who remembers things like cookies for synagogue. A dad who’s home and can remind her. I’m eleven. I have a hard enough time remembering to do all my homework.
In the car, I ask Mr. Perez to take me straight home.
“No pancakes?” Micah asks. “Not even crêpes?”
I shake my head miserably. Micah bumps my knee with the top of his hand.
After Mr. Perez drops me off, I stomp into the house. I’m yelling before I even close the front door behind me.
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