“Mom, we forgot to bring cookies to services! And now Mrs. Gruver is going to call you. MOM!”
All my shouting brings Robin Hood to the door, barking and bouncing, trying to get my attention.
Dad intercepts me. He’s so tall, I can’t get past him into the family room.
“Shhh. Robin, sit,” Dad says. “Mom is studying, Elizabeth.” He tilts his body so I can peer down the hallway.
Mom is sitting at the table with a cup of tea in one hand and her citizenship book in the other. David’s across from her, taking a screwdriver to the guts of what might be our old toaster.
“Justin’s at Taemin’s house,” Dad says.
I should be glad Mom’s studying. I should be thankful that Mrs. Gruver is going to give us a new cookie date. But I’m not. I’m so angry, my voice shakes when I say, “I hate it when people treat Mom like she’s not really Jewish.”
“People?” Dad asks, tilting his head.
“Mrs. Gruver. Bubbe!”
He puts an arm around my shoulders, walks me to the stairs, and sits on a carpeted step. There’s barely enough room for me to squeeze in next to him. Robin heads back to the kitchen, convinced he’s done a great job keeping the humans in line.
“Take a deep breath and tell me what happened,” Dad says.
“Mom doesn’t like it when Bubbe calls her shiksa. Why do you let her? Why don’t you stand up for Mom?”
Dad pulls at his T-shirt collar, the same way Justin does when he’s anxious. “Bubbe’s teasing, Els. And I thought we were talking about Mrs. Gruver.”
“You should tell Bubbe it’s mean. It makes Mom feel left out.”
“Fair enough. For the record, I’d rather stand up to Mrs. Gruver than your bubbe.” He winks at me.
“Dad! It’s not funny. We forgot Oneg Shabbat at synagogue. I know it’s my responsibility, but Mrs. Gruver acted like it’s Mom’s fault.”
Dad nods thoughtfully.
“None of this would have happened if you weren’t traveling all the time.” I say it right to his face.
He sighs. “Not this again. Elizabeth, until your mom’s ready to go back to work—”
“Money’s tight. I know.” I’d give up bubble tea and half-price tunics and seven of my eight Hanukkah gifts if it meant Dad didn’t travel so much.
“We’re all making sacrifices right now,” Dad says, standing up. “I’ll talk to Bubbe about the shiksa business, okay?” He pats me on the head, like that’s supposed to make me feel better.
* * *
That week, Sara and I work on recipe ideas during lunch. Ever since Sara moved to our table, Maddy has been sitting with Stephanie. At first, she stopped by sometimes to talk to me and Micah. Now she stays away. Micah thinks the two of us had a fight.
“Worse than that,” I tell him.
“Details?” he asks.
“Not worth repeating.”
Sara brings out a special notebook dedicated to our project. On the cover, in glittery purple calligraphy, she’s written “OSAWR.”
“It stands for Operation Secret Award-Winning Recipe. I don’t want the whole school to know what we’re doing.” She tilts her chin in Micah’s direction. “The less the competition knows, the better.”
“My taste buds are neutral territory, I swear.” Micah puts a hand over his heart.
I wonder if he’d feel differently if I told him what happened at the mall. Micah’s abuela, Cookie, is his favorite person in the world. He hates when people talk down to her because—as Micah says—she’s small, brown, and Latina. But I don’t say anything. Sara would hate it if Micah, or anyone else, felt sorry for her.
As Micah eats his lunch, Sara and I create a work schedule and dream up recipes. I’ve watched every Salma Aunty episode. The ones where she makes golden, fluffy parathas are my favorite. My heart is set on making them.
“I eat parathas every day,” Sara says. “They’re not special enough to win.”
“They will be if the filling is something no one expects.” Soon, we have three pages of ideas for how to stuff parathas. We’ve already eliminated peanut butter and jelly (boring), apple pie filling (slimy), and meat (overdone, according to Sara).
This is harder than I expected.
“We’re out of ideas,” I complain to Micah. “What’s your favorite food in the whole world?”
“S’mores,” he says. “My family’s having a backyard bonfire this weekend. Cookie’s secret ingredient is homemade marshmallows.”
I grab his arm. “You can make marshmallows? From scratch?”
“Forget it,” Sara says. “We are not making marshmallow parathas.”
“No,” I say. “But we are making s’mores parathas.”
Sara shakes her head like she’s some sort of cooking expert. Which she is not. “Parathas are made on a hot griddle,” she says. “Not the best place for chocolate.”
I cross my arms on my chest. “We won’t know if it works until we try it—unless you have a better idea.”
“Okay, fine!” she groans.
“I’ll trade you Cookie’s homemade marshmallow recipe for a taste of the finished product,” Micah offers with a sly smile.
Sara says, “Don’t make this even more complicated.”
We make a shopping list: flour, eggs, ghee, marshmallows, chocolate chips, crushed graham crackers. That takes up a whole page in our notebook because Sara insists on making little drawings of each ingredient.
I don’t mind in the least.
* * *
As Thanksgiving nears, the cooking competition is all I want to talk about. And I’m not the only one.
Stephanie and Maddy are always in the sixth-grade hallway, asking their friends to taste their latest baking experiment. More than once, I’ve heard Maddy telling kids how much Steph wants to win the TV spot so she can promote some care-package thing she’s into. Probably a new part of her baking business. Because baking cupcakes and being on swim team is not enough for Sweet Stephanie.
Maddy and I don’t even look at each other anymore. She’s been my friend for so long, it feels wrong passing by her and pretending we don’t know each other. But every time I see Maddy, the words she said to Sara whirl in my mind as if they’ve been thrown into a blender and whipped into a sloppy mess.
Enough thinking. We should be doing. I want to be in the kitchen so Sara and I can show Maddy that Pakistani parathas and American s’mores belong together. “When do we start cooking?” I ask Sara on Friday as we make a mixture of ground meat and spices for today’s project. “If all we do is make lists, we’ll never have a recipe ready in time.”
Thanksgiving break is next week. Two half-days followed by Wednesday through Sunday off school. I’m dreading being stuck at home, where Mom’s sadness hangs over everything like the smell of burnt toast. She knits, talks on the phone with Aunt Louise about their London trip—which they’re still secretly planning—and reads her citizenship booklet. I keep hoping she’ll invite Mrs. Hameed over for coffee, or to get their nails done while they discuss the three branches of government. But maybe she’s not as ready to make a new friend as I was.
Sara crosses her arms at me. “I like my lists. They’re organized.”
“I know. And we need them. If you set me loose in the kitchen without a plan, I’d end up with some weird, barf-inducing concoction.”
Sara tilts her head toward Mrs. Kluck, who’s bustling around the display kitchen with a measuring tape, totally getting in Mrs. Hameed’s way.
“I’d like to give Mrs. Kluck a barf-inducing concoction,” Sara says under her breath.
I stifle a laugh and say a silent prayer that our recipe doesn’t taste like Mom’s Pepto-Bismol sardine sauce. “You’re a planner. I’m a doer. That’s why we are the perfect team. How about coming to my house next week so we can practice parathas?” I ask her. “We’ve got mad culinary skills, if these kiftas are any evidence.” I pat my mouth with a napkin, like a polite British lady.
Sara laughs at
me. “Kofta, not kifta, silly. It’s Urdu for ‘meatballs.’”
“They’re a million times better than any meatball I ever had.” I take another bite. “We’re ready. Next week, when we have time off, we are getting together to cook.”
19
Sara
ON THE SATURDAY before Thanksgiving, Rabia sends me a Google Hangouts invite for another America’s Got Talent watching. It’s a video we’ve watched three times already. A seventy-year-old lady does gymnastics as if she’s fifteen, then a man sings a rap song while dancing like a robot. After ten minutes, Rabia says, “Forget this, Sara! I already know this entire episode by heart.”
I’d been looking forward to the magician later in this episode, but I say, “Yeah, I know,” and mute the video.
“I can’t believe we still watch this stupid show,” she continues, making a face.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I like it. We’ve been watching it together since we were little.”
“Yeah, but why?” she persists, chewing on her juice straw. “There are so many other things to watch. Cat videos, baking shows . . .”
I shrug again. “I like the way it equalizes everyone, you know? Most competitions are only for one thing, but in America’s Got Talent, you can do anything. Be anything.”
She grins, but I know she secretly agrees with me. “Like the American dream.”
“Exactly! We’re all different here, you know. But we’re all American!”
“Spoken like a true daughter of Pakistani immigrants!” She laughs, then takes a final sip of her mango juice. “Okay, you’ve convinced me. We can keep it.”
I nod, satisfied. Some schoolchildren are singing a song from My Fair Lady, and my hand itches to turn up the volume.
“Oh, cute, those kids look just like your brothers.” Rabia points. She’s watching the show on mute just like I am. “How are they, anyway?”
“The same. Brats.”
“Oh, come on, they are adorable.” Rabia’s an only child, so she thinks siblings are the best thing that could ever happen to anyone. “Remember the time they came into your room while we were studying and spilled your paints on the floor?”
I shudder. “How could you ever find that adorable?”
“They made such cute ‘sorry’ faces.” She laughs. “Plus, they did clean up, like, immediately.”
“Of course they did. Mama would have been furious if she’d found my bedroom floor covered in paint.” I try to imagine Mama’s reaction and have to close my lips over a little giggle.
Rabia giggles too, just a bit. Then her face changes, and she whispers, “I miss studying together.”
I pause to peer into the screen. “What do you mean? I bet you’ve made lots of new friends since I left.” I try to tease her, but the words come out uncertain.
She shrugs sadly. “Not really. Everyone’s already got friends.”
My heart is thumping. I’ve been feeling so bad for myself lately, I never even realized how my leaving Iqra has affected Rabia. “At least we’ll be together for Thanksgiving,” I remind her.
She blinks rapidly. “Actually, we’re spending Thanksgiving break in Boston, with my grandparents.”
“Oh, that’s cool.” I feel nauseous. Sharing Thanksgiving with Rabia’s family is our long-standing American tradition. If Rabia’s family doesn’t visit like always, everything is going to change. I just know it. Mama and Baba will probably not even bother to celebrate the holiday because it’s not something they did “back home.”
The magician is stepping onto the stage, bowing deeply. I reach over to close the video. “Listen, Mama’s calling me from the kitchen. Gotta go. Bye!”
I disconnect Hangouts without waiting for Rabia to reply. My heart is thumping at my lie, and I tell it to stop being a baby and quiet down.
* * *
Monday is a half-day because of parent-teacher conferences. Elizabeth and I have made plans to work on our Secret Award-Winning Recipe at her house. Now that the prize is a television show appearance, we need to up our game.
“Are you excited about Thanksgiving?” Elizabeth asks as we walk to her house after school.
Rabia’s quietly dropped bombshell the day before has sucked out all the usual happiness of my favorite holiday, but I focus on the delicate embroidery at the edge of my tunic sleeve and reply, “Sure, are you?”
Elizabeth nods hesitantly. “With my mom the way she is lately, I’m worried Thanksgiving’s going to stink. My grandmother usually cooks for us. I dream all year about her apple cake.”
“I thought your grandmother died.”
“That’s the English one. This one lives in New York. Somehow I got two grandmothers who are amazing cooks and a mom who thinks Thanksgiving stuffing should come from a box. That’s why I’m so glad we’re working together on this contest, Sara. It’ll keep my mind off having to eat instant mashed potatoes.”
I pull my arm loose. “Okay, let’s not get mushy here,” I caution. “I’d rather be anywhere than at home, putting curry in plastic boxes for customers. Mama is cooking up a literal storm this week, much of it Thanksgiving-related.”
“Mmmm, I love Turkey Day.”
I shake my head. “We’re not big turkey fans in my house. Mama and Baba haven’t developed a taste for it. They don’t have turkeys in Pakistan.”
“So what do you usually eat on Thanksgiving?”
“Pakistani food, like the recipes we cook in club.”
“Sounds like heaven,” she says. I roll my eyes, but I don’t disagree.
Elizabeth stops in front of a brick townhouse. The street is a cul-de-sac with lots of trees and almost identical groups of five townhouses on each side. Elizabeth’s is the only roof covered with solar panels. I smile. Her house is as nerdy as she is.
“This is it,” she says grimly, reaching for the door. She seems nervous.
I notice a small brass cylinder on the frame of her doorway. “What’s that?” I point, trying to distract her.
“It’s a mezuzah. Jewish people put them on their doorways.”
“What for?” I don’t want to seem nosy, but the curving design on the front of the mezuzah is fascinating. It reminds me of the Arabic verse from the Quran on top of our front door.
“There’s a rolled-up prayer inside. My parents aren’t very observant, but having a mezuzah on your front door is like level-one Judaism.”
I like this little piece of evidence that Elizabeth and I are somehow similar. We enter the hallway to the sound of high barking, although there are no dogs in sight.
“That’s Robin Hood, our schnauzer,” she explains. “He must be in the basement.”
I follow Elizabeth down a hallway, past a kitchen strewn with used mugs. Nearby is a wooden table piled with small machine parts.
“David’s trying to fix our toaster. So far it’s a disaster,” she explains, which raises more questions in my mind until I remember her brother is into robotics.
There’s a faint scent of lavender in the house. Elizabeth sniffs, then seems to relax. “I think someone cleaned today,” she whispers, almost to herself. “Mom! Sara is here!” she calls into the family room, but I don’t spot Mrs. Shainmark and she doesn’t say hello. Elizabeth grabs a laptop off the table and leads me upstairs.
“At least you don’t have the smell of spices attacking you as soon as you enter,” I joke, trying to put her at ease. This is a different Elizabeth, less confident, more like . . . me? I recall all the things she’s told me about her mom, and I want to pull her into a hug.
Upstairs, Elizabeth opens the door to her bedroom. “Quick, before my brother lets Robin Hood out,” she says. I stumble inside.
Elizabeth’s room, unlike the rest of her house, is very tidy, with hardly any clutter on the floor or her desk. The walls are painted a calming peach, or at least I think it’s peach—it’s hard to tell what’s wall and what’s not because they’re almost completely covered in Doctor Who and Harry Potter posters and postcards from cities all
over the United States. Two bookcases, double-stacked with novels, frame the window. On one side of her neatly made bed is a bureau with Doctor Who figurines, and on the other a chair filled with stuffed animals.
“Wow, I like your postcards,” I say, not at all teasing.
“My dad sends them when he’s away. I’m up to fifty different cities.”
This is the true Elizabeth, in all her nerdy glory. I realize we all hide some parts of ourselves, crowding them into our bedrooms, where only our best friends can see. I peer at her books. “Wow! I love your graphic novel collection. Can I borrow a few?”
“Consider my bookshelf your personal library,” she says, bowing as if I’m a British royal.
I move on to the dressing table, which has lots of framed pictures. I lean in to get a better look. Among family photos is one of Elizabeth and Maddy wearing costumes. “Where was this?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral.
She doesn’t look at me when she says, “A science-fiction convention in Baltimore.”
The memory of Maddy’s words at the mall is still a fresh ache in my stomach. “She . . . are you guys still friends?” I finally ask.
She shakes her head once, a small, painful movement. “We’re definitely not speaking.”
I smooth the embroidery on my sleeve again, feeling its cool pattern against my fingertips. “Really?”
Elizabeth continues quickly. “I never thought of Maddy as a bad person. She’s loud and says exactly what’s on her mind. But that was what made her fun. Until now.”
“Now that you know she’s racist,” I mutter, turning away from the photograph.
“Her parents are super conservative. My dad says they’re scared about the way society is changing. Maddy is with them all the time. She doesn’t know any better.”
I know exactly what Elizabeth’s dad was telling her. Changing times equals more people like me coming to stay in white neighborhoods, standing in line at the carnival, wanting to see the doctor. Changing times means an America that’s different from a hundred years ago. Nobody likes change, not even my parents, with their treasured memory of how things were done in the villages of Pakistan long ago.
A Place at the Table Page 13