A Place at the Table

by Saadia Faruqi

  I don’t feel like I deserve a gift. Not today. I lift the tape halfheartedly.

  “Oh,” says Justin at the same moment I peek inside my package. Bright red.

  Justin unfolds his gift. It’s a navy-blue blanket. Not big enough to cover a bed, but the right size for snuggling up on the couch. David has a matching gray one.

  “They’re lap blankets,” Mom says. Her cheeks glow in the candlelight. “For when you’re reading or watching TV.”

  I hold my blanket to my face and breathe in the lavender smell of my grandmother.

  “I wanted you each to have something of Nan’s,” Mom says. “But all I had was her unused yarn—unless you want the Queen’s Jubilee plates.”

  David laughs. “No, thanks. What’s the point if you can’t put a Hot Pocket on it?”

  Mom shoves his arm playfully. “Louise will send other things, once the house sells. But I wanted you each to have something now.”

  “They’re beautiful, Nicole,” Bubbe says.

  Dad puts an arm around Mom. She tilts her head to his shoulder.

  All this time I’ve been complaining about Mom and her endless knitting. I wish I’d known she was making something to keep us connected to Nan, to wrap us in her smell and the good memories of our times together in England. It doesn’t fix everything, but it helps.

  * * *

  Sometime before sunrise, Dad comes into my room, kisses my forehead, and says goodbye.

  I reach my arms around his neck for a hug.

  “Didn’t mean to wake you, kiddo,” he says.

  “Don’t go, Dad. I need you here. I kind of got in trouble at school.”

  He nods. “Mrs. Hameed called.”

  “You knew?” I sit up. “Why didn’t you and Mom say something? Or punish me?” I almost wish they had. Then I’d know they were paying attention.

  Dad sits on my bed and strokes my hair. “Your mother and I know how hard you are on yourself. There’s no punishment that’s going to make you feel more miserable than you are right now.”

  “I wouldn’t be so miserable if you stayed home. Can’t you leave tomorrow? You’re good at fixing things. I need to fix things with Sara.”

  “I wish I could. But this isn’t a problem I can solve with solar cells and computer systems, Elizabeth. Your mother’s best at dealing with friend stuff.”

  “That’s not fair, Dad. You’re my parent too.”

  “You sound like Bubbe,” Dad says. “Is this some kind of conspiracy?” He cocks his head so I know he’s joking, but it’s not funny.

  “Bubbe’s leaving too,” I point out. She flies back to New York today. By the time I get home from school, my family will shrink down to Mom and us three kids. We’ll probably be eating tuna, peas, and mayo for dinner.

  Dad kisses my forehead again. “You’ll be fine,” he says, and before I can argue, he’s gone.

  I should get up. I should finish the homework I was too upset to do last night. I should get dressed, go to school, and face Sara.

  Instead, I close my eyes.

  When Mom tries to wake me, I say, “I’m sick,” and pull the covers to my nose.

  “No fever,” she says. It’s her favorite test of whether or not David, me, or Justin should go to school. She heads downstairs.

  Bubbe shuffles into my room in her ridiculous fish-shaped slippers. I peep at her with one eye. My bed dips as she sits. “No school today, bubbeleh?”

  I shake my head.

  “I hear you’ve contracted a serious case of the friendship flu.” Dad must have told her the details. Bubbe sighs and rubs my back.

  “Don’t leave, Bubbe,” I say. “Mom needs help.”

  “I know she does, Elizabeth. We’re working on it. Before I leave this afternoon, we’re going to get her an appointment with the doctor.”

  “You are?”

  “Promise,” she says. Bubbe convinces Mom that I need a day off from school, but I wouldn’t need one if Bubbe stayed.

  The next day is Wednesday. Mom drives David to school so he can hand in some giant science project on a trifold display. “Get yourself to the bus stop, Elizabeth,” she orders. But I don’t go. I reorganize my books into categories—Obsessed, Beloved, Can’t Part With. When I hear her car pulling into the driveway, I rush back to bed and pretend I’m still sick.

  Mom sends Justin in to talk to me.

  “Elizabeth, you’re late for school. You love school!” he says. Justin pats my covers to make Robin jump onto my bed. Robin snuffles my morning breath, but I don’t budge.

  “Tomorrow,” I mumble.

  I picture myself sitting in class, all the kids from cooking club glaring knives at me. I can’t handle that. So instead, I shut off. I reread my Doctor Who comics and try not to think about Sara.

  Sara was counting on me. If our recipe won that TV spot, it would have meant tons of orders for her mom’s catering business. Not only from Pakistani and other South Asian families, but from all kinds of people who love delicious food. Now that’s never going to happen.

  I wish ice cream had never been invented.

  29

  Sara

  THE ANGRY BUBBLES have taken up permanent residence inside my stomach. Tuesday is a painful, dizzy blur. I keep remembering Mrs. Kluck’s ferocious frown when she yelled at Mama in front of everybody. School takes on a nightmarish quality, like a house full of ghosts that won’t quit bothering me. There’s the memory of the water fountain, where Elizabeth and I had our first real conversation, and of the FACS room, where our friendship was cemented.

  Elizabeth is not in school today. It’s as if she existed only in my dreams. I should pick up the phone and call her, but my angry bubbles get in the way. I want to stay home too, pretend none of the last few months ever happened. But that’s never an option for the Hameeds. Perfect attendance is the first step to greatness is one of Baba’s favorite cheesy lines.

  I guess he didn’t get the memo that his daughter is far from perfect.

  I keep my head down, the way I used to before Mama’s cooking club started. Back to square one, back to being invisible and unnoticed. The only problem is, it’s difficult to be a nobody when everyone in school knows you and your mother, when your artwork is going to be on the entrance of the building.

  It’s lunchtime, and I’m hiding away in the farthest corner of the cafeteria, gobbling up my food quickly so I can leave.

  “Hey, Sara, want a sample? I’m trying out a new flavor.”

  I look up. It’s Stephanie, holding out a red velvet mini-cupcake and wearing none of her usual snark.

  “Uh, sure,” I mumble. She’s never offered me a sample before.

  She smiles, a mix between a concerned pout and a grin, which makes her face look lopsided. She tilts her head and her blond ponytail swings to the side. “Are you doing okay?”

  I’ve seen this smile before. People offer it when someone is really sick or your pet dies. OMG. Sweet Stephanie is feeling sorry for me. This is worse than being invisible, honestly.

  I get up from my chair so suddenly, she startles. “I gotta go,” I say. I gather up the remains of my lunch and hurry away.

  “Don’t be sad—we’ll think of something!” she calls.

  The hallway is quiet after the laughter and chatter of the cafeteria. I bite my lip, wondering where to hide before I’m accosted by any more kids feeling sorry for me. The art room door is open. Maybe it’ll be empty and I can sit there for a few minutes in peace, surrounded by the comforting smell of oil paints.

  Inside, I find Mrs. Newman eating at her desk. “Oh, Sara, come in.” She says my name the right way, the way I’d told her.

  “Are you sure? I just came in to be alone for a while.”

  She nods. “Yes, I can imagine. Mrs. Kluckowski was talking about the cooking club in the teachers’ lounge.”

  I wait for more, but she goes back to her food. It’s some sort of salad, with a cluster of dark leaves like kale mixed in with carrots. After a few seconds, I walk to
my regular seat and sit down. It feels odd to be here without other students. I stare at the wooden whorls on my desk, the nick that’s been there from the first day of class, and also the blue paint I smashed in the corner in my first week and never bothered to clean. How we leave our marks in tiny ways, wherever we go, I think.

  “You could work on your poster,” Mrs. Newman calls softly. “During lunch periods, I mean.”

  I look up, startled. “I can do that?” My rough draft is done. I emailed it to her last week. Her reply had been a dozen smiley faces, which I’d taken to mean she approved. Now I have to do the real thing, in time for the International Festival, ten days away.

  Mrs. Newman nods again, her mouth full of kale leaves. “Uh-huh,” she replies. “I’ll tell the front office you’re going to work in here during your lunch period. Does that sound good?”

  There’s a rush in my body as some of the angry bubbles in my stomach evaporate, and my shoulders relax. “Yes, thank you!” I say, my eyes smarting. “That would be perfect.”

  She smiles and goes back to her food. I wonder if she’s going to ask me questions, or smile that awful smile Stephanie sent my way earlier. Nope. She’s engrossed in her salad.

  I go to the supply shelves at the back of the room and select some paints. The big sheets of poster paper are rolled up on the top shelf. I reach up and pull out the longest one. Six feet should do it. I’d been fearing the International Festival since Monday’s drama, cursing the day I’d heard about it. But preparing to make the poster is calming. As if I can gather all my pain and anger and pour it into the poster, into my art.

  Baba also says another thing often: Work is the best healer. I guess it’s time to get to work. Show the bubbles who’s boss.

  * * *

  Mama is deathly quiet that night at dinner. It’s been a whole day since Mrs. Kluck yelled at her, but her eyes are still red, and she and Baba exchange tense little glances. I’m feeling sick, but I force down some food for the sake of the twins. “I don’t want to eat vegetables!” Rafey shouts, pushing his plate away. He’s always been that way, refusing to eat anything the least bit healthy.

  “Yuck,” agrees Tariq. He’s eaten his tandoori roast chicken, but the curried peas and potatoes are piled in a lumpy hill on the side of his plate.

  Baba frowns and opens his mouth to say something, but I beat him to it. “Come on, we’ll race!” I tell the twins. “First one who finishes their food gets a scoop of ice cream!” Inside, I’m shuddering. Ice cream again. I can’t get away from that stuff.

  They cheer and start gobbling. I’m deliberately slow, my stomach heavy with a sick feeling every time I peer sideways at Mama. She knows what I’m doing, trying to lighten her load, help her with little things, but she doesn’t seem to care.

  “I win!” Tariq pushes his empty plate away and shouts. “I ate all the vegetables.”

  “Me too! I come second!” yells Rafey. “Can I have ice cream too?”

  I abandon my uneaten food to get their treat. Mama leaves the kitchen and heads toward the formal dining room, where her catering orders are waiting to be packed and labeled. I watch her go, ice cream scoop in my hand.

  Upstairs in my room after dinner, I lie on my bed, staring out my window. Baba usually reminds me to pray the isha prayer, but he’s too busy putting the twins to bed. I finally take out my prayer mat and pray, my tears seeping into the lush fabric.

  Baba knocks on the door quite late. “You asleep?” he whispers. I shake my head. I’m lying down on the prayer mat, my hair spread out like a fan under me.

  He comes in and sits cross-legged on the mat with me, breath huffing with the effort of lowering himself to the floor. “How’s school?” he asks in that tone he uses when he’s not really interested in getting a response.

  I shrug. “I’m working on a poster.”

  I don’t really expect an answer. Mama never did ask to look at my sketchbook again. I don’t expect Baba to show any interest either. He surprises me. “Can you show me?”

  I stare at him for a moment, then get up and bring the practice poster to him. “This isn’t the real thing,” I say. “The real thing will be six feet long. I’m still working on it.”

  “Shabash! This is really good, jaanoo.” He’s looking at me as if I’ve burst into song in front of him.

  I shrug, but a smile is pulling at the corners of my mouth. “Thanks. The real poster will hang at the entrance of the school.”

  His goatee quivers. “Wow. The daughter of a lowly farm-boy immigrant representing the entire school. Impressive.”

  I don’t think he’s lowly, but I say, “I know, right?” The honor of having my painting front and center is deliciously heavy on my shoulders. Even with all the stuff going on at cooking club, this little part is all my own, giving me some comfort. How far I’ve come from being that invisible girl with zero friends.

  Of course, these days I wish I was back to being invisible. Anything would be better than the pitying glances of the entire school.

  Baba must have read my mind. He puts down the poster and sighs deeply. “Sara, your mama told me what happened at school. We all make mistakes. We aren’t mad at you.”

  “Mama is definitely mad.”

  “Nahin. She’s just worried.”

  I fling myself back down on the prayer mat. “That’s the problem. I know she’s worried about money and stuff. I know her business could be doing better. I wish she’d let me help her. I have such good ideas, but nobody’s interested in hearing them!”

  He gives a reassuring thump on my back. “We want you to focus on your studies, that’s all. Leave the worrying to me and your mother.”

  I sit up. “Baba. That’s not going to work. If your dad had a problem, would you sit back and let him take care of it? Or would you want to help?”

  He’s quiet, his head bowed so I can’t see his expression. I wonder if he misses his father, then tell myself I’m being stupid. Of course he misses his father.

  “Yes, I’d want to help,” Baba admits softly. “I used to help on the farm, you know, during summer vacation. But he’d always tell me he had plenty of workers in the fields. He wanted me to study hard so I could leave the village and live in the city.”

  I’m a little shocked, because he hardly ever talks about Dada. “You did that, though, didn’t you? Not only leave the village, but you came to the U.S. and made something of yourself. I bet he was proud.”

  Baba frowns and clears his throat as if he’s not sure. Maybe his father never told him that. “Well, your mama and I are equally proud of you.”

  I don’t believe it, but I nod.

  He stands up with a grunt. “There’s an episode of The A-Team on tonight. Want to watch it with me?”

  I sniffle. “No, thanks.”

  “Pity the fool,” he says, and ruffles my hair on his way out. I stare at the wall for a long time after he’s gone.

  30

  Elizabeth

  MOM DOESN’T BOTHER to wake me up on Thursday. Good. I win. I never have to go to school again. But at nine o’clock, when Mom and Robin return from walking Justin to the bus stop, I hear her climbing the stairs.

  Mom sits on my bed and pushes my bangs back from my eyes. “Are you ready to talk about it?”

  I want to sleep, not discuss my feelings. I shake my head. “If you get to stay home and knit all day, why can’t I stay home and read?”

  Mom says, “I see. You’re angry with me.”

  I prop up on my elbows. My hair’s gotten greasy in the last few days. Gross. “Mom, no. Why would you think that?”

  Mom notices the postcards filling my wall. Each one represents a time when Dad has been away. For the first time, I wonder if they make her sad.

  “I’m not like you,” she says. “It’s hard for me to make friends. Sometimes it’s hard to leave the house.” Her eyes go soft, and I think she might cry. “You love being around people, Elizabeth. People give you energy. They make you happy. One bad decision doesn�
��t mean you have to hide away from everyone.”

  “I’m not hiding,” I say. “I’m staging another sit-in. A sleep-in.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re avoiding Sara. If you want to stay friends with her, you need to put effort into it. That means going back to school and talking to her. Staying in bed seems easier, but it’s not. Believe me.”

  It’s weird to see Mom’s hands motionless in her lap. I almost miss the knitting needles.

  “That’s not fair, Mom. You’ve been so sad since Nan died. Everything in our family shut down.”

  She closes her eyes and lies down next to me. “When your mother dies, even though you’re a grownup, it feels like the person who’s supposed to protect and love you most in the whole world is gone. And you’re very alone.”

  I roll over to face her. “But I still need you, Mom. I need a parent who knows when I’m upset, or happy, or having problems with friends. Dad’s away all the time, so that person is you.”

  Mom breathes in and out so slowly, for a second I think she might fall asleep, right here on my bed. “Your father and Bubbe and I talked this weekend,” she says. “He’s going to apply for a new position, one with less travel. And your grandmother’s going to visit more often.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” Mom sits up.

  “And you’re going to the doctor?”

  “I am.” She runs her fingers through her cropped hair. “Next week.”

  There’s one more thing bothering me. I sit up and ask, “You’re not going to go visit Aunt Louise and decide to never come back, right? You really are going to get your citizenship?” I’ll feel better if I hear my mom say she belongs here, with us.

  “You’ve been carrying around worries like a heavy rucksack, haven’t you?” Mom asks as she stands up.

  “I guess.”

  “Of course I’m not leaving you, darling. This is my home, with you and Dad and your brothers.” She ruffles my yucky hair. “School tomorrow, Elizabeth. Every day you don’t go, it will get harder.”