Farah Rocks Fifth Grade

by Susan Muaddi Darraj

  For the first time ever, my homework is actually hard—only because I’m trying to invent wrong answers.

  Suddenly I hear a crash and the sound of breaking glass. “A bowl?” I ask, without looking up. This is a regular event in the Hajjar household.

  “Salad blate,” Baba answers. He gets the broom. “Don’t tell Mama, okay?”

  “No broblem,” I joke.

  “Hey!” He laughs as he sweeps the floor. “Don’t make fun of your baba, child.”

  Baba’s hands are big and rough. I mean, he works in a quarry, cutting rocks out of the earth. His hands shouldn’t wash delicate dishes, but he and Mama and I take turns because we don’t have a machine dishwasher.

  “She’s going to make us use paper plates again,” I predict. Then I turn back to my homework. Mr. Richie gave us a two-page reading assignment about the differences between seals and sea lions. There are a bunch of comprehension questions at the end.

  List three differences between seals and sea lions.

  I carefully write, Seals can balance balls on their noses, their fur is shinier, and they are prettier than sea lions.

  What is the main idea of this passage?

  I write, To show how awesome seals are.

  I take a break to focus on my most important task of the night. Mama will be finished with Samir’s bath soon. I only have a couple minutes.

  Baba is dumping white shards of glass into the trash.

  It’s now or never. “Can you sign this paper for me?” I ask in a no-big-deal voice. I slide my math unit test across the table but cover the grade with my language arts homework.

  “What is it?” asks Baba.

  “Just a math paper,” I reply, pretending to be distracted with my homework. “Parent signature, right here at the bottom.” I hand him a pen.

  He bends over the table, holding the dustpan in one hand and my pen in the other. “Is there a grade?” he asks.

  Holy hummus, I think nervously. My heart beats fast. I get ready to snatch the paper away.

  But then something saves me: I hear Mama shut off the water. She tells Samir to dry himself with the towel.

  “Oh, Baba!” I say. “Samir’s coming down from the bath. You should wipe the floor in case he forgets to wear his slippers. Bare feet—ouch!”

  The thought of Samir running down to the kitchen and cutting his feet on an invisible sliver of glass makes Baba panic. He scrawls his name, Abdallah Hajjar, on my unit test and hurries to wet a washcloth. As he kneels down to wipe the tiles, I stuff my papers into my backpack. “Thanks, Baba,” I say and go to my room.

  “My bleasure, habibti,” he calls after me.

  I sit in my room and pull out a sheet of plain paper. I carefully study Baba’s signature on my math test. Then I practice writing Abdallah Hajjar over and over again.

  As I practice, I think about how in Arabic, habibti means “my love.” And I feel worse than ever.

  CHAPTER 10

  A few days later, I’m sitting in class doing some silent reading when Mr. Richie tells me that Ms. Loft wants to meet with me in her office.

  Now my stomach starts to hurt. It’s going to be hard to lie to Ms. Loft.

  “Before you go,” Mr. Richie says to me, “listen to the details about your team project.” He explains to the class, “For our next unit, you’ll be working with partners to create a lesson on fractions. Each team will make a handout and a PowerPoint. Then you’ll teach it to the class.”

  I sigh and look at Allie. “Want to do that together?”

  “Umm… we’ll see.” She stands up to walk to the pencil sharpener.

  “Wait, what?” I stand up too. I’m supposed to go see Ms. Loft, but I need to find out what she means first.

  We stand by the pencil sharpener. “I don’t know what is happening with you,” Allie whispers. “I wish you would tell me.”

  “Nothing,” I lie.

  “Farah! Please stop lying to me!” she says angrily. “First, you fail the math test. Then, you refuse to do homework with me. You don’t seem to care about school at all anymore. Why should I be your partner? You might ruin my grade too!”

  My mouth falls open. I don’t know what to say. But a second later, I forget this conversation because I look down and notice her shoes.

  Except they’re not just shoes. My Official Best Friend is wearing cowboy boots.

  “Why are you wearing those?” I blurt out.

  “They’re… they’re warm,” she answers.

  “But you have other boots. Those are cowboy boots!”

  Mr. Richie gives us a look. Allie scurries back to her desk before I can say anything else.

  I walk down the hall to Ms. Loft’s office, stunned.

  Dana Denver is ruining my life. She has me terrified to get on the bus every morning. She also has me failing my classes on purpose so I can stay at Harbortown and watch out for Samir. And now my Official Best Friend is dressing like her.

  Why is everything suddenly so hard?

  I used to love school. I used to have a best friend. Now she’s abandoning me for the popular crew.

  As I turn the corner, I see Ms. Loft’s door swing open. Someone is coming out. Someone with red hair.

  “I’ll try, Ms. Loft. If my grades don’t go up, then I can’t anymore. I’ll be really upset,” Dana is saying, standing in the doorway. She turns her head and sees me.

  Dana glares at me. Then she turns and smiles sweetly at Ms. Loft. “Someone’s here to see you, Ms. Loft.”

  Ms. Loft calls out, “Thanks, honey! Tell your mom I said hello, okay?”

  “I will!” Dana answers. She faces me again. “See you, Pharaoh,” she says in her terrible whisper as she walks away.

  Inside, Ms. Loft is filing papers. I notice a blotch of dried oatmeal on her sleeve. “Hi, Farah. Have a seat,” she says.

  “Hi, Ms. Loft,” I answer. I sit on one of the four hard, wooden chairs near her desk.

  “How are your parents? Is your mom still working?”

  “Yes, she picked up more hours.”

  “Dad still working overtime?”

  “Yes.” Come on, I think. Get to it.

  “It changes things sometimes, when two parents are working a lot.” She looks at me as if I’m a dead bug under a microscope, smashed between two pieces of glass. “I bet you’ve had to help out more at home. Has it caused any… stress?”

  Aha. There it is.

  “No, not really,” I say calmly. No way can I trust her now, I remind myself. She thinks Dana is a “sweet girl.”

  “Well, Farah, in the last two weeks, your classwork and your grades have… well, to be honest, they’ve suffered.” She spreads a bunch of papers before me. I see Mr. Richie’s green pen marks on several of my papers and tests, along with my faked Baba signatures.

  “Farah,” Ms. Loft says softly, “forget about the Magnet Academy for a minute. More importantly, is anything upsetting you?”

  I want to tell her. I really do. I want to say, Yes, something is upsetting me. And it just left your office a minute ago.

  But I know nothing will change. Other adults in this building have proven that they don’t think what Dana does is a big deal.

  Even worse, if I complain about her, Dana might bully Samir even more.

  Or she might actually flush my head down the toilet.

  “I didn’t think fifth grade would be this hard,” I finally say. Lying has become really easy for me. I use my best sorry-I-disappointed-you expression.

  “That surprises me.” She flips through some papers on her desk. When she finds the one she’s looking for, she glances up at me. “Farah, on the last standardized test, you had one of the highest scores in the whole grade. According to this,” she says, tapping the paper with her index finger, “you are actually capable
of doing seventh-grade work.” She holds it out in front of me.

  I sigh, looking sad. “Multiplying fractions is, like, really hard. And summarizing an article is not as easy as everyone thinks it is.”

  “I understand,” she says, even though she looks really confused. “You can head back to class. I’m going to contact your parents so we can figure out how to help you get back on track.”

  Alarm bells go off in my head. This is something I wasn’t expecting. This plan is not following a straight line like I thought it would. It’s more like a labyrinth, and I have to think of a way to get out—fast.

  * * *

  After school my stomach is in knots as I peel an orange for Samir’s snack. I’m racking my brain, trying to figure out what I’m going to tell my parents.

  “Emms?” Samir asks sweetly, making me calm down right away. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, using our family tablet to play an app that helps him practice his alphabet.

  I smile at him. “Sorry, Samir. You have to wait until after dinner. I just peeled this orange for you, though.”

  I bring him the orange on a small plate. As I glance down at the tablet, I notice a message float across the screen. Mama has a new e-mail.

  “Samir, go get me your backpack, please,” I say, hoping to have a minute to myself.

  While Samir is out of the room, I take the tablet. I click on the mail icon and see that the e-mail is from sloft@harbortown.edu—Ms. Loft.

  And then I do something I know is wrong. I open it.

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Hajjar,

  I wanted to reach out to you about Farah. Her grades have been slipping drastically these past few weeks. I met with her the other day at school to check in. She says nothing is wrong, but we should discuss. Please e-mail me back or call the school. My extension is listed below. I look forward to hearing from you!

  Sincerely,

  Sally Loft

  ext. 025

  I hear Samir coming back into the kitchen. And quickly, before I really think about it, I hit Delete.

  CHAPTER 11

  On Saturday I’m reading on the couch when Mama interrupts me. “Imshee, Farah,” she says. “I have to take Samir to his therapy appointment. Mrs. Liu said you could come hang out with Allie while we’re gone.”

  I look up from my mythology book. “I didn’t know that,” I say.

  “Mrs. Liu and I planned it,” she explains. “We were talking about how you two haven’t been spending time together lately.”

  “I don’t want to go.” I really don’t want to see Allie, who will probably just bug me about my grades and Magnet.

  Mama looks surprised. “Farah,” she says sternly, “I told them you’re going.”

  “Mama—”

  “Y’Allah, bsoura’h.”

  I move quickly, just as she commands.

  Twenty minutes later, I knock on the Lius’ front door. It’s a few minutes before anyone answers. Even though it’s February, it’s a warm day, so I don’t mind waiting. But I get worried when I hear lots of shouting coming from inside. Finally, Allie yanks the door open. She yells, “Come in!” Then she disappears.

  Inside the foyer, I take off my shoes. I slip my feet into a pair of guest slippers that Mrs. Liu keeps in a basket. Upstairs the entire Liu family—Mr. and Mrs. Liu, as well as Allie and her older brother, Timothy—are running around, shrieking.

  “I see him!”

  “Now he’s in the bathroom!”

  Mrs. Liu yells, “I have him!” and then more words in Chinese.

  A loud screech echoes through the house.

  Mr. Liu yells, “Bring me the box!”

  Allie runs downstairs and picks up the cell phone on the hallway table.

  “What’s going on?” I ask as she dials a number.

  She holds up her index finger to tell me to hold on a second. “We found him in our upstairs closet,” Allie says into the phone. “Yes, please. My mom’s pretty mad.” She hangs up just as Mrs. Liu stomps down the steps.

  Mr. Liu follows close behind. He’s carrying a cardboard box. They both say hello to me quickly, but they look upset. Angry meows come from inside the box Mr. Liu is carrying. Mrs. Liu shouts in Chinese, pointing at the door with both hands.

  Mr. Liu mutters something to Allie, who opens the door for him. Holding the box tightly, he stomps outside.

  “Our neighbor’s cat keeps getting loose,” Allie explains. “This is the second time we’ve found her in our house. We have a broken window in the attic. That must be how she’s getting in.” She throws her hands in the air. “He sliced the bedroom curtains to shreds!”

  At that moment, Timothy leans over the upstairs railing. “Ma! Ma! Look at my soccer jersey!”

  Mrs. Liu peers up at him.

  He holds up a gold and black Harbortown jersey. Actually, it’s more like ribbons of fabric that used to be his Harbortown jersey.

  “Oh no!” Mrs. Liu wails.

  Just then, the neighbor arrives. “Oh, I’m just so, so sorry!” she says, poking her head inside the front door. “Little Tabby just does not want to stay put in our house.”

  “Let’s hang out here,” Allie says. She pulls me into the kitchen. “I feel bad for my mom. Last time this happened, she spent the whole day cleaning every room the cat was in. She washed every single thing it might have touched.”

  Mrs. Liu is a nurse and a total germaphobe. She uses boiling water to wash her floors, which are all tiled. “Carpets are hotels for bacteria!” she once told Mama, who feels the same way. Our home doesn’t have carpeting either. “Only stone—beautiful, clean stone,” my parents insist.

  “That sounds like a lousy way to spend a Saturday,” I say.

  I follow Allie into the kitchen. She gets two containers of vanilla yogurt from the refrigerator and hands me a spoon.

  “Seriously.” Allie leans against the counter as she eats her yogurt. “What happened with your parents?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, peeling the foil that covers the yogurt container.

  “Your grades!” she says. “Aren’t they furious?”

  “They don’t really know,” I say. “And I don’t want them to find out.” I look at her, hoping she gets my point.

  “So you don’t want me to tell my parents what’s going on?” she asks.

  “You don’t need to say anything at all to them,” I reply.

  “That’s lying.”

  “Not really. It’s nobody’s business,” I say. It’s silent for a minute. “Besides, I’m trying my best. My parents will understand that.”

  “Are you?” she asks, staring at me. “Trying your best?”

  “Yeah,” I say. It’s getting easier and easier to lie.

  We stand quietly, eating our yogurts. I can’t even finish mine because my stomach starts to hurt. I feel guilty for lying, so I avoid looking at Allie. It’s never been this strange hanging out with her before.

  “What should we do?” she finally asks.

  “Anything you want,” I say. “Your house.”

  “We could dig for stones in the stream,” she suggests. There is a pretty little creek that runs behind the Lius’ house. Mr. Liu cut a path through the brush so we could reach it easily.

  “Okay,” I say. We put on our shoes and go outside.

  As we walk, Allie says, “I drafted my Magnet essay. It was harder than I thought. Did you start yours?”

  “No,” I say. Then I add slowly, “Anyway, I doubt I’ll get in.”

  “I know you’re failing on purpose,” Allie says flatly.

  I halt in my tracks. “What did you say?”

  “You know some of the math stuff better than I do,” Allie says. She pushes her way past a thick bush. “And by the way, Ms. Loft called me in too—to ask what’s wrong with you.”

  I lo
ok at my best friend in horror.

  Allie stops to look back at me. “Relax,” she says. “I said I didn’t know anything. But I hate lying for you.” She shakes her head and keeps walking toward the creek.

  When we get to the creek, Allie kneels down by the water. “If this is about Dana, you shouldn’t let her bother you,” she says.

  “She’s a bully!” I protest, kneeling beside her.

  Allie rakes her fingers through the water, looking for stones. “She’s not that bad, you know.”

  What? I think. Did my Official Best Friend really just say that Dana is “not that bad”?

  “You must mean she is worse than we ever imagined,” I say.

  “I don’t think so,” says Allie. She pulls out a flat, brown stone, peers at it, then tosses it back in.

  “Dana Denver is a mean, awful bully, Allie Liu!” I shriek. A squirrel scuttles down a tree trunk and runs far away from us. “You’re just saying this because Bridget is your friend again,” I say.

  “Come on,” Allie says. “Bridget is not my friend. I only ever see her in school. And with Dana, it’s not easy being the new kid.”

  “She makes fun of little kids,” I remind her. “Are you okay with that?”

  “Of course not,” says Allie. “But it must be hard for her to be so tall. I mean, I cracked a joke about her height the first time I saw her. Plus she’s on the basketball team. There’s a lot of pressure.”

  I stay quiet and slide my fingers through the water.

  Allie keeps sifting for rocks. We sit there quietly for a long time. We both look for stones, pretending to be busy so we don’t have to talk. Between us, we find eight interesting ones before we decide to go back to the house. We walk along the path, not talking, each of us holding four rocks.

  When we reach the back door, we see Allie’s mother holding up a scrap of denim. “That bad Tabby was in your closet too!” she yells. “This belongs to your friend. The one who was here yesterday.” She sighs angrily. “It’s ruined.”