Farah Rocks New Beginnings Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Milky Way Magazine

  Farah's Writing Prompts

  Glossary

  Glossary of Arabic Words

  About the Author

  About the Illustrator

  Copyright

  Back Cover

  Cover

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  Backmatter

  Acknowledgments

  Glossary

  cover

  3

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  76

  77

  78

  79

  80

  81

  82

  83

  84

  85

  86

  87

  88

  89

  90

  91

  92

  93

  94

  95

  96

  97

  98

  99

  100

  101

  102

  103

  105

  106

  107

  108

  109

  110

  111

  112

  113

  114

  115

  116

  117

  118

  119

  120

  121

  122

  123

  124

  125

  126

  127

  128

  129

  130

  131

  132

  133

  134

  135

  136

  137

  138

  139

  140

  142

  143

  2

  back cover

  Chapter 1

  “Farah, keep walking. We don’t want to be left behind,” Mama says as she gently pushes my back.

  I’m in front of the Magnet Academy’s library, a brick building filled with thousands of books. My old school’s one-room library was near the music classes. My reading was always interrupted by third-grade flute practice or sixth-grade tuba lessons.

  “Our library is just one of the things that makes Magnet Academy so remarkable,” says the assistant principal, Ms. Maxim, who is leading the tour. A group of parents and students, including me and my mama and baba, are here for orientation. “We have more than ten thousand volumes, plus more than forty databases of articles and e-books.”

  Here’s the truth: Ms. Maxim looks like the most unbookish person I’ve ever met. She is wearing a crisp black suit with high heels and more makeup than a magazine model. She looks like she belongs in an office in a big city, signing important papers and shouting, “Get the president on the phone!”

  But ten thousand books? I’m float-walking now. I love to read so much that sometimes I forget to eat. On the way here, I read my new mythology book and almost didn’t realize the fifteen-minute drive was over because Athena had been about to vaporize the Trojans. I love to read so much that lately, I’ve even started writing my own stories.

  “Let’s move on,” says Ms. Maxim. The cluster of new students and parents obey her like puppies.

  “Can we see the inside of the library first?” I ask.

  Allie Liu, my Official Best Friend, giggles next to me. She probably knew I’d ask that question. She knows everything I’m thinking. (She should, of course. We’ve been Official Best Friends since second grade.)

  Ms. Maxim looks at me and holds up a clipboard. “Your name?”

  “Farah Hajjar.”

  “Hee-jar?” she tries.

  “You can just call me Farah Rocks,” I say helpfully.

  “Now why would I do that?” she asks.

  “Well, Hajjar means ‘rocks’ in Arabic,” I explain. Everyone’s called me that since kindergarten.

  “I’ll use your actual name,” she says. She smiles at me like a plastic doll, and I know it’s only because my mom is standing right behind me.

  “There will be time later, Ms. Hajjar,” she tells me. “Now, on to the science labs.”

  “Well, you said you were proud of the library,” I start to protest. I’m not trying to be difficult, but it would take, like, two minutes to see the inside. Just a quick look. But Mama nudges me with her finger and whispers, “Imshee.”

  Ms. Maxim is ignoring me anyway, so I follow the group, dragging my feet.

  “Nobody is at Magnet for the books,” says a voice behind me. “Every school has books. Not every school has science labs.”

  I turn around so quickly that the person who owns the voice slams into me. I see a body wearing jeans and a brown flannel shirt, but no face—just a bush of green hair, like a tree.

  “Hey!” says the Tree. Both hands come up to make a triangle opening in the hair. I see one brown eye like a cyclops, glaring at me.

  Holy hummus.

  “Well, I wanted to see the library,”
I say uncertainly, because I’ve never talked to a tree before.

  “Waste of time,” says the Tree, hurrying around me to catch up with Ms. Maxim’s clicking heels.

  “Come on, girls,” say Mama and Mrs. Liu, pushing forward.

  Allie and I roll our eyes. Our mothers are actually more excited about the Magnet Academy than we are.

  The Magnet Academy is a middle school for “gifted” kids. Teachers called us “gifted” in second grade, although the only “gift” we seem to get is more homework than anyone else.

  “Who is that kid?” I ask Allie as we trot after everyone else. “The one with the green hair?”

  “Bryan Najjarian,” she says, like a reporter. “Also entering sixth grade. Attended Highlandtown Charter School.”

  “And… the green hair?”

  “You didn’t notice it before in assembly?” she asks as we follow our group into the science building. “Pretty hard to miss green hair.”

  I shrug and wave to Mama, who has paused to see where I am.

  “Oh, Farah,” she whispers, grabbing my hand in excitement. “This place is so amazing. What a lucky girl you are!”

  Ahead of us, standing in front of a row of Bunsen burners, is the Tree. He turns, parts his hair, and smirks at me.

  Chapter 2

  On Saturday, Mama asks me to stay with Samir because Baba works and she needs to shop for school supplies. This year, because I’m attending the Magnet Academy, I need special items, like graph paper, a fancy calculator, and pencils in certain colors.

  Samir is excited, he says, to “stay with Faw-wah.” That’s what he calls me because he can’t pronounce his Rs. His speech therapist says that eventually he will. Right now, he has a loose tooth as well.

  Today is also his sixth birthday, and Mama has baked him a cake, which we’ll have later tonight.

  “I’m afraid for my toof!” he tells Mama as she carefully smooths white icing on the cake with the back of a spoon.

  “Samir, I used a special batter for this cake, and it won’t hurt your tooth,” Mama tells him soothingly.

  “A special battah?” Now he’s thrilled. “What’s in it?”

  “A secret ingredient from the tooth fairy.” Mama kisses his forehead. “Okay, back soon. Samir, listen to Farah.”

  She empties her purse, dumping out old receipts and papers in the trash can.

  “Farah, make him a sandwich in an hour—turkey and cheese are in the refrigerator. Baba will be home around noon, so you can all eat lunch together.”

  “By the way,” I tell her, as I watch her slide her feet into her shoes, “I’ll probably get a ton more homework now. I might not have time for babysitting or chores.”

  “You know,” Mama says, pausing with her hand on the doorknob, “that I have six younger brothers and sisters? And that I was changing diapers when I was only seven years old? And washing dirty laundry by hand in a big tub when I was only eight?” She blows a kiss to Samir and me. “Remind me to tell you those stories tonight, in lots of detail.”

  I groan.

  She laughs as she strides out to the car. As I shut the door behind her, I hear the bottom panel jiggle, and I readjust the duct tape that is holding it together. Our door has been broken for years, but Mama and Baba are waiting until it gets really bad before replacing it.

  Mama is worried about how much that calculator will cost, although she won’t tell me that. She did tell me that she searched online last night for a used one but had no luck.

  “What should we do, Samir?” I ask my brother. “We have two whole hours to ourselves.”

  “Eat cake!” he says brightly, examining his loose tooth in the hallway mirror.

  “That’s for tonight,” I remind him. “We’re going to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to you—me, Mama, and Baba.” I start singing it for him, in English and then Arabic: “Sana hilweh, ya gameel! Sana hilweh, ya Samiiiiiiirrrrrrr!” I exaggerate my voice like an opera singer, and he bursts into laughter.

  “Again! With a candle!” he says, running to the kitchen. “Please, Faw-wah!”

  “No, tonight,” I tell him again, but he won’t give up. He yanks on the drawer handle beside the sink, which is where Mama keeps a supply of old birthday candles and matches (which is why there’s a safety lock on it).

  “Fine, fine,” I say. I unlatch the drawer. “But our secret, okay?”

  He is shining like a candle himself, so excited that he starts jumping up and down on the tiled floor.

  “Calm down,” I urge him as I pull out a single blue candle, stick it in the cake, and light the match. I make him hurry before the candle drips wax on the cake. He closes his eyes, makes a wish, and puffs out the flame.

  “Good job!” I toss the candle and match in the trash can, then I smooth over the hole in the icing with a spoon. “I hope you made a good wish.”

  “I did! Do you want to know it, Faw-wah?”

  “Nope. Keep it a secret. That’s the rule.”

  A few minutes later, we decide to play soccer in our backyard. Our backyard is about the size of four parking spaces at the mall. But we set up a goal at either end. I let Samir kick the ball into my goal (which really is the recycling can turned on its side). He’s thrilled, and I like to see him jump up and shout “Aw-wight!”

  We’re having so much fun that I don’t hear our neighbor, Mrs. Glover, who is working in her garden. She waves her hands at me and calls over the fence, “Farah, dear, do you hear that?”

  I stop, hugging the soccer ball to my chest. She freezes too, her gardening spade in the air as we listen. It’s a shrill sound, but far away. She shrugs and so do I, and Samir and I continue our game.

  Fifteen minutes later, just as I am about to ask Samir if he wants to eat anything, three things happen at once:

  I hear Baba screaming our names, “Farah! Samir!” in a ghost-scary way.

  Mrs. Glover starts shouting at me and Samir to climb the fence to her side of the yard.

  I smell smoke.

  “They’re here, Mr. Hajjar! Out here!” Mrs. Glover is shouting. “Frank!” She shouts at her own husband, who appears at their back door with a phone to his ear.

  “I’m calling 9-1-1. Is anyone in your house?” he asks me grimly, and I shake my head no.

  Mrs. Glover has finally gotten Baba’s attention. He runs around the side of the house and jumps over her fence in one leap. His hands, face, and clothes are blackened by soot. He kneels down and pulls me and Samir into his arms. I can smell smoke on his shirt.

  I look over his shoulder at our house and see orange flames leaping behind the kitchen window.

  Then I hear a pop. The kitchen window has shattered.

  “Holy hummus!” I shriek. “Our house is on fire!”

  Chapter 3

  In the end, it takes three fire engines to visit Hollow Woods Lane and douse the fire in our kitchen. Samir and I watch from across the street as the firefighters rush into our house with hoses.

  Baba calls Mama, and when she arrives, she and Baba keep their arms around us the whole time, squeezing our shoulders every once in a while. It’s like they’re reminding themselves that we are okay.

  When the fire is out, the firefighters open all the windows. We watch as black smoke streams out of every window in our house, rising up into the sky like a storm cloud.

  When the smoke clears, I gaze at our home. The siding slips down like a melted candle. Most of the windows are broken, and the black soot that lines the window’s edges look like smudged mascara.

  Mama and Baba need to stay with the firefighters and the police, so the Lius pick up Samir and me and take us to their house. They hug us, give us juice, and feed us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. While we eat, Mr. and Mrs. Liu sit at their kitchen table, talking in worried voices and texting my mom.

  Allie’s older brother
, Timothy, is usually a pain. But maybe because Samir and I look scared, he offers to watch Tommy Turtle with my brother while Allie and I go up to her room.

  “What caused it?” she asks, stretched out on her pink rug, twisting her fingers through her black hair. She always does that when she’s nervous.

  “Beats me,” I say, lying down on her bed. My heart is beating pretty hard, but at the same time, I feel numb. One minute, we’re playing soccer, and the next, our house looks like a campfire. “You know what?” I tell Allie. “I just realized that my dad must have been terrified. He said he came home early, saw the flames, and ran inside looking for us!”

  “He could have been hurt!” she says. “Imagine if you really had been inside, trapped upstairs, and—”

  “Stop!” I clap my hands over my ears. “It’s freaking me out.”

  “I’m sorry, Farah,” she says and comes over to hug me. “What a disaster. And school starts on Tuesday!”

  Later, Mama and Baba arrive at the Lius’ home, looking exhausted. Mama’s face looks as worn as an ancient scroll. They both smell like smoke, and Baba’s clothes are still black with soot. They have a HarborMart bag, filled with T-shirts and sweatpants. All our clothes are ruined, they tell me, so they’ve bought a few things to get us through the weekend.

  “Don’t worry about your rock collection, Farah,” Baba says. “Your books are ruined, but your rocks are fine.”

  Mama whispers to me, “You know Samir’s favorite sneakers?”

  “His Tommy Turtle ones? The ones that say ‘Kapow!’?”

  She nods with a sigh. “Don’t tell him, but now they’re kaput.”

  Mrs. Liu insists my parents shower while she cooks dinner for everyone. An hour later, Samir and Timothy are eating on the porch, but the rest of us sit at the table and hear Baba’s update.

  “The kitchen is destroyed, and the living room,” he explains with a sigh, “blus two bedrooms ubstairs have major damage. The rest of the house is okay, but it’s filled with smoke, so everything has to go—the couches, the mattresses, the clothes, the carbets. All of it.”

  Allie smiles at me. She loves the way my dad talks. Because there is no P or V in Arabic, Baba replaces them with Bs. But I’m too upset to smile back. All our stuff is ruined!

  “The insurance company said they would replace all of it,” Mama adds, patting my hand when she sees my face. “But it will take time. We have to live somewhere else until they fix it all.”

  “But how did it start?” Mr. Liu asks as he walks around, pouring water in everyone’s glass.