Farah Rocks New Beginnings Read online

  He gives me a funny look. “Why?”

  “What do you mean? Don’t you read?” I ask.

  “Sure, science magazines and computer programming manuals. Magnet’s not an art school, you know.”

  “Why can’t someone like more than one thing—math and science and stories?”

  He shakes his head and ignores the question like it’s not worth discussing.

  Now I’m mad. “I’m going to ask if they have a club like that,” I say.

  “If they don’t?” the Tree asks.

  “Then… I’m going to start one.” I don’t know how to tell him that I’m writing stories almost every day, and that it’s the only thing that makes me feel better.

  “Yeah, whatever. You’ll be the only member.” He stands up and tells his father he needs to go home to start his homework. “Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Hajjar,” he tells my parents politely.

  “Oh, children,” Mama says, smiling. “Mr. Najjarian and I worked out a carpool schedule. You’ll be riding in together a couple of days a week—starting tomorrow!”

  Holy hummus.

  Chapter 11

  The next day, Mr. Najjarian drives us both to school in a car that’s even older than ours. Its fender is rusted, and the tires are missing their rims.

  The Tree slouches in the back seat, not talking. He doesn’t even say “good morning” to me, but his father is very perky and upbeat. He sings along to Armenian music on old, yellowed cassettes all the way to school.

  “You must be a morning person,” I tell him.

  “Oh no,” he says, laughing. “I just finished working. I will go home now and go to bed for six hours.”

  “Where do you work?” I ask, and I feel the Tree cringe.

  “I am a trash collector, so I work every night from midnight until seven a.m.,” Mr. Najjarian says. “Come home, shower, read the paper, have breakfast. After Bryan goes to school, I sleep.”

  “Oh, wow,” I say.

  “Wow what?” the Tree says in a snappy voice.

  “Wow, like your dad is on the opposite schedule of the rest of us,” I explain.

  “So?”

  “So nothing,” I answer. “Who’s that?” I ask his father, pointing to a yellowed photograph taped to the dashboard. The lady in the photo is really pretty. She has a wide smile.

  “That lovely lady,” says Mr. Najjarian, “is Mrs. Najjarian, Bryan’s mother.” He kisses his fingertips and presses them to the photo. “The love of my life.”

  I understand enough to know that she is no longer alive. “Oh,” I say. “She is beautiful.”

  “Thank you!” he answers and continues singing until we get to Magnet.

  Bryan gets out of the car and closes the door without waiting for me to get out. I push it open again and climb out, while Mr. Najjarian says, “I’m so glad Bryan made a nice friend.”

  He drives away, still singing his songs.

  The Club Fair is being held today, Mr. Beaker tells us. He mentions some of the clubs while bouncing a tennis ball against the wall.

  “Robotics.” Smack.

  “Chemistry.” Thwap!

  “Astrophysics.” Bam!

  “I’m going to ask today about any creative writing clubs,” I tell Allie, whispering so that the Tree, who sits right in front of me, doesn’t hear.

  “Cool,” she says. “I’ll join.” And I remember once again how I have such a wonderful Official Best Friend.

  The Club Fair takes place in the gym, which is also the cafeteria, after lunch. The tables get pushed against the walls, and all the clubs put up posters and flyers about what they do. As the sixth graders walk around, Ms. Maxim tells us over the microphone that our task is to sign up for at least two clubs by the end of the period.

  Allie and I spot a geology club, which meets on Thursdays after school. We both sign up for that immediately. The two seventh graders who run it seem interested in how my last name means “rocks” in Arabic. They tell us that later in the year, they hold a big geology festival called The Rock Stars, which sounds cool.

  Allie also signs up for engineering. While she writes her name on the form, I notice the name “Bryan Najjarian” is already on the list.

  There aren’t any writing clubs, so I walk up to Ms. Maxim, who is by the stage talking to Mr. Beaker. She wears a beaded necklace that looks like a metal chain with about a hundred turquoise rocks hanging from it in layers. It must weigh about ten pounds. I wonder how she can even stand up straight.

  “Yes?” she asks me.

  I tear my eyes away from her incredible necklace.

  “Farah Rocks,” says Mr. Beaker. “Find any clubs?”

  “Yes,” I tell them, “the geology club. But I actually was wondering if I can start a new club?”

  “A new club?” asks Ms. Maxim, peering down at me like I’m an insect.

  I have a bad feeling, and I’m about to tell her, “Never mind!” But then I see Bryan near the robotics table. He smirks at me, shaking his big green head.

  Determined, I straighten my shoulders. “Yes, I wanted to join a creative writing club—to write poetry and short stories, maybe even graphic novels. I don’t see one here, so I’d like to start one.”

  “It’s a lot of work, Farah,” says Mr. Beaker. “Maybe it’s something you can tackle next year. New students should focus on adjusting to the schoolwork here.”

  “I want to try,” I insist.

  He raises his eyebrows and laughs. “Well, then, I like your attitude.”

  I look at Ms. Maxim, who clears her throat, like she’s about to make an important statement. “We have guidelines for establishing a new club at the Magnet Academy. New clubs must have a proposal submitted to the Vice Principal for Academic Affairs—” she pauses, then says, “that would be me—” and then she continues, “before the stated deadline. It must list the name of the club, its mission—”

  “No problem, because—” I say.

  “And,” she says, raising her hand, “a petition of no fewer than forty student names indicating a genuine interest in the formation of said club.”

  She stops talking. I wait an extra second, then ask, “Is… is that all?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Great. What is the stated deadline?”

  She leans toward me, and the stones on her necklace rattle. “You have until September tenth. One week.”

  Chapter 12

  Sitting in church that Sunday, I ignore Father Alexander’s sermon and stare at the huge, stained glass window behind the altar. I hate that window.

  When Samir was born, three months ahead of schedule, Mama and Baba made a promise to God that they would buy this window for the St. Jude Orthodox Church. In return, God had to protect Samir and help him get better.

  I guess God thought that was a pretty good deal, because Samir came home a few weeks later. And even when my parents found out how much that window would cost, they stuck to their promise. Being true to your word is a good policy, especially when you’re promising something to God.

  During the sermon, I try instead to think of ways that I can get thirty-eight other students (besides Allie and me) excited about my idea for a writing club.

  “Lord, have mercy!” Father Alexander chants. Everyone repeats after him, except me. I am busy making a mental list of who would be willing to sign up for an extra club. Allie (duh), Winston Suarez (maybe), June Jordan (yes, because she’s named after a poet), Rajesh (yes—he seems artistic).

  Thirty-five to go. It’s only my first week at Magnet. I don’t even know thirty-five people yet.

  When mass ends, Father Alexander makes some announcements. There will be an autumn festival for the kids this year, and we can wear our Halloween costumes. Mrs. Saleeba is not feeling well, so everyone can sign a get-well card for her. Mrs. Khoury is holding a fundr
aising lunch at her house in two weeks, and Lana is selling raffle tickets.

  I sigh. Lana is my nemesis, like Arachne is to Athena in Greek mythology.

  “Also,” says Father Alexander, “as we said last week, we are holding a drive for the Hajjar family, whose home suffered a fire recently.” He smiles kindly at us, but I want to crawl under the pew and disappear. “There is a box in the lobby to donate clothes for Farah and Samir. We hope they will be able to move back into their home soon. When, Abdallah?”

  “In two to three months, inshallah,” says Baba. “Thank you, Father.”

  “I pray that the repairs move quickly,” says Father.

  “Amen!” chirps Samir, and everyone laughs.

  I don’t want to go to coffee hour. Most people mean well, but I get tired of hearing, “Oh, you poor, poor, poor thing!” Mama keeps telling me to eat something but my stomach is hurting too much. I just stare at the church members who pat our shoulders, trying to be sweet.

  Mrs. Hassan, who is about a 150 years old, says in a loud voice, “Oh, I found some size ten pants in my daughter’s closet. Brand new! They’re bright orange and blue, and my daughter never wore them. I bet they’ll be perfect for Farah!”

  Holy hummus.

  I smile at Mrs. Hassan but give my mother an “I’m-never-ever-ever-ever-wearing-those” look.

  As my mother stammers her way out of that one, I lead Samir out to the church’s playground. It’s really a swing set Father Alexander built by hand. Last year, he added some plastic slides and climbing equipment. It’s mostly for the toddlers, but at least it gets me out of the church and gives me time alone.

  Besides, I’m still trying to think about how I will get people to sign up for the writing club. Maybe Ms. Toste will let me interrupt her push-ups in class and make an announcement. Or maybe, just maybe, I can make an announcement in front of the school somehow, to get a lot of attention at once.

  As the idea forms in my head, I suddenly see trouble coming my way.

  Lana Khoury, who wouldn’t normally be caught dead on the toddler playground, struts over with two of her cousins. Their names are Catie and Paula, but because they always dress exactly like Lana, I call them Copy and Paste. Today they’re all wearing woolly boots, glittery leggings, and flowery blouses. Their hair is flat and straight and flowy. Mine is so wild and curly that Mama gave up on it this morning and put it in a big bun the size of a donut on top of my head. I look down at my ugly dress. It’s the one I wear every third Sunday. It just came back from the dry cleaner last night, so it’s not smoky anymore, but it still has a stupid bow in the back.

  Suddenly I hate my life.

  “Sorry to hear about your house, Farah,” says Lana in a way that doesn’t sound very sorry. She’s always hated me, but it’s gotten worse since the summertime when she was caught sabotaging my tutoring business.

  “Thanks,” I say, helping Samir climb up the plastic slide.

  “It was a tiny house. Probably didn’t need more than five minutes to burn,” she says to Copy and Paste, in a voice that’s loud enough for me to know she wanted me to hear it.

  “I wish that dress had gotten burned,” mutters Paste.

  “Don’t worry, Farah,” Lana adds, and I get ready for a real blow. “You’ll be out of that crummy neighborhood soon enough. My mom said three months. You’ll be back in your house in time for Halloween.”

  I roll my eyes and blurt out, “Actually, we’ll be back a little before Christmas. It’s September now, so three months is ninety days. Thirty days in a month, times three. That would put us in December, not October.”

  I pause while she absorbs my words. Then I add, “I’m pretty good at math. It’s why I got into Magnet.”

  Her jaw drops open. As if on command, Copy’s and Paste’s jaws do the same.

  I suddenly feel bad. It’s not like me to be so harsh, even with Lana. I don’t know how to take it back so I grab Samir’s hand and walk away quickly.

  “You’re a real piece of work, Farah Hajjar!” Lana calls after me. “You know what?” she adds, her face all pink with anger. “I donated some old clothes for you. At least for once in your life, you’ll look nice.”

  I wish I had an answer for that.

  Later, as we’re leaving church, Mama puts a whole box of clothes, toys, and books in the trunk. “Wow, people are very generous.” She says it so kindly. For a second, I’m furious with her. Doesn’t she know that people are making fun of us?

  “Yes, they were all bery nice to us,” Baba agrees.

  I groan. Baba gives me a funny look, so I just get in the car silently.

  At home, Mama gives me a stack of clothes that people donated. One of the shirts is long-sleeved and black, and says bebe in rhinestones across the front. There is another piece of clothing, a long, flowy black dress with a zigzag hem that has a Chanel label.

  I know they are from Lana, because I’ve seen her wear them both. I take the bag and jam it deep in my beige closet and shut the beige door.

  Chapter 13

  In math class, Mr. Beaker returns a test that we took the day before. We’re having a test every week, he explained, because we need to finish up sixth-grade math and then move on to do seventh-grade math.

  He puts the paper facedown on my desk, and I turn it over.

  Holy hummus. My grade is a seventy-five.

  Allie gasps and shows me her grade: seventy-eight.

  Everyone looks horrified, so Mr. Beaker says, “You may have gotten good grades easily in your other schools. But at Magnet, here’s the hard truth: Everyone here is good at math. Not just you.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t start a new club,” Allie says to me later at our lockers. “We might need more time to study than we’re used to.”

  Maybe she’s right, I think. And yet, writing stories and reading books… they make me feel better about everything. I want to make time for this. I need to make time for it.

  “No,” I tell Allie firmly. “We’ve got to do this. Math and science are important, but stories matter too!”

  By lunchtime on Monday, I have signatures from eleven students: me, Allie, and nine other people. In English class, I ask Ms. Toste if I can make an announcement. “Sure,” she says and starts doing squats while I talk. She exhales on the way down and inhales on the way up.

  “Everyone,” I say to the class, but they all stare at Ms. Toste. “Hey, guys!” I call loudly. All eyes focus on me. “We’re starting a new club, but we need forty signatures to get it approved.” Behind me, I hear Ms. Toste counting under her breath as she reaches ten squats.

  “It’s a writing club,” I continue, “and we’ll do things like write stories, plays, poems, maybe comics. It’ll be a lot of fun. Anyone interested in signing up?”

  I hold up the sheet. The room is as quiet as a cemetery.

  “We might even start our own magazine,” adds Allie helpfully.

  “Sounds fun, Farah,” says Amanda. “But we already have so much schoolwork, you know? Who has time?”

  I lower the paper, and my heart feels like a popped balloon.

  In the back of the room, Bryan smirks.

  Suddenly, Enrique stands up and walks toward me. “Hey, I’ll sign up, Farah Rocks. Sounds cool.” He takes the paper from me, puts it down on Ms. Toste’s lectern, and signs it.

  Suddenly four girls agree to sign up. Then two guys, and then three more girls. I don’t know if they’re signing up because of Enrique, who is already one of Magnet’s popular people, or because of the club itself.

  But I don’t care. Within five minutes, I have twenty-one names. Almost the whole class.

  Two days to go.

  At dinner, Mama makes warak dawali, or stuffed grape leaves. I like to pour lemon juice on them and pop them into my mouth like chicken nuggets.

  “Yummy!” says Samir.


  “Bery good!” Baba adds, taking a bite and giving Mama a thumbs-up.

  As we eat, she asks me why I haven’t worn any of my new clothes.

  “You mean my old new clothes that people donated?” I ask, and I hate how sarcastic I sound. I don’t mean it that way.

  “Farah,” she says in her library-quiet voice. “Samir is wearing a sweater today that Mrs. Ibrahim gave him. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Well, Mrs. Khoury and Lana donated most of mine, and I don’t want them,” I say.

  “Ahh, the famous Mrs. Khoury,” Baba says with a laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Mama asks him.

  “Oh, nothing,” he answers. Then he stands up on his tiptoes and walks across the room in a dainty way. “Oh, habibti, I might be late for my manicure. Let me check the time.” He exaggerates the way he stretches out his wrist to check an imaginary watch. “Oh, yes, it’s a new watch. Cartier, don’t you know?”

  I start laughing. Mama shakes her head, but she’s grinning.

  “How much?” he goes on. “For this little thing? Oh, only thirty thousand dollars!”

  Mama laughs so hard that she starts coughing.

  “Come back to the table, Mrs. Khoury,” I tell Baba. “Have some more dawali.”

  “Oh, this dawali is the best!” Baba exclaims, pre-tending to flick his imaginary long hair. “It was made by my bersonal chef.”

  “Your personal chef says hurry up and eat instead of making fun of people,” Mama says.

  He shrugs and gets back to his food. “That lady is the silliest woman I eber met,” he says.

  Later, we all help clean up. As Baba loads the dishwasher, he bangs a plate against the counter and it shatters. Baba is famous for breaking dishes in our house. We all gasp and stare at the white shards on the floor.

  And then we burst out laughing. The kind of laughing that’s half crying. And at that moment, I know that I’d rather be here in our beige underworld house on L Street than in Lana Khoury’s big, fancy mansion.