Farah Rocks New Beginnings Read online

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  Chapter 14

  I spend the rest of the evening practicing math, over and over until I understand what I did wrong on the test. We don’t have Wi-Fi in this house, so Baba drives me to Allie’s house to watch some YouTube videos that Mr. Beaker recommended. Watching someone work out the problems and talking through it helps me a lot.

  Allie and I decide to do a practice test. We set her clock timer for thirty minutes and start. When the timer beeps, we check our answers in the back of the book. My score goes up to an 88 and hers to an 89.

  “We should practice like this two or three nights a week,” Allie says. “That’s the only way.”

  “And weekends,” I tell her. It’s strange that we finally have to work hard to have good grades.

  Later, we brainstorm ideas for the creative writing club. We need nineteen more signatures by Friday.

  “Maybe Ms. Maxim will let us make a morning announcement,” Allie says.

  “What would we say?” I wonder out loud, putting my math books in my backpack. Jammed in the back is my Greek mythology book. I take it out and flip through it. I see a picture of Medusa, and I show it to Allie.

  “Gross,” she says.

  “She was so ugly that looking at her would turn people to stone,” I say.

  “Some people are that ugly on the inside,” she adds.

  Of course, I think about Lana Khoury.

  I tell Allie what Lana said. “I don’t even want to go to church this weekend because I hate seeing her.”

  “You can wear one of my dresses,” she says, opening her closet. She holds up a blue one with small flowers along the skirt. “This one is great. You have blue shoes?”

  “No,” I say, standing up and taking the beautiful dress. “I only have my black ones and my sneakers.”

  “We’re still the same size.” She digs through her closet and finds a pair of flat, blue shoes with a white buckle. “There you go. Problem solved.”

  “I’ll take really good care of them!” I promise and hug her so hard that I almost knock her down.

  “Farah Rocks!” she shrieks, giggling. From downstairs, Mr. Liu calls, “You girls okay?”

  “Yes!” we yell in unison.

  Still laughing, I put the mythology book in my backpack, then thoughtfully, I take it out again. I flip open to the chapter on Zeus. In the illustration, he is gripping a thunderbolt in his hand, ready to rocket it down to Earth.

  “Holy hummus,” I say out loud. I have an idea.

  The next morning, we ask Ms. Maxim if we can make an announcement to the school.

  “About?” she asks.

  “About our new club,” I say.

  “Still pursuing that, are you?” She shrugs. “I can give you two minutes, after the cafeteria menu.”

  “Thank you!”

  “Don’t forget that your application is due tomorrow,” she says. “I won’t accept it after that.”

  “Yes, of course.” I try to sound confident, but I’m not really.

  A group of four eighth graders recite the Pledge of Allegiance, and then a seventh grader reads the lunch menu for the day. Then Ms. Maxim says into the microphone, “And now, we have a short announcement by two sixth-grade students, Farah Hajjar and Allie Liu.”

  She hands me the microphone. I nod to Allie, who uses her mom’s cell phone to play a tune.

  Here is what the students at the Magnet Academy hear: a huge boom of thunder, followed by several shorter bursts. Ms. Maxim looks annoyed. The secretary, who is startled, stops clicking on her mouse and stares. The eighth graders, who were on their way back to class, freeze and gape at us.

  I take the microphone. “That sound is scary, right? It startles us, even though we know what it is—thunder. We know what causes it too. But what did humans do before science explained everything?”

  I take a deep breath. Allie gives me a thumbs-up, and I go on. “They made up stories. The Greeks invented Zeus, the chief god on Mount Olympus. They believed he would throw down bolts of lightning whenever silly humans angered him.”

  Allie takes the microphone. “We all use stories to explain what we don’t know and what we worry about. We also use stories just to have fun. I’m Allie Liu, and this is Farah Hajjar. We’re forming a new club at Magnet—a creative writing club. We’ll write stories and poems and plays, and maybe even start our own magazine.”

  My turn: “See one of us today at lunch or recess, but make sure you don’t wait! We need you to join today, because our application is due in the morning.”

  We hand the microphone back to Ms. Maxim, whose face doesn’t really have an expression. But on our way out, a couple of the eighth-grade girls ask us if they can join. Allie hands them the petition, and they add their names to the list.

  “We’ll tell our friends too,” says one of the girls.

  Another girl adds, “Cool idea. We’ve never had anything like this at Magnet.”

  We are thunderstruck.

  At lunch that day, a few more people sign up for our club.

  “What’cha got there?” asks Mrs. Salvatore. Today, her Shakespeare button says, To thine own self be true.

  “We’re starting a creative writing club,” Allie tells her with a smile.

  “Brava!” she says, smiling. “We need something like that around here.”

  At the end of the day, we have thirty-nine signatures. We are one away from the goal.

  Chapter 15

  After school, Samir and I look for rocks. We find a bunch, and I run inside and fill a plastic bowl with water and dish soap. This is one of our favorite things to do—clean and polish rocks. We sit on the step and carefully wash each one. Samir is working hard on a peach-colored one, which I think may be orthoclase. We never had any of those in our old neighborhood.

  As I polish, I try to think of a way to talk to my parents. I have to tell them about the fire. The longer I keep it a secret, the more it grows. It’s like a rock that builds layers and layers of sediment. The more dense it grows, the harder it is to break.

  I pretend not to notice when Bryan comes out of his house and starts kicking a soccer ball into the net.

  A group of three boys rides by on their bikes, laughing and hooting at each other. I don’t recognize them at all. One of them, a boy with buzzed hair, is the leader of the pack.

  “They not weawing helmets, Faw-wah,” says Samir softly.

  “How silly of them,” I answer.

  I watch them hop their bikes up on the quad, not far from Bryan’s soccer net. One of the boys takes soda bottles out of a plastic bag hanging over his handlebars, and he hands one to each of his friends. They lean on their bikes, drinking soda and sharing a bag of chips while watching Bryan. They stare at him strangely, and not just because he has green hair. It’s like they’re daring him to speak.

  He ignores them and continues his kicks, even though they’re just a few feet away from him.

  The kid with the buzzcut drains his soda in one gulp and casually tosses the bottle onto the grass. The other two laugh and follow his lead, and then they even toss the chips on the ground too.

  “Hey!” Bryan breaks the silence. “Don’t litter here, Ronnie!”

  “Why not?” the kid asks. “It’s a trashy neighborhood.”

  Holy hummus.

  His words are so ugly I want to scream.

  “Anyway, you can pick it up, right? Start practicing to be a trashman like your dad.” He kicks Bryan’s ball, and it lands in a pile of wet, muddy leaves.

  All three burst into laughter and take off on their bikes, hopping over the curb that borders the quad and back onto the sidewalk. As we all watch, they cycle past K Street, then J Street, and finally out of the neighborhood.

  Bryan kicks the ball one last time into the net and glances up at us. Sami
r and I just look back at him silently, unsure of what to do. Maybe Bryan and I have more in common than I thought. He’s had to deal with people who remind me of Lana.

  He stomps back to his house, slamming the front door behind him.

  Samir and I walk over to the quad, and I quickly pick up the bottles and the bag and put them in the recycling and trash bins. Samir takes Bryan’s soccer ball and walks back to our steps. He sits and rubs it with his cloth and the soapy water until it’s shiny.

  Some people don’t think my brother is very smart, but he is. And he’s very kind too. This is what I think as I watch him walk over and leave the shiny-as-new ball on Bryan Najjarian’s front step.

  When Baba gets home, he suggests we go to the labyrinth, one of my favorite places in Harbortown. It’s a small rock garden with a twisted, spiral walkway that was built last year behind the library.

  Samir wants to walk with me, so I hold his hand as we start out on the path. You have to take it easy so you don’t get dizzy, because you are walking in smaller and smaller circles until you get to the center. As I walk, I think about all the wild things that have happened in just the past two weeks:

  I’m working hard for the first time to get good grades.

  I’m trying to start a club that not many people think belongs at Magnet.

  I probably won’t be able to start it because I still need a signature.

  I’ve made an enemy of sorts.

  I don’t actually want Bryan to be my enemy.

  Oh, and I set my family’s house on fire.

  In the labyrinth’s center is a stone bench, where Samir and I sit for a while, watching as Mama and Baba finish their walk. In the quiet, I can’t avoid thinking about the fire any longer.

  There is a horrible feeling in my stomach. It’s been there since I saw Mr. Liu drench that match in water. I can tell my parents are stressed out because they’re waiting for the insurance check to arrive. We need it to buy new clothes and furniture and other things.

  They’re frustrated, even though they try not to show it. Baba has to leave extra early for work, because this house is farther away. And I can hear Mama sighing in the kitchen when she doesn’t have enough room to put away her pots and pans.

  But they pretend like it’s all okay. Because they’re trying to make Samir and me feel better.

  “Let’s go?” Baba asks when he and Mama reach us.

  “You slowpokes!” Samir says, giggling.

  Baba grabs him and tickles him, saying, “You’re calling me a slowboke? I’ll show you!” and then he gives him a ride to the car on his shoulders.

  While Baba drives, Mama says, “Farah, I wish you could start wearing some of the clothes they gave us at church. Lana’s clothes would fit you. I’m doing a lot of laundry because you keep wearing the same things over and over.”

  “No,” I say flatly, wishing she would not bring this up, when the day had ended so nicely. I’m sorry she has to do more laundry, but I just can’t wear Lana’s clothes.

  “Please, Farah. You’re being unreasonable.”

  “Mama, please,” I answer irritably. “I’m not wearing anything from Lana or any of her dumb cousins.”

  “Farah, you’re being silly,” she says sternly.

  “I’m NOT wearing Lana’s clothes!” I actually shout.

  Mama gasps at my tone. Baba pulls over into the parking lot of the Harbortown QuickMart. He parks the car and sits for a minute. We’re all quiet.

  I feel like the most awful person in the world. I wish they would just leave me here in the parking lot and take off.

  Then Baba speaks. “In the Hajjar family, we do not scream at each other. In this family, we do not let a bad time make us bad beoble.” Then he looks at me in the mirror. “I will keeb saying it to you: We are lucky to be safe. Nothing else matters.”

  I nod, ashamed of myself. I feel horrible, but I don’t know how to say it. We drive home silently.

  When we pull up in front of our house on L Street, we see a small, white paper tucked between the door and the doorframe.

  Farah and Samir,

  You both rock. Thanks.

  – Bryan

  Chapter 16

  The next morning, Mr. Najjarian sings “Good Morning” all the way to school. Bryan sits in the back seat again. He doesn’t look at me, but his hair is in a bun again, showing his face.

  “We got your note,” I tell him.

  “Good,” he says.

  That’s it. He doesn’t mention the kids on the bikes, and I don’t ask any questions.

  As his father pulls up in the drop-off line, Bryan suddenly asks, “How’s your petition going?”

  Surprised, I tell him we are one signature short. “Why?” I ask.

  He holds up a pen. “Give me the paper.”

  Holy hummus. He signs his name on line number forty.

  “Thanks, Bryan!” I say, my eyes wide.

  I realize that I haven’t thought of him as Tree for a while now. I don’t even remember when I started thinking of him as Bryan. Maybe it was the day I learned about his mom.

  I run to homeroom and ask Mr. Beaker if Allie and I can go to the main office.

  “Hurry back,” he says.

  I practically drag Allie out of her seat and into the hallway. As we leave the classroom, I glance back at Bryan, who’s grinning.

  “What’s up?” she asks, out of breath.

  “We got it,” I whisper-shout in the hallway.

  “Got it? You mean… you mean…?”

  “The fortieth signature,” I confirm.

  She hops up and down from sheer excitement. “Who?” she demands to know as we rush to the office.

  “You’ll never guess.”

  Ms. Maxim didn’t jump for joy or anything, but she approved the club and assigned us a room where we could meet once a week after school. We got a small budget to buy snacks for our meetings and do projects, like printing a school magazine. “They still don’t know which of the teachers will be our advisor,” I tell Mama when she picks me up after school, “but we have time to find one.”

  Mama is very quiet, only nodding when I speak.

  “You okay, Mama?” I ask her.

  “Yes,” she says. No “habibti,” no “darling.”

  From the rearview mirror, I watch as a fat tear rolls down her cheek.

  “The insurance company finally called me back,” she said, “and the check won’t come for at least two more weeks. It’s just going to be tough for a little longer to pay our bills.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  She sniffs. “We’ll be okay.”

  The rock in my stomach weighs a ton.

  At dinner, Baba is quiet too, but Samir is bubbly as he talks about his school’s Halloween plans. “The whole fiwst gwade is having a big pawty!” he exclaims. “With costumes.”

  He waits for us, looking like a cute elf. “Want to know what my costume is?”

  “Yes, Samir,” says Mama.

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “So?” He waits and stares at her. “Ask me.”

  She bursts out laughing. “Fine. What are you going to be?”

  Samir looks at Baba. “Ask me, Baba.”

  Baba grins as he swallows his forkful of rice. “What are you going to be for Halloween, my handsome son?”

  Samir looks at me next. “Faw-wah?”

  I give in and ask.

  “OKAY… TOMMY TURTLE!” Samir yells.

  “Cool idea!” I tell him. But I notice Mama and Baba glance worriedly at each other.

  I know what they are thinking. A real costume will cost a lot of money.

  “Samir, let’s make your Tommy Turtle costume! We’ll do it together,” I suggest in an excited voice. “We can start after
dinner!”

  “Make it? But my fwiends said you have to buy it from the mall.”

  “Yes, everyone will buy it,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But yours will be extra special because we’ll make it ourselves. So let’s finish eating and get started!”

  “Kapow!” he exclaims.

  Later we sit in the tiny living room, sketching out how his costume will look. Mama puts a plate of sliced apples in front of us and drops a kiss on my forehead.

  Chapter 17

  A week later, in homeroom, Allie and I get a letter from Ms. Maxim, reminding us to choose an advisor for the creative writing club.

  Allie suggests Ms. Toste, but I say, “For an English teacher, she doesn’t really seem into writing.” But Allie wants to ask anyway, so we find her during lunch.

  In her classroom, she’s sitting at her chair, doing bicep curls with the small dumbbells that she keeps under her desk. “Sorry, girls,” she says after explaining she’s too busy advising the fitness club.

  We head to the cafeteria, which is decorated in orange and black streamers for Halloween. “What should we be this year?” Allie asks me as we sit at a table near the window. “A math equation?”

  Allie and I usually have coordinated costumes. In third grade, we were a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She wore a large cardboard bread slice with purple pom-poms all over it. I wore the same bread slice covered with tan felt. In fourth grade, she was two hydrogen atoms (she wore two Hs on her shirt), I was a large O that we cut out of a box, and we carried water bottles around. Nobody in our grade even understood.

  “I need something simple,” I tell Allie. I tell her how I’m helping Samir make a Tommy Turtle costume because my parents don’t have the insurance check yet. “Like a witch or a pumpkin.”

  “Or a ghost?”

  “That would be good,” I say. I’d need only a white sheet and a Sharpie.

  Mrs. Salvatore, the cafeteria lady with the velvet hat, walks by us and waves. The button on her hat today says, By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.