Farah Rocks New Beginnings Page 6

  “More Shakespeare?” I ask her.

  “Yep!” she says, patting her hat. “Macbeth. There’s a scene where the witches stir up a brew.” She grins. “I was a theater major in college,” she explains.

  “That’s awesome, Mrs. Salvatore,” Allie says.

  I realize she is staring at the nice lunch lady with the same expression I’m wearing: total delight.

  When she walks away, Allie says to me, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  I nod. “Let’s get to the main office.”

  Ms. Maxim doesn’t seem thrilled. “An advisor should be a faculty member,” she says.

  “But Mrs. Salvatore studied literature and drama,” I argue. “And she does work here.”

  “I have to think about it.” She waves her hand, which means we are supposed to leave now. “A story club. At the Magnet Academy,” we hear her mutter as we close the door behind us.

  That night, while helping Samir make his costume, I think about the witches in Macbeth. Witches who cast spells on people. I think witches are powerful, and I’d be one if I could. I wouldn’t be wicked, though. I would be a good witch who makes things right again.

  As I help Samir color in a big cardboard circle that will be his shell, I think of all the problems I would fix:

  Make the insurance check arrive quickly.

  Change the past so that the house never burned down in the first place.

  Stop kids from teasing Bryan about his father’s job.

  Help Mrs. Salvatore have her dream of being an actress.

  “I need scissors. I’ll be right back,” I tell Samir and head to my room. I notice the bag of clothes from church poking out of my closet. An idea hits me. I tear open the bag and pull out the black pants and shirt from Lana.

  Maybe I can be a witch after all, I think, and I grab the scissors.

  Chapter 18

  Ms. Maxim gives our creative writing club permission to begin meeting before we have an advisor.

  Our first meeting, held in the library, opens with an argument.

  And Bryan starts it. “We need a good name,” he announces.

  Everyone agrees and starts shouting out ideas.

  “We’ll call ourselves the Magnetic Forces!”

  “The Poetic Justices!”

  “The Word Players!”

  Meanwhile Allie says, logically, that we should talk about our goals before we choose a name.

  “What will we be doing?” asks June.

  “We can start by sharing our writing once a week,” I suggest. “So every week, everyone trades a piece of writing with someone else in the group.”

  “We should publish something,” June says. “The robotics club writes a blog. We could write for a month, pick some good pieces, and print our own magazine.”

  Everyone seems to like this idea, and we make plans. Everyone will bring in a poem, story, or essay by next week, and we’ll share ideas on how to make them better.

  “What topics are we going to write about?” asks Enrique.

  “Write whatever you care about, whatever is on your mind,” suggests June.

  “I care about baseball,” says Enrique. “Is that okay?”

  We all nod. “Sure, write about that,” Allie says.

  “Can we write about stress?” asks Rajesh. “Magnet is kind of stressful,” he adds, looking around hesitantly.

  “Yeah,” says one of the eighth graders. “I feel like I’m under pressure all the time to do well here.”

  “Me too,” says Enrique, shrugging his shoulders.

  “You don’t feel like you can just enjoy learning,” says June. “I didn’t even tell my mother I joined a writing club.”

  “Why not?” asks Bryan.

  “Because she named me June Jordan,” she answers. “She’ll be after me to write a book. Talk about pressure.”

  “That would be like if my parents had named me Albert Einstein,” says Rajesh. “Albert Einstein Gupta,” he adds, making us all laugh.

  Allie says, “I think we have a theme here after all.”

  Allie and I spend the evening at her house, working on math to get ready for Mr. Beaker’s test. The problems are long and tricky, and I’m frustrated. I used to be able to look at a problem and just see the numbers arrange themselves in my head, but these are so complicated.

  “I need a break,” Allie says, tossing her notebook on the floor. “Juice?”

  “Yes, please.”

  While she goes downstairs, I pull out my writing notebook and write:

  The rock in my stomach feels worse and worse, and my parents are so stressed out that they had an actual argument last night about Samir’s therapy and how expensive it is getting. Every time Mama says she will work overtime, Baba gets upset. I think he feels bad that she is working so much.

  I hear Allie coming back upstairs, so I add, I wish that stupid check would just arrive! and stick the red notebook in my backpack.

  The check finally arrives a week before Halloween. Baba races to the bank to deposit it. I see Mama smile in relief.

  Mr. Najjarian comes over for coffee that evening and he tells my parents that not much trick-or-treating happens on L Street. “Bryan doesn’t go anyway,” he said. “Maybe now he’s too old for trick-or-treating?”

  “Nobody is too old for that,” Baba claims and invites him to come to our old neighborhood.

  “I will ask Bryan,” he says. “These are days when I miss my wife the most.” He sighs sadly, and Baba pats his shoulder.

  I am finishing up my costume at the small table. I imagine growing up without a mother. I’m trying to understand Bryan. He still doesn’t talk to me much, but he did sit with Allie and me on the patio at lunch. I also noticed he’s been hanging out with Rajesh and Enrique.

  Maybe it was hard for him to make friends at his old school, I think. Especially if a lot of them were like those kids on the bikes.

  Maybe the Magnet Academy is the best thing that’s happened to him so far.

  The creative writing club is going well. The members have exchanged work twice already, and everyone is being very helpful.

  “I think this sentence is really good, but the ending could be more exciting.”

  “This line doesn’t help me paint a picture in my head. Maybe more details?”

  “Great story! I like the character’s name.”

  Allie and I are thrilled, even though Ms. Maxim still does not seem too excited.

  When we reported to her that some of our budget money would be spent on printing a small magazine, she shrugged. “Sure.”

  “We also would like to ask again if Mrs. Salvatore can be our advisor,” I say.

  Ms. Maxim straightens the silver brooch on her suit jacket and glares at me. “I’m still considering it.”

  Allie and I don’t ask any more questions.

  The Thursday before Halloween, the club finally selects a name: Milky Way. It’s Rajesh’s idea, because as he says, “We want to write about everything in the galaxy.”

  “I like it,” says Bryan, which makes it feel final.

  “Maybe you can design a logo for us,” I tell Rajesh, and he grins.

  At the end of the meeting, we exchange work with everyone. It is my turn to exchange something with Bryan, and he hands me a single sheet of paper.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “A poem.”

  “A poem?”

  “Yes, it’s a form of writing done in lines, instead of paragraphs,” he jokes. “Sometimes it rhymes, and sometimes it doesn’t.”

  “I know what a poem is,” I say. “I just didn’t know you write poetry.”

  Allie calls for me. “Quick question, Farah!”

  “Coming!” I turn back to Bryan. “My club notebook is on my chair. Just grab it.�
��

  “No problem,” he says. “I can’t wait to see what Farah Rocks writes about.”

  That night, before I start my homework, I take out Bryan’s poem and read it.

  A Wish

  I wish to know

  If a memory is real or if I have only

  Imagined it.

  It’s my mother, holding me up

  As I try to cross the monkey bars.

  My own weight pulls me down, and my hands lose their grip

  Over and over

  But she keeps me up so I do not fall.

  Not once do I fall.

  I cross to the other side.

  She claps for me and cheers.

  And I feel amazing.

  Is it a dream, or

  Did she really carry me

  And make me

  A champion?

  I am stunned by how deeply Bryan must miss his mother. Somehow, reading this poem has made Bryan seem more real to me, not just a sarcastic person who cares only about science and numbers.

  Suddenly I know for sure—more sure than I have felt in a long time—that the creative writing club has been worth it.

  I unzip my backpack to look for my red notebook, so I can describe this new revelation about Bryan. But it’s not there. I hurry downstairs and ask Mama for her car keys. Maybe it fell out in the car on the way home.

  Nothing.

  I start to panic. I call Allie, but she doesn’t have it. “Didn’t you have it out at the Milky Way meeting?” she asks. “Wasn’t it on your chair?”

  Outside of my window, I hear a thud. I part the beige curtains and look down on the quad. It’s Bryan, kicking his soccer ball into the net, practicing despite the icy wind.

  The rock in my stomach grows so big that now it’s filling up my heart too.

  I think about what I wrote in that notebook.

  I threw the candle and matchstick into the trash, and that is what caused the fire. It’s all my fault. And nobody knows.

  Now, someone does.

  Chapter 19

  Halloween is on a Sunday. That morning, we wear our costumes to church. Father Alexander planned some games for the kids during the coffee hour.

  I come down the steps to show my parents my costume. “Farah!” Baba exclaims. “Bery cool!”

  Mama also seems amazed. I’ve lined the black pants with purple sequins, and I’ve shredded the edges of the long blouse to make it look like a tattered dress. My pointed hat is made with black cardboard, trimmed in purple.

  “And now, introducing…,” I say in my most dramatic voice, pointing to the steps, “Tommy Turtle!”

  Samir runs downstairs in his costume, jumps off the bottom step, and yells, “Kapow!”

  Mama and Baba clap excitedly. He really does look great. His shell is made of cardboard, strapped around his waist with Baba’s brown belt. He’s wearing his green sweatpants, a green T-shirt, and a yellow bandana around his eyes for the face mask.

  Samir high-fives my parents, because that’s his favorite thing to do now. “Kapow!” he yells every time.

  “Kabow!” Baba yells back.

  As we get into the car for church, I see Bryan practicing his kicks again on the quad. While Mama is inside getting her purse, I hurry over.

  “Whoa! Don’t put a curse on me!” he snickers.

  “Do you have my red notebook?” I demand.

  “Yep.”

  “Oh.”

  And we both stare at each other through the net.

  “You should tell your parents what you did.”

  “I know,” I say. “I will.”

  He shrugs. “Unless you do, you’re technically lying.”

  “Thanks a lot, genius,” I answer. Then more carefully, I ask, “You won’t tell your dad or anything?”

  “No.” He shrugs. “And you won’t tell anyone about my poem? I decided I don’t want it shared with the rest of the club.”

  “Deal.”

  “Deal.”

  As I start to walk away, I pause and turn around. “I really loved it. Your poem. It was beautiful.”

  He looks at me, then down at the ground. “Thanks,” he mumbles before smacking the ball again into the net.

  At church, I groan out loud when I see Lana. She’s also a witch. Except she is a fancy witch. Her costume obviously came out of a catalog: short skirt with green and black glitter, matching green and black striped leggings, tall hat, and a silver wig. Behind her are Copy and Paste, and—surprise—they’re fancy witches too.

  Lana seems taller than usual because she’s wearing high-heeled black boots. I look down at my usual sneakers, around which I taped black construction paper. The paper on my left shoe is already tearing off.

  Lana and her mother exchange a snooty smile as my family sits in our pew. I ignore her and focus on Father Alexander. “It’s fun to dress up as someone you’re not,” he says. He waves at Samir and other kids, who are dressed as superheroes, pumpkins, and princesses.

  “But remember,” he says, pausing to be dramatic, “that no matter who you try to be, people will only ever notice how kindly or how badly you treat them.”

  Mama slides her hand into mine. She tilts her head toward Mrs. Khoury and Lana and shrugs. I laugh to myself because Mama never misses a thing.

  If I were a witch, and I could have a house like Mrs. Khoury’s, I wouldn’t take it. I wouldn’t trade Mama for all the Mrs. Khourys in the world.

  Chapter 20

  On Halloween night, we meet at the Lius’ for trick-or-treating. Bryan and his father have said they will join us. While we wait for them, we watch Mr. Liu carve a pumpkin. It’s like a piece of art, I think, as I see him create a picture of a black cat’s shadow against the full moon.

  “Now, for the final touch!” he says. He puts a small tea candle inside the hollowed-out pumpkin. It looks like a full moon shining behind the black cat.

  “Very imbressive,” Baba tells Mr. Liu. Mama and Mrs. Liu come in to see, and Allie reenters the kitchen, also dressed as a witch. We all stare in awe at the gorgeous pumpkin.

  “Hey, Faw-wah!” Samir giggles. “Wemember when you lit the candle at home and we sang happy birthday? Do that voice again, Faw-wah!”

  Mrs. Liu smiles in confusion, and asks, “What voice? Farah, you do a voice?”

  Mama and Baba are staring at me in shock.

  “What voice, Farah?” Mrs. Liu asks again.

  “What candle?” Mama asks in her creepily quiet voice.

  Holy hummus. “I… I…” I stutter, but just then Samir chimes in.

  “Wemember my birthday? When you went out, Faw-wah lit a candle on my cake and she sang to me. And then we covered the icing back up so Mama wouldn’t see it.”

  Everyone freezes.

  He gasps, clapping his hands to his cheeks. “Oh no! It was a secwet! Sorry, Faw-wah.”

  “It’s okay,” I say weakly.

  “What happened, Farah?” Baba asks me in Arabic, but the Lius seem to understand him anyway.

  The words tumble out of me. “I lit a candle to sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ and… and I threw the candle out in the trash afterward. I realized later that I probably should have run some water over it—”

  “Because it can still smolder,” Mr. Liu said, shaking his head. “The candle could have set any paper products in the trash on fire.”

  Baba is quiet. Mama is quiet. The Lius are quiet.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say in a rush. Then I start to cry. “I’ve been keeping it inside this whole time.”

  Mrs. Liu waves to her husband and Allie. They slip out of the room, leaving us alone.

  “Two months,” Mama says. “You’ve been keeping this from us for two whole months.”

  “That’s lying,” Baba says flatly. He leaves t
he room. After giving me a stern look, Mama follows him out. My heart feels like it’s shredded more than my shirt is.

  A few minutes later, the doorbell rings. I see Allie in the foyer, answering it. It’s Mr. Najjarian.

  “Where’s Bryan?” Allie asks.

  “On the sidewalk,” Mr. Najjarian says after shaking hands with the Lius. The rest of us huddle in the foyer to see him. “He says he won’t fit inside.”

  “What?” Allie and I both exclaim. Everyone steps outside to see why not.

  There’s nothing there except a metal trash can. When Samir walks up to it, the lid pops off and Bryan’s head sticks out. “Boo!” he says.

  “Kapow!” Samir yells back.

  Everyone laughs in delight. Bryan has cut out holes for his arms, and the bottom of the can has also been cut out to make room for his legs. He’s wearing a cotton hat, and the metal lid is attached to it.

  “I just curl up inside,” he explains. “When I hear people coming, I stand up and stick my head out.”

  “What a fantastic costume!” Mama tells him. “You are a clever boy, Bryan.” She catches my eye, then looks away.

  I look at Baba, who is sort of smiling, but he also won’t look at me.

  “Let’s start trick-or-treating!” Mr. Liu says. Up and down the street, people are coming out of their homes. The neighborhood is filling up with monsters, robots, vampires, and princesses.

  “Yes! Yes!” Samir exclaims, bouncing up and down.

  We cover most of the neighborhood. My parents don’t speak to me, but they laugh and chat with everyone else. I know they don’t want to ruin the night for the others. Our bags are getting heavier and heavier as we knock on what seems like hundreds of doors.

  At one point, Bryan taps my shoulder. “Look over there,” he says, pointing.

  Ahead of us, we see three kids on bikes, wearing scary masks with fake blood dripping down bone-white faces. They screech by the huddles of little kids dressed as trains and pumpkins and scream, “Boo!”