A Place at the Table: Chapters 8–14

He’s a sustainable-building consultant. Sometimes he goes away for two weeks at a time, visiting green-building sites in other cities.

It’s hilarious to see him in khaki pants, a button-down shirt, and loafers instead of cargo shorts and high-tops.

“Not today! It’s Mom’s day off. Today we are fending for ourselves.”

“Maddy, her name is SAH-ra,” I enunciate. “The first part sounds like car.”

A cloud of flour wafts over from Maddy and Stephanie’s area, followed by a burst of laughter.

The smell of a freshly baked loaf can coax my brother out of the garage and a good mood out of my mom.

I drag myself out of bed and put in my headphones. Selena Gomez croons in my ears as I pull out my sketchbook.

Pots and pans are strewn about, filled with partially cooked food.

Her shalwar kameez is wrinkled, with smudges of turmeric dotting the hem.

It’s really just a big warehouse that a bunch of families bought and refurbished a long time ago. It’s painted dull brown on the outside, but the inside is really nice.

The bright lights of the school hallways feel garish after the mosque’s warm yellow bulbs.

Stephanie flounces away.

On Friday afternoon, our recipe is tarka daal—spicy lentil soup with a fried onion garnish.

“I’ll be your best friend forever.”
“You already are, you manipulative little beast.”

I don’t even have to change my jeans and sweater. I am a girl, incognito. I think it’s my favorite Halloween costume ever.

“We all came to this country for a better future,” she’d said earnestly.

“We love being American, celebrating holidays like Thanksgiving and July Fourth. But Halloween is a holiday with pagan roots, against the teachings of Islam.”

My voice wavers and threatens to dissolve into tears again.

I let him out in our fenced backyard, where he barks at a few straggling trick-or-treaters.

Justin’s candy is spread over the kitchen table. As he gorges on sugar, Mom picks over his treats, checking for anything that’s open or “out of the question.”

“So, about Aunt Louise,” I prompt her.

“A lot of religious people don’t celebrate Halloween,” Mom says. “Maybe it’s a touchy subject for her.”

Mrs. Kluck strides down the hallway, seeking out trouble. I can almost hear the ominous swish-swish of her pantyhose over the screeches and shouts of the sixth-grade hall.

Elizabeth explains her plan to get our mothers together as we roll out spice- infused dough for this week’s recipe: samosas.

Mrs. Kluck is on her cell phone about some piece of kitchen equipment that was supposed to arrive this week. “I can’t believe this incompetence!” she yells.

As Mama drops our samosas into the spattering oil, Elizabeth proclaims, “Hey! It’s a Pakistani knish!” Everyone stares at her, but a few girls nod.
I raise an eyebrow. “I don’t know what a knish is.”
“It’s Jewish street food—mashed potato in a pocket of fried dough—totally yummy.”

Thankfully, a Bean Heaven employee with long blond dreadlocks inserts himself into our awkward little tableau with a big plate of scones, jam, and thick cream.

Her jeans and green sweater are nondescript. For a moment, I’m glad Mama stands out, with her hijab and colorful tunic.

For a few seconds, the conversation stills. Clinking plates and the sound of steaming milk fill the lull.

I nod emphatically. “Yes. Very important project.”

We slip our backpacks on and hurry out the door before dissolving into full-fledged laughter.

She gives me a cajoling smile. “I’m your motivation! You get to work alongside the great and creative Elizabeth Shainmark!”

“Married? My parents won’t even let me stay home alone. Besides, all the boys in our school are completely ineligible. Either racist or dumb.”

Over her nurse’s scrubs, Mrs. Montgomery is wearing a sweatshirt with the incumbent county executive's name on it.

“You can talk to Maddy after we vote. The last thing I need is a hard sell for their conservative candidate.”